The Argument (ARC)

by Victoria Jenkins

  After dinner is finished, both girls go upstairs to their bedrooms. Hannah also goes upstairs, tempted by the appeal of an early night. She wants nothing more than to change into a nightdress and climb beneath the duvet, for her brain to find sleep quickly and her mind to switch off until morning, but she doesn’t allow herself to succumb to it. She wants to speak to Michael when he gets home.

  Hannah doesn’t have to wait long. At just gone eight-thirty, she hears her husband’s keys in the front door. She listens to him move around downstairs, and it is a few minutes more before he makes his way up to the bedroom. When he enters the room, his work shirt pulled untidily from his trousers and his tie loosened from its grip around his neck, he looks tired, his lethargy worn in the deep grooves at the corners of his glassy eyes

  He runs a hand over his balding scalp. He has lost more hair recently, she has noticed, age and the stress of work both catching up with him. He looks older than his forty-two years, and she wishes she could slow time for them all. When they were younger, the age gap had seemed much greater, and Hannah considers with some sadness the possibility that rather than her slowing his years, he has aided in speeding hers. She feels guilty for the thought that Michael may be anything but good for her. He is everything to her. He stayed by her side at a time when there was no one else to support her.

  She remembers him as he was when they first met, so handsome and so attentive; kinder to her than anyone else in her life had ever been. She feels sure that even had she not been physically attracted to him, she would have been drawn to him anyway, simply for the person he was. Those first, early days before the unimaginable happened were the most exciting and happiest of her life. She wishes she had known at the time just how quickly they would pass, and how vulnerable the two of them were to things they had no control over.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  Hannah gets up from the bed where she has been lying. ‘Fine. Your dinner’s in the fridge.’

  ‘I don’t really fancy it,’ he says, pulling off his jacket. ‘Will it keep until tomorrow?’

  Hannah nods and helps him with his jacket. She lays it over the end of the bed. ‘My keys went missing today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I couldn’t find them. But the girls were in school, there was no one else here. I’d had them to get back into the house.’

  ‘You’ve got them now though?’

  Hannah has gone through it all in her mind, countless times. She walked the girls to school and then she came home. She locked the front door behind her when she was back inside the house and then she set about her chores for that morning. The keys were left in the lock. When she went to leave just before lunchtime, they were nowhere to be found. By the time it came for her to meet the girls from school, the keys were in the box where they are usually kept, the one that Michael bought so that this sort of thing would never happen. But it’s impossible, she knows it is. They weren’t there when she looked for them earlier. No one else was in the house.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies quietly. ‘I’ve got them now.’

  She feels Michael move nearer to her before his hand rests on her shoulder.

  ‘Are you okay, love? You seem tense all the time.’

  She exhales beneath the weight of his hands on her, as though he is pressing all the tension and anxiety from her body. ‘What are we going to do about Olivia?’

  Behind her, Michael sighs. ‘Is this about the weekend?’ His hands slide from her, leaving her cold.

  ‘I still think we should tell the police.’

  There is a moment of silence before he speaks again. ‘We’ve talked about this. I’ll call them if you want me to, but we really need to consider this carefully. Is that what you really want, the police here? This doesn’t just affect Olivia, does it?’

  ‘I know that, but…’ Hannah’s sentence trails off into silence. She knows what she wants to say. What if it wasn’t Olivia? What if a stranger was responsible and that stranger is still free to do the same to someone else or, even, to return to their home if he chooses?

  And yet Hannah knows that whoever it was, the person was no stranger to her. Whoever it was, he or she knows something about Hannah, something she doesn’t want made public.

  She already knows how Michael will respond to her suggestion that they contact the police. She knows what his counter argument will sound like. He will be right, of course. If there is any chance that Olivia was involved, the police will find it. She will be marked by it for life, and so will they.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quietly. ‘I just can’t stand the thought of it. I want to feel safe here.’

