Who Did You Tell (ARC)

by Lesley Kara

  it. And I’d have to tell her about that night. She’ll never forgive

  me. Never. I can’t even forgive myself.

  I can’t tell Josh either. This is the man who won’t even con-

  template staying in a beach hut overnight because it’s against

  council rules. He’ll want nothing more to do with me.

  If only I’d had the sense to tell him about my past straight

  away, maybe, just maybe, it would have been all right. He

  might have been sympathetic, willing to help me. Now, though,

  he’ll feel duped. All the things he admires most about me: my

  love for my ‘career’, taking time out to look after my ‘depressed’

  150

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 150

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  mother – it’s all one great big sham. He’ll despise me. I’ll lose

  them both. Mum and Josh.

  ‘Promise me you won’t let that girl in if she comes back.’

  Mum wrinkles her brow. ‘You’re not still on about that, are

  you?’ Her face softens. ‘Look, even if she was casing the joint for someone, I’m sure she’ll have told them not to bother.

  There’s nothing worth stealing in here.’

  I force a laugh. ‘You’re not wrong there.’

  But she is wrong. Something has already been stolen. Simon’s juggling ball. And my peace of mind – what little I had in the

  first place.

  Josh picks me up in his dad’s car. If he notices how bad I look –

  and he must do, surely – it doesn’t show on his face. The relief

  that I don’t have to walk all the way to Mistden on my own is

  overwhelming. Even so, I glance up and down the street before

  getting in. She could be watching me right now. I sink down into

  the passenger seat and watch Josh’s hands resting on the steering

  wheel. The car, a swanky Mercedes, smells of leather and new-

  ness, and I wish I could enjoy the luxury of being driven around

  in it, but I can’t. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. It’s going to be impossible to get back into the painting zone.

  ‘I had a peek at your picture last night,’ Josh says, eyes fixed

  firmly on the road ahead. ‘I can see all the shapes already. It’s

  going to be fantastic.’

  His left hand leaves the wheel just long enough to squeeze

  my knee.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, grinning. ‘Once you’ve knocked back

  a quick double, you’ll be fine.’

  My stomach clenches. A quick double? What the hell is he

  talking about?

  151

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 151

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  LESLEY K AR A

  ‘A double espresso, that is. I’ve bought you some strong

  Columbian coffee to keep you going.’

  If I wasn’t a bag of nerves, I’d be laughing out loud.

  ‘Oh, thanks. That’s great.’

  I stare out of the window at the houses we’re passing and the

  people walking by. What will I do if I see her? The girl in the

  puffa jacket. It has to be her. Who else could it be?

  My fingers ache from where I’ve been clenching them into

  fists. The moment I’ve dreaded for so long has finally happened.

  I’ve been found out. But why is she tormenting me like this?

  As Josh turns the car into his dad’s driveway, I’ve made up

  my mind. There’s only one way out of this mess. I have to take

  matters into my own hands and find that girl myself. Make her

  tell me what she wants.

  152

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 152

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  26

  I stand in front of the easel and stare at the blank canvas. I

  doubt I’ll be able to keep my hand steady enough to hold the

  brush, let alone do anything creative with it.

  Josh places his hands on my shoulders and kisses the nape of

  my neck. I lean back into him, glad of the solidity of his warm

  body against mine. At least I’m safe when I’m here.

  ‘Dad’s going out later,’ he says. ‘We can have one of our long

  coffee breaks.’ His tongue flicks my earlobe and sends shivers

  up my spine. ‘Without the coffee.’

  I turn round and fling my arms round his neck, kiss him

  long and hard on the mouth. Whatever nasty little game this

  girl is playing, she’s not going to spoil this for me. She’s not

  going to win. I won’t let her. I’m finally sorting myself out and

  building bridges with Mum, falling in love again, painting.

  Whatever I’ve done in the past, that part of my life is over. I’m

  not that person any more.

  The hours pass. Somehow or other, I manage to still my mind

  for short bursts of time, long enough to play around a little

  with the composition, to define the darker areas with a bluish

  153

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 153

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  LESLEY K AR A

  grey. I can’t trust myself to do anything that requires more

  prolonged focus. And yet, as I stand before the easel, the fin-

  ished picture spreads out in my mind. Even with no added

  colour, no detail whatsoever, the image is already there, wait-

  ing to emerge.

  But now more images superimpose themselves over the can-

  vas. A nightmarish montage that unfolds before me even when

  I screw my eyes tight shut. A crumpled body on the pavement.

  A child’s face, contorted with panic. Blood on my sleeve.

