‘You’ve created a wonderful legacy in her memory. She would be very proud of you,’ the reporter says gently.
‘As I am of her. The Megan McCoy Foundation wouldn’t exist without her. Our daughter thought she had run out of options and our job is to make sure that young women, and men too, realise there are always options. I’ll never know what Meg would have made of her life if things had been different, but thanks to the Lean On Me helpline, I know quite a few young people who were on a similar path and are now enjoying lives they never thought possible. It’s a lovely feeling when they get back in touch to share good news.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me about some of the people you’ve helped.’
‘I didn’t do it alone. It’s been a group effort,’ Ruth says as she catches my eye. There’s a hint of a smile. She’s back on script.
Pressing my chin to my chest as Ruth recounts the foundation’s successes, I allow the relief flooding my chest to ease away my tension.
I’m not sure Ruth realises it, but the first person she saved was me. Meg’s death didn’t only rewrite her parents’ future, it rewrote mine too. I was always the shy one, hiding behind Meg’s armour of overconfidence. She could jump from a stage and never doubt that someone would catch her, while to this day I refuse to step into a lift because I’m convinced a cable will snap. Unlike Meg, I’ve never put my fears to the test but then I don’t need to. Bad things do happen – Meg proved that.
It would have been nice if my response to my cousin’s premature death had been to grab every opportunity that life had to offer, but I didn’t see the point. Not all leaps of faith ended well, so why take the risk? Much to my mother’s chagrin, I turned down my place at university and denied her a full complement of four daughters with degrees, husbands and successful careers. In her eyes, I’ve failed on all counts.
I spent the years I should have been at uni flitting from one casual job to another until Ruth asked for my help setting up the foundation. She had commandeered a corner of the new offices of McCoy and Pace Architects and she wanted my help to launch the Lean On Me helpline. The role was voluntary, the charity couldn’t afford paid staff or much else for that matter, but Ruth found a way around that by employing me as an admin assistant and allowing me to split my time between the firm and the foundation.
I was reluctant at first, and Mum wasn’t too pleased that I was being offered such a lowly position in her brother’s firm, but I wasn’t looking for favours from Auntie Ruth and Uncle Geoff. They became simply Ruth and Geoff as we adjusted to our new roles in each other’s lives, and although certain aspects of the work can be a challenge, I’ve been surprised by how much satisfaction I’ve gained from helping others through the charity. I’m less keen on my admin duties but, if the relaunch of the helpline is a success, if we secure more funding and reach out to more people, then I plan to start training to be a counsellor. It’s by no means guaranteed and I share Ruth’s desperation, but I’d like to believe that Meg is steering me towards a career I never knew I wanted. This relaunch has to work.
When I lift my head, Ruth is beaming a smile at the reporter. She’s in full flow, talking about the helpline. It might not be on the grand scale of some of the national charities we work with like the Samaritans, Women’s Aid and Refuge who can offer twenty-four-hour support but, for three evenings a week, we are there for young people who often have nothing more than a growing sense of unease about a relationship and want to talk it through. A listening ear might not sound like much, but we’ve had enough successes to make the last seven years worthwhile, and long may it continue.
A shadow appears in my periphery and I turn to find Geoff with his shoulder pressed against the window.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ I whisper, my pulse racing as I imagine a creak as the window frame loosens, followed by the sound of glass and bone shattering on the concourse below.
Geoff straightens up. ‘Sorry.’
Like Ruth, my uncle’s tailored appearance gives no hint of the trauma he’s suffered. He was the one who found Meg in the garage but if the shadow of that memory persists, it’s hidden behind the twinkle in his grey eyes. The only marked difference I’ve noticed in the past decade is a receding hairline and the slight paunch he carries as a result of too many whiskeys.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks, tipping his head towards Ruth.
I attempt a smile but my eyes give something away.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Ruth might have suggested Meg was being abused,’ I say with a wince. ‘She didn’t mention him by name but she said enough for anyone who knew Meg to join the dots.’