  She feels his hands return to her, rubbing warmth into her shoulders and beginning to ease some of the tensions of the day from her body. ‘You are safe here,’ he tries to reassure her. ‘But…’ It is his turn to fade to silence.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Liar,’ he says, a word that stings Hannah’s ears as though she has been slapped, and for a moment she thinks he is accusing rather than repeating. ‘It’s just…I’ve been thinking about it for days now. If it was Olivia who wrote that, what does it mean? Who’s the liar?’

  Hannah swallows. The noise sounds so loud in her ears that she’s sure it must be audible to him. ‘I don’t know,’ she lies, recognising the irony.

  Michael sighs again. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls her down to sit beside him, and she rests her head on his shoulder as his arm snakes around her to hold her close. It feels good to have him home, to have him there beside her, a temporary presence before he is gone again. She had known that Michael would have the ability to reassure her; she has trusted him to know what to do for the best.

  ‘You need a break, love.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Olivia’s behaviour…I know it’s been difficult for you.’

  ‘It’s not difficult,’ she says, lying again, ‘I just want to know what I’m supposed to do about it.’

  ‘You and me both. But we knew this would happen one day though, didn’t we? We talked about it.’

  Hannah gives a slight nod, not really wanting to acknowledge the conversation that was had so long ago now she hopes Michael may have forgotten all about it. Yes, they had known that these days would arrive, but that doesn’t mean that she is any more prepared for them.

  ‘We need to consider what we spoke about. Olivia’s behaviour is a problem, isn’t it? This is only the start. She’s going to push us until she thinks we’ll break. And it’s not just about us anymore, is it? We have to think about what’s best for Rosie too.’

  With her head still on her husband’s shoulder, Hannah starts to cry silent tears. She isn’t sure whether they are of sadness or in anger, only that they are raw and painful, that they have been held back for far too long, and that many of them are for herself. She has tried her best, but she has failed.

  ‘I’ll look into it tomorrow,’ he says.

  8

  Eight

  Olivia

  * * *

  On Tuesday morning, Olivia decides that the only way she is going to get through the day will be to shut her mind off as though pretending she no longer exists, and that her life isn’t the continual humiliation it has become. She knows it isn’t likely to be easy to turn herself off from the rumours and the embarrassment that follow her around the school grounds like a stray dog, a thought confirmed when she passes a group of sixth form boys in the corridor and one of them wolf whistles at her, sending his friends into bursts of spiteful laughter. Olivia feels herself colour instantly, her cheeks warming in a swell of embarrassment so intense it makes her feel sick. Was what she did on Friday night really all that bad, or was it just because it was her, the girl no one expects it of?

  She grips the handle of the bag on her shoulder and wonders whether Miss Johnson would allow her to work from her classroom for the day. Despite what happened there just yesterday, that classroom feels like a safe place in comparison to the
rest of the school grounds, but she doesn’t like to ask, not when the answer is likely to be no. She would never be allowed, and anyway, she has spent too much of her life hiding away in the shadows.

  During her IT lesson, when she is supposed to be working on a spreadsheet, Olivia accesses the internet and tentatively types what she is looking for into the search engine. She chooses the computer in the furthest corner of the room, keeping one eye on Mr Matthews and the other on the screen. She is in luck; Mr Matthews is engrossed in a discussion with a table of geeky boys at the front of the room about the denouement of some Marvel comic series of films, so much so that he doesn’t seem too interested in what the rest of the class is up to. Beside her, Ollie Morris is playing a game on a website he shouldn’t be on. He glances at her when he feels Olivia staring at him, before returning his attention to the game. He, too, is uninterested in what she is doing, and Olivia supposes that on this occasion, she should feel grateful nobody cares enough to pay her any notice.

  She scans the list of search results thrown on to the screen when she presses Enter. There are more than she thought. Taking her planner from her bag, she quickly copies down the names and numbers before closing the internet and returning the book to her bag. She opens the spreadsheet she’s supposed to be working on, but her mind is elsewhere. It is always elsewhere, even more so recently. Her mother has been lying to her. Olivia wants to know why.

