by Eva Woods
Caz. That was an easy one. They’d fallen out, she said. Rosie had tried to contact her yesterday and she hadn’t answered. Angie, that was another obvious one. Angela Timmons had been Rosie’s best friend at secondary school, and Daisy remembered hovering outside Rosie’s room longing to be older, as the two of them giggled and tried on eye make-up and watched Dawson’s Creek. Daisy typed the name into the search bar and scrolled down through the pictures that appeared. Angie either had no Facebook account – unlikely – or she’d got married and changed her name. But to what?
Daisy went back to the list. Mum. Well, that was a can of worms she wasn’t ready to open. Who knew what things Rosie needed to say to their mother? It could take years. She skipped over her own name too, for the same reason, swallowing down all thoughts of the engagement party.
Ella was another name on the list. Daisy didn’t remember ever hearing about an Ella, and Rosie’s Facebook friends list also didn’t reveal one. Without a surname, she moved on to the rest. Dave, that was easy, but she didn’t want to think about him right now. Serge she didn’t know, but as it was an unusual name, Facebook told her it was Rosie’s boss at the coffee shop she worked in, who was also in a ska band called All Funked Up.
Mel was the next name. She tried to think if Rosie had a friend called that. A distant bell was ringing. A far-off impression of egg sandwiches and a too-long school skirt. That weird girl in Rosie’s year. What had her name been? Smelly Melly. Weird Melissa. Melissa … Carter! That was it. Melissa Carter. Rosie had befriended the strange girl, and for years she’d come round to their house to play. She’d always been kind to Daisy, letting her join in their games even though Rosie would roll her eyes and say she was too little.
There was nothing on Facebook, so she quickly Googled Melissa Carter. An article from almost twenty years ago came up, from a local paper in Kent. Teen dies in overdose. Daisy stared at it, horrified. What a terrible story – the girl, who in the picture looked nerdy and bookish, not the type to even sneak cigarettes behind the bike sheds, had swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills in her bathroom at home, and never woken up. What would drive a fourteen-your-old to that? In the article it said she’d moved to Kent when she was eleven, which maybe explained why she and Rosie had lost touch. So why did Rosie have the name of a long-dead girl on her list?
‘Can I get you something else?’ Daisy jumped as the guy from behind the counter spoke near her elbow. He was clearing the nearby table, and nodding towards her untouched sandwich. ‘If you didn’t like it, I can make you something else. I do a mean bacon butty.’
Daisy blushed, remembering how she’d cried on him yesterday. ‘Oh! Thank you, sorry, I just got distracted.’ She nibbled a bit to be polite, though her stomach felt leaden. ‘Is that pesto?’
‘Yeah,’ he said proudly. ‘I know it’s not very Brief Encounter, but I like to add a little something extra. A twist on a classic.’
‘It’s good,’ she said truthfully. ‘I’m just not very hungry. I’m sorry.’
‘How are things today, then?’
Oh dear, she’d hoped he might not remember. That maybe crying women were something he encountered on an hourly basis. ‘Oh, you know.’ She wondered how to explain the laptop. ‘I’m not working. I just need to contact some of my sister’s friends.’
‘Nothing wrong with working,’ he said, neatly stacking the cups and plates from the table. ‘At times like this, you do whatever it takes to get through. Normal rules don’t apply. I won’t judge if you work or do nothing at all.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daisy gratefully. ‘I’m not sure my boss would agree.’
‘I know what you mean; my boss is a real slave-driver. I’m in here all hours. So if you ever need to chat …’ He somehow hoisted all the crockery in one hand and held out his other. It was strong and broad. ‘Adam,’ he said.
‘Daisy. I’m sorry I didn’t eat the sandwich. It’s not the sandwich’s fault, honest.’
‘It’s not me, it’s you, is what you’re saying.’ He raised his eyebrows. Daisy felt a smile spread over her face, before reality asserted itself like a bucket of cold water. Why was she flirting with a café guy when she was engaged and her sister was at death’s door?
‘Er, I better get back to the hospital,’ she said quickly. ‘There might be some change.’
