by Suzy K Quinn
I smile, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘You did all this for me?’
‘Just for you. Right this way, madam.’ He hesitates when he sees my face. ‘Hey. Lizzie? Are you okay?’
‘Yes. Really, I’m fine.’
‘Lizzie.’ Olly pulls me close. ‘What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?’
I shake my head against his chest, tears pressing into his shirt. ‘No. Not at all. The opposite.’
‘The opposite?’
‘All this for me. I don’t deserve it.’
Olly laughs then, his big, cheery, confident laugh. ‘You deserve this and much, much more.’ He kisses my head and hugs me for a long time. ‘Okay?’
I nod. ‘Okay.’
‘Let the evening commence!’ He leads me to the table, snatching up a purple napkin. ‘Your favourite colour.’ He grins, opening the napkin with a flourish.
Purple isn’t really my favourite colour. It’s just the colour of the coat I wear. But I don’t tell Olly that.
We eat Pringles, sea bass and new potatoes, drink Chardonnay and listen to Joni Mitchell. Then Olly lights a fire.
‘I borrowed a Monopoly board,’ says Olly, leading me to the sofa area. ‘Your favourite game, right? And mine too, actually. Come on. You can thrash me.’
‘Love to,’ I say.
‘Of course, we could play strip poker instead,’ says Olly, flashing his lovely white teeth.
I’m hit by an uneasy feeling that this evening might be too traditional for Olly. The wine, the fire, the board game. What if he thinks I’m boring?
‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘How about strip Monopoly?’
‘Strip Monopoly?’ says Olly. ‘You’re on!’
We make up a few rules, deciding to lose an item of clothing every time we land on the other person’s property. Then we start playing.
It doesn’t take long before I’m down to my underwear.
‘Are you cheating?’ I accuse, taking off my bra.
Olly watches me, mesmerised. Then he says, ‘You’re beautiful, do you know that? Hurry up and roll again.’
‘It’s your turn,’ I protest.
Olly struggles out of his clothes, revealing a beautiful toned body and crazy orange tan lines at his wrists and collarbone. Then he stands to remove his underwear.
‘Turn taken,’ he announces, standing naked. ‘Now roll again.’
‘That’s definitely cheating,’ I laugh, shy now. ‘You can’t take all your clothes off at once.’
‘How dare you!’ Olly protests. ‘I am a serious rules-body. Well, if you think the game has been compromised, we’ll just have to abandon it.’
He lifts me into his arms.
‘But you were winning,’ I laugh, as Olly carries me outside to the hot tub.
‘I declare it a draw.’
Olly lowers me carefully into the bubbling water. Then he climbs into the tub himself and slides me onto his lap, arranging my legs so I’m kneeling around his hips.
‘I need to learn more of your favourites,’ he says, kissing me fiercely, hand moving up and down between my thighs.
Snow falls on the warm water and our bare shoulders.
I moan, but suddenly Olly pulls back.
‘Wait.’ He’s breathless. ‘I don’t want to move too fast.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You’re sure? Listen, really I can wait. I don’t want this to be some quick thing. You’re more than that to me.’
I must look upset, because Olly says: ‘Hey. It’s okay. Really. I’ll get you a towel and you can have my bed, okay? I’ll take the sofa.’
‘No,’ I insist, gripping his arms. ‘I want this. Honestly, I want this. It’s just … I’ve never felt this way either. I’ve never been … special.’
‘You are special,’ says Olly. ‘The most special girl I’ve ever met.’
He kisses me again and I’m lost.
We make love in the hot tub and then again on Olly’s bed. He’s gentle at times, firm at others. He’s considerate, but sometimes teeters on the brink of losing control.
In the morning, Olly makes me waffles covered in syrup and a sugary hot chocolate. Then we have sex again before I sneak back to my chalet to prepare breakfast for my host family.
While I’m whisking up scrambled eggs, my phone bleeps. It’s a message from Olly: I miss you already.
I feel soft warmth in my chest, but also anxiety.
