The Ophelia Girls

by Jane Healey

  ‘You’ll be gone to university soon anyway, one less mouth to feed,’ he jokes, as he starts the car.

  She stares blankly out of the window and picks at a shard of fingernail. When she was sick she knew she was a burden; that was part of the pain, the guilt. And when he talked earlier of the hours he missed of the twins when he was at work, didn’t he also mean the hours he missed with them when he was looking after her? The hours her parents couldn’t spend together because they needed to be split between the children? If her parents’ marriage is in trouble – and even thinking that makes her heart kick with panic – then isn’t she to blame?

  Her mother and Stuart are in the kitchen making dinner when they get back.

  ‘Did you have a nice time?’ Ruth asks the twins as they crowd round her.

  ‘Daddy didn’t let us buy a toy, even though we were good,’ Iza says, betrayed.

  ‘You’re a big girl now, you don’t need a toy just for being good,’ she replies.

  Maeve stands there, awkward, but Stuart seems nonchalant, his voice entirely neutral when he asks if she wants a slice of the melon he’s just cut up.

  ‘Sure,’ she replies, feeling like she’s on a stage as she crosses the room. She takes the slice from the knife he holds out, meets his eyes for one hot moment as she slips the melon into her mouth.

  Behave, he mouths, and she hides her smile behind her hand.

  ‘Is there any for me?’ her father asks then and, flustered, Maeve mumbles something and leaves for her bedroom.

  She begs off dinner early too, agitated by her parents, the wasps dive-bombing her plate, and the blinding evening sun. At sitting there pretending everything is normal.

  She can hear the murmur of dinner conversation from her bedroom where she’s closed the curtains but not the windows, so that the fabric billows out with the breeze, tickles her face where she lies on the carpet with the top of her head hard against the wall. Her body feels like it’s fizzing. She wants to touch herself, to slide a hand into her shorts, to listen to Stuart’s voice and remember yesterday, but she can’t isolate his voice and even she isn’t so sick as to do it right now.

  This morning she had woken early and lain in bed for two hours as her room heated up with the sun just thinking about it, thinking of what happens next and thinking of what she looked like to him, whether she would look changed in that photograph he took, beautiful and post-coital, and not just flustered and out of her depth. He’ll look at it again, that photo, when he’s by himself, she thinks, rolling onto her front, pressing her pelvis into the carpet before the touch of the curtain on the back of her neck makes her jump up to sit.

  She hears Stuart say his goodbyes for the night and checks her watch, calculating how much longer she’ll have to wait for her parents to go to bed so she can go to him.

  ‘So was it good today?’ she hears her father ask.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Do we have another Picasso in our midst?’ he asks, nonsensically. Maeve wonders what he means.

  ‘I know that’s a joke but it lands a little harshly,’ her mother replies.

  ‘Come on, Ruth,’ he sighs.

  ‘I’m just being truthful. How was your day? How was Maeve?’

  Maeve stills, grabs hold of the edge of the curtain so it stops moving.

  ‘It’s funny you should ask. She’s in a mood with me too – I seem to have hurt her unforgivably in some unexplained fashion, just like you.’

  ‘That’s not fair. She’s just a child. She’s been through so much. Any normal teenage angst is to be expected, to be welcomed if you think about her only a year ago. She was like a wraith, it was like she had faded away. I didn’t know if we’d get her back, our daughter and not just a shell.’

  Maeve is barely breathing, her eyes stinging. She hears the glug of wine being poured and a few moments later, an empty glass being set down.

  ‘She looks at me sometimes like she knows,’ her father says, his voice low.

  ‘Knows what?’

  ‘That I gave her up,’ he says with a huff of breath, a tone of self-loathing. ‘That those years were too much for me. That sometimes when I left the hospital or I got on a plane for a business trip, I gave her up. I thought, that’s not my daughter, my daughter isn’t sick, she isn’t dying. I pushed her aside, made her disappear.’ He snaps his fingers.

  ‘You don’t mean it like that,’ her mother says softly. ‘It was a coping mechanism – your love for her was just hidden, you pushed those feelings deeper.’

  ‘Is that what your therapist would have said? No,’ he says firmly, with a hollow certainty, ‘I know what I did and she does too.’