‘Here.’ He scooted back behind the counter and, using tongs, selected a slice of Victoria sponge from the display on the counter, flipped it neatly into a brown paper bag. ‘Take this. I insist. Everyone can always manage cake, even at the worst of times.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t …’
‘Course you could. It’s in my interests really, because once you taste it then you’ll come back again and again and be my best customer.’ He gave her a wide smile. Daisy felt it hook into her, dangerous, scary, and mumbling her thanks, she gathered up the laptop and stumbled out.
Rosie
‘… so then Mr Cardew, that’s Philip Cardew, ACA, said, “Gary, you’ll go far in this business. I’ve never seen spreadsheets with this much detail!”’
‘That’s wonderful, Gary. So the promotion …?’
‘In the bank, Alison. At least, I’m almost ninety-nine per cent sure. I better go and call the office, in fact. Time waits for no man in management consultancy!’
Rosie rolled her eyes, and was gratified when they actually complied. Thanks, guys! No one noticed, however. Her mother was still fluttering adoringly at Gary, and Daisy had just wandered in, looking slightly dazed, carrying a small paper bag. Hey, everyone, I’m here! I’m awake! I just can’t speak to you! Nothing. To them, it must look as if she was gone, absent, practically dead already. It was very frustrating.
‘Where have you been?’ their mother said suspiciously, as Gary ostentatiously went out to the corridor to make his phone call. (‘Phil! Fella!’)
Daisy said, ‘Nowhere. Do you want some cake?’
‘Oh no, dear, have you any idea how many calories are in that?’
Daisy’s hands crumpled the bag. ‘How is she?’
‘The same.’ Their mother sighed. ‘It’s just so hard, not being able to do anything.’
‘We should talk to her. Hi, Rosie. It’s me. Daisy. Um … I’m here with Mum.’
‘Do you really think she can hear you, darling?’
‘I don’t know. We have to try, though, don’t we?’
‘I just … it’s so difficult. I’m so tired and worried.’
‘I know. You could always go to ours and sleep for a bit if you wanted. Get some rest?’
‘Thank you, darling. I should really go home, though – I need some more things, clothes and so on, and I have to sort Mopsy out, he does hate being left alone. I was thinking perhaps I’d check into a hotel. You know, it could be a while.’
‘What do you mean?’ Daisy frowned.
‘Even if she does wake up, there’s no guarantee she’ll be … the same. She might need therapy, help to walk and talk again. She may not be herself.’
How rude! thought Rosie, indignant. Of course I’m myself. I’m exactly the same. I just … can’t move or speak.
The thought of being trapped like this, alive and entirely herself, but inside the prison of a broken body, was so horrific that she blacked it out. It wouldn’t come to that. She was sure. It wouldn’t. Her memories would come back, and she would wake up, and everything would be OK. She would put right all the mistakes she’d made, which were playing out again inside her damaged brain.
Daisy was wrinkling up her forehead like she did when she was trying not to cry. ‘But … there’s still hope. She might wake up. It’s early days still.’
Their mother leaned in, pressing Daisy’s arm. ‘Darling, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is everything OK with you and Gary?’
‘Of course it is. What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s just … you’ve been a little short with him, and you’ve seemed distracted even before this. The wedding’s in six months and you haven’
t decided about the table plan or the menu choices or—’
‘Mum!’
‘I know, I know it’s not important right now, but darling, I just had to ask if you were …’
‘What?’
Her mother looked wretched. Talking about feelings was not her style. ‘If everything was all right.’
‘It’s fine. I’m just busy. I’m on the partnership track, Mum. I have a lot of responsibility.’
‘And that’s wonderful. But wouldn’t you maybe think about …?’
‘What?’
‘Well, once you’re married, you might step back a little? Gary won’t like it if you’re always home at midnight, exhausted and crying, will he?’
Daisy gaped at her. ‘But what else would I do?’
At this, their mother seemed to get cross. ‘I don’t understand this obsession with always having to do things. In my day, having children was enough to be getting on with. And now you have to be a CEO as well. Tell me how that’s an improvement, darling.’
