by Lesley Kara
My heart sinks. He does know something. He must do, or
why would he be saying that? Who was he talking to on the
phone the other day? Who’s told him about me?
The doorbell goes. ‘That must be Jez,’ Richard says, but still
he doesn’t move from the doorway. There’s something else he
wants to say– it’s written all over his face.
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‘One of my yacht- club buddies,’ he explains. ‘He’s been help-
ing me with a few legal bits and pieces. You never know when
you’ll need a good lawyer, and Jez is as honest as they come.’
The word ‘honest’ reverberates in my head. Was that some
kind of coded message?
At last he leaves the room, and I roll my shoulders back to
ease the tension in my neck. I could cry. I’ve grown so attached
to this new version of myself. The helpful, responsible girl-
friend. The selfless daughter. What started as a veneer is now
seeping into my flesh and bones. I don’t want it to end, any of it.
After all those years of kidding myself I needed excitement
and danger, the edgy glamour of a big city, it’s been a revelation
to discover that a gentle, ordinary existence with kind, gener-
ous souls like Josh and his dad and the daily routine of my
painting is just what I need. And now I’ve gone and ruined
everything by not coming clean with them sooner.
I recognize the voice in the hallway instantly, and freeze. But
before I have a chance to dive into the downstairs loo, Richard
is leading him into the room.
‘Jez, meet Astrid, my son’s new girlfriend. She’s a very tal-
ented artist, as you can see. She’s painting us a trompe l’œil.’
Jeremy from AA looks directly into my eyes. My chest con-
stricts. It must have been him. He must have said something
to Richard. He’s betrayed my confidence. Broken the AA code.
How could he?
He extends his well- manicured hand. ‘Delighted to meet
you, Astrid.’
‘M— . . . me too. Delighted to meet you too, I mean.’
Jeremy’s right eye twitches in what might be a wink. It’s some
kind of reassurance, I think. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong and he
hasn’t given me away. Isn’t going to. Maybe Richard doesn’t
even know that ‘Jez’ is an alcoholic and I’m just imagining a
change in his behaviour, in which case I’m safe.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
But for how long?
Jeremy steps closer to my picture and leans in towards it,
hands clasped behind his back. ‘It’s the shadows that make it
seem so real, isn’t it?’ he says, scratching his chin.
My heart beats in the back of my throat as he takes a step
back and tilts his head to one side. ‘The clever art of decep-
tion, eh?’
‘Are you having fun with your family?’
There’s a slight pause on the other end of the line. Oh God, I
wasn’t wrong. Josh knows too.
‘Yeah, it’s been great catching up with all my cousins. You’re
going to meet them soon.’
My shoulders sag with relief. I’m being paranoid, as usual.
It’s okay. There’s still time to make things right. Josh’s voice
sounds all crackly and faraway. I walk into the kitchen and out
through the back door. There’s a better signal outside.
‘Really?’ I make my way to the end of the garden, out of ear-
shot of Richard and Jeremy, who are in the living room, heads
together over some papers and with the French window wide
open.
‘Yeah, it’s Dad’s sixtieth in a couple of weeks. He thinks we
should have a party, a sort of birthday- cum- housewarming do.
We talked about it on the journey up here. It’s a bit last minute,
but that’s how he is. He’s going to send an email invite round
to everyone this evening.’
Visions of this beautiful, empty house filled with people
crowd into my mind. Noise and laughter echoing off the walls
and floorboards. The popping of corks and the flowing of
champagne. The chink of glasses. It’ll be like being in the
Flinstead Arms all over again. I feel weak just thinking about it.
‘Sounds great.’
‘You can be our artist- in- residence,’ Josh says. ‘I can’t wait to 191
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LESLEY K AR A
show you off. Oh, and Dad says to invite your mum as well, if
she’s feeling up to it.’
The thought of Mum, here in this house, fills me with dread.
I doubt if Richard or Josh would say anything to her about her
‘depression’. Most people shy away from that topic, especially
in social gatherings, but what if they did? Mum would be abso-
lutely furious that I’d lied about her. It’d set us right back to
how we were when I first came out of rehab. And even if that
doesn’t happen, she might let something slip about my past,
answer a question a little too truthfully. She never lies about
anything. Ever. It’s not the Quaker way.
‘I’ll ask her tonight,’ I say, knowing full well I won’t.
Jeremy’s words come back to me. The clever art of deception.
Maybe he was just talking about the trompe l’oeil.
Even if he was, this can’t go on. I can’t lie to them for ever.
