by Jess Ryder
‘Thank you. That’s decided, then.’ He plucked out the card and gave it to her to put in a bag.
She was glad when it was three o’clock and she could leave the shop. As she stood at the school gates waiting for the first glimpse of her daughter’s little brown face, she thought again about the girl’s father. What was Miguel Angel doing now, she wondered? Five years had passed; he could easily be married and Abigail might have half-brothers or sisters. Every so often Kay toyed with the idea of going back to Torremolinos and trying to find him. But for what purpose? She didn’t know his surname or his address. He probably wouldn’t remember her, and even if he did, he was bound to deny he was the father. She’d suffered enough indignities, thank you very much.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ Abigail hurtled across the playground and flung her arms around her mother’s legs.
Kay stroked her daughter’s soft dark curls and banished her silly thoughts from her head. ‘Come on, chipmunk, let’s go home.’
It was Thursday, fish and chips night. Dad always picked them up on his way back from work. They ate them out of the paper on a tray in front of the new colour telly, washed down with a mug of strong tea. Then Kay would bath Abigail and put her to bed. She was a good sleeper, especially since she’d started school. Later on, Mum and Dad would pop out to the local pub to play darts.
All Kay’s friends had boyfriends; a few were engaged and one had just got married. Abigail had made a gorgeous little bridesmaid, but the wedding itself had been excruciating. Standing on her own at the ceremony, creating an odd number at the table, looking like a spare part in the group photo. She had no intention of putting herself through that again.
‘Grub’s up,’ shouted Dad as he came in, followed by a sharp waft of vinegar. He was holding a second bag behind his back. Her mother skipped down the stairs – she’d put on a fresh blouse and coated her mouth in sugar-pink lipstick.
‘What are you hiding?’ she asked teasingly. He always bought her a box of Milk Tray and a card on Valentine’s Day.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ he replied, kissing her on the cheek. ‘All will be revealed tomorrow.’
Kay banged the cutlery on the counter. Bloody Valentine’s Day. Can’t get away from it …
Dad came into the kitchen and gave her the food to unwrap. Three cod and chips and a pickled onion. It was always the same; he never deviated, never asked anyone if they would like a chicken and mushroom pie for a change, or haddock instead of cod. Kay shared her portion with Abigail, which was fine because she was supposed to be watching her figure. She dished up while her mother poured out the tea. They trooped into the sitting room and sat down with their trays, eating in silence as the local teatime news blared out. Abigail bounced around on the sofa, picking at her chips and making greasy marks on her dress. Would things ever change? Kay wondered. Would she ever have a life of her own?
* * *
She was up early the next morning to give Abigail her breakfast before leaving for work. For once she was looking forward to the day ahead. It might be 14 February, but Valentine’s Day was over as far as retail was concerned. After lunch, the tacky bunting would be taken down and the ghastly merchandise packed away. The cards that comforted the sick and bereaved would be reinstated on the shelves and the Mother’s Day range would go on display. Kay liked sorting things out; it made her feel that she was in control.
‘Morning, sweetheart,’ twinkled Sandy, the manageress, unlocking the door to let Kay in. She was a nice woman, but a bit lazy. If there weren’t many customers, she’d hide in the back office and read a Mills & Boon. As a lowly sales assistant, Kay wasn’t even allowed to sit down, and by the end of the day her feet would be on fire. Still, she mustn’t think about that. There were six hours to go and being busy was the only way to make the time pass.
‘Something’s come for you. Hand-delivered. It was on the mat.’ Sandy nodded at a white envelope on top of the cash till. Kay picked it up. It was addressed to The girl with the shiny blonde hair.
‘How do you know it’s for me?’ she said, her fingers hesitating at the seal.
‘Simple. You’re the only blonde girl we’ve got.’
Her pulse started to race as she ripped open the envelope. It was a Valentine’s card. Funnily enough, the same one she’d chosen for that bloke yesterday. She turned to the inside and read the message.
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Can I buy you lunch?
Would one o’clock do?
She laughed involuntarily. How silly she’d been, not realising for one single second that he’d been chatting her up, that she was his secret Valentine. How had he described her? Slim, good legs, lovely smile – something like that.
Oh, he was so charming back then.
Chapter Four
Stella
Now
I’m woken by a loud banging noise.