‘Including Lewis,’ Geoff replies, his mouth twisting into a snarl. ‘I wish we could name that bastard and prick his conscience, but I doubt he has one. He’s not the one who suffers when old wounds are reopened.’
I want to give my uncle a hug but that would simply acknowledge the pain he tries so hard to hide. ‘It’ll be worth it if just one person sees the interview and reaches out,’ I tell him.
‘It’s a lot of effort to go to for one person, Jennifer,’ he warns.
Despite being a trustee of the foundation, Geoff has always taken a pragmatic view of our work. He was the first to challenge the effectiveness of the helpline in light of the sharp decline in callers, and his initial suggestion was to wind things up as a precursor to retirement, which he’s mentioned an awful lot since turning sixty. The relaunch isn’t only about convincing new clients to believe in us.
‘We’ll get plenty of new callers after this,’ I promise, with enough conviction in my voice to make the cameraman on the other side of the office raise an eyebrow. I mouth an apology and for the remainder of the interview remain tight-lipped. It’s not as if there’s anything else I can say to Geoff that Ruth hasn’t already tried. Results are what we need and I pray that Ruth’s interview will draw the right kind of attention.
2
Jen
‘Did you see the interview?’ I ask Mum as I pour a layer of béchamel sauce over lasagne sheets.
‘Ruth didn’t look at all well. Her eyes were sunken and I bet her fingers have been chewed to the quick beneath those false nails.’
I pull a face, which fortunately Mum can’t see because she’s on speakerphone. ‘Ruth’s fine,’ I say. ‘If she looks tired, it’s because we’ve been working so hard on the relaunch. I thought she came across really well, and we got the message across that we needed.’
‘It’s a good cause, we all know that, but was it wise to name Lewis?’
‘She didn’t name him.’
‘As good as,’ Mum says, filling my heart with dread. If she thinks that, so will everyone else.
In the hours since the interview I’ve tried to remain positive but there’s no running away from the fact that Ruth has taken a huge risk. She’s made the first strike, and if I know anything about Lewis, it’s that he will hit back.
‘I can understand why she’s so determined to blame him,’ Mum continues. ‘It’s got to be better than facing the truth.’
‘Oh, and what exactly is the truth?’
I hear her sigh. ‘She blames herself, like any mother would. And I know she’d love to go back and do things differently but that’s never going to happen, is it?’
‘And what would you do differently?’ I ask through gritted teeth. If my mother wants to start apportioning blame, a chat about the role she played is long overdue.
‘I loved Meg, you know I did,’ she says firmly, ‘but it’s time to stop dwelling in the past. That video montage they showed – poor Meg, all smiles and full of life – it broke my heart. Goodness knows what it did to Ruth and Geoff.’
It broke my heart too, I want to tell her. But I shouldn’t have to. ‘Ruth wanted to share it, Mum,’ I continue. ‘It was her idea. The helpline wouldn’t exist without Meg and that’s how she keeps her memory alive.’
‘That, and having you around,’ Mum mutters, edging closer to the subject
neither of us dare raise.
I’m the youngest of Mum’s brood and it’s fair to say that the novelty had worn off when she got to daughter number four. I gravitated to Meg because we were the same age and, well, because she was Meg. It wasn’t because my aunt and uncle had the posh house and the spare room I could have to myself whenever I stayed over, although Mum always insisted that was the draw. I loved being somewhere where I wasn’t lost in the melee of family life, and there were times when I wished Ruth had been my mum. Occasionally, I still do.
As I drop globs of bolognese sauce into the oven dish, it splatters across my white cotton shirt. I want to swear but I don’t. ‘Ruth and I share a passion for what we do,’ I explain. ‘Look at what we’ve achieved, Mum. There’s a lot we can be proud of.’
‘Of course there is,’ Mum says in a placating tone that riles me. ‘Your father and I are proud of you, as we are of all our daughters.’
