‘I am.’
‘Rachel.’ Her whole name again. His voice was deeper now. ‘What’s going on with you?’
He knew something was wrong. Of course he did.
He cleared his throat. ‘I feel like you’re . . .’ He paused: ‘. . . Not really there these days.’
She couldn’t let him talk any more. ‘I know, Tim, I do. And I’m sorry. It’ll get better. Please just do this for me. Please.’
He spoke slowly, as if measuring every word. ‘Do you want to tell her, or should I?’
‘Tim, I’d love to, but you know she won’t speak to me. Just make sure you tell her it was my decision.’
The car’s air-con was a blessing. Rachel sat in the driveway for minutes, letting it chill her. The hairs on her arms rose up and tickled as they trembled in the artificial breeze. Being cold was a treat. She pushed the slats upwards so the air blasted her face. Make-up hadn’t been an option that Saturday afternoon. Nothing would stay on; nothing would calm the red of the blood pulsing just below her skin. She hadn’t even looked in the mirror.
Rachel closed her eyes. She had to move at some point, had to drive the familiar roads to the school. The evening would involve so many people. She’d seen almost no one for days. There would be so many reactions to negotiate. If Mia had told, the night could change everything. They’d know how she’d touched him, how she’d kissed his mouth. They’d know what she’d risked for him. They’d know someone like him had wanted her. Everything she held could crumble. Rachel drove slowly, lingering at each junction, turning ten minutes into twenty. She didn’t want the night to start, not yet.
She parked in a road opposite the school. The car park was out of bounds; the turning space was needed for the elaborate drop-offs that were planned for later. There was a patch of road with some shade. A laburnum tree, drooping its golden fronds, managed to block out most of the sun.
Rachel wound down the car window. Rather than breeze, it let in the heat, negating the work of the air-con. But it let the smell in too. It was sweeter than she’d expected. The garden in whose shade she’d parked was startling. There were abundant clusters of roses, buddleias in shades of pink and purple so vivid they must be artificial, clouds formed by masses of tiny white hawthorn petals. It looked nothing like a suburban garden; the colours were too rich. It couldn’t possibly be steps from a school gate in this small corner of Surrey. Rachel wished she could climb from the car and lie on that thick grass. Even in the heat, there would be a lush coolness within that green. She could rest there; she could sleep. She felt her muscles melt at the idea of it. The soil could be her mattress. No one would notice. She could stare up at the blue of the sky until her lids closed. She could cover her eyes with the rose’s petals, to heal them with soothing oils. No one would find her. She could rest her head on the hydrangea’s plush pompoms, breathe in the thick scent of jasmine, be hidden from the world by those tangled vines of honeysuckle.
‘Rachel! Thank God!’ Sam threw herself towards Rachel as she stepped through the door, arms around her shoulders, face against Rachel’s neck. As quickly as she hugged, she pulled away. There was no time to waste. She was wearing a flared dress made entirely of sequins, that seemed to writhe of its own accord, rippling like water when she moved, and she moved a lot.
‘I’m so glad you’re here. There’s so much to do. Are you feeling okay now?’
The dress Rachel had chosen was navy. It had a high round neck, a hem that sat on her knee. ‘Yeah, thanks, I’m feeling much better, just a nasty bug, I think.’
Sam was taking her role as the head of the PTA seriously, glowing with the hectic responsibility. Rachel was grateful for her energy, for the slipstream she created that could drag her along. Sam stormed around the room, with Rachel in her wake, spinning every plate. The event was all Sam’s. When Graham had proffered the idea of a Midsummer Ball, it was Sam who had taken the helm, immediately declaring they should extend the event to Year 10 as well as Year 11, making it not just a leavers’ party, but a new punctuation to the school year. Graham’s idea of the Ball had become swiftly lost in Sam’s sparkling vision.
Sam stopped suddenly by a table full of paper cups. She leaned in again, lowered her voice, quiet but emphatic. ‘God, it’s so good they caught him, that she’s coming home, isn’t it?’
Rachel found herself able to answer. ‘The timing is spot on. The kids can enjoy tonight properly. The girls will be so delighted.’ She couldn’t betray that she had no idea of Mia’s reaction, that she hadn’t glimpsed her since before the news broke. Sam squeezed Rachel’s arm, pursed her lips and nodded.