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33
Five minutes after I’ve said goodbye to Richard and Jeremy and
set off for home it starts pissing down. A soaking deluge that
drenches me within seconds. The rain sweeps the pavement
and plasters my hair to my head. By the time I’ve reached the
end of the lane and turned left on to the main road, the pot-
holes are brimming and cars splash through them, sending
great arcs of water into the air. But there’s nowhere to take cover
until the bus shelter at the top of the road, so I have no choice
but to trudge on through it.
I don’t take much notice of the car at first. I assume it’s just
slowing to avoid the ever- expanding puddle at the side of the
road, but then I realize that it’s coasting along beside me. Instinctively, I move away from the kerb, my fear returning.
I slide my eyes to the right. It’s still there, hugging the kerb.
When the window on the passenger side slides down I break
into a run. I don’t know anybody round here with a car except
Richard, and this isn’t a Mercedes.
Somebody calls my name – a man – but I don’t stop run-
ning. The second time they say it, the voice sounds familiar and
I force myself to slow down and look properly. Jeremy’s face
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peers at me through the lashing rain and I feel like a fool. He’s
beckoning me to get in and, though sitting in a car with Jeremy
is one of the
last things I want to be doing, my clothes are now
sticking to me uncomfortably and I can hardly say I’d rather
walk. Not in this weather and not when I’m still a good twenty
minutes from home. Besides, I don’t really want to be on the
street for any longer than necessary, not with the threat of that
death notice hanging over me.
Reluctantly, I open the door and slide in.
‘We can’t have you walking home in this,’ he says, in his posh,
affable voice. He waits while I put my seatbelt on. Except I can’t
pull it out far enough to reach the buckle – it keeps stopping.
After a minute or so of trying and failing, Jeremy says, ‘May
I?’ and leans across to help. I wish he wouldn’t.
There’s an embarrassing moment when his upper body swiv-
els in front of me so that his head is perilously close to my
neck, like a clumsy lunge after a first date. He grasps the metal
tongue and draws it out.
‘It’s a little temperamental, this one,’ he says. His breath smells
of garlic and I try not to breathe so I don’t have to smell it. ‘You have to draw it out slowly or the retractor mechanism locks.’
At last, he clicks it into the buckle and he’s back on his own
side again. I breathe out in relief.
The indicator ticks as he waits for a break in the traffic and I
wonder whether he’s going to say anything about what hap-
pened earlier. Pretending not to know each other in front of
Richard. I hope he doesn’t. Because I don’t want to talk about
it. I just want to be home and get out of these wet things.
‘Which street do you live in?’ he asks as we join the flow of
traffic.
The windscreen wipers swish backwards and forwards but,
even on full speed, it’s difficult to see through the torrential
rain.
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‘Just drop me off at the top of Warwick Road,’ I tell him.
‘No, no, I’ll drive you all the way home.’
‘That is home,’ I lie. Even if I have to walk up someone else’s driveway till he’s gone, I will. I know I’m being overcautious.
But that’s what being stalked does to you. It makes you suspi-
cious of just about everybody.
When we reach Warwick Road and I’m about to open the car
door Jeremy places his hand on my forearm. Just briefly, enough
to make me pause. Oh no, he’s chosen now to start talking.
‘There’s a Buddhist quote I’d like to share with you, Astrid.’
Bloody hell. This is all I need.
He looks at me from under his steel- grey eyebrows, like a
headmaster admonishing a wayward pupil.
‘Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon and
the truth.’
My fingers fumble to unclick the seatbelt, the word ‘truth’
running through me like an electric shock. As the belt unclicks
and recoils, it’s as much as I can do to mumble my thanks for the
lift, open the passenger door and climb out. He takes ages to
drive off and I know he’s waiting on purpose because he knows
I don’t live in this large Georgian house with the immaculate
flower beds and the Mazda convertible parked up on the drive-
way. But I walk all the way to the front porch anyway, pulling my
phone out of the back pocket of my jeans as if to make a call.
Eventually, he puts me out of my misery and drives away. The
rain has eased off a little now and I slip my phone into my coat
pocket, retrace my steps to the pavement and continue down
Warwick Road towards Mum’s cottage in a state of heightened
awareness till I’m safely behind the front door. I stand for a few
seconds in the dark hall until my breathing returns to normal.
He was only making a point about coming clean with Josh and
Richard. He doesn’t know anything else. Of course he doesn’t.
*
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Mum takes one look at me and laughs. ‘I was wondering
whether you’d get caught in the downpour. Come on, get out
of those wet things and I’ll hang them up to dry. You look like
a drowned rat.’