‘Where is Dad?’ I ask, to steer her away from what I know is coming next. My sisters are her favourite topic of conversation.
‘He’s still watching the news. He says hi.’
I doubt Dad has peeled his eyes from the TV screen. Having brought up four daughters in a compact terraced house, he learnt long ago to tune out of the conversations going on around him.
‘Have you heard Hayley’s news?’ Mum continues. ‘She’s only been back from maternity leave two months and they’ve promoted her already.’
‘Yes, you told me.’
Mum hears the sharpness of my reply. ‘You’ll get there too, Jennifer. You have as much potential as your sisters and you’re still young-ish.’ There’s a telling pause before she adds, ‘Although I was looking at how long it takes to become a certified counsellor. You really should start training sooner rather than later.’
I regret ever mentioning my musings to Mum, but I’d been in the middle of planning the relaunch and Ruth had me all enthused about how the foundation might actually expand its services beyond the helpline, despite Geoff’s calls for caution. But Mum’s right. It will take years to become qualified and there would be sacrifices I’d have to make along the way.
I glance across the open plan apartment, with its polished timber floor and gleaming surfaces. There are no sticky finger marks on the glass dining table, no Lego bricks gathering dust beneath the pale grey sofa, and the corner desk has no teetering tower of files brought home from a demanding job. I’m unlike any of my sisters.
It’s as if Mum is looking over my shoulder when she adds, ‘And it’s not the only thing you need to start planning.’
I don’t know why I bothered answering the phone when I saw Mum’s name appear. On a day when I’m desperate for a hug, my mother puts me in a stranglehold. Can’t she see that I’m happy as I am?
‘It’s ten years since – you know,’ Mum continues. ‘It’s time to move on and start building a life for yourself.’
As Mum’s voice drones on from the speakerphone, I carry the lasagne to the oven. The dish makes a clatter as I drop it onto a baking shelf and I don’t hear the front door opening. When I straighten up, Charlie catches me pulling faces at the phone.
‘You’re twenty-eight years old, Jennifer,’ Mum continues, having given up pretending I’m still young-ish. ‘You need to think about settling down properly, and Charlie’s business is doing well. Isn’t it time he popped the question?’
Charlie’s eyebrows lift as his mouth pulls into a smirk. Mum would have a fit if she knew that in almost eight years of living together, Charlie has asked me to marry him a total of five times and my answer has always been the same – what we have works.
‘I’m waiting for Jen to ask me, Eve,’ Charlie calls out.
There’s a long pause and I can’t tell if Mum has been struck dumb because she’s realised Charlie was listening, or she’s simply horrified at the idea that one of her daughters should have to do the asking.
‘Don’t worry about us, Mum,’ I say to break the silence. ‘We’re happy enough as we are. Shouldn’t that be what matters?’
‘I’m only looking out for you— for both of you,’ she adds. ‘You don’t have to settle for happy enough. That’s all I’m saying.’
This time when I pull a face, Charlie does too and we have to stifle our giggles as we say our goodbyes to Mum and I cut the call.
‘That’s never all Mum was saying,’ I mutter.
‘It’s your fault for not fitting into her standardised daughter mould.’
‘And she won’t stop until she’s hammered me into place.’
‘I like a woman who knows her own mind,’ Charlie says before adding quickly, ‘You do know I’m talking about you, right? Not your mum?’
‘I know,’ I reply although I’m not sure I do know my own mind. My refusal to conform could be because Meg passed on her rebellious streak to me as a parting gift, but I suspect what she actually left me with was fear – fear of opening new doors when the one behind was torn off its hinges and will never close. I doubt I could look to the future at all without Charlie. He knows what we left behind. He was there too. ‘Thank you for saving me from my mother’s designs.’
‘As I recall, we saved each other,’ he replies.
Moving closer, Charlie circles the kitchen island that divides the kitchen and living space. He’s a foot taller, some might say lanky, with curly brown hair and hazel eyes pinched into a permanent squint because he refuses to wear glasses except for driving. He says they make him look like a geek and I’m inclined to agree but it was his geekiness that attracted me to him, and that was long before he ever noticed me.
