The Wild Girls: A Novel

Dedication

For my agent, Camilla,

for always believing in me

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

After

Part One

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part Two

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part Three

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Acknowledgments

P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

About the Author

About the Book

Read On

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

After

The police tape looks unnatural in the lush green surrounds of the safari lodge complex. The doors are all open now, as the forensics team come in and out, their clinical white uniforms catching the light of the sun as it burns down on the empty, parched plains. Dotted on the wooden walkways and inside the five lodges are numbered yellow markers—that’s where they found the first body, that’s where they found the second. Over there is where one of the more junior officers uncovered the first victim’s shoe. On the edge of the Limpopo River, in among the sticky, thick mud and the shiny-backed insects, that’s where the blood spatter was, bright and viscous. They were lucky it didn’t get washed away.

Above, a helicopter circles, the drone of it loud and relentless, a harsh man-made noise disrupting the constant hum of the cicadas. From the cockpit, you’d be able to see the whole site, in all its glory—here, the main lodge, able to sleep twelve people. At each corner, a smaller lodge, set up for one guest, alone. The four glistening plunge pools, one of which contained the missing knife, the blade of it circling lazily around the drain. The wooden walkways that connect the lodges look like a maze from this height—or an elaborate board game, designed to catch you out.

In this game, though, half the players are dead.

The forensic officer thinks this place will be shut down now, forever haunted by the events of one hot, dreadful weekend in March. He feels the loss; it seeps from the windows of the lodges, rises up from the river, rustles with the wind through the gum trees, whispering a warning to anyone who might come near Deception Valley. Briefly, a white butterfly lands on his arm, weightless against his uniform, but just as quickly, it is gone. He stares at the patch on which it landed, remembering the imprint of its tiny limbs.

How easily beauty can be destroyed.

Part One

Prologue

February 14

London

Grace

The invitation lands like a grenade on my doormat early on Friday morning: You are invited to celebrate Felicity’s 30th birthday. Date: March 28. Place: Botswana, Southern Africa. I stare at it for a few moments; the swirly, smug font, the thick, expensive card it’s printed on, the way her name sits elegantly on the page. The edge of the invite is embossed with gold foil; it must have cost her a fortune. I imagine them shooting through letterboxes all over the country, pretty missiles just waiting to detonate. Her friends scooping down to pick them up, fingers slitting open envelopes, eyes running over the words. Who else will come? I think to myself, Who else will be invited?

My watch beeps, signaling to me to get up even though I’m well awake now. My eyes flicker across the date—of course, Valentine’s Day. Sending out invitations to arrive today is so very Felicity that I almost want to laugh, despite the curl of anxiety percolating in my stomach. Although I haven’t seen her for almost two years, I still know Felicity inside out. At least, I think I do.

Grace?

Without warning, the letterbox is rattling and I take a step backward, heart pounding, as the front door to the flat swings open, letting in a blast of cold February air and a rush of London noise; the scream of the traffic, the faint wail of sirens, a maelstrom of voices, people going about their busy lives. My fingers clutch the invitation as I step backward, pulling my dressing gown around me, my feet bare and freezing on the tiled floor. Someone is coming in.

Grace? What are you doing up?

My flatmate Rosie is panting in front of me, and I let my breath out, relief flooding through my body as she shakes her head like a dog, sprinkling tiny droplets of water. She’s dressed in running gear, purple lycra clinging to her, the embodiment of fitness as always. Her dark hair is wet, flattened to her skull, but her eyes are bright with the glowing look of someone who’s just burned 500 calories before I’ve even had breakfast.

What’s that?

She pushes past me, nodding at the invitation in my hand as she does so.

An invitation, I say, swallowing hard, and she laughs, groans. Her soft Irish accent is lilting, effortlessly light.

Not another one. Jesus. I’m still out of pocket after Jess and Jamie’s. Why do these people think everyone can stump up to afford it all? I bet they want you to buy them a fancy toaster on top of it, too. Whoever invented the idea of wedding lists should be shot.

Not a wedding, I interrupt, closing the front door behind her, shoving the invitation into the pocket of my dressing gown. A birthday party. In Botswana.

