by Lesley Kara
lately, so when I saw her this morning I called her over and had
a few words. She said she’d be interested to look round, for old
times’ sake.’
Mum dunks her breakfast things in the washing- up bowl. ‘I
was in a bit of a hurry to go out, though, so I said she could
drop by next time she was passing.’
‘Bet you wouldn’t have said that if she’d been a man. You
want to be careful. She could be anyone.’
Mum stares at me. ‘What do you take me for? A fool?’
‘No, of course not. But there are some desperate people out
there.’
She gives me a level look. ‘You think I don’t know that?’
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12
‘I was expecting them to be good, but not this good,’ Josh says, peering over his dad’s shoulder. ‘I’ve never seen such intricate
sketches. They’re works of art in themselves.’
My cheeks flush at the compliment. ‘Don’t be daft. They’re
really rough. I’ll do better ones if you’re happy with these
designs.’
‘Happy?’ Richard says. ‘I’m delighted. So when can you start
the painting?’
Josh shoots him a look. ‘Don’t you think you should ask her
if she wants to first?’
Richard lifts his glasses up and wedges them on top of his
head. ‘Astrid, I’d very much like to commission you to produce
this painting for me. Would you please do me the honour
of accepting the job? You’ll need to tell me what it will cost, of
course.’
Even though I’ve been expecting this, I’m still tongue- tied.
Agreeing to do privately commissioned work isn’t something
I’ve ever done before. I’m not even sure I can competently exe-
cute a trompe l’œil. Will I really be able to create something that stands up to daily inspection? I mean, it’s one thing painting a
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
backdrop in a theatre which the audience views from a dis-
tance. Their attention is focused on the forefront of the stage,
on the actors and the play itself. The words, the music. But tak-
ing on something like this, something Richard Carter will have
to look at every day of his life, something that will, by its very
nature, be scrutinized by guests and visitors – it couldn’t be
more different.
‘I’ll need to have a think about the cost. I’d probably paint it
on to canvas first, then transfer the image to the wall once
you’re happy with it. I’ll need to see if I can find an easel from
somewhere.’
‘No need.’ Richard says. ‘There’s one in the attic.’ He looks
at Josh and the room stills. ‘It used to belong to my wife – a
hobby she never quite took up. In fact,’ he says, now bright and
jolly again, ‘Why don’t I give you some cash for the materials
right now?’
He puts his hand in his pocket and draws out a fat wallet.
‘Will a hundred and fifty do for starters? Get the best paint you
can buy, and whatever else you need. I’d recommend the new
art shop on Flinstead Road.’
I stare at the wad of notes he’s thrusting towards me. I know
I should be more professional about this and tell him to wait
till I’ve done an estimate, but my brain is all scrambled. I can’t
think straight. I’m meant to be a freelance set designer, for
God’s sake. I should have got my act together yesterday and
worked out some figures.
‘It’s okay,’ Josh says. ‘Dad wouldn’t be flinging money at you
if he didn’t trust you.’
Richard is still holding the notes out in front of me. It seems
too much, but if he wants top- quality paint, that doesn’t come
cheap. I’ll need some new brushes too. It might not even be
enough. I take the warm bundle of notes and zip them into my
coat pocket.
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‘You’re not going yet, are you?’ Josh says. ‘You’ll stay for coffee?’
Richard holds out his hand again, this time for me to shake.
‘Welcome to the Carter family decorating team.’ His hand is
warm and dry. He smiles and the skin round his eyes crinkles.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Pilates class to go to. All
this decorating does my back in.’
Josh makes coffee in a cafetière. He presses the plunger down
with the flat of his palm.
‘It’s decaff, I’m afraid. Dad usually gets proper coffee in for
guests but the tin’s empty.’
‘It’s fine.’
Decaffeinated coffee. Salad lunches. Swimming. Pilates. Bot-
tles of wine that last more than one day. It’s like an advert for
healthy living. I don’t belong here.
So why do I feel like I do?
I don’t know whether I’m three or four sips in when I’m
aware of Josh looking at me over the rim of his mug. Those
kind green eyes drinking me up. Except it’s not kindness I’m
seeing now. It’s desire.
‘Let’s take our coffee upstairs,’ he says.
His skin has its own perfume – sweet and warm and dry. I
stand, my back against the white wall. He faces me, his hands
pressing into the wall so that I’m caged between his arms. I see
the shape of his muscles through the thin cotton of his T- shirt.
