by Heidi Perks
So she’d ended up letting him take the blame, just as he’d made her promise to if it all went wrong. And how wrong it went, she thinks, her eyes filling as they are drawn to his rosebush again.
Her dad was only in her life for six months, but he’d managed to change everything. She takes a deep breath and looks around, reminding herself as she often does that he gave her all she ever wanted. Freedom.
Over the last year Harriet has told him many times how sorry she is. She whispers it at night as she curls up in bed and the tears flow down her cheeks. She longs for one more day with him so she could relive all the magic he brought into their lives. They would build sandcastles and eat ice cream when it was cold and they would laugh until it felt greater than any pain.
Harriet presses her hand against the windowpane, covering the view of the rose. She can feel the hole in her heart stretching, tugging until she forces herself to look away. She needs to think about the day ahead. Charlotte will be here soon. Her stomach flutters and she allows herself to feel a little excited as she pulls a cloth out and begins to wipe down the kitchen.
• • •
CHARLOTTE SQUEEZES THE tea bag against the inside of the paper cup with a plastic spoon. Fields roll past through the train window. The carriage was empty until they’d pulled into the last station, where a handful of passengers shuffled in. Now there are at least a dozen of them, including a couple sitting at the far end of the car that keeps drawing her attention.
The girl looks barely seventeen. She’s sitting next to the window and stares glumly out of it. Her boyfriend, who is at least ten years her senior, kicks a battered purple suitcase with a restless foot. Each time his foot bangs against it the girl flinches. Behind his scruffy beard and dark eyebrows there are steely gray eyes that flick around the train as if he’s expecting or looking for trouble.
Charlotte feels the plastic spoon snap between her fingers and looks down, surprised to find she’s broken it in half. She forces herself to look away from the couple and think about what she plans to say to Harriet. There are many things she needs to get off her chest that won’t stop haunting her.
At first Charlotte was relieved when Harriet moved back to Kent. She wouldn’t have to look over her shoulder every time she went to the park. Not that she ever went to that particular one anymore. But then as the weeks passed, relief turned to an anger, which settled in her gut and began to grow. She was angry with Harriet. So full of rage.
The papers called Harriet’s story “tragic” and labeled her “brave.” Charlotte swallowed the lies she read, and all the while her rage grew and grew. What made it worse was that she couldn’t release it. Instead she had to sit back and accept she’d played a part in turning Harriet into the victim.
Some mornings Charlotte yanked back the curtains, wanting to open the windows and scream. Let the world know that it was she who should have their pity and admiration. Not Harriet. Where were the stories about Charlotte? What happened to the people who attacked her in the press? None of them retracted their slurs. No one seemed interested in what became of the friend, but then maybe she should be grateful they’d stopped talking about her. And that that awful Josh Gates’s story about Jack had never been published.
Yet staying silent is suffocating. It feels like it’s quite literally drowning her. After Harriet moved, Charlotte started imagining the life her old friend was now living: what her house is like, if Harriet’s cut her hair, if she has a circle of friends who’ve accepted what happened to her. She’s wondered about it to the extent that she actually hates Harriet for running away and setting up a new life, while Charlotte’s been sinking lower and lower into her own despair.
She can’t move past the fact that she lied to the police, but there’s also something else. And if what Alice told her is true, then Charlotte needs to know what she’s been covering up.
She sips her tea and checks her watch as they pull into another station. Hers is the next stop, and they’re due to arrive in twelve minutes. The train pulls away again and she texts Audrey to check on the children, looking up as the boyfriend at the end of the car raises his voice. He calls his girlfriend a stupid bitch and slams his fist on the table and she is crying, her shoulders heaving and tears streaming down her face in black streaks from her smudged mascara. The other passengers keep their heads down or stare out the windows, except for a lady in her eighties who watches them, shocked by their public display of anger and hysteria. Now he is in the young girl’s face, making her recoil with each word he spits.