  The rest of the morning passes without event, which Olivia is grateful for. Her brain switches off during History, her thoughts trapped in the details of what she needs to find and do, and during Biology she does the bare minimum she can get away with without her idleness being spotted by the teacher. By the time lunch arrives, her mind is set on a plan. She needs somewhere quiet, somewhere no staff or other students will overhear her.

  ‘Miss.’

  Miss Johnson looks up from the screen of her computer.

  ‘Olivia. Everything okay?’

  Olivia nods. ‘I, uh…I wanted to say sorry, that’s all.’

  ‘Sorry? What for?’

  Olivia steps into the classroom and closes the door behind her. ‘The way I spoke to you yesterday. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.’

  ‘It’s fine, you don’t need to apologise for that.’

  ‘I was wondering, uh…would it be okay for me to sit in here for lunch? I don’t mean to eat lunch, I’ve already eaten,’ she lies, ‘I just mean to sit in here, to, uh, get some work done.’ She realises she is rambling now, that her words are punctuated with too many stops and stutters, so she stops talking, hoping she hasn’t made herself appear too suspicious.

  Miss Johnson gives her a sympathetic smile. The awkwardness of the incident during yesterday’s lesson is standing between them, an invisible cause of discomfort for them both and something that neither of them wants to outwardly acknowledge. ‘You don’t fancy the library?’

  The words feel like a personal rejection. Their effect must be evident on Olivia’s face, as Miss Johnson’s expression changes instantly and she ushers her in with a wave of her hand. ‘You can sit in here, but I haven’t had lunch yet though - will you be okay on your own for a while?’

  With a nod, Olivia thanks her. She pulls her books from her rucksack, making it look as though she is about to focus on some work. Miss Johnson takes her handbag from beneath her desk, leaving the classroom door open behind her as she heads for the canteen.

  As soon as she is gone, Olivia scrabbles in her bag for her notebook, retrieving the list of numbers she noted down during the IT lesson. She unlocks her mobile and taps in the first number, knowing she has a limited amount of time before the teacher returns.

  The phone rings just three times before it is answered.

  ‘Could I speak to Eleanor Medway, please?’

  She can hear her voice shaking as she speaks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says, a slight note of bemusement in her tone, ‘there’s no one here of that name.’

  ‘Okay,’ Olivia says, her nervousness replaced with disappointment. ‘Sorry.’ She ends the call and quickly taps the next phone number on to the screen. It rings for what feels like forever, and Olivia is about to hang up when someone finally answers.

  ‘Could I speak to Eleanor Medway, please?’

  ‘Who?’ the man asks.

  ‘Eleanor Medway,’ Olivia repeats, trying to keep her voice steady. Her palm is sweating, her grip loose on the phone. She glances at the closed door of the classroom, wondering how much time she has before Miss Johnson returns with her lunch.

  ‘Wait a minute, please,’ the man says. He sounds as clueless as she is, Olivia thinks. She waits a moment, scanning the list of phone numbers that remains, knowing she doesn’t have enough time now to try them all. A few moments later, the man returns. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘There’s no one here called Eleanor Medway.’

  ‘Okay. Sorry.’

  On the third call, much the same happens, except the woman who answers asks Olivia who she is. She hangs up, not wanting to explain the purpose of her call. She glances at the clock; taps a fourth number into her phone. A female voice answers.

  ‘Could I speak to Eleanor Medway, please?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s finished her lunch yet,’ the woman says, and Olivia feels a jumble of mixed emotions knot in her stomach, making her sick as anticipation tightens it. There is a flutter in her chest like the wings of a tiny bird, and she tells herself not to get carried away by hoping for too much too soon.

  ‘Would you mind calling back a bit later?’ the woman asks.

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ she says hurriedly.

  ‘Can I ask who’s calling?’

  Olivia hesitates. ‘It’s her daughter,’ she lies.

  ‘Okay, well I’ll let her know you called and that you’ll speak to her later, all right?’

  ‘Great. Thank you.’