Their strength. He leans forward and brushes his lips against
mine. A light, feathery sensation. When I feel the heat of his
tongue inside my mouth, I close my eyes, lose myself in the
rhythm and intensity of the kiss.
Our coffee grows cold on the windowsill.
Josh is deliberate, thorough. Gentle. Insistent. I thought he’d
be shy to start with. Tentative. I thought I might be the one to
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
take the lead and coax the lover out of him, the one he’s always
dreamed of becoming, but I’m much too late for that party.
He manoeuvres me on to the middle of the bed, my legs
dangling over the end. Something about the stillness of the
white room and the way the duvet billows up around me and
the quality of the light from the uncurtained bay window
makes this seem more like a dream. Maybe that’s why I’m just
lying here, waiting, uncharacteristically submissive.
Now he’s pulling off my trainers and peeling down my jeans
and knickers, tugging them over my ankles. He’s pulling my
legs gently so that my bottom is right at the end of the mattress,
and he’s kneeling on the floor and he must have seen my flame
tattoo by now, but of course he’s not going to say anything
about it because we can’t speak now.
He can’t speak now.
Josh insists on walking me home. ‘You’ve got all that cash,
remember?’
How could I forget? It’s like a living thing in my pocket, rus-
tling and vibrati
ng against my right hip. The sooner I can turn
it into paint and brushes, the better.
We’ve reached the cottages now. ‘I can’t ask you in,’ I say.
‘Mum’s a bit . . . anxious around strangers.’ Heat surges into my cheeks. ‘Not that you’re a stranger, but . . .’
‘It’s fine. I understand.’ He rests his hands on my shoulders
and kisses me on my forehead.
‘I promised Dad I’d help him sand some floorboards tomor-
row,’ he says. ‘I’ll text you when we’ve finished. It’s a pity it’s not warmer or I’d suggest you join me for an evening swim.’
‘I haven’t swum for ages. I don’t even know if I’ve still got a
costume.’
‘I know a place where you can swim naked,’ he says, holding
my gaze. ‘It’ll be bloody cold, though. Cold enough to put that
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flame out between your thighs.’ And before I have a chance to
reply he gives me the sexiest wink I’ve ever seen, turns on his
heels and jogs away.
I watch him till he reaches the end of the road and turns the
corner, one hand raised in a backward wave, then I float up
the path to the front door, still smiling like a lovestruck teen-
ager. Josh might be the most sensible, middle- class man I’ve
ever hooked up with, but when he stood at the end of that bed
naked, he might have been Michelangelo’s David made flesh. If anything’s going to expel Simon from my mind, it’s having sex
with Josh. And I feel safe when I’m with him. Safe and cher-
ished and turned on all at the same time. I’ve never felt anything
quite like this before. Simon turned me on all right, but safe?
Nothing about our relationship was safe. It always had a danger-
ous edge to it. I found it exciting at first. Exhilarating. Someone
kind and gentle like Josh wouldn’t even have been on my radar.
But after what happened . . . Besides, I’ve seen another side to
Josh today. A stronger, passionate side.
Just as I think this day can’t get any better I see a brown enve-
lope lying on the porch mat. My benefits letter. At last. I bend
down to pick it up but, as I turn it over, I see that it’s not at all what I’m expecting. This isn’t an official DWP envelope, it’s an
ordinary one with my name and address in green biro in
strange, curly handwriting I don’t recognize. Who would be
writing to me here? Apart from the staff at the rehab centre and
the local GP surgery where I registered last week, and the DWP
of course, nobody knows where I am.
I slide my thumb under the flap and tear through the top
of the envelope. With trembling fingers, I draw out a photo of
Simon. It’s one I’ve never seen before. It’s black and white and
he’s leaning against some railings and smiling into the camera.
There’s nothing else in the envelope. No letter. No note. Just
this one black- and- white photo.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
I turn it over in my hands and the world tilts. Someone has
cut out a small picture of a woman’s hand dripping with blood
and glued it to the back of the photo.
My stomach twists with fear. Thinking I’m being haunted by
my dead boyfriend is one thing, but unless ghosts can use scis-
sors and glue and buy stamps, this is far, far scarier than that.
Someone knows. Someone knows I killed Simon.
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pa rt t wo
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13
I can’t look at the photo again. I mustn’t. But I do. Of course I do.