Charlotte pushes herself out of her seat. There was a time when she would’ve stayed out of other people’s business, but she can’t allow this behavior. As she strides down the aisle she can feel the nervous glances of the other passengers, who likely think she’s mad for getting involved. But as soon as she reaches the couple, Charlotte stops short. The man is holding his girlfriend’s face, kissing her on the nose and telling her he’s sorry and how much he loves her. Choking back her sobs with laughter, she tells him she loves him too. Both of them are oblivious to Charlotte hovering, about to step in.
She could keep walking and pretend she was going to the bathroom, but she can’t be bothered with that charade and instead makes her way back to her seat. An arm reaches out midway down the aisle, stopping her in her tracks. Charlotte looks at the old woman who says, “You did a good thing there, love. You were the only one prepared to step in.”
Charlotte turns back to the couple. “I don’t think the girl realizes she needs help.” She feels angry that he’s treating her like this. That girl is someone’s daughter, and she knows she’d want someone to step in if it were Molly or Evie.
“No,” the old woman says. “But she will one day.”
“Maybe I should go back and say something,” Charlotte says, still watching them.
“I wouldn’t,” the lady says. “You don’t always know when you’re doing more harm than good. If she’s not ready for help, then neither of them will thank you.”
• • •
HARRIET’S PLACE IS easy to find. It’s at the end of a pleasant street, where just around the corner there’s a small row of quaint shops and across the road a lush park with a pavilion and a pond and a children’s playground.
Charlotte hovers on the sidewalk outside. Suddenly the thought of seeing Harriet is far too overwhelming and she needs to force herself up the short path to the front door, ring the bell, and wait without running. Her heart is beating hard and she wonders if she might throw up when Harriet opens the door.
Harriet is wearing a long blue dress with a white cardigan. Her hair has been cut short and colored a much richer brown. Her mouth that sparkles with gloss breaks into a small smile as she steps aside to let Charlotte in. Charlotte mumbles “Thank you” as she passes and is walking to the kitchen when Alice rushes in, armed with a handful of flowers that she thrusts into Charlotte’s hand.
“Oh, goodness,” she says as she bends down to the little girl. “Thank you.” The tears surprise her. She didn’t expect to be so emotional at the sight of Alice, who’s even taller than Molly now. Her hair has been braided down the back and tied with a huge yellow ribbon. The little girl is chattering about the garden, something about a rosebush and about how the new baby sleeps in a cot next to Mummy’s bed, and is asking if Charlotte would like to see her bedroom because she’s hung her butterflies in the window.
“I’d love to, maybe a little later?” she says, straightening up. Alice won’t stop talking, excitedly telling her all about school, and now she is pulling a drawing off the fridge that she hands to Charlotte.
“That’s my picture of the school rabbit,” Alice says. “It’s a real one.”
Harriet is drifting around them, filling the kettle and sliding a cake onto a plate that she puts on the small round table sitting snugly in the corner. A pile of muslins are neatly folded on its edge and baby bottles are lined up in a row behind the sink. She wonders where the baby is as Alice carries on.
“I go to big school.” Alice smiles proudly. “I go every morning five times a week.” She holds up five fingers.
“That’s very good counting. Do you like it at your big school?”
Alice nods eagerly. “The rabbit is called Cottontail and we can hold her at break time and yesterday it was my turn to feed her, but do you know you’re not supposed to feed them too many carrots?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s because they have sugar and they can give the rabbits bad teeth. My teacher said that in assembly.”
“You’re a bright little button.” Charlotte smiles at her.
“She is,” Harriet says as she comes to stand next to her daughter, resting her hand on Alice’s head. “She doesn’t forget a thing,” she adds, but in a way that suggests this isn’t necessarily a good thing. “Alice, why don’t you take a piece of cake and watch some TV?” As soon as she passes Alice a plate, the girl is out of the room.
“She seems very happy.” Charlotte watches her go.