She bustles off to unfold the clothes horse she keeps in the
back room while I shrug off my coat and slip my hand in the
pocket to retrieve my phone. But it’s the wrong pocket. My fin-
gers close over something else. Something I don’t immediately
recognize. Curious, I pull it out. It’s a little package secured
with an elastic band. My heart skips a beat because I think I
know what’s inside. With trembling fingers I ease the band off
and unfurl the piece of paper it’s wrapped in. My throat closes.
It’s a miniature bottle of vodka.
With blood pounding in my ears, I race upstairs to my room.
If Mum sees this, I’m done for. I drop the paper on the floor and
stare at the bottle nestled in the palm of my hand. It’s cold and
smooth against my skin. Absolut Blue Vodka, 50ml, 40% ABV.
How the hell did this get in my pocket? Someone must have
put it there. But that’s impossible. I’d have felt it, wouldn’t I?
‘Astrid, are you bringing those clothes down?’
The sound of Mum’s voice makes me start. I can hardly
breathe.
‘Just coming.’
I stuff it into one of my socks and ball it up, tuck it right at
the back of my drawer. I need to get it out of here as soon as I
can. Mum searches my room sometimes – she pretends she’s
looking for dirty mugs – but we both know what she’s really
looking for.
I think of all the people who’ve had access to my coat today.
It’s been hanging up in Josh’s dad’s house all afternoon, but
why would Richard Carter slip a bottle of vodka into my pocket?
It doesn’t make sense.
Unless it was Jeremy. He’s had ample opportunity to do it,
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
both at the house and just now, in the car. He could have
dropped it in when he was leaning over me to sort the seatbelt
out. But why would he do that? He wouldn’t, surely. All he
wants me to do is come clean with Josh and Richard. To tell
them I’m an alcoholic.
I took my coat off in the Oxfam shop this morning, gave it to
Pam when I was trying that leather jacket on. But Pam’s hardly
likely to have done it, and she’d have noticed if Rosie had,
wouldn’t she? It was folded over her arm the whole time and,
anyway, it couldn’t have been Rosie. She might just as well have
the Twelve Steps etched into her soul like letters in a stick of rock.
The fact is, it could have been anyone. I was pickpocketed
once, in broad daylight. Didn’t feel a thing. And it must be a lot
easier to put something into a pocket than take it out.
I take one last look at my closed drawer and imagine myself
unscrewing that little silver cap later tonight. Slugging back
50ml of Sw
edish pure- grain vodka. My mouth waters. Who-
ever did this knows exactly what they’re doing.
I pick the paper off the floor from where I’ve dropped it and
go to put it in the bin. Looks like it’s a promotional flyer for a
local business.
Oh no. Please, no. I stare at the printed words till they swim
before my eyes: ‘P. Hollingford & Sons, Funeral Directors.’ And
then the slogan in large black letters. ‘It’s never too early to
start planning your own funeral.’
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34
All the time I’m eating supper with Mum, or pretending to,
pushing the food around on my plate and hiding as much as I
can under the mashed potato, I’m thinking of the words on
that flyer. And I’m picturing the vodka wrapped up in my sock
and wondering what would happen if I just had a couple of
sips. If ever I needed some Dutch courage, it’s now.
I can’t help thinking of how, not so long ago, I nearly bought
a bottle myself. But I didn’t, did I? I found the strength to say
no, just as I’ll find the strength to get rid of the one upstairs.
I’ll do it after supper. Tell Mum I’m going out to get some
chocolate.
A horrible thought drops into my head. Sly and swift, it
pierces through the incessant mind- chatter like an arrow head-
ing straight for its target. What if it was there all along, nestled in the lining of my pocket, just waiting to be discovered? I
haven’t worn my coat for a couple of weeks, haven’t needed to.
It’s been hanging up in the porch all this time.
The porch. Oh my God! That girl could have dropped it in
when she came round. I look at Mum, squashing peas against
the back of her fork with quiet determination, oblivious of the
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turmoil churning in my mind. She could have found it at any
time. It’s a miracle she didn’t.
It takes me ages to get out of the house. Mum’s got a migraine
coming on and by the time I’ve cleared the supper things away
and taken a cup of tea up to her it’s already getting on for half
past eight. Then the bloody phone rings and it’s my Great- aunt
Dorothy wanting a chat. I tell her Mum isn’t feeling too good,
but that doesn’t stop her bending my ear for almost forty- five