I asked Brooke for a quick introduction to her new book, and she wrote: “You Don’t Know Me is a follow-up to The Turning Tide, though you don’t have to have read that book to read this one. It’s set in the same universe: a medium-sized town in the Highlands called Cameron Bridge. It all starts (as so many crime novels do) with the disappearance and death of a call girl. However that is only the beginning. As the investigation unfolds in the here and now, her best friend’s flashbacks reveal a woman who is anything but the expected ‘dead sex worker’ trope. It’s a story about sex and secrets, but also about women and passionate friendships. How far would you go to avenge your best friend and soulmate? That’s the question one woman will have to answer.”
It is the second half of her master’s course in Newcastle. Her first spring in the city, after a winter of freezing rain and baffling lectures. Denise’s cheap coat, good enough for the London cold, is insufficient here and beginning to come apart at the seams.
She logs her hours in the computer lab, turns in every piece of work on time, and phones her parents twice a week whether they answer or not. Usually they do not. She waits for the answerphone, leaves a message as if everything is the same as it was before. Before she moved to Newcastle to start a master’s course in genetic epidemiology. Before her brother died.
There is money in her account, far too much. One hundred and fifty thousand pounds. The number glares at her every time she has to use the cash point. She can’t spend it and she doesn’t want to keep it. But giving it away is no good either; it would be like giving away the last photograph of a loved one. It would be unthinkable.
Denise throws herself into her master’s project. She analyses single nucleotide polymorphisms in genetic samples of families with a history of colon cancer. A text-based program calculates risk predictions for future generations in those families. She tweaks the code, pleased when she shaves microseconds off the runtime of each simulation. It is like the swimming practices she and Darwin did as teens. Working over weeks, months, even an entire season to prune down their personal bests.
One night Denise is at the bus stop when she sees some of her course mates in a pub. It looks warm inside, the bus is almost 20 minutes late, and she has five pounds in her pocket she forgot to spend on lunch. She crosses the rain-slicked road and goes in.
“Denise!” a man at the bar waves. “I’m getting a round in. What are you having?”
“Hi, Jack.” Denise smiles. “That’s very kind, thank you. Diet coke and lemon, please.” Jack has blue eyes and wears his hair long but it suits him. His smile is kind and his eyes seek her out in lectures, exchanging a look that seems to indicate they are in on some kind of secret together.
He always seems so nice, at ease in any group, charming and smart. She realises she has probably had a crush on him for some time now.
A crush she can never act on. Because he has a girlfriend. This girlfriend is called Miriam. His eyes go soft whenever he mentions her, as if the sound of her name has a sort of power. Denise has never met this woman, but the others have, and they agree she is wonderful. She is not sure what to imagine. A petite and serious brunette, perhaps, the kind of studious woman who is primly perfect when she takes her glasses off? Or else a tight-bodied, hockey-playing blonde, the sort of country girl already settled into Jack’s family, accompanying his parents on weekend trips to the garden centre?
The other students are dressed more formally than usual, a woman in a short purple satin frock, the men in trousers and jackets. Is there something on she has forgotten about?
“Didn’t think you’d be out tonight.” The woman’s teeth look dull yellow next to her lipstick. “Or did you get a ticket in the end?”
Denise accepts a glass from Jack at the bar. “A ticket to what?”
The group erupts in a peal of laughter. “To the Medics Ball? At City Hall?” A hot redness blooms on her cheeks. The epidemiology students aren’t medics even if they are in the medical school; why would it occur to her to go?
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jack says. “I went last year. It’s not all that. Terrible meal. The disco is dire. You’re not missing anything.”
“Are we ready or are we ready?” a voice calls out behind them. Denise follows the others’ eyes as they look to the door.
“Miri!” Jack says. “Finally.”
The woman in the green velvet dress enters the pub. It is a cold night, but she is wearing no coat. Probably local to the area, then – one of the first things Denise noticed about Newcastle was that the rumours were correct: true Geordies went out in all weather without jackets or hats. Her hair has the color and movement of fire. The crushed velvet clings to her pear-shaped body and reveals plainly that she is wearing nothing underneath. A long string of garnets, dark as the shadows in her hair, is looped once around her neck and hangs almost to her waist. She is wearing the kind of strappy sandals Denise often looks at in shop windows but can never bring herself to buy: too impractical, too showy. But the black patent straps look just right around her narrow ankles, not too showy at all.
Her only concession to the cold is a pair of black satin gloves that come past her elbows. Denise looks away but not before she notices Miri slip an arm around Jack’s neck and his twist to kiss her on the cheek.
