by Lesley Kara
And with that, he gets up and walks away.
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36
I sit on my hands and rock till he’s out of sight, the urge to run
after him even more powerful and all- consuming than the
urge to drink. But I won’t give in to either of them. I pull my
phone out of my jeans pocket and speed- dial Helen’s number.
My voice is thick with tears. ‘I’ve told Josh everything. He
hates me.’
‘Give him time, Astrid. Give him time. It’s a lot for him to
take in.’
‘His mum was killed by a drunk driver.’
Helen’s silence says it all. ‘Where are you?’ she says at last.
My mouth seems to have stopped working. I can’t answer her.
‘Where are you?’ she repeats.
‘At the beach.’
‘I’ll meet you on the greensward.’
I’m crying so hard that I don’t even see her at first.
‘Oh, Astrid,’ she says, linking her arm into mine and guiding
me across the grass and towards the pavement. ‘I’m so sorry he
took it badly, but you’ve done the right thing. You know you have.’
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I stare at my feet as we navigate the parked cars. Sockless in
their sandy plimsolls, still damp from the wet sand, it’s like
being a little girl again, hanging on to Mum’s arm while we
cross the road.
‘Do you want to come back to mine and talk?’
‘I don’t think I can talk. Not yet. I just want to crawl into bed and never wake up.’
Helen stops in her tracks. She looks horrified. ‘You don’t
mean that, Astrid. Tell me you don’t mean that.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ I say.
But I do. I do mean that. Right now, the thought of falling asleep and not waking up again sounds like the perfect solu-tion. I might have done the right thing, but that doesn’t make
it any easier to bear.
‘You’ll feel better about things in the morning,’ Helen
says. ‘I’m sure you will. And so will Josh. He’ll probably have
phoned you by then. You’ll see. It was just a shock for him,
that’s all.’
But he doesn’t phone. Minutes bleed into hours. Hours into
days. For long swathes of time I stay in bed, dimly aware of
Mum coming in at intervals with mugs of green tea and crack-
ers with cheese. Chicken soup that cools in the bowl then
disappears.
If I consume any of these offerings, I don’t remember how
they taste. My bladder swells uncomfortably. Ignoring it for as
long as possible becomes a form of self- punishment. When I
get back to my bed, the duvet and pillow have been plumped,
the bottom sheet smoothed out. A cup of green tea is on the
bedside cabinet, a chocolate biscuit on the saucer. The window
has been opened and a sweet draught of fresh air billows the
curtains.
Mum’s willing me to get better, I know she is. But it’s like I’m
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
dead inside. I’m not even scared any more, just numbed by eve-
rything that’s happened. Nobody can hurt me any more than
I’ve already hurt myself.
I check my phone. A whole string of messages, but they’re all
from Helen: ‘Astrid, I’m worried about you. Phone me. Please.’
‘Why don’t you come over? I’ve made a lovely curry.’
I toss the phone on to the floor. There’s only one name I want
to see flash up on my screen right now and that’s Josh.
When the noise of my thoughts won’t let up, I paint continu-
ously in my head. Not the picture I’ve been working on at the
Carters’ house but something wild and abstract. Mad brush
strokes and garish colours merge into dreams of tequila. Me
and Simon necking shots till we slither to the floor in a tangle
of sweaty limbs and sour breath. Josh watching me, contemp-
tuously, from a corner of the room.
All the years I’ve wasted. All the chances I’ve squandered in the
past. I’m not surprised someone’s sending me hate mail. I hate
myself too. I’ve hurt people. Dragged Simon back down when
he was doing so well. Attacked an innocent young woman on the
street. A mother with a child. I don’t deserve to live. Maybe that
girl, whoever she is, is right. Maybe I am better off dead.
Mum tries, in vain, to persuade me to see the doctor.
‘We don’t want you falling into depression,’ she says, and I
picture myself teetering on the edge of a vast black chasm. Will
I fall, or will I jump? What’s the difference, in the end?
My eyes snap open. It’s the middle of the night and there’s been
none of that hazy period between sleep and wakefulness. I
reach for my phone, but he still hasn’t texted. It’s been over a week now.
There’s another message from Helen.
‘I take it there’s been no word from him yet. He’s not worthy
of you, Astrid. xx’
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She’s wrong about that. I’m not worthy of him, but he could
at least contact me, say that to my face instead of ignoring me
for days on end.