She’s in the kitchen now; I can hear the sound of the fridge opening and shutting, her quick, confident little footsteps scurrying about. Getting on with her day as though nothing has happened. Because for her, it hasn’t, has it? The invite is for me, and me alone. Unwanted, a memory flashes into my mind: Felicity, laughing on another Friday two years ago, her mouth wide, the top of her blouse falling slightly open to reveal the lace of her bra, the gleam of her skin. The strange, smoky smell of the courtyard; the sense that something bad was coming. The cold metal of the fire escape stairs. A disconnected phone call that came the day after. Always, the taste of tequila, sharp and dangerous on our tongues.

I push the images away.

A birthday party? Whose? I didn’t know you had any friends in Africa, Rosie asks as I follow her into the kitchen. She sounds a bit awkward, perhaps thinking that she could have stopped after friends. It’s true that I never have anybody around. After what happened, I find it harder to go out, and more difficult to have people in my own space. Strangers frighten me, though I don’t like to admit it. Taking people at face value has become something of a challenge.

I breathe in deeply to clear my head, try to make my voice sound normal. Already, it’s as though I’ve lost the ability to act casual, forgotten what I’d usually say in this situation. The invitation has heightened everything; raised the stakes. Brought back the past.

An old friend, I say at last. A girl I went to school with.

Nice. She nods, accepting the half-truth, gulping water down quickly and easing off her trainers. Pricey, though. The flights alone won’t be cheap, will they? Still, I’d love to go somewhere like that. See the elephants, that sort of thing. Don’t get many of those in Dublin, nor here. She laughs, slams down her glass on the counter, the sound making me flinch. Sweat is glistening on her brow; small beads of moisture that she dabs with the back of her hand. I’m going to hop in the shower. I’m out with Ben tonight for V day. Are you . . . ?

Her words tail off and I can see her flush slightly with embarrassment, the blush creeping up her ivory throat.

I’ll be in, I say flatly. I don’t have any Valentine’s Day plans, Rosie.

All a load of nonsense anyway, she says, grinning at me, and then she disappears, leaving me alone in the kitchen, the invitation still in my hand and my thoughts whirring. Felicity wants to see me. After all this time. But the question is, has she forgiven me? Have I forgiven her?

And who else will be invited?

Alice

Babe? You’re using all the hot water again. Hurry up, will you? I’m late for work.

Alice sluices the last smudges of apple conditioner out of her dark hair, pulling a tangle out with her fingers, a little bit too hard—there is a tug of pain—and reaches for the shower dial, turning the water off with a hiss. Her skin feels warm and tingly, but already she is dreading the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, the icy rush of air that will come as soon as she steps outside. She and Tom are rationing the heating: Alice hates it.

Tom is hovering impatiently, naked, and his sleep-smudged eyes don’t meet hers as he steps past her and into the shower cubicle. Happy Valentine’s Day, Alice thinks but doesn’t say.

She towels herself off quickly, avoiding her reflection in the mirror, brushing her teeth as fast as she can. There are tiny trails of blood in among the mint froth when Alice spits in the sink; she wipes them away with the tips of her fingers, runs the cold water until the porcelain is clear. She is late for work, and Year Six are like animals if left alone in a classroom for too long. Alice can just picture them careering into the school, their parents (the ones that turn up, at least) casting disapproving eyes at her empty desk—Ms. Warner, running late again . . .

There’s no time to blow-dry her hair and so she shoves it up in a bun, drinks a quick glass of water standing at the sink, and grabs her leather rucksack. There isn’t time for makeup, either; she’s slathered some tinted moisturizer across her cheeks and wiped the mascara smudges from underneath her light green eyes, and that will have to do. It’s not far to work, a fifteen-minute walk through deepest darkest Hackney and then she’s there. Quicker and cheaper than taking the bus, and less chance of seeing a pupil. Since that time Alice saw Liam Donoghue from the senior school on the number 43 and he insisted on sitting next to her, she has steered clear. No one wants the boundaries blurred. Least of all Alice Warner.