‘But Mum, I don’t have any children.’
‘Not yet. But after the wedding …’
Rosie was sure she could see her sister shudder. It was torture to lie there listening to this conversation and not be able to crash into it, tell her mother it was 2017, for God’s sake, and anyway her own homemaking ways hadn’t been enough to stop her husband running off with a payroll clerk called Carole. Daisy’s shoulders were sagging.
‘Just think about it,’ said their mother, lowering her voice and treating Daisy’s arm to another squeeze. ‘Here’s Gary now. Be nice, darling. He’ll look after you. And that counts for a lot, believe me. I’ll just pop to the loo now you’re back.’
She doesn’t need looking after! Rosie shouted, inside her head, as their mother left the room. She’s fine, just fine. But was she? Had Rosie any idea what was going on in her little sister’s life? Their mother had mentioned crying, exhaustion. Rosie had a nasty feeling the answers were there, if she rooted around long enough in her disordered brain. But was she ready to find out?
Gary was back now. ‘Mr Cardew says I’m much missed! I better go in tomorrow, Daise, is that OK?’
Daisy was blinking away tears. ‘What? Oh, of course. There’s not much we can do here anyway, except talk to her.’
‘I tried that. I’m not convinced, I have to say.’
Rosie couldn’t help but remember the last thing Gary had said to her before all this, hissed in her face outside that wine bar: If you ask me, your family would be a lot better off without you, Rosie. But try as she did, she couldn’t make her face give him the stink-eye. She had to just lie there, placid and calm, while inside the rage ate away at her.
‘What have you got there, Daise?’
‘Oh, just a bit of cake. Want some?’
‘Refined sugar? On a weekday?’
‘Normal rules don’t apply when someone’s in hospital,’ Daisy said, popping a piece in her mouth. ‘Oh!’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. It’s just really good cake.’
‘Don’t forget about the wedding. We promised we’d lose ten pounds each. That reminds me, I need to talk to you about the centrepieces. Mr Cardew said they had Sicilian lemons at theirs, so I wondered if—’
Daisy interrupted. ‘Listen, I thought I might drive Mum home to Devon tonight. She needs to pick up a few things and sort out the cat. We could come back first thing tomorrow. Is that OK?’
Gary was frowning. ‘But why do you have to go as well?’
‘I just – I think Mum shouldn’t be alone. And besides, there’s some things … there’s … Look, Gary, don’t you think it’s strange Rosie goes under a bus like this, when we haven’t spoken in months?’
‘You mean, you think she …?’
‘I don’t know. I’d have said Rosie would never do that, but how would I know? I’ve basically cut her out of my life, and she’s been living in that horrible little flat all alone, and her career’s in the toilet and she seems to have fallen out with all her friends.’
Hey! Rosie tried to frown, and failed to move so much as a muscle. Dammit.
‘What if it wasn’t an accident?’ Daisy went on, her voice low. ‘I need to find out.’
‘But will going to Devon help you with that?’
‘I don’t know. I just … have to check something, that’s all. Can you be on call, if something … goes wrong? Talk to her, like they said?’
Gary sighed, rubbing his hands through his gelled hair. ‘Of course. But I can’t stay all night, I have an early start.’
‘All right.’ Daisy and Gary turned to stare at her. ‘I wonder if she can even hear us at all,’ Daisy sighed.
If only you knew, thought Rosie. I can hear every word. Although, now that she thought about it, she was very tired and it might be nice to rest a bit. It was clawing at her, exhaustion spreading through her body like the chill of deep water. What was Daisy going to do in Devon? What had she figured out?
She might know more than I do myself. That was Rosie’s final thought before she suddenly blacked out altogether.
‘Hello? Hello, is anyone here? Melissa? Darryl?’
Silence. Rosie was afraid. All through this terrible strange time, except for the moments between the bus hitting her and waking up in A&E, she’d been more or less conscious, moving in and out of her memories in a dreamlike state, seeing it all in a diaphanous blur. Now it was black. She could see nothing, hear nothing. Only the sucking silence of the inside of her head.