He looked like this the day I bumped into him in the park. I
hadn’t seen him for months, not since we’d split up. He’d never
looked so healthy. His skin glowed. Sobriety suited him.
I trace the contours of his face with my fingertip. Those sharp
cheekbones and intelligent eyes. The small bump on the bridge
of his nose. I’d give anything to have him back. A tear rolls
silently down my cheek and splashes on to his clean- shaven
chin. Oh, Simon. What did I do to you?
I force myself to turn the photo over, praying that somehow
the picture on the back won’t be there, that I’ve imagined the
whole thing. But there it is. A woman’s hand, dripping with
blood. A spike of fear runs through me.
I rack my brains to see if there’s anyone who might somehow
have got hold of this address. The only people I’ve told anything
about my past are the people I met in rehab – the counsellors
and the other residents. But they all had their demons. Why
would any of them do something like this?
I know I should tell Mum what’s happened, but I can’t.
Because then it won’t just be about Simon any more. It’ll be
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about Dad too, and I can’t face that. I can’t face seeing it in her
eyes. No, there’s only one thing that will make this go away.
I pick up the coat I’ve thrown on to the end of my bed and
unzip the pocket, take out Richard Carter’s money, the notes
like old cloth in my hands. Ten pounds, that’s all I need. Half a
bottle of vodka, just to take the edge off my nerves. He won’t
even know. No one will.
My heart thuds with anticipation. My palms sweat. A couple
of mouthfuls, that’s all I’ll have. I can tip the rest away. The
nanosecond it hits me, I’ll be able to think straight. None of
this will matter.
The stairs creak as I tiptoe down them. Mum’s in the kitchen
and the blender’s going. She’s making one of her wholesome
soups – I saw the recipe book open earlier and couldn’t help
noticing the 275 millilitres of dry white wine in the list of
ingredients. I suck my tongue and swallow. She’ll have substi-
tuted something else for that.
She won’t hear me go out, but still, I can’t take any chances. If
she knows I’ve gone, she’ll be on the lookout when I come back.
She won’t have me in the house if I’ve been drinking – she’s
made that patently clear – and I’ve nowhere else to go. Not any
more. No more sofas to crash out on. No more favours to call in.
But this time it’s different. This time I’ll be okay. I’ll know
when to stop.
Outside on the street, the wind is picking up. It’s behind me,
like a helping hand in the small of my back, propelling me for-
ward. Vodka. Vodka. Vodka.
Whoever sent that picture is right. There’s blood on my hands
as surely as if I’d plunged a knife through Simon’s heart. Some-
body out there knows it. Just when things are finally working
out. With me and Mum. With Josh. I know it’
s early days yet,
but it’s real, this thing between us. It means something. I know
it does. I’ve even got the chance to start painting again.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
A car swooshes by. A dog barks. The Co- op is just round the
corner. I’ll be there in three minutes.
I stop dead. This is insane. If I don’t turn back now, it’ll be
too late. I’ll be walking into the shop. I’ll see the bottles behind the counter and I won’t hear this voice any more. My body will
be screaming for that drink. It already is.
No. No. No! I force myself to turn round and head back for
the house. The wind’s in my face now, pushing me back, but
I’m running into it. Gasping for breath. I snatch the key from
under the front of my T- shirt, almost ripping the chain off.
Now it’s in the front door. I’m falling into the hall, lurching up
the stairs, back to the four walls of my bedroom.
I stuff the tenner in my coat pocket with all the rest and zip
it up. Then I hurl it on top of the wardrobe and fling myself face
down on my bed.
Down in the kitchen, I hear Mum singing.
‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things
I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.’
The meeting ends, as usual, with the serenity prayer. I haven’t
told the group what’s happened. My aborted trip to the Co- op.
I just couldn’t find the words. I didn’t want to come here in the
first place. Someone is deliberately targeting me and, for all I
know, they’re following my every move. It would certainly
explain that weird sensation of being watched I’ve had lately.
But missing AA isn’t an option, not unless I want Mum giving
me grief 24/7, and I don’t. Not on top of everything else.
I make a conscious effort to breathe slowly and deeply, try to
overcome the shaky feeling that’s started up in the pit of my
stomach. How dare someone send that vile picture through the
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LESLEY K AR A
post? How dare they mess with me like this? A horrible thought
takes up residence in my mind and spreads like a stain. What
else might they know?
Helen tilts her head towards the door. I give a quick nod and
follow her out, glad of the distraction. Rosie’s clocked us, but