She crossed a line once before, and she won’t let herself forget it. Alice knows how easy it is to lose everything, how rapidly mistakes can spiral into more.

Alice’s hand is on the latch when she sees the envelope, wedged in the letterbox, half in and half out, hovering above a pile of junk mail, none of which either of them can ever be bothered to open: red and yellow flyers, laminated promises with no meaning; a Hackney newspaper full of bad news, the edges already ripped and tatty. Her heart sinks as she takes in the fancy handwriting on the front, addressed only to her. A wedding invitation, she’d bet their flat on it. Not that she’s got the money to place a bet right now, far from it. Quickly, Alice grabs it and stuffs it into her bag to read later, yanking the door open and stepping out onto the rainy London street. Water immediately drenches her left shoe—Great, she thinks, a good start to the day.

It’s lunchtime when she remembers it. Her fingers graze the cool paper as she is searching for her phone, having spent a busy morning trying to teach Year Six the basics of fractions, a subject Alice is rustier on than she’d thought. She is slumped at her desk, drinking a cup of instant coffee that’s been cold for an hour already. She knows she should pop to the M&S on the high road, but she can’t face the thought of spending eight quid on a sandwich and some crisps; buying the flat with Tom has cleared out every last penny in her account and she has promised herself she’ll be good for the next few months. Cut out any unnecessary expenditure, that’s what they had said. The plan was to start bringing in a packed lunch, but, well. She doesn’t see Tom doing that.

Alice pulls the envelope out of her bag and uses a pair of slightly gluey scissors to slit it open, already wondering who it’ll be this time. She is thirty—still prime time for summer weddings and expensive hen-dos. It’s never-ending, really it is. She won’t have anything to wear—she’s put on weight recently, feels curvier than before, as Tom has pointed out more than once.

And then she sees the name, and she has to put the scissors down because her hands begin to shake. Felicity’s birthday. And she wants Alice to come.

Hannah

Hannah is in the baby’s room when Chris brings the post in. Of course she is—where else would she be? He’s just about sleeping through the night these days, which is something Hannah could weep in gratitude for to whoever might be listening, but still he wakes up at around five every morning and she sits with him, feeding and stroking, calming and shushing, as the hours tick by and the dark becomes light. It feels like the two of them are the only people left in the world in those moments, as she listens to his breathing, feels the beat of his heart against hers. Her eyes always feel gritty with tiredness; the shadows of the cot bars make strange shapes on the wall: a tiny prison. During those dawn hours, she forces herself to feel grateful, to remember how much she wanted this, how far they have come to be parents. She must remember that. At all times.

Morning, Chris whispers, keeping his voice soft—he usually does nowadays for fear of Hannah flying off the handle at him if he doesn’t. He’s clutching a mug of coffee and the smell makes her want to rip it out of his hands, but she is still breastfeeding and has had two cups already today, so of course she doesn’t. He pops the stack of mail down on the ottoman next to Max’s cot and peers down at their sleeping baby boy, whose blue eyes, the mirror image of hers, are squeezed shut (although Hannah doubts they’ll stay that way for long). Chris is dressed in a suit and tie, all sharp angles and clean-cut corners, and she feels a sharp pang of jealousy as she pictures him leaving the house, popping his earbuds in and hopping onto the tube to work, interacting with other adults. Most of Hannah’s conversations these days are pretty one-sided.

Is he okay? he asks her, and she nods sleepily, a yawn stifling her reply, and brushes a strand of her dark-blond hair away from her face. It feels dry and frizzy to the touch; she hasn’t paid any attention to it for weeks.

He’s fine, we’re all good. Have you got a busy day today?

Chris nods, takes a slurp of his coffee. The noise grates on Hannah slightly but she forces herself to ignore it. Chris is a lawyer, working in commercial law but wanting to make a move to family. Commercial law is so boring, Hannah, he tells her all the time, and she wants to scream at him to try being cooped up with a baby for twenty-four hours a day, with nobody to talk to except Peppa Pig on the screen. Hannah hates Peppa Pig. She has started to dream about her; her rounded pink snout, the high-pitched sound of her voice. She taunts Hannah; in nightmares, the pig’s mother blinks her long eyelashes directly into hers, tickling her skin.