“Who’s this?” she asks, meaning Denise. “I don’t think we’ve met.” Miri’s voice is smoky and deep, a surprising contrast to her pink cheeks and baby skin. She detaches her arm from where it is snaked around Jack to offer a hand. Denise mumbles her name, first and last. “Are you coming?” Miri smiles. Her smile is a sweet tiny bow, the face of a Victorian valentine.
“I was on my way home,” Denise says. “I don’t have a ticket…”
Miri laughs, full throated like a goose. “You shouldn’t let a thing like that stop you!” she says. “Come with me.” She grabs Denise’s elbow and leads her to the toilets, shouting to the rest of the group to go on ahead, they will catch up.
Inside are two toilet stalls, one missing a door. Miri indicates for Denise to take off her coat, which she does. Miri folds it and stuffs it into Denise’s bag. Suddenly Miri is peeling off her dress. “You can wear mine,” she says. “You can’t walk in there dressed like that. Give me your clothes.”
Denise hesitates. As she suspected Miri is wearing nothing underneath. Miri tilts her head and smiles, slinky green fabric in her gloved hand. The dress looks smaller off her body, hardly more material than a swimsuit. “Go on, it’s stretch, it fits everyone,” she says. “You’re almost as flat up top as I am.”
“But what will you wear?”
Miri smiles. “Your clothes, obviously. Don’t worry. I know the doormen, it won’t be a problem for me to walk in.”
Denise doesn’t know what to do. It is impossible to look at the girl standing in front of her wearing nothing but gloves, a long necklace, and heels. It is almost as hard not to stare. Miri is slim up top and heavier below. She has the kind of seal-like limbs, smooth, that Denise often thinks of as boneless. Her legs taper from firm round thighs to tiny narrow ankles. It is not the type of body that is fashionable now, not the body celebrated in haute couture shows and women’s magazines. But the way she is standing tells her that Miri is more comfortable in her skin than she with her angular limbs and narrow hips ever will be.
Denise doesn’t want Miri to laugh at her for being a prude. She does not want to have to see Jack and the others later, tomorrow or the next day or next week, in the library or in an exam, and explain what happened. She closes her eyes and begins unbuttoning her shirt. The hands feel as if they belong to someone else, as if all of this is something she is watching in a film. Miri pulls the velvet dress over her head. To Denise’s surprise the dress does indeed shrink and stretch in the right places to fit.
“Hair,” Miri says, and reaches forward, her arms encircling Denise’s neck. Her eyes, which looked blue at a distance, are green and violet close up, flecked with yellow, the fire of opals in her pale face. The scent of her is sweet and sharp, sweat and vanilla. Miri’s small hands untangle Denise’s pigtail, arrange the strands over shoulders. “Not bad,” she pronounces. “Do you have makeup?” Denise shakes her head.
“That’s OK, we’ll make do.” Her face suddenly darts forward, and she plants a firm kiss on the lips. She leans back and examines Denise’s surprised face. “Perfect,” she declares. “Now you have some of my lippy.”
She tells Denise to look in the mirror. Denise’s cheeks are flushed as if she has been running and her lips are a bright pink like Miri’s. The ends of her hair graze her collarbones, now exposed by the low neckline of the dress. Denise stares at her reflection as if she is looking at someone else entirely, someone who resembles her but not quite. A close relative, perhaps. A twin. She had a twin once. Then her twin was lost and she has been alone ever since. If the mirror can be her twin, perhaps she isn’t alone after all.
She glances down at her watch. “We should hurry,” she says. “We don’t want to be too late.”
“Is being on time important to you?” Miri says.
“I guess so.” Denise hesitates. Wasn’t being on time important to everyone? “It’s rude to be late, isn’t it? Like, you would get in trouble if you were late for work—”
Miri’s throaty laugh cuts her off. “There are only two kinds of people who are paid to be on time,” she says. “Train drivers and call girls. Anyway, what’s the rush? Let’s have a drink, get to know each other a little better. Jack tells me nothing about his friends. I want to find out more about you.”
“What’s to find out? I’m very boring.” But Miri is standing there, expecting something. “OK, my name is Denise Ang. My family is from Macau, I was born in London. My parents have a chip shop.” She is about to mention Darwin but stops herself. She looks at the mirror again, it is almost impossible not to. Twin-Denise moves her mouth when Denise does, but she is different somehow. Both her and not-her. She has a thrilling, guilty feeling of looking at herself too long, as if someone has caught her staring at them. She clears her throat and looks away again. “I have a degree in maths. So I guess I’m kind of a walking cliché.”
Miri tilts her head. “How so?” she says.
Denise is confused. Is she taking the piss, or does she really not know? “I’m very boring,” she repeats.
“Nonsense,” Miri says, and her reflection smiles at Denise’s. “In my experience, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”