This is amazing. The most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. But how can something like this last? Half the things Olly thinks we both ‘love’, I only like a little bit. Like sea bass, tomato ketchup and syrup-covered waffles with sweet hot chocolate. I’ve exaggerated so he’ll think we have things in common, scared that boring little me isn’t good enough.
Oh, what does it matter?
I’m probably just a sexual conquest and Olly will forget all about me in a few days.
This can’t last.
It’s too good to be true.
Lizzie
My chest aches as I run up the stony path. I’ve forgotten Tom’s painkillers. They’re not vital. His migraines are stress-related and he hasn’t had one since we left Olly. But I’d like the school to have tablets to hand just in case.
You’ll never cope alone.
Olly’s voice plays in my head sometimes, no matter how hard I try to drown it out.
Maybe some things you can’t outrun.
Even when you’re running.
I reach the school gates, tan-leather handbag bobbing against my side.
Then I remember the padlock.
There is an intercom by the wrought-iron gates, so I press it.
A woman’s voice crackles: ‘Hello? Do you have an appointment?’
‘Hi. It’s Tom Riley’s mother. I brought his medicine.’ I peer through the railings. ‘Hello?’ I call again. No one answers.
The main door is firmly shut, a solid lump of wood. A few early autumn leaves scatter the empty playground, crispy green-orange, some dancing up against the brickwork. I notice again the bars on the windows and bite my lip. Why have bars like that? This is a school, not a prison. And that blacked-out window. What are they trying to hide?
After a moment, the headmaster himself strides across the playground. He looks earnest. Almost helpful. But I sense another energy too. Something like annoyance.
‘Hello, Mrs Kinnock,’ says Mr Cockrun, as he reaches the gate. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Um … it’s Riley. And I have Tom’s medicine.’
‘Medicine?’ His eyes bore into me. ‘Why wasn’t this mentioned before?’
‘It’s not essential but—’
‘All medicine must go through me.’ Anger passes across his face for a fraction of a second – it’s so quick that I almost don’t spot it. The next moment, his earnest expression is back in place. ‘Well, come inside and we’ll make a record.’
He unlocks the gates and ushers me through, taking a good few minutes to re-secure the padlock.
I follow him across the playground.
When we reach the heavy entrance door, Mr Cockrun says, ‘Wait in reception, but please don’t let the children see you, Mrs Kinnock. I don’t want them knowing a parent is here during the school day. It’s unsettling for them.’
I nod stiffly.
‘Next time, make sure you bring everything at school drop-off,’ Mr Cockrun continues. ‘All right? It’s a safeguarding issue, Ms Riley. Having people come and go.’ He gives me a winning smile.
‘Parents dropping things off is a safeguarding issue?’ I say.
‘Yes. And the children really do become unsettled too. It’s not fair on them. They learn much better when they understand that school is where we care for them and home is where they see their parents. I’m sure you can understand.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’re an exceptional school, Ms Riley. We know what we’re doing. Let’s have this medicine, then. What’s Tom taking?’
I don’t know why the questio
n feels intrusive, but it does.
‘Painkillers,’ I say, passing over the white packet. ‘He doesn’t take them all the time. Just if he gets a bad headache.’
‘I’ll pop these in my office,’ says Mr Cockrun, heading through a side door. In the room beyond, I see him unlock a cabinet made of orangey teak and stickered with a pharmaceutical green cross. The cabinet is mounted low down on the wall – at stomach level.
Mr Cockrun puts Tom’s medicine inside, then locks the cabinet and pockets the key.
The room has a single window, I notice. The two-way glass I saw from the outside.
So the headmaster’s office is the room they don’t want people seeing into.
As I’m thinking about that, I hear the sound of children chanting coming from a room off reception:
‘We are the best.
We rise above the rest.
By strength and guile,
We go the extra mile.’
The double doors leading from reception haven’t quite closed, and through the crack I see rows of children seated for assembly: eyes dull, school uniforms immaculate and identical, hair neatly brushed. It looks choreographed – as if someone has positioned them for a photograph.
