‘The inquest is to find out what happened – I already know that. I want to find out why it happened.’
Rachel stared at her for a long moment.
‘Why me?’
‘Because you were the best at what you did.’
‘Di, I wasn’t exactly—’
‘It wasn’t a compliment,’ said Diana flatly. ‘As a journalist, you were unscrupulous, underhand and completely unprincipled.’
‘That’s not entirely fair,’ Rachel said, averting her eyes.
Diana leant forward. ‘Yes, Rachel, it is. You almost destroyed my life for the sake of a story.’
Her sister glanced up. She was picking her nails, a habit she had kept from her teenage years; it was her only tell that she was nervous or upset.
‘You’ve come an awful long way just to insult me.’
‘I didn’t come to insult you,’ replied Diana. ‘I’m just being honest; I want a journalist who has what it takes to get to the bottom of a story, who has the stomach for a fight. And that person is you. You stop at nothing; nobody knows that better than me. And I need you to find out why he did it.’
She could feel tears beginning to prick at her eyes, but she was glad that she had finished her speech.
Rachel just sat there, staring at her. Oh God, thought Diana, I’ve pushed her too far. Been too heavy-handed. I’ve come all this way and I’ve screwed it up.
Then slowly her sister reached across the table and put her tanned hand on top of Diana’s. Rachel could be stubborn, dogmatic, unyielding. But right now, as the sun set in long golden ribbons behind her, she looked truly remorseful.
‘I’m sorry, Di,’ she said. ‘I really am. I shouldn’t have . . . done what I did.’
Diana could only nod. She could still remember the moment she had realised her life was going to fall apart; it was as if someone had taken a photograph. She had just returned to their Notting Hill home from a morning yoga class when the telephone on the stand by the stairs had rung. It was a reporter from the Post asking if she had any comment on the story they were running the next day. Julian was having an affair, they said. They had pictures, an interview with the young woman, shots of the pair of them leaving a hotel. Diana had actually been calm, coolly declining to comment. Because she just didn’t believe it. For roughly sixty seconds, she had utter, unshakeable faith in her husband. Sixty seconds, because the moment she put the phone down, it rang again – and there was Julian, his voice shaking, saying that it had meant nothing, that Diana was the only woman he had ever loved: all the clichés. And she had just stood there in the hallway, the receiver held loosely in her hand, knowing that things couldn’t get any worse.
Julian had called the lawyers. Diana had called her sister. Rachel was associate editor of the newspaper, for goodness’ sake. Surely she had the power to stop the story?
But she didn’t answer her calls. Or return her messages. Finally Diana had gone round to the Post’s Docklands office and cornered her as she had left the building.
It’s out of my hands, was all she could say. Out of her hands that she had destroyed Diana’s marriage, humiliated the family, humiliated Julian.
She could feel her hands trembling despite the heat.
‘I didn’t try to stop the story,’ said Rachel quietly, letting Diana’s hand go. ‘I don’t know why. Ambition, wanting to be accepted, greed.’
‘You could have tried . . .’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’ Diana had heard her excuses before. ‘It was a great story for the Post. They were always going to run it, regardless of what I said or did. I had no real power. But yes, I should have done what I could to stop it. For that I’ll always, always be sorry.’
Diana’s eyes narrowed. How could she just say I’m sorry and expect everything to be all right again?
‘That world I lived in, it’s vicious and selfish and completely unconcerned with anything except getting the story,’ added Rachel.
‘Which is why I am here talking to you,’ replied Diana. She had injected obvious ice into her voice, wanting her sister to be under no illusions that she was enjoying this reunion. ‘All I am asking is for you to do what you do so well. I want you to stop at nothing – nothing – until you find out the truth about Julian.’
‘But I’ve changed,’ said Rachel. She noticed that her hand had clenched into a fist on the table. ‘I’ve changed and that’s why I can’t help you. Not in the way you want.’ Her voice softened. ‘This is my home now, and this is who I am. I deal with wetsuits, boats and the sea, and I spend my days making people happy, as far as I can. That selfish, ruthless reporter is dead, Di. I want to help you, but if you want to investigate Julian’s death, then talk to the police. Hire a private detective. I can give you names. I’ll support you all the way, and if you need a break from England, then you can come and stay with me. This place heals people. There are worse things you can do than come to Thailand for a little while.’
‘I don’t want to stay a minute longer with you than I have to.’ Diana disliked the feelings that were coursing through her. Hatred, anger, frustration. This was her sister and she loved her. Had loved her until Rachel had betrayed her. It had been the betrayal, almost as much as her exposé of Julian, that Diana had never been able to get over, that had made her feelings run so deep.
‘You owe me, Rachel,’ she said fiercely. ‘You almost destroyed my marriage, and now I’m asking for something to make up for that.’
It was a minute before either of them spoke. The waiter came with two sweet-smelling curries and, detecting an atmosphere between the sisters, hurried away again.