  ‘So that night you called me, the one-night stand,’ her mother recites with a brittle amusement, ‘that wasn’t because you were grieving?’

  ‘Oh, it is that,’ he exclaims. ‘It’s that that you’re so pissed off about. Still.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘You’ll be pushing me into another one soon, you know.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ she states, ‘and this conversation isn’t going anywhere.’

  ‘Oh, I think it’s getting to the crux of things—’

  ‘Alex,’ she says firmly.

  ‘Oh, I forgot, you’re in control, sorry,’ he says sardonically.

  ‘We can talk about this, just not now when we’re both tired.’

  Maeve hears the clinking sound of plates being stacked, her mother moving things inside.

  The smell of cigarette smoke drifts through the window as Maeve sits with her back to her bed, the edge of the base digging sharply into her spine. She’s rubbing the heels of her feet back and forth over the carpet, her skin beginning to burn with the friction.

  Her father had an affair. Her parents’ disagreements, their discord, runs deep and bitter, and her illness, her failing body, is a large part of it. And when she thinks about what her father said, about forgetting her, she feels her chin crumple, her mouth twist.

  She waits, listening to her mother come upstairs, the muffled sounds of her washing her face and brushing her teeth, a drawer being opened and closed as she gets changed, and then the light being switched off. She waits for her father to leave the patio and come inside, for him to lock the front and back doors and come upstairs, for him to use the bathroom and then join her mother in the dark of their bedroom. But an hour later he hasn’t come. It’s past midnight and Stuart’s probably gone to bed now too. Besides, if Maeve went to him now, she knows that the minute he opens the door she’ll start crying.

  In the end, she’s half dozing when she hears her father come up the stairs. She drifts the rest of the way, wondering how you can have a conversation laced with such cruelty and then share a bed straight afterwards. If that’s what marriage is then she doesn’t want it.

  Inevitably, the moment Stuart’s car leaves their drive the next day, after an awkward charade of nonchalance from both of them, and her mother cheerily waving her off, Maeve bursts into tears.

  ‘Oh God, what’s wrong?’ Stuart asks, stricken, stopping the car on the path, reaching over to her.

  ‘It’s fine, please keep driving,’ she says through her tears, ‘please keep driving.’

  ‘I will, but you’re not fine,’ he says, releasing the brake. ‘Please tell me what’s wrong? Do you want to go back?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she repeats, still crying, as he takes the exit from the hamlet and turns onto the country lane.

  ‘You’re not, someone’s upset you.’ He glances over, checks his wing mirror. ‘I’ll pull in somewhere, just wait a moment,’ he says, reaching for her hand and squeezing it.

  He speeds up with a jolt, follows the bend of the lane, and then crosses into a driveway with a rotten gate in front of them and high hedges on either side.

  The car stops with a deafening quiet. The engine ticks; the driver’s seat creaks as he shifts around.

  ‘Oh, Maeve, darling,’ he says, looking at her.

  ‘We’ll be late,’
she says, wiping at her eyes with her fingers.

  ‘We’re not going anywhere with you in this state. And besides, I’m the photographer, the artist, I can arrive whenever I want.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Who would argue with this face? Please, tell me what’s wrong. Is it me?’ He looks out of the windscreen. ‘Have I made you uncomfortable?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s just my parents. God, I know that makes me sound like a child,’ she says, her breath hitching, her voice messy and high-pitched. ‘They’re fighting all the time and I don’t know if they’ll stay together, and what happens if they get a divorce? My dad had an affair, a one-night stand, and he was so mean to my mum and she’s so cruel to him sometimes. And it’s my fault, because me being in hospital was just like this – like this bomb going off,’ she cries, splaying her hands. ‘And it’s ruined everything, it’s ruined me, I think, I’m fucked up. And I’m worried my dad hates me, and he keeps asking me about university like he wishes I would just fuck off.’

  ‘Hey, it’s not your fault, hey,’ he says, stroking her hair. ‘Come here,’ he says, pulling her onto her knees so she can lean forward into his hug. ‘You’re not ruined,’ he murmurs, ‘don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I know my dad is your friend—’

  ‘He was my friend; I’m not sure I know him any more.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I don’t think he treats you carefully enough.’