  When Olivia looks up, Miss Johnson is at the doorway, a baguette wrapped in cellophane held in one hand and a raised eyebrow questioning the phone that is in Olivia’s hand. ‘Why was the door closed?’

  ‘Sorry. My mum called.’ It’s amazing how easily the lies fall, she thinks. Now that telling these little white lies has become a default setting, she doesn’t know that she’ll be able to stop. There is something addictive about the deception of it all.

  Miss Johnson eyes her sceptically, not quite believing what Olivia says. Olivia vows to become better, more convincing. She smiles at Miss Johnson and puts her phone and notebook back into her bag, replacing them with a pile of books.

  ‘You know, Olivia, if you want to talk to me about anything, you can do.’

  Olivia glances down at the books on the desk. She wonders what it would feel like to talk to someone about everything that’s going on. Most girls her age would be able to talk to their mothers, but Olivia’s mother is the very person she can’t speak to. It would be lovely to be able to talk to Miss Johnson, like confiding in an auntie or an older sister. Olivia has never really had a friend, not a close one that she can share her secrets with. Everything she wants to say gathers on her tongue, the effort of holding it all in almost choking her.

  ‘I’m fine, Miss,’ she lies again, not quite enjoying this one as much as the last. ‘Honestly. Thanks though.’

  Miss Johnson nods and takes her lunch to her desk, where she returns her attention to the screen of her computer. Inside, Olivia feels her stomach roil. She knows where Eleanor is, where exactly she can find her. She could go there, she thinks, now she knows where it is. Only, she realises she doesn’t know. She has an address, but it doesn’t mean anything to her.

  ‘Miss.’

  Miss Johnson lifts her head. She has a crumb of bread at the side of her mouth and wipes it self-consciously with the back of a hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ Olivia says, feeling embarrassment rise to her face in a flush that is becoming a second skin. ‘Could I ask you a favour?’

  Miss Johnson nods, her mouth still full of a bite of s
andwich. ‘Could you tell me how I get to Templeton Road?’

  ‘Is that in town? I’m not sure I know it. Have you got maps on your phone?’

  Olivia shakes her head. She waits as Miss Johnson closes the file she has been working on and opens the internet browser. ‘I’ll look it up for you now,’ she says. She taps the street name into the search engine and waits for the results. ‘According to this, it’s not too far from south beach. About five roads back from the promenade.’

  She smiles at Olivia as if this is enough, as though Olivia should now know how to get there. She returns the smile with a blank expression that gives away her ignorance.

  ‘Shall I write down directions for you?’ Miss Johnson suggests.

  ‘Thanks.’

  While she jots down the directions, Olivia finds herself staring at the top of Miss Johnson’s head and at the dark glossy hair that falls over her shoulders. She is wearing a fitted top with a Peter Pan collar that manages to make her look even younger. Olivia understands why she is so popular, why the boys fancy her, and the girls want to be like her.

  ‘What’s on Templeton Road anyway?’ she asks, still writing.

  ‘Oh, just a shop,’ Olivia tells her, feeling guilty for this lie, though unsure why. ‘I’ve seen a dress online.’ It sounds such a normal thing to say, something any of the other girls in her class might say. And yet, from her own mouth and with her own voice, the words sound so alien. She stands when Miss Johnson holds out the sheet of paper, goes to the desk and thanks her again. Her fingers shake as the sheet of directions passes from the teacher’s hand to hers, and she wonders whether Miss Johnson notices the trembling of her hand as she tries to still it.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she says, hurriedly packing her books into her bag. She senses Miss Johnson’s eyes on her, questioning the sudden rush to leave, and it makes her want to get from the room all the sooner. ‘Thanks again, Miss.’

  Olivia clatters clumsily from the room, the door banging shut behind her. She bumps into someone in the corridor, whether a student or a teacher she doesn’t know. Her mind is elsewhere, and she knows it won’t be at rest until she finds out the truth. She needs to go to Templeton Road today, and she will willingly face the consequences.