‘Jack? What’s the time?’ I reach out, but his side of the bed is empty. The alarm clock tells me it’s 09.03. How come I didn’t hear it go off? Jack left over two hours ago; he’ll be in London by now, already at his desk.
Then the events of last night come back to me. God, did that really happen? Yes, I tell myself, there’s an injured stranger lying in the room next door.
I can hear the usual noises coming from upstairs. Alan is already at work. I hope he didn’t scare Lori when he let himself in this morning. I should have warned her. I should have got up to introduce them to each other and explain. With a groan, I climb out of bed, slip on my dressing gown and cross the hallway.
The door to her room is slightly ajar. I knock gently, but there’s no reply. ‘Lori? Are you okay? It’s Stella. Can I come in?’
‘I’m here,’ she says from behind me. I turn around to see her standing in the kitchen doorway, tea towel in hand. She’s still wearing her bloodstained clothes. The bruises on her face have come out in spectacular fashion and her cheek is badly swollen.
‘Hi! You’re up already. How are you?’
‘Sore. Bit of a headache.’
‘Do you need painkillers?’
‘I found some paracetamol in the downstairs bathroom.’
‘Oh good, that’s great. Help yourself to anything.’
‘I made myself some toast,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I was going to ask but I didn’t want to wake you up. I was feeling a bit faint – didn’t eat yesterday.’
‘I’m so sorry, stupid of me, I should have offered you something last night.’ I feel my cheeks flush. ‘Did you manage to get any sleep?’
‘Not much, a couple of hours. I’ve got a pot of tea on the go for your builder, want some?’
‘Oh, you’ve met Alan, sorry I should have mentioned. I didn’t, um, think. I hope he didn’t walk in on you or anything.’
‘Nah, I was already up. How do you take it? Your tea?’
‘Oh, white, no sugar, thanks. Strong. Leave it in the pot and I’ll help myself. I need to get some clothes on. I don’t usually go around in just a dressing gown,’ I laugh awkwardly.
I grab a towel and hurry into the shower room. As the tepid water dribbles over my shoulders, I try to recover my inner balance. I shouldn’t have slept in so late; it’s so embarrassing. Running back to my room, I throw off my towel and quickly get dressed, then stack the dirty plates from last night and carry them into the kitchen. Lori has already washed up yesterday’s cooking pans; there’s a pot of tea brewing and the seductive smell of toast and butter fills the air.
‘I put a couple of slices on for you,’ she says.
‘Great, thanks. It should be me waiting on you, not the other way around.’ I fetch a mug off the shelf and pour my tea.
I lean against the worktop, toast in one hand, mug in the other, and watch her while she wipes down the surfaces and rinses out the cloth. It’s my first chance to look at her properly, and I have to say, she’s a sorry sight. In her early forties, I guess, maybe a few years older – it’s hard to tell when her fa
ce is so lopsided and bashed about. Fine lines drag her mouth down at the sides and her skin has the leathery look of a smoker. Dark blonde hair hangs lankly from a centre parting down to her shoulders. I notice lighter bands of colour from previous highlights, badly applied. Rolls of fat nestle under her large breasts, but her movements are quick and nimble, like those of a thinner, fitter person. I get the feeling she was slim and pretty once, but that she’s worn her life heavily.
‘No need for you to clear up,’ I say. ‘It’s my mess.’
‘It’s no bother.’
‘We’ve got to get you out of those clothes. I’ve got some stuff you can borrow.’
Her pale eyes brighten a little. ‘Really? That’s ever so kind. These are disgusting.’
‘I’ll go and fish something out.’ I put the mug down and head for the hallway. ‘Oh, and do you have the number of that helpline? The one you called last night.’
She swallows nervously. ‘Um, sorry, no, it was on a leaflet. Don’t know what I did with it.’
‘Can you remember the name?’
‘Sorry. I was in such a flap, I didn’t notice.’
‘Never mind, I’ll google it.’
‘Why do you want to call them?’ She twists the cloth into a stiff rope.
‘I just want to make sure they don’t send anyone else here by mistake.’
‘Oh. Yes … right.’ She puts the saucepans away in a cupboard and then proceeds to wipe down the doors. The silence between us is thick with thoughts.