  He rubs a hand down her back, strokes the nape of her neck. She trembles and shifts on her knees because the gearstick is digging into her stomach. It’s getting hot in the car without the air, and the sky outside is hazed. There’s a heatwave starting today, her dad had declared, toast in mouth, as he left this morning.

  ‘I’m sorry I ruined your day.’

  ‘You haven’t ruined anything.’ He reaches into the back seat for a bottle of water that he drops in her lap. ‘C’mon, that’s fatalistic talk. You’re heartbreaking when you cry, you know that?’ he adds, framing her face with his hands, brushing away her tears.

  ‘I’m ugly when I cry.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘You’re lying.’ Her voice is gummy. She sits back and gulps down the water. ‘When did you last cry?’

  He starts the car, sets his hands on the wheel. ‘I think I cried when I got drunk with a photographer friend of mine – we were toasting to the friends we’d lost.’

  ‘I’d like to see you drunk, properly drunk.’

  ‘Would you?’ He smiles. ‘Are you good to go now, you all right?’

  ‘Yup,’ she nods.

  ‘Good girl,’ he says, kissing her on the top of her head. He reverses out of the lane and she wipes at her sticky cheeks. ‘It’s only an hour’s drive. I’m surprised you haven’t been to visit it already.’

  ‘Forty-five minutes in the car is Iza’s threshold before she gets carsick. And my parents have been busy with the house.’

  ‘I imagine it needs a lot of work.’

  ‘I don’t think they have the money for it. I don’t think I’m supposed to know that. Not for the house and school for the twins.’

  ‘They’re not paying for your school?’ Stuart asks. He glances over at her. There’s something so masculine about his driving to Maeve, every small motion – checking the mirror, turning the wheel with one hand – so thoughtlessly at ease as to be mesmerizing.

  ‘The local sixth-form college is meant to be good,’ she says with a shrug. Is it uncomfortable for him to hear her talk of school, to be reminded of her age? If it is, he doesn’t show it.

  ‘I’m lucky with property upkeep,’ he says. ‘I only have a flat so it’s a bit easier to look after.’

  ‘In London, right?’ She hasn’t even asked him where he lives normally. It’s as if he didn’t exist before he arrived on their doorstep.

  ‘Yeah, Richmond, near the river. It’s nice.’

  ‘I’d like to see it.’

  ‘Maybe you will.’ He smiles shyly and she grins.

  He puts his arm around her shoulder and she leans back into it. To the cars passing they must look like any couple, off for a day trip in the sun. She in a summer dress and he in his olive-green t-shirt. ‘I feel like I’ve been remiss in asking you any questions, like there’s so much I don’t know about you.’

  ‘Remiss,’ he teases. ‘And ask away, I’m an open book. Truth or dare me.’

  ‘Really? OK, truth or dare?’

  ‘Dare.’

  She taps a finger on her chin. ‘I dare you . . . to roll down the window and sing “Happy Birthday” as loud as you can.’

  He snorts. ‘That’s a small-time dare. Here you go,’ he says, rolling down the window. ‘Ready?’ he asks her.

  ‘Wait, I want to get a photo of you doing it, where’s your camera?’

  ‘I’ve got one in the back, a point and shoot.’

  She takes it from the seat and pulls off the cap, positions it in front of her eyes. ‘Ready,’ she says, and he bellows out a raucous rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ as the car slows down at a crossing, and she tries to hold the camera steady despite her laughter. ‘You’ll have to send me this photo. It’s only fair that I get to keep one of you.’

  ‘Done. Now, your go, truth or dare?’

  ‘Truth.’

  ‘OK . . .’ He taps his fingers. ‘Truth, did you fancy me the first time you saw me?’

  ‘What makes you think I fancy you at all?’

  ‘Oh, you’re a tough nut, sweetheart,’ he drawls.

  She bites at the flesh of her thumb. ‘I was surprised when I saw you – you weren’t who I had expected.’

  ‘I was more handsome, you mean.’

  ‘Maybe. Truth or dare?’

  ‘Truth.’

  ‘Did you? Fancy me when you first saw me?’

  ‘You know I did. When I saw you it was like getting kicked in the stomach. You with your hair and your big eyes. Truth or dare?’