But of course Hannah never says that.

Remember the Clarksons are coming over tomorrow night, Chris says, and Hannah’s heart sinks like a stone beneath her nightie—naturally, she’d forgotten. Most of the time now, her brain feels like a sieve with extra holes. The Clarksons are Chris’s colleagues, invited for a hideous double-date dinner in an attempt to rally Hannah’s spirits, give her some company. Chris doesn’t understand why she hasn’t been in touch with the girls in so long, why their close-knit friendship has become so distant. She hasn’t yet found the words to explain it to him. Every time Hannah thinks about it, she feels a weird mix of emotions, but mainly she feels so guilty that she wants to disappear, hide under the baby’s cot and never be found.

As Chris reaches down to kiss Max goodbye, Hannah gets a whiff of his aftershave—it smells different, new.

See you later, he tells her, kissing her on the mouth, and she puts her hand on the back of his neck, trying to re-create the old passion, find their spark. Who are you wearing new aftershave for? she wants to ask him, but she knows she’s being ridiculous—this is Chris, for God’s sake, and so Hannah says nothing, just waves and smiles at him as he backs out of the baby’s room.

Max has miraculously stayed sleeping, so she takes the opportunity to sift through the mail her husband has left on the side, noticing the messy, chipped polish on her nails as she does so. There’s never time to replace it. She doesn’t understand the mothers with neat nails. A bill, addressed to Chris, a Boden catalog (is she really that old?), a flyer advertising some Valentine’s Day lingerie (chance would be a fine thing), and something else. A stiff, square envelope, addressed to her. Briefly, Hannah wonders if it’s from his mother—she often sends cards, her little way of checking how they are (read: checking how she is coping with Jean’s longed-for grandson), but her latest was last week and this feels a bit soon for a second, even by Jean’s standards.

Hannah rips the paper, and the invitation tumbles out—nice, thick card, expensive. Someone with money—not his mother, then. Hannah thinks it must be a work thing, and then she sees the name and it’s as though she’s been dunked in cold water. The memory flashes back through her like a bolt of electricity. The cold of the wall against her jeans. The darkness of the sky. An unfamiliar hand rubbing her back.

Guilt crawls up her throat, and Hannah puts her fingers to her neck as if she can stop it in its tracks. She can’t change the past; she should know that by now. Her necklace, a thin gold chain from Chris, is cold underneath her fingertips, and she rolls it against her skin, pressing down harder than she needs to, imprinting herself with its tiny interlocking pattern.

Just then, her phone, caught in the folds of her nightie, beeps loudly with a message. It’s a familiar name, but one she hasn’t seen in months: Grace Carter. There are only three words, and Hannah cannot work out the tone—hesitant, or accusing?

The message says: Are you invited?

Chapter One

February 14

London

Grace

I’m working from home today, so I spend most of the morning on my laptop, googling photos of Botswana. I don’t even bother with a shower or my contact lenses, just sit there in my scrubby white dressing gown, glasses on, scrolling through the pictures. It says the temperature over there is eighty-six degrees, even in February, and it only gets hotter in March. Felicity always hated having a March birthday, said she wanted to be born in the summer when everyone was in the mood to drink rosé at any time of day. I continue scrolling through the websites, lose myself slightly in the images—imagining the hot sun on my back, the rustle of the grass underneath my feet. It’s been so long since I left London. Sometimes, I feel like I’m destined to be in Peckham forever, as though my soul will wander the busy streets for years after I die.

Botswana would be something different. It would be an adventure. And I’d get to see the girls again, after all this time. Girls—it’s ridiculous to call them that, now that we are all women in our thirties, but that is what we’ve always been. That silly nickname: the wild girls. Old habits die hard, after all. The thought of seeing them makes my stomach twist. Memories spin in my mind, like tricks of the light that I cannot quite catch.

Perhaps I don’t want to.