Like the plain tarmac playground, there’s something very soulless about it.
I spot Tom then, blond hair shining.
Normally I would smile at the sight of him, but he’s tiny beside one of those black-haired boys. The ones who were fighting.
Tom’s body leans away from the boy, his pose awkward.
I feel my heart judder.
Someone spots me looking – a teacher, I think – and pushes the double doors closed.
Then the headmaster returns with a book in his hand. ‘Jot some details down here,’ he says, offering me the lined pages. ‘Don’t worry – we don’t need a medical history or anything. Just the name of Tom’s medication, the quantity you’re leaving here, the dose Tom needs and today’s date.’
I write, pen-marks jerky.
‘You keep the medicine cabinet in your office?’ I ask.
‘Pardon?’ Mr Cockrun takes back the notebook.
‘Don’t you have a nurse’s office?’
Mr Cockrun smiles again, a wide version that still doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘As I said, Mrs Kinnock, there’s method to our madness. Don’t worry.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘We have it all under control. Let me show you to the gate.’
We walk slowly across the playground, me watching my plain lace-up DMs tap tap over tarmac.
On my way home, I see a dead bird. There’s a lot of blood. I suppose a fox must have got it.
It’s right by the hole in the school fence – the one I saw before, repaired with a bike chain. The hole is very small. Not big enough for an adult to climb through.
There’s probably some logical explanation.
Given my past, it would be strange if I didn’t get twitchy about odd things. But there’s no need to be paranoid.
Lizzie
‘Look, keep still. It’s broken.’
I put my hand on Olly’s knee, which bulges at an eye-watering angle under his padded O’Neill trousers.
He’s lying on thick snow, one ski boot bent back under his snowboard, the other boot snapped open, his socked foot falling out.
Under the bright morning sunshine, Olly’s blue eyes water, tanned skin squeezing and contorting. He has English colouring – sandy hair dusting his ski goggles and an unnatural orange hue to his suntan.
‘I’m pretty lucky to have a nurse here,’ says Olly, after another wince of pain. ‘Have I told you I love you yet today? I do. I love you, Lizzie Nightingale. Remember that, if I die out here on this slope.’
He doesn’t realise how serious this is.
‘I’m not a nurse yet. Don’t try to move.’
Olly, of course, makes a stupid attempt to get up, pushing strong, gloved hands onto the snow. But then his eyes widen, his skin pales and he falls back down. This is just like him. Give him a boundary and his first impulse is to overcome it.
‘Please don’t move,’ I beg. ‘God – this is awful. I can’t bear seeing you hurt.’
Olly reaches up to trail fingers down my cheek. ‘Is it bad that even in all this pain, I still want to do things to you?’
‘You know, there are times for jokes. And this isn’t one of them.’
‘I’m not joking.’ He gives me the soft, blue eyes that make my stomach turn over. ‘We could have sex right here on the snow. The ambulance will take ages.’
‘Olly. You’ve just broken your leg.’
‘I get it. You can’t have sex in public until we’re married.’ He heaves himself onto his elbows and grasps my fingers. ‘So marry me, Lizzie.’
‘I just said this is no time for jokes.’
‘I’m not joking. You’re the one for me, Lizzie Nightingale. I knew it from the moment I saw you stumbling along that icy path in your big purple coat, looking like a little elfin angel thing. I promise I will take care of you for the rest of my life.’ He gives another wince of pain. ‘Even if I never walk again.’
Olly is so impulsive. A risk-taker. I suppose that goes hand in hand with snowboarding. He goes full-pelt into everything. Including love.
In a few short weeks, he’s made me feel so special and adored. Lying in Olly’s chalet bed, wrapped up in his arms, watching snow fall outside, I have never known love like this – utterly consuming, can’t-be-apart love.
He makes me breakfast every morning, constantly tells me how beautiful I am and texts me all day long.
I’m waiting for him to work out who I really am. Just a nobody. And then this holiday romance will come crashing down.