We met in high school and were part of the same circle of friends with Meg at its core. There was an unspoken rule that none of us could fancy each other, and no one had an issue with that until we started sixth form and Lewis infiltrated the group. That was when the rules of engagement were rewritten and Charlie and I were one of the last to pair off. The fact that Lewis was the catalyst might suggest his influence was a good thing. It wasn’t.
His arrival heralded the end of all our teenage dreams, and Meg wasn’t the only one who would fail her A Levels. Charlie did too, and if I’m honest, I was more worried about him at the time than I was Meg. I was no longer the person she turned to in a crisis, and I proved to be no help to Charlie either. After Meg’s funeral, he disappeared for a while. He went to work for his uncle in Warrington and when he returned a year or so later, he found me where he’d left me; still at Mum and Dad’s, still grieving, still scared to look to the future. Thank God for Charlie.
A smile creeps across my face as I watch him pick up a damp dish cloth and begin treating the red spatters on my shirt as if they’re war wounds. He has the presence of a paramedic although his area of expertise lies closer to stain removal.
Taking advice from his uncle, Charlie had come back to Liverpool with a plan. He set up his own cleaning business and I’d been helping him when Ruth stole me away to work for her. It was probably a good thing that I left when I did. As is apparent from the mess I’ve made in the kitchen, cleaning is not my forte, whereas Charlie has found his vocation. Despite what my mum might think, you don’t need qualifications to be a success.
‘What on earth’s got your mum riled up this time?’ he asks.
‘The interview. Meg’s anniversary. Hayley’s promotion. The full moon,’ I say, counting them off on my fingers.
Charlie’s quiet for a moment. Meg has that effect on us. ‘How did the interview go?’
‘I imagine that depends on who you ask.’
‘Forget whatever your mum’s said.’ He puts the cloth down and wraps his arms around me.
Resting my head on his chest, I say, ‘I’m not talking about Mum, and the interview itself went well. It might only be the local news but our services are targeted to the North West anyway, and it’s just what we need to raise awareness.’
‘But?’
‘Ruth … She all but named Lewis as Meg’s murderer.’ I’m forced to raise my
head as Charlie pulls back from me in shock. ‘I know, I know. You don’t have to give me that look.’
‘Does she realise what she’s done?’ Charlie asks, as if the retribution I’ve been fearing is all but guaranteed.
‘I think Geoff will have driven home that message. I saw them having words after the TV crew had wrapped up,’ I tell him. I’d watched them in their glass-fronted corner office and I didn’t need to hear what was said to know it was a heated discussion. ‘She’s been so careful in the past, wording everything perfectly in case Lewis decided to sue us for slander and close us down. But we’re so close to closing down anyway and Ruth let her frustration get the better of her. It could have been worse. There was a moment when I thought she was going to mention the note.’
Charlie backs away. ‘But she didn’t?’
The loss of Charlie’s warm embrace sends a shiver down my spine. ‘No, but she did mention abuse and she did mention a boyfriend,’ I reply as a knot of anxiety tightens in my chest.
I don’t want to be scared of Lewis; he doesn’t deserve one drop of my emotions but it’s difficult when you don’t know, and have never known, exactly who you’re dealing with. As a newcomer to our school, we knew only the rumours about Lewis’s past. He played up his tough, macho image to assert his position in our group but there were times when it was impossible not to feel sorry for what he and his mum had been through. In hindsight, that vulnerability was an artifice, and the only thing about Lewis that was indisputable was the terrible effect he had on Meg.
‘I don’t blame Ruth. People deserve to know what he did,’ I continue. ‘It doesn’t matter what the police found or didn’t find, Lewis was there that day, the missing note proves it. Meg could have been alive when he got there for all we know. He might have bullied her into doing it. What gets me most is that he was callous enough to just leave her hanging there. Can you imagine?’
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