  I back away from the easel, almost tripping on a ruck in the

  dust sheet that Richard has spread on the floor. Righting myself

  by flinging a hand out to the wall, I run out of the room and

  into the downstairs cloakroom, lock myself in and perch on

  the edge of the closed toilet lid, elbows on my knees, hands

  clasped between my legs. My mind swings wildly from one

  incoherent memory to another, but nothing makes any sense.

  Just when I think I’ve nailed something down, something that

  will make sense of it all, it slips away again.

  I try to slow the rhythm of my breath, holding lungfuls of air

  for as long as possible then exhaling slowly through my nose,

  till at last the panic subsides and I feel strong enough to stand

  up. I run the cold tap in the little sink and splash my face. I

  hardly recognize my reflection in the mirror. The pale, pinched

  face. The puffy eyes.

  Above my head comes the sound of footsteps. The cloak-

  room has been installed into the space under the stairs, so the

  vibrations follow the slope of the ceiling. I’ve no idea how long

  I’ve been holed up in here. It could be ten minutes; it could be

  twenty. I flush the toilet and wait for a few moments before

  sliding the little bolt across and opening the door, stepping out

  into the hallway.

  Richard is pulling on his jacket and slipping on a pair of deck

  shoes he’s left by the front door. His blond- grey hair is flecked

  154

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 154

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  with white paint, his clothes too. He smiles broadly when he

/>   sees me and lifts his hand in a fixed wave.

  ‘See you in a couple of hours, Astrid. I’m going to see a man

  about a boat.’

  When Josh appears in the doorway of the small room just

  five minutes after the front door closes I’m sorting my brushes

  out, giving myself time to summon up the courage to face the

  canvas again.

  ‘Are you ready for your coffee break yet?’ he says, and we

  both know exactly what kind of break he has in mind. At least

  he doesn’t seem to notice how little progress I’ve made with the

  painting.

  ‘What if your dad comes back early?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I think he’s gone out to give us time alone. And no, I didn’t

  ask him to, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  I force myself to sound normal, to make a joke. ‘Maybe he’s

  having a secret tryst of his own. He must have loads of women

  after him.’

  Big mistake. Josh looks as if I’ve just slapped him round the

  face.

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ he says.

  I’m taken aback by the unexpected sharpness of his tone.

  He sighs. ‘Look, I know you must think I’m being oversensi-

  tive. But it’s taken us both a long time to come to terms with Mum

  not being around any more. I just can’t imagine him falling for

  another woman. Mum was . . . Mum was pretty special.’

  He takes the brushes from my hand and lays them down on

  the table.

  ‘You’re special too,’ he says softly.

  I feel his heartbeat as he holds me close against his chest,

  and for a few moments we just stand there, our arms wrapped

  155

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 155

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  LESLEY K AR A

  tightly round each other. Am I special enough that he’ll still

  love me when he realizes I’ve been lying? Special enough that

  he’ll forgive me for the things I’ve done in the past? For what-

  ever it was I did that terrible, terrible night?

  His voice, when it comes, is barely more than a whisper.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs, Hilary Phelps.’

  My whole body stiffens. I shrink from his touch. How on

  earth does he . . .?

  He takes a step back. ‘Hey! You really don’t like that name,

  do you?’

  Stupid girl. I told him on the beach. He’s just teasing me. But still, hearing it so soon after seeing it written on that death

  notice is a shock. I attempt a smile and Josh grins back at me.

  The noise of my own heart beating furiously is, of course, in

  my ears only.

  He pulls me towards him again, but I wriggle out of his

  arms. I need time to recover. ‘Let me wash my brushes out first.’

  He pretends to look hurt. ‘How to make a guy feel wanted.’

  ‘Acrylic paint dries really fast and these are expensive. You

  have to look after them.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘If you want to. You’ve got to work this soap into the bristles

  all the way down to the ferrule . . .’

  He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and takes the bar of

  soap from my hands. ‘I love it when you talk dirty.’

  The corners of my mouth turn up. The tension of the last few

  minutes is starting to recede.

  ‘And then rinse thoroughly with lukewarm water.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  I follow him with my eyes as he carries my brushes and soap

  away. I love everything about this man: his walk, his voice,

  those eyes that go from kind to sexy in a heartbeat. The way his

  hair curls over his ears. The smell of him.

  156

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 156

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  Then I think of those words on the back of the photo. What

  goes around comes around. It’s time to pay for what you’ve done.

  That’s karma, isn’t it? Actions have consequences. I don’t

  deserve to be this happy. That’s what it means.