‘Just lie down and rest,’ I say, stroking his forehead. ‘They’ll take you to hospital. I’ll bring you chocolate Pop Tarts.’
Olly loves sugar. He’s a big kid, really. So enthusiastic. And when we’re in bed he’s like that too – just ‘wow!’ at everything. ‘Wow, you look incredible, wow your body is amazing.’
He makes me feel so alive. So adored. So noticed. The exact opposite of how my mother makes me feel.
How did this happen so quickly?
I’m so in love with him.
Olly lies back on the snow, staring up at the sky. ‘I’ll heal. Won’t I? I’ll be able to compete?’
He looks right at me then, blue eyes crystal clear.
‘I don’t know, Olly. Just try to rest. The paramedics will be here soon.’
Olly reaches out a snowy, gloved hand and takes my mitten. ‘You’re an angel, Lizzie Nightingale. You have fabulous dimples, by the way.’
I smile then, without meaning to.
‘You will stay with me, won’t you?’ Olly asks, suddenly serious. ‘Until the stretcher comes?’
‘Of course I will. You fall, I fall. Remember? We’re in this together.’
I sit on the cold snow, my mitten clasped in his glove.
Kate
1.45 p.m.
I take deep breaths, lifting knuckles to the door. The red-brick house is identical to its neighbours – except for the large crack in the front door.
Knock, knock.
No answer.
Tessa’s words ring in my ears: Get on to that Tom Kinnock case as soon as possible. He should never have been passed over to us. Get it shut down and off your desk.
I would peer in the window, but the curtains are closed, even though it’s gone lunchtime.
Knock, knock.
I put an ear to the door and hear voices. Someone is home.
Knock, knock, knock.
‘Hello?’ I call. ‘It’s Kate Noble from Children’s Services.’
I knock again, this time with a closed fist.
There are hurried footsteps and a woman opens the door, blonde hair scraped back in a hairband.
‘Keep it down.’ The woman’s eyes swim in their sockets. ‘Alice is sleeping.’
So this is Leanne Neilson. Mother to the infamous Neilson boys.
> She wears Beauty and the Beast pyjamas with furry slippers and looks exhausted, huge bags under her eyes. Her grey pallor is a drug-abuse red flag. Unsurprisingly, the files note that Leanne has a problem with prescription medicine.
Behind Leanne is a tidy-ish living room with red leather sofas and a shiny flat-screen over a chrome fireplace. The voices, I realise, were coming from the television.
‘You must be Miss Neilson,’ I say, reaching out my hand. ‘Lloyd, Joey and Pauly’s mum. Can I call you Leanne?’
Leanne Neilson isn’t the person I wanted to see today. I should be at Tom Kinnock’s house, getting his file shut down and letting his mother get on with her new life.
But social services is all about prioritising highest need.
‘All right,’ says Leanne, tilting her head, eyes still rolling around, not taking my hand.
‘So my name is Kate. I’m your new social worker.’
Leanne blinks languidly, grey cheeks slackening. ‘What happened to … er … Kirsty?’
‘She’s been signed off long-term sick.’
‘What do you want?’ A rapid nose scratch. ‘I’ve been in hospital.’
‘Yes – that’s what I wanted to chat to you about. Can I come in for a minute?’
Leanne looks behind her. ‘I mean, the house is a mess.’
‘It looks okay. Are the sofas new?’
‘Leather is … easier to clean. But give it a few weeks and Lloyd … he’ll wreck them.’ More rapid nose scratching.
‘Can I come in?’
‘When is Kirsty back?’
‘She probably won’t be coming back.’
‘Another one gone then.’ Leanne walks back into the lounge, her hand going to the sofa arm for support.
I close the front door.
‘Where’s baby Alice?’ I ask.
‘I told you. Sleeping.’
‘Can I see?’
‘This is like a … roundabout,’ says Leanne. ‘“Can I see the bedrooms? How are things with your partner? How are you coping?” I never see the same person twice. No one ever gives me any help.’