‘Rosie?’ said a voice.
Relief flooded her. She wasn’t totally alone, then, here in the dark. ‘Mr Malcolm, is that you?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘I can’t see! What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know, dear. There may have been a change in your condition. You could be getting worse. You have to try and wake up, Rosie. Time is running out!’
‘I’m trying! Wh-why are you here? Another memory?’ The darkness, the silence, it was pressing her all over. Am I dying? Rosie kicked away from it, like a panicked swimmer trying to reach the surface of the ocean. Just to see something, to remember something, to hold on to a piece of who she was. ‘I don’t like this! Can we go away from here?’
‘Of course, cherie.’
To Rosie’s relief, the world began to clear again. The memory world, anyway. The dial read 17 9 1999. School. Back when things still made some kind of sense. Rosie seized on it, panicking, and off she went.
17 September 1999 (Eighteen years ago)
When she opened her eyes again she was in her old secondary school. She recognised it immediately from the smell of rubber gym mats and dust. They said smell was the most powerful way to evoke memory, and Rosie would have to agree. It was the assembly hall-slash-gym, shrouded in darkness and lined with stackable seats, and a younger Rosie was standing on the stage in a spotlight.
‘Of course,’ she said out loud. Not that they could hear her. ‘The school play. What was it again?’
Mr Malcolm was there with her in the dark. ‘Pirates of Penzance. A bit advanced, maybe, for schoolchildren, but it’s just so fabulous. Magnifique!’
‘You directed it.’
‘And you were the lead. Mabel. Gosh, I had ever so much trouble getting the school board to agree to that wave machine.’
‘Didn’t it rot through the floorboards?’
‘Wonderful times,’ said Mr Malcolm nostalgically. ‘Totally worth it.’
Rosie focused on her past self, illuminated in the light. Pale, thin, her red hair flowing dramatically as she declaimed her lines. Then suddenly, Past Rosie ground to a halt and announced in her own, vaguely West Country accent, ‘I can’t do this.’
‘That’s not the line, Rosie.’ This from Past Mr Malcolm, who was standing in the shadows near the front of house.
‘Hey, there you are!’
Past Mr Malcolm didn’t look much younger. He was the kind of man who must have been born wearing tank tops and with a bald
patch. ‘What’s the matter, Rosie?’ he asked her past self.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this.’
‘The solo?’
‘The whole thing. Act. Sing.’ Past Rosie’s shoulders were drooping, her face miserable. ‘I have to … drop out.’
‘But … what?’ Mr Malcolm was bewildered, as well he might be. She’d fought off every other girl in the drama group to get this part, and had been rehearsing it for months. ‘Rosie … are you having stage fright, is that it?’
‘No. I just … What’s the point of all this? Musical theatre. Dancing policemen. It’s silly.’ Past Rosie did not sound convinced, and no wonder; none of what she was saying was what she actually thought. So what was going on?
Mr Malcolm gave an audible gasp. ‘But … you love musical theatre! You helped me organise the school trip to Les Mis last year!’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve changed my mind. I’m into rap now. Gangster rap. And this …’ Waving her arms to encompass the stage and the costumes and the lights, the troop of pirates and policemen behind her, awkwardly frozen mid-dance routine. ‘This isn’t my thing. I … I’m sorry.’
‘But Rosie, we need you! You’re the lead! You’re the—’ He choked on the last word: ‘Star.’
Rosie would kill to hear that now, when she often waited four hours just to audition for the chorus, but at fifteen she merely tossed her red hair, trying to look nonchalant and cool. ‘I’m sorry, Mr M. I can’t. Someone else will have to do it.’
‘But there isn’t—’
‘Me! I can do it!’ One of the pirates threw off their hat and peg leg.
Now Rosie groaned. ‘Sarah Bloody Martin. She was my understudy.’
‘I know it! I know every line!’ Sarah Martin threw herself forward dramatically, adopting a theatrical pose, and launched into the song. ‘Poooor Wand’ring ONE!’ As she hit the high note, the lights on the ceiling vibrated alarmingly.