Celia asked Beth to come for tea on Sunday. Beth suggested the café instead and asked me to join for the first part. She told Celia in advance that I would be there.
“I don’t want a witness for a trap,” she told me. “I want to be less likely to agree just because I’m uncomfortable.”
I understood that reason well enough to go.
Celia arrived with a small parcel wrapped in silver paper. It contained a notebook for Beth’s new project.
“You always need somewhere for your ideas,” she said.
Beth thanked her but left the parcel on the table.
“Before anything else, I want to be clear about the accommodation details.”
Celia’s smile faded.
“I’ve told you. I gave him the old plan. You’d said you were changing it.”
“I hadn’t given you permission to tell him anything.”
“He wouldn’t leave it alone.”
“Then you needed help dealing with that. You didn’t get to use my information.”
The waiter came with water. We thanked him and waited until he had gone. Celia adjusted the parcel so its corners lined up with the edge of the menu.
“I was trying to protect more than one person.”
“You can explain that to the police,” Beth said. “I’m telling you what you did to me.”
Celia looked at me. I stayed quiet. Beth had not asked me to take over when the conversation became difficult.
“I drove you to appointments,” Celia said. “I sat with you when you couldn’t make a call. I didn’t have to do any of that.”
Beth’s eyes filled, but her voice remained level.
“I know. Some of it helped. I’m grateful for those things.”
“Then why are you speaking to me like this?”
“Because those things didn’t buy the right to decide what Martin knew.”
Celia pushed her cup away.
For a moment, I thought she would leave. Instead, she began listing other things: meals, messages, the evening she’d stayed when Beth was afraid to go home. They were not all false. Beth acknowledged that without surrendering the question.
“I’m paying Nora and Priya back,” she said. “If I owe you for petrol, tell me how much. But you can’t keep bringing up that drive whenever I say something you don’t like.”
Celia’s face changed at that. Hurt became anger, then something tightly controlled.
“That’s a very polished speech.”
“I practised saying what I meant.”
I looked down at my hands so Beth would not feel she needed approval from me for every sentence.
She explained that she did not want further messages about reconciliation, her address or what she had told investigators. Work arrangements were hers to manage. She would not discuss other people’s evidence.
“So I’m shut out.”
“No more questions about my address. No messages asking what I told the police. Can you do that?”
At the next table, someone laughed at a photograph on a phone. Life’s refusal to stop for our worst conversations was becoming familiar, though not easier.
Celia picked up the notebook parcel.
“Do you even want this?”
Beth took a breath.
“Not if accepting it means this conversation starts again next week.”
The parcel remained in Celia’s hands. She put it in her bag.
After a while she said she had an appointment and stood up. She paid for her drink at the counter. Beth watched her go without calling her back.
When the door closed, she bent forward, pressing both palms against her knees.
“I feel horrible.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“In a minute.”
I asked whether she wanted water or silence. She chose both.
We sat until her breathing settled. Then she told me she hadn’t expected Celia to agree. She had wanted to stop arranging the truth around the hope of agreement.
“Did I sound cruel?”
“You sounded angry. You also thanked her for what helped.”
“It did help.”
“I know.”
Outside, the air smelled of rain. Beth had a venue visit to prepare for and asked if we could walk past the shop selling measuring tapes. She wanted a spare for her work bag.
We bought one. She paid, checked the receipt and put both away.
At the corner, she turned towards her bus and I towards home.
My phone vibrated before I reached the next street. Celia had sent a message.
I hope you’re pleased with what you’ve encouraged.
I read it, kept it and did not answer for Beth.
She had spoken for herself. That was precisely what Celia seemed unable to forgive.