The only positive I cling to is that he must be serious about
me if his reaction is this bad. If I’m just another summer con-quest, surely he wouldn’t care so much. But when I said all that
stuff about him being with someone else in the beach hut, he
didn’t deny it. If it wasn’t true, why didn’t he say so?
Oh God, I hate this! When did I become so needy? Since I
stopped drinking, that’s when. Why the fuck did I throw that
vodka away?
I get up and go downstairs, trying to step lightly so that the
stairs don’t creak and wake Mum. But when I reach the hall, I
see a strip of light at the bottom of the living- room door. She’s
never up this late.
Her head shoots up from the notebook she’s been writing in.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Just making a list, dear, that’s all. It helps sometimes, when
I can’t sleep.’
‘Why can’t you sleep?’
She gives me a funny look. She’s worrying about me; of
course she is. I sit down beside her and she closes her note-
book, but not before I’ve seen the words: ‘Try not to react to
everything she says.’
For the first time, I realize something profound. That mixed
in with all her anger and hurt at my behaviour is frustration at
her own behaviour, her failure to be a different parent, one who might somehow have prevented my lapse into darkness or, at
the very least, dealt with it in a more effective way.
‘You look different,’ she says. ‘A little brighter.’
‘Yeah. I decided not to fall.’ She looks puzzled. ‘Into
depression.’
‘I’m very proud of you, Astrid. For telling Josh the truth
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ouTell.indd 212
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and . . .’ She presses her lips together. ‘And for not drinking. It
must be so difficult.’
‘It’s like a fight that never ends.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I mean, I don’t know, but I can imagine.
I . . . I read things. Articles. Websites.’ She points to a copy of
the Big Book on the coffee table. ‘And that, of course. I should
have read it before.’ She sighs. ‘When you first started drinking
too much, I thought it was just a phase you were going through.
There I was, seeking solace from the Quakers, when all the
time I should have been getting you professional help.’
‘But . . . but I thought you only became a Quaker after Dad
died.’
Mum does a sad little smile. ‘No, Astrid. I started going to
meetings when you were seventeen. It was the only way I knew
how to cope.’
The lump in my throat swells. I can’t believe I didn’t know
that. Can’t believe I’ve been so blind to her suffering all these
years.
‘Has he been in touch yet?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Well, then, he’s not worth bothering over, is he?’
Everything’s always so black and white for Mum, so obvious
and clear cut. And yet she does have a point. If Josh can’t bring
himself to forgive me, if he can’t cope with who I really am,
then maybe he’s not the man I thought he was.
‘I’m meant to be going away this weekend,’ Mum says. ‘To a
Quaker retreat in Cambridge. But I’ve decided not to go.’
‘Not because of me, I hope.’
‘I don’t want to leave you on your own.’
‘I’m not going to drink, Mum. I’ll be fine, I promise. I’m feel-
ing better now.’
But even as I say the words I know that I don’t want her to go.
I don’t want to be alone. Not any more.
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37
My appointment at the job centre is this afternoon. If it weren’t
for Mum reminding me, I’d have forgotten all about it. It’s a
half- hour bus drive away and it’s the first time I’ve travelled
beyond Flinstead and Mistden since I arrived here after rehab.
It’s also the first time I’ve left the house since telling Josh. The first time I’ve been out on my own since disposing of that
vodka.
I rang the number on that flyer the other day. P. Hollingford
& Sons doesn’t even exist. My stalker actually went to the trou-
ble of creating a fictional funeral directors’, just to freak me out.
But there’ve been no more brown envelopes while I’ve been
stewing in my bed. No more sinister packages. Perhaps she’s
lost interest by now. Probably thinks she’s succeeded in driving
me insane.
Even so, when the bus finally arrives, I go right to the back
and press my shoulders into the seat. I read a story once about
a woman who was almost strangled by someone in the seat
behind her. A complete stranger. He even used her own scarf to
do it. Maybe that girl has mental health problems too. Well,
she must have. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
keep returning to my original theory, that this is someone
Simon met through AA, and nothing to do with the mugging.
He should have chosen his confidante a little more carefully. If
he weren’t already dead, I’d want to kill him for blabbing. Tears
spring to my eyes. If only he were still alive and I could give
him a piece of my mind.
Half an hour later, I’m in the larger, brasher seaside town a
little further along the coast from Flinstead. Funfairs and bingo
halls and takeaways. Everything Flinstead is not. I’m early for
my appointment so I kill time by strolling down the high street.