‘We’re going to make it a bloody great night for them.’
Rachel looked up, took in the space. The room had already been transformed. Rather than pay for a venue, they’d enchanted the assembly hall. It was not the same room as in those long mornings, listening to a trudging speech by the head of Year 10. The orange-varnished floor was chequered with black and white tiles. The walls had vanished. The ceiling of panels and strip lights was hidden. They were covered with swathes of draped black material, a marquee that had been miraculously erected inside, turning the room from municipal to grand. Despite the darkness, the space looked endless.
‘A Night at the Oscars.’ Sam read proudly from the glittering sign that Marianne was propping up on an easel by the entrance. Marianne smiled over. Rachel stared, trying to discern any new tension in that smile. She wanted to grab Marianne, to see if her friend could meet her eye, to see if her view had changed. She wanted to grill her for details of Mia’s day. Marianne had sent a steady flow of texts all morning. She knew Mia was suffering more than just a teenage strop, but she hadn’t questioned. She’d simply kept both parties informed, somehow managing to update Rachel without enraging Mia. It didn’t sate Rachel’s hunger.
‘It looks unbelievable, Sam. I don’t know how you’ve done it.’ Rachel wasn’t lying. ‘How can I be useful?’ Useful was exactly what she wanted to be. There was plenty to be done. Graham was already up a ladder, pinning something to something else, gracefully conceding his expectations of a refined evening on dappled grass. Tina was hurrying behind Sam, scribbling onto a clipboard. The soft-drinks stand had to be set up; signs for the different attractions – photograph booth, candyfloss machine, full-size Oscar statue – had to be positioned; the DJ booth had to be stocked with request cards; lights had to be moved so they hit the glitter balls at alarming angles.
Rachel chose the most tedious job, the one that involved walking to and from the van in the car park, carrying bottles to the drinks stall. It meant endless trips with two-litre bottles – of Coke, of Lilt, of Tango – in each hand and one under each arm. Rachel’s fingers throbbed from the effort, but every pulse of pain captured her attention. She narrowed her focus to those bottles, to the sweat between her breasts, to the reddening flesh of her fingers. There was hardly a chance to chat to the others. She raised her eyebrows to Graham in greeting; he docked his palm in a neat salute back.
Despite the endeavour, Rachel’s thoughts couldn’t be kept at bay. Mia would be there in a matter of hours, full of her anger, full of her knowledge. She would have collected her dress from the empty house and zipped it up so it held her firmly.
The first car to arrive was a limousine. Rachel had expected nothing less. They’d learned how to conduct a prom from American films. Other parents were prepared to spend the price of a family holiday on dresses, on grooming, on cars driving no more than three miles. Mia would be in one of those cars. Rachel couldn’t take her eyes off the school gates.
Limos were the default option. Boxy, stretched-out Hummers with ten or twenty teenagers jammed in. Once they clambered out, each group stood in the car park, on the strip of crimson carpet Sam had insisted pave their way. Their choice of transport marked them out from each other. The stream of vehicles blurred to Rachel’s eyes. A handful of vintage convertibles. Two Year 11
boys on a tandem. A decorated tuk tuk. There was only one car she wanted to see.
The teenagers didn’t look like the pupils Rachel knew. The boys seemed lost in rented tuxes, but the girls were the main event. Their dresses were all the same. Unvaryingly full length, with no backs to speak of. Bare arms, décolletage and shoulder blades open to the world. Tight bodice, nipped waist, flowing skirt. Each one had a different girl inside. None of them were Mia. Variations seemed allowed only in the straps, neckline, the level of embellishment, the colour. Their hair was equally identical, all sculpted to the same tumble. In floor-length gowns, glittering with rhinestones, the girls looked like women decades older, decades ago. Their glamour was rigidly traditional, as if, at any moment, they might push someone into a swimming pool.