Harriet nods. “I hope so. But then you don’t always know for sure, do you? Please, have a piece.” Harriet hands her a plate. Charlotte takes it and sits down.
“George is asleep,” Harriet says, frowning as she nervously checks her watch. “He’s already been down two hours. He’ll probably wake soon.” Charlotte remembers those days like they were yesterday—she can’t tell if Harriet’s desperate for George to wake up or desperate for him not to. “I was pleased to hear from you,” Harriet says. “But now that you’re here I have a feeling this isn’t a friendly visit.” She tries to laugh but it’s a nervous sound that comes out.
“No, maybe not,” Charlotte admits. “I’m struggling.”
Harriet nods. “Because of what you said to the police?”
“That’s part of it.”
“Do you think you did the wrong thing?” Harriet’s gaze drifts away as she prods a slice of cake with a small fork, sending tiny crumbs flying across the plate.
Charlotte sighs. “I never thought I was capable of what I did. It makes me feel guilty. And afraid. I’m afraid that one day it will all catch up with me.”
“That can’t happen now,” Harriet says.
“No, maybe not, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking about it. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“What do you mean? You’re still the same person.”
“No,” Charlotte replies flatly. “I’m not the same person at all. I do things now that are so out of character.” Tom wouldn’t believe her if she told him how she’d almost interfered in that couple’s argument. “I’m so far from that person and it scares me, because I liked the old me.”
“But what’s actually changed?” Harriet asks. “Your life’s still the same. You have the same group of friends and live in your lovely house with your amazing kids. What’s so different?”
Charlotte lays her hands flat on the table and fiddles with the corner of a napkin. She imagines Harriet buying them especially for her visit and feels a flash of pity for such an effort. “Everything is different, Harriet. None of it is real. It feels like everything I do is a lie and I can’t talk to anyone about it. My best friend doesn’t even know what I’ve done.” She doesn’t mean to, but she finds herself emphasizing the words “best friend.”
“You want to tell Audrey. Is that what this is about?” Harriet drops her gaze to her plate.
“Yes, I’d love to tell Audrey, but that’s not what this is about. It’s about me feeling so angry all the time. I have this rage inside me that has nowhere to go,” she says, holding a hand against her stomach. “Can you imagine how that feels?”
“Of course I can. I felt exactly the same when I was told my dad was dead. I felt that way for most of my marriage.”
Charlotte looks down. She knows how upset Harriet was about her father, but that wasn’t why she’s come here and she refuses to be pulled into Harriet’s world today. “I’m sorry about your dad,” she says. “But you need to tell me what to do with this anger.” She can feel the heat bubbling inside her. “I’m angry with you, Harriet,” she says bluntly. “I’m angry that you seemed to have moved on and set up such a nice life for yourself.”
Harriet glances around the room with its tiny window and minimal cabinets, the gas stove with its rings that look dirty no matter how much she scrubs them.
“You have the life you always wanted,” Charlotte says.
“The life I always wanted? What do you imagine my life is?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte admits. “But you’ve started again and I’m left—” She isn’t sure how to finish the sentence.
“You’re left what?” Harriet asks.
Charlotte sighs. “I don’t know. Dealing with it all.”
“You think I’m not?” Harriet says. “Every day I expect to see Brian turn up on the doorstep. I open the door and imagine him standing there, that look in his eyes, his head cocked to one side, and I can hear him clear as day: ‘Hello, Harriet. Surprise.’ ”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“His body was never found,” Harriet says. “So it might be unlikely, but it’s not impossible. The years of dreading him coming home, fearing I’d done something wrong or said the wrong thing. Wondering what I was going to be quizzed about next—none of that leaves me. I don’t know if it ever will.”
“Are you telling me that after everything that’s happened, it’s no better?” Charlotte asks.