‘So … what are your plans?’ I ask eventually.
She looks away. ‘Not got any.’
‘I suppose the first thing is to find somewhere to stay. A proper refuge.’
‘I guess.’ She rinses the cloth again, squeezes it and hangs it over the tap to dry, just as my mother used to.
‘Anyway … I’ll dig out those clothes …’ I hurry out of the kitchen, almost bumping into Alan, who’s plonking cheerfully down the stairs with a sack of rubble.
‘Morning, love!’ he calls. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Um, okay …’
‘I’ve met your guest.’
‘Oh yes, sorry, I should have … We, er, had a bit of an emergency last night.’
‘So I heard.’ He follows me into the front room, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Poor woman, the state of her! What kind of man does that to his wife? He should be behind bars.’
‘Yes, I know.’ I fling open a suitcase and rummage around for some clothes that might fit Lori – she’s shorter than me, but quite a bit bigger. ‘She was told this was a refuge. I don’t know how the helpline got it so wrong; the house was empty for three years before we moved in.’ I hold up a pair of patterned cotton trousers, elasticated at the waist. The fabric is too thin for winter, but they’ll have to do. ‘We had to let her stay. It was the middle of the night, she had nowhere else to go.’
‘You did the Christian thing,’ Alan says. ‘Good on you.’
‘Hmm …’ I take out a long baggy jumper and an old T-shirt. ‘I want to help, you know, but I feel a bit out of my depth.’
‘She needs a bit of kindness, that’s all. Lucky she found you.’ I smile gratefully and, bundling the clothes into my arms, get to my feet. ‘By the way, I’m going to need another five hundred for materials,’ he continues. ‘No hurry, when you can … I’ve got plenty of other stuff to keep me occupied.’
Alan returns upstairs with promises that I’ll go to the bank as soon as I get the chance. I give the clothes to Lori and she thanks me profusely before going to her room to change. The banging starts up again.
I escape to our room, then open the lid of my laptop and boot it up. There are a few national helplines for victims of domestic violence, and I call them all. The women who answer the phone are very kind and understanding, but I’m sure they think I’m the real victim and don’t believe I’m enquiring on behalf of someone else. Annoyingly, none of them owns up to the mistake of still having Westhill House on their database.
After a fruitless morning spent on the phone and various websites, it becomes clear that a lot of refuges have closed in the last few years. The nearest one is twenty miles away and only accepts women in high-risk categories who’ve been referred by Social Services or the police.
But if Lori won’t report the attack she won’t get referred, and if she can’t get into a refuge, where can she go? She won’t have enough money for a hotel. If I make her leave, she’ll have no choice but to live on the streets. Or return to her violent husband.
No, I can’t have that. It’s not fair, it’s not right. She’ll have to stay here for a few more days, just until we can sort something else out. Jack will understand. I’ll call him at work and explain. I reach for my mobile.
Jack doesn’t understand. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s her problem, not ours,’ he says, irritatingly tapping away on his computer at the same time. ‘She has a choice. If her life is really in danger she should go to the police and have him arrested. It’s simple, isn’t it? If he’s behind bars she doesn’t need to be in a refuge. The police can protect her a lot better than we can. I want her gone by the time I get home.’
‘Please, Jack, have some compassion.’
‘It’s you I’m thinking about, Stella. What if her husband finds out where she is and comes after her? That puts you at risk too, and I can’t have that.’
‘I’m not worried about me. I’m used to strangers turning up in the middle of the night. I had it my whole childhood. Mum and Dad never turned anyone away.’
‘But your parents were proper foster carers,’ he reminds me. ‘And the kids were sent by Social Services. This is completely different. I still think it could be some kind of scam. I know you want to help, but we’re not experts. Anything could go wrong.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I mutter, silently mouthing ‘heartless bastard’ into the receiver. ‘Have it your way.’
I finish the call and slam the phone on the desk. How am I going to tell Lori that she can’t stay here when there’s nowhere else for her to go?
For the next hour I stay hidden in the bedroom, unable to face her. My thoughts are in gridlock; there doesn’t seem to be any way to turn. I don’t want to fall out with Jack, but I really need to help Lori. For my sake, just as much as hers. It sounds ridiculous, but I have this strong feeling that she’s been sent to