Rachel watched car after car, girl after girl. Eventually, the bubble-gum Jeep arrived. Rachel’s breath stopped in her chest. It was a perfect replica of Barbie’s car. That toy the girls had all loved so much was now life-size with a real, thrumming engine and a driver and wheels that turned. They took their time climbing out, one by one, each taking a moment in the spotlight. Their colours were brighter to Rachel than the other girls. Keira in plunging red, Abby in pale pink with shoestring straps, Ella in a daring canary-yellow halter. Their saturation was turned up higher. Rachel waited for the flash of pale purple.
She knew Mia would let the others lead the way. But, after three shocks of colour, the Jeep door closed, and the girls walked together, arms linked, the boys straggling behind. There was no Aaron. No Mia. Rachel swallowed, tried to keep breathing.
The rainbow of girls reached the end of the red carpet and gathered to watch the next arrivals. Rachel could barely move her head. Mia had to be there. A vintage Bentley. A soft-top MG. Then a black London cab. The cab pulled up; another boy in another tuxedo climbed out and held the door. Aaron. Mia stepped out carefully, holding onto his arm, looking only at him. There was no wisp of lilac. She hadn’t gone back home for her beloved purple dress. Instead, she was in black. Not floor-skimming, not princess. Fitted, calf-length, not a flicker of embellishment. No frills, no froth.
Rachel’s mouth was dry. Mia must have bought a new dress. This sleek number hadn’t been sitting in her wardrobe. Mia looked devastating. She seemed a clear ten years older than her real age, but not like the girls in their Dynasty frocks. She looked sophisticated. This was not Rachel’s daughter, but a woman she barely knew. This woman was composed and fearsome. She knew her own mind, and could rise above the children in the car park. Mia’s hair didn’t tumble down her back, but was swept into a neat chignon. Rachel had never seen Mia look so beautiful. She didn’t know she could look so cool. Her face was pale, with sharp eyeliner flicks.
The dress and the styling were signals aimed directly at Rachel. They said that Mia no longer needed her mother. That she couldn’t bear to wear the dress that had been sullied. That she had moved far beyond Rachel now. Mia and Aaron glided down the carpet, unaware of anyone else, not stopping to pose.
The group suddenly moved as one, sensing that no more classmates were due, that the evening could begin. Rachel saw the mass of faces, of bodies, of dresses crowd towards her. She stepped back in the hall, where Sam had formed a greeting line of teachers and PTA members, like a wedding. The most confident girls hugged them; the more daring boys risked a cheek kiss with female members of staff. Rachel watched each face light as they saw the transformed assembly hall. No one had expected it to look so good.
Rachel took her place in the line, embracing each of Mia’s friends, kissing the air near their faces, greeting them in a way she would never dream of in the corridor. She enjoyed the strange ritual. It meant she’d be able to hold Mia; she’d be able to clutch her daughter, under the guise of a formal greeting, and whisper right into her ear.
Every other girl blurred into one as Rachel waited for the familiar feel, the familiar scent of her daughter. She wanted to hold that poised and beautiful woman, and make sure Mia was still there inside her. She wanted to look in her eyes and see how she was coping now she knew everything Rachel had longed to protect her from.
Rachel could see the black of Mia’s dress, so bold in that mist of coloured chiffon. She could sense her daughter stepping closer, could see her hugging Sam, tilting her head in coy thanks at the compliments given. Rachel’s pulse thumped in all the wrong places as her arms readied to reach for Mia. But Mia didn’t stop. She walked on, ignoring the rest of the greeting line. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to see Rachel – just walked, her eyes never lighting on her mother’s face.
The teenagers did what teenagers do. Rachel found a space on the side of the dark room and watched as they moved in their little groups. Mia’s friends were unassailable in their power, their confidence to dance on the empty chequered floor. Mia was not with them. She was nowhere in that room. Rachel scanned every corner, but could see nothing of Mia’s black dress.
As Rachel stood, Graham walked over, handed her a glass of the sparkling elderflower they’d kept for the adults. He was in a tuxedo now. She mouthed her thanks. He smiled, but said nothing.
Rachel leaned in. ‘It’s an amazing night, isn’t it?’
Graham only nodded. Rachel was grateful for the company, for the silence.