“Of course it’s better. But it doesn’t turn magically wonderful. I’m happy once I’ve reassured myself he’s not going to walk in the door any moment. Then I breathe again and I go back to living my life with the children. But I’m still dealing with it. And I doubt I have the kind of life you think I do.” Harriet smiles sadly. “I don’t do much with it but it’s fine. It’s what we need right now and that’s what matters. Alice needs to feel safe. They both do.”
Harriet places her fork carefully on the plate. “There’s not a day that passes that I don’t look back and wish I could change what happened. But at the time I was so desperate, I didn’t know what else to do. I was living in a trap that Brian created, and honestly, I couldn’t see any way of escaping him.”
“But why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“It took me a long time to realize what he was doing,” Harriet says. “By then I felt like he’d convinced everyone around us that I was crazy. When I started writing in my notebook, I was already wondering myself if I was. I didn’t—” Harriet stops.
“You didn’t trust me?”
“No, maybe not,” she admits. “But only because I was so frightened. I didn’t trust anyone. I believed him when he said he’d take Alice from me, and I thought that if I’d fallen for it for years, then how could I expect you not to. Can you honestly say you would have taken my word over his?”
“Of course I would’ve,” Charlotte says, but Harriet hears the moment’s pause that’s just a fraction too long.
“Do you regret what you said to the police?”
Charlotte looks down at her untouched cake. “Actually I don’t,” she admits. “Because I don’t think the alternative was a better option. But there’s something else—” Her heart is beating hard. She isn’t even sure she wants to hear the answer anymore. “I know you can swim, Harriet. Alice told me when we were on the beach. She said you used to take her swimming but that it was a big secret. She actually told me so I wouldn’t worry about you in that boat.”
Harriet continues to look at Charlotte and gives a barely perceptible nod. Her hand is shaking as it grips the fork again.
“What happened to Brian?” Charlotte says as a cry erupts from above them. “Did you—did it happen on purpose?”
Harriet looks up to the ceiling but doesn’t move. The cry stops and she glances back at Charlotte, eyes wide in shock, and now Charlotte really doesn’t want to hear her answer.
The crying starts again, this time a persistent wail, and Harriet hurries out
of the kitchen. Charlotte slumps back in her chair. She shouldn’t have asked.
Harriet comes back holding her baby, who is tightly swaddled against her chest, and gently peels the blanket away so Charlotte can get a better look.
Baby George has a head of dark hair and tiny features, and when he opens his brown eyes Charlotte sees the resemblance immediately. The baby is identical to Brian. She hopes she hasn’t reacted badly as she runs a hand over his soft hair, but for a moment she can’t breathe. “He’s lovely,” she says eventually, because of course he is, whether he looks like his dad or not.
Harriet presses her lips against her son’s head and continues to watch Charlotte, who in turn is wondering if Harriet can see the similarities or whether she only sees her son. She prays it’s the latter.
“The first time I felt protective over George was when I was on that boat with Brian,” Harriet says. “Before then I’d tried to ignore the fact I was pregnant. I couldn’t imagine bringing another child into our family the way it was.”
Charlotte keeps looking at George as she strokes his tiny head.
“Brian had started controlling Alice, too,” she says. “I couldn’t let him do any more damage.”
“Harriet, I shouldn’t have said anything—” Charlotte starts, but Harriet interrupts her.
“He could have killed me. He would have taken me from Alice, and once he knew he had a son—” Harriet pauses and closes her eyes as she nestles deeper against her son’s head. “Children are our priority, aren’t they?”
Charlotte shuffles nervously in her chair, looks toward the door, then back at Harriet and her precious baby.
“Tell me what you would have done, Charlotte,” Harriet murmurs.
“I really don’t know,” she says honestly. She’d never have been able to consider that she could be capable of murder, but then being a mother can make you go to extraordinary lengths.
“I know I’ve asked so much of you already and I have no right to ask any more.” Harriet shakes her head as tears escape from the corners of her eyes. “But I beg you—”