It’s good for me to be in a new environment, seeing people
going about their business. I can’t wallow in bed for ever, feel-
ing sorry for myself, and I can’t allow myself to be scared.
I’m just about to go into Smiths to have a look at the
paperbacks – I decided this morning that I really need to start
reading again, to lose myself in a good book – when I spot a
familiar figure disappearing through the doors of M&S. Tall.
Messy hair. Red shoes. It’s Helen.
I check my watch. The job centre’s only round the corner,
and I’ve still got a bit of time. I’ll go and say a quick hello, let her know I’m up and about again. All those texts of hers I’ve
ignored – I need to thank her for being so supportive in my
hour of need.
I cross the road and make my way through the glass doors
into the women’s clothing section, but I can’t see her anywhere,
which means she’s probably walked through to the food hall.
Knowing Helen, she’s stocking up on chocolates and cakes.
That goodie cupboard of hers was looking a little depleted last
time I went round.
I never know where anything is in M&S, so I wander up and
down the different aisles, looking for her. She must be here
somewhere. And then I see her. Standing in front of the red-
wine section. Oh no. I hang back, transfixed, as she reaches for
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LESLEY K AR A
a bottle and examines the label, puts it into her basket. Then
she puts another one in, and another.
After everything she’s said about staying sober, all that step-
work we’ve done. How could she do this? I should have
responded to her texts. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own
misery I didn’t stop to think that maybe she needed help too,
that all those messages of support were actually cries for help.
She wanted to talk. Not just for my sake, but for hers too. Help-
ing me would have helped her.
I watch, appalled, as she puts yet another bottle in her basket
and makes her way to the tills. Maybe if I had more time I’d
approach her, persuade her to put them back on the shelf. Who
knows how she’ll end up if I don’t? But my appointment’s in
less than five minutes and I can’t afford to miss it. I just can’t.
You can lose your money for turning up late. I don’t want to
start off on the wrong foot, and how do I know she hasn’t been
drinking this whole time in secret? She won’t thank me for
barging up to her in a public place and confronting her. I know
I wouldn’t, if the tables were turned.
I hurry out of the shop and back up the high street towards
the job centre, wrestling with my guilt at not being selfless
enough to miss my long- awaited appointment and help her.
The fact is, I’ve only got the strength to help one person now,
and that’s me. Rosie’s right. I’ve made friends with the wrong
person.
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> 38
It’s Friday, and Mum is about to leave for her retreat. It’s the first time since I’ve been here that she’s trusted me to be on my own
overnight and, though neither of us has actually said as much,
we both know it’s a big deal.
She hugs me, perhaps for a second or two more than usual,
or maybe it’s me who takes longer to release her, and our lips
graze each other’s cheeks. Then I watch her walking down the
path to the street, a small, sprightly figure in her navy raincoat,
belted far too tight round her waist, the wheels of her overnight
case bumping and rattling over the uneven concrete.
I have a sudden urge to run after her and tell her not to go.
But Mum deserves a break, doesn’t she? A break from me. I
wouldn’t mind one of those too.
The decision makes itself. I’m going to the house in Mistden, to
see if I can speak to Josh. The very least he can do is tell me to
my face that we’re over.
Dusk is coming on and the birds are gathering in the trees,
tuning up for their evening chorus. I close the front door
behind me and set off in the direction of Mistden. It’s a warm
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June night and there are lots of people about, visitors and
locals, enjoying the fine weather. If ever there was a time for
new beginnings, a time for forgiveness, it’s now, but after my
self- imposed confinement I feel like an alien, displaced in a
foreign land. Too raw and vulnerable to let the warmth in.
I go through my options as I walk. If Josh isn’t there, then I’ll
speak to his dad. If Richard won’t talk to me about Josh, then
surely he’ll talk to me about the painting. After all, he commis-
sioned me to work on the project, didn’t he? He’ll have to pay
me for my time, for the work I’ve already put in. He might be
angry with me about lying, but instinct tells me he’s a fair-
minded man. A good man.
I think of my unfinished painting on the wall, the paints and
brushes and all the other paraphernalia lying there waiting for
me. A still life of abandoned art materials. I could finish the
job, couldn’t I? It’ll be awkward, for all of us, but once I’m shut
away in that room, immersed in the moment, I know I can do
it. And when Josh sees how committed I am, when he sees the
finished piece, he’ll forgive me – they both will – and we can