  ‘Truth.’

  ‘Hmm . . . have you ever told a secret you swore you’d keep?’

  ‘Yes. Hasn’t everyone?’ she says, curling a lock of hair tight around her finger.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘It’s not your turn. Truth or dare?

  ‘Truth.’

  ‘Where’s the riskiest place you’ve ever had sex?’

  He laughs, rubs a hand across his mouth. ‘Does a hotel under gunfire count?’

  He’s had a whole other life, other lives. How can she compare with some daring blonde photographer he shagged in a warzone? ‘I guess so.’ She picks at her nails. The air is so warm now that her fingers are throbbing. ‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’

  ‘Oof, that’s a big question. Going for the jugular.’ His hands flex on the wheel. ‘I mean, take your pick. I’ve stolen. I stole a jeep from the army once, in Afghanistan, nicked it so I could get where the fighting was, and who knows what knock-on effect that might have had. I’ve watched people do terrible things without intervening. Terrible things,’ he says hollowly. ‘I think I can confidently say I’ve seen the very worst of humanity. I’ve lied too, I’ve cheated. Some people might say that this,’ he looks at her, ‘what I’m doing with you is wrong.’

  He’s trying to scare her off. But she knows how kind he is, how thoughtful, and it was her who pushed him into doing something more than just taking photographs. ‘Why? It’s legal.’

  He sucks in a breath. ‘Oh, legal doesn’t always mean it’s right.’ They make a sharp right turning onto another lane, past the blur of a long red Volvo stuffed with children, and a village green opens out before them, cricket nets portioning out the sky, grass neatly clipped. ‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’

  ‘I’ve stolen too. My mum’s lipsticks, the twins’ toys once when I felt jealous of them, five pounds from my dad’s wallet to buy sweets that made me feel sick. I’ve lied.’ She flips down the sunshade as the sun flashes through high trees. ‘I’ve lied about
you. I betrayed a friend once, in hospital. I told the nurses she was making herself sick and they sent her away to another clinic, put a feeding tube in her. She hated me for it, loathed me,’ she says, trying out a word she’s only read before.

  ‘Sometimes people don’t see that we have to hurt them to help them. Tough love, you know. Meanwhile, don’t think I didn’t notice you skipped two turns. Truth or dare, Maeve?’

  ‘Dare,’ she concedes.

  ‘I dare you to take your knickers off, right now.’

  Pervert, she thinks with a thrill, as the mood in the car turns. ‘Only if you don’t watch,’ she says primly.

  ‘I’ll keep my eyes on the road, Scout’s honour.’

  ‘Were you ever in the Scouts?’ she asks as she reaches under her dress, wriggles her hips to pull them down without flashing him.

  ‘No, couldn’t afford it, didn’t have parents who cared either way. But I did spend lots of time starting fires in the woods and making dens.’

  ‘In our woods?’

  ‘Spoken like a lady of the big house,’ he says and holds out his hand, raises his eyebrows.

  She puts them in his hand, feeling a shivering, queasy rush as he stores them on the seat by his leg. A flash of pink against denim and worn car seat.

  ‘I set a few fires in there, yeah. It’s a good place to hide when you’re a moody teenager, a good place to get up to mischief.’

  ‘Maybe we should visit. Hey, there’s a river there, right?’

  ‘There is indeed. You read my mind – we can do a shoot there.’

  ‘You still want to take photos of me?’

  ‘Why? You think I’ve got what I wanted now?’ Something like pity crosses his face. ‘Oh, Maeve. Someone’s done a number on you if you don’t see how much more you have to offer.’

  She’s flustered when they arrive at their destination, not least because she only realizes they’re there once the car has passed through the gates, and then she has to hurriedly put her underwear back on while ducking her body down and swearing at Stuart, who laughs at her. When the car comes to a stop, she tugs on the cardigan her mother insisted she bring despite it being blazing hot outside.

  The house is grand, red-bricked – four soaring storeys with turrets and a hundred windows looking out onto the grand circular drive – and surrounded by gardens with strict hedges that stretch into the distance. Stuart shakes hands with the smart woman in a white linen suit and sunglasses who comes to greet them as Maeve picks her way carefully across the shingle in her flimsy sandals.