Rachel couldn’t help but imagine Mark in that room. He wouldn’t have rented a tux; he’d have insisted on something more casual. He might have stood with her. He might have pressed his arm invisibly against hers, held her hand behind her back. They might have snuck to the empty parts of the building and done what the teenagers weren’t allowed to. Would they have danced? Would he have held her lightly in the slow songs, swayed them in circles, no more than colleagues? Would anyone have noticed? The thought of his hands on her waist twisted something inside Rachel. Some muscle in the very centre of her went into spasm. His breath on her face, his hips nudging hers as they moved. Would he have surveyed the room? That room full of teenage bodies, unsure of themselves, unused to their own reactions. The contraction at Rachel’s core knew the answer.
But he wasn’t in that room. He was somewhere else. According to the news, he was back in the country, being held in police custody until the trial. He’d be in the sort of room Rachel had only ever seen on television. A single bed with a thin, stained mattress. A window too small and high to provide enough light. His hair would be hanging in strings. His skin wouldn’t have seen sun, wouldn’t have been plumped by sleep. There would be no one for him to talk to. He was locked alone, to face his darkness unaided. The bars and doors and wire mesh were not just to keep him in, but to keep every other person out.
On a single beat, the dancing stopped. The music continued, but no one moved. Some other rhythm had taken over. The adults looked at each other. Something had happened that was far outside their authority, their understanding. Rachel watched as every teenager suddenly addressed their phone: the boys plucking them from the inside pockets of rented jackets, the girls fishing around in tiny clutch bags. In one movement, in a buzz of energy, they swarmed outside. The teachers followed, exchanging frowns. Sam seemed to be the only adult aware of the news, pushing herself to the front of the surge, sequins swimming.
As the group spilled into the car park, Rachel saw that the red carpet was still there, as if it knew it might still be needed. Only seconds passed before a single car pulled into the driveway. Not a vintage car, not a convertible, just a standard family saloon. Rachel stopped. Her feet suddenly rooted to the floor. She was jostled from all sides as the crowd continued to swell. It was Gary’s car. Gary and Debbie’s car. Their red Vauxhall Insignia. The same car that had driven to Rachel’s house countless times to pick Lily up, to drop Mia off.
Sam was talking to Graham, her voice so loud that every word was clear across the crowd. ‘I think it is absolutely the right decision. It’s not fair to punish her, she’s been through enough. She should be with her friends.’
Lily had,
apparently, sent a message to her closest friends, which Ella had forwarded to the whole year, so every mobile in the room had shuddered with the same exquisite gossip. Rachel wanted to halt time for a moment, to give herself the chance to catch up before the inevitable ordeal ahead. Lily had been back in the country since Thursday morning. She would have spent two endless days in police interview rooms, giving statements, confirming details. She’d have been urged to condemn Mark, to tell them what they needed to convict him, but she’d have stayed loyal. No question. She’d have refused to cry, kept her chin held firm and declared nothing but devotion. She would have insisted, in a steady voice, that everything had been her choice, but her fingers would have shredded an empty Styrofoam water cup under the table. She’d have wanted to make him proud.
Lily stepped out of the car alone, and stood facing the crowd. The seconds dragged as they all took her in. It was a muggy night, and the air felt thick. She was wearing the dress she’d bought months ago. The dress she’d chosen when she was still a child. It was silver – the same tight bodice as nearly every other girl, but with a full princess skirt that stood whole feet out from her body. It was a Disney dress, the sort of dress a little girl would weep over. She was too old for it now. Her last three weeks were still with her. They were unsheddable. She knew what the others might take decades to learn. She’d squeezed into the dress she’d chosen before she’d chosen something else altogether.
No one seemed to move. Rachel’s head felt too heavy for her neck to support. Ella finally broke the moment, rushing forward out of the crowd in her bright yellow dress, to hug Lily, smushing her tight, then taking her by both hands and leading her towards the others. Only a few weeks before, Lily had faded beside her flashier friends; now she was the centre of everyone’s gaze, the subject of every photograph. Rachel could see from across the car park how pink her cheeks had flushed. The crowd was now babbling. Everyone had a question for Lily. Where is Mr Webb? Do you love him? Do you love Mr Webb? What did you do? What will happen to him now?
Heatstroke: an intoxicating story of obsession over one hot summer Page 22