I picture them; Alice Warner, her long black hair trailing down her back, her wide smile, the smell of her musky perfume as she leans in close to me, sharing a secret. The look on her face after she’s had a few too many glasses of red wine—which, let’s face it, used to happen more often than not. The way her eyes glow when she’s got gossip. And Hannah Jones, God, Hannah. The sensible one—the one we all needed the most. The mother hen—a real mother now, judging by her latest Instagram photos that I look at sometimes on long, lonely evenings but am too scared to like. The one who’d tuck the covers around you after a night out, be first up in the morning making tea and toast. Those big blue eyes that made you think everything was going to be all right; her clean, calm home; that pale English rose skin that she didn’t even have to do anything to. Like an advert for serenity, was Hannah.

And Felicity Denbigh. The one who kept us all together—until she didn’t anymore. I conjure her up—that bright, almost white-blond hair that she smoothed down twenty times a day, a surprising, infectious cackle of a laugh that strangers always thought she was faking. The silver rings on her fingers, the way they glinted in the light. Her bright red lipstick, no matter what. Felicity the fun one. The popular one. The one you want around.

Only she hasn’t been around—not for two years. Suddenly, as I think of them, the way we were, I am struck with a visceral pang of longing that almost makes me gasp. The room seems starker, shabbier, even more lonely than it already is. Without their energy, their friendship, my own life has dwindled even further somehow, lost its shine. It’s not that the flat isn’t all right—it’s okay in the summer, when the sun beams into the living room and we don’t have to worry about the heating as much. Rosie does so much exercise that she’s always boiling, but I can’t say the same for myself.

I moved to this flat two years ago, after everything happened and I stopped seeing the girls, and ever since, my life has been . . . I don’t even know what the word is. Static, I suppose. I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping my distance from them all, and of course, I couldn’t go near Felicity. But maybe I was wrong.

I exhale. It’s taken me a long time to admit it to myself, but it’s true. As everyone around me moves forward—having babies, getting married, buying houses, moving, in Felicity’s case, to New York—I have stayed still. Worse than still—sinking.

And this invitation has got to be the thing that gets me out. I check my phone, and my stomach lurches as I see the little red notification pop up, like a finger tapping me on the shoulder, impossible to ignore. One new message.

Hannah has replied.

Hannah

Hannah doesn’t respond to Grace’s message straightaway. She needs some time to think. For Felicity to invite them now, after all this time—it feels odd to her. Is it a peace offering? A sign that she wants things to go back to how they were? Or is it simply another chance to show off—to tell the world how much better her life is than the rest of theirs?

That’s the thing about Felicity, Hannah thinks. Everything about her life has to be the best. The best job, the best boyfriend—although actually, she’s not sure whether Felicity and Nathaniel are still together anymore—the best incredibly glamorous apartment in central Manhattan. On forgiving days, Hannah thinks it is because of what happened to her, what her father did—and on other days she is not so sure. She hates thinking about Felicity’s father; Michael Denbigh has been known to pop up in her dreams and she quickly pushes the thought away.

When Felicity first moved to New York, two years ago, so soon after the night everything fell apart, she promised them all that she’d keep in touch. Hannah thinks of the message she sent telling them about the move, how sudden and abrupt it felt. But in it, she did say she’d call, Hannah knows she did. She’d even sent Felicity flowers. Lilies, for her new flat. She remembered afterward that Felicity always said they reminded her of funerals, but she’d only meant them as a nice gesture. Or an olive branch, perhaps, after that night. Felicity had never acknowledged receipt. She probably thought she didn’t owe her anything, after what Hannah had done. Or perhaps she’d sent them to the wrong address; Felicity didn’t give them many details about where she would be living, or who she’d be living with over there. Hannah wonders whether Nate went with her, or whether their love story burned out in the way Felicity’s often did. She has imagined Felicity’s life many times over the past two years; picturing a spacious, shiny flat on the Upper East Side, Felicity swinging her legs in and out of bright yellow taxis. She’s no idea what it’s really been like, because Felicity hasn’t been in contact.

Felicity always used to be the one who kept them together—made the effort to see the three of them regularly,