  By the time I hear the sound of Richard’s tyres on the gravel

  driveway I’m back at my easel, trying to work on the reflections

  of light in the water beyond the jetty. I wanted to stay in Josh’s

  bed for ever, curled up next to his strong, warm body, pretending

  everything was normal. But it isn’t, and the harder I try to con-

  vince myself otherwise, the more ominous the whole thing

  seems. The more chilling. Who would do such a thing? And why?

  Richard’s voice floats through the window I opened earlier.

  He must have walked round to the side of the house, be stand-

  ing with his phone just out of sight by the garage. His voice has

  a low, measured intensity I don’t recognize. My brush pauses

  mid- air.

  ‘No. I haven’t told him yet.’ There’s a long pause. ‘Yes, she’s

  here now.’

  My chest tightens. There’s no reason to think he’s found out

  about me – he could be talking about anything – but still, it’s

  the first thing that comes into my head. I hold my breath and

  strain my ears for more, but as I’m leaning towards the window

  he walks further into the garden and our eyes meet. He frowns

  and I dart back to the easel as if I’ve been caught doing some-

  thing I shouldn’t. A minute later the front door opens and he

  bounds up the stairs. He’s saying something to Josh, but I can’t

  make out what. Their voices are muffled and indistinguishable

  from down here.

  The paintbrush slips through my fingers and on to the floor.

  This is absurd. I need to get a hold of myself. She’s made me like this. That nasty fucking girl and her cruel games. Who is she?

  157

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 157

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  I keep imagining her opening the envelope. The feeling of dread in the pit of her belly as she realizes I know her darkest secret. Scaring her is the only fun I’ve had in a long while. Almost more fun than actually killing her.

  Almost.

  But there comes a time when fantasizing about something isn’t

  enough. The release when it happens – if it happens at all – is less sat‑

  isfying. Less pleasurable. It’s like a drug I’ve developed a tolerance for.

  It’s time to up the dosage.

  158

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 158

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  27

  It’s unbearable going back into the cottage. What if there’s

  another brown envelope waiting for me?

  The relief when there isn’t doesn’t last long. Because she’s

  still out there somewhere, plotting her next move. And for the

  next two days, there’s no chance of escaping to the house in

  Mistden and being with Josh, because he and his dad won’t be

  there. They’re going away for some long- standing family event

  in Berkshire.

  I can’t get Richard’s face when I said goodbye earlier out of

  my mind. He could barely look me in the eye. Has that girl told

  him something? Is that what that phone call was about? If he

  has, he’ll tell Josh while they’re away. He’s bound to. Why the

  hell didn’t I tell them sooner? Why am I such a coward?


  Mum’s getting ready to visit Pam for the evening. A few weeks

  ago I’d have been delighted to have had the house to myself for

  once, to watch what I want on TV, or listen to music without

  her complaining it’s too loud. But tonight, I don’t want to be

  alone. Tonight, I need company. I think of Helen’s number

  upstairs in my room. Maybe I could invite her over when Mum’s

  gone.

  159

  9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 159

  6/26/19 2:47:19 PM

  LESLEY K AR A

  ‘There’s some quiche and salad in the fridge,’ Mum says. She

  pecks me on the cheek. ‘You look done in, darling.’

  ‘I am. I’m not used to standing up all day.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a nice early night?’ she says, and for once,

  I don’t resent the suggestion. For once, I appreciate that she isn’t just nagging, that she has my best interests at heart. Not that

  there’s much chance of me getting any sleep.

  Helen’s voice sounds different. At first I think it’s the signal,

  but then she laughs as if I’ve said something funny, and I haven’t.

  The realization judders through me like an electric shock. She’s

  been drinking. Of course she has. The timbre of her voice has

  altered. It isn’t distorted from bad reception – her speech is starting to slur.

  ‘Helen, are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  There it is, that defensive tone hovering just below the sur-

  face. It sounds like something I would have said. Back in the

  day, when Mum used to keep calling to check up on me.

  My mind races. Loath as I am to admit it, perhaps I should

  have listened to Rosie. The very last thing I need right now is a

  friend who’s still drinking. I need to disassociate myself from

  all that. Self- preservation, that’s what’s important now. In any

  case, we’ve only known each other a few weeks. We’re hardly

  best buddies.

  I’ll talk to her, though, try to persuade her to stop. It’s the

  least I can do after she’s been so kind and listened to all my crap.

  I change tack quickly and tell her about my day, about starting

  the painting for Josh’s dad. About the house and how beautiful

  it is. Anything to keep her on the line, keep her talking.

  ‘Things are really taking off for you, aren’t they?’ she says,

  but not in a snide way. She sounds sad and wistful.

  I’m trying to think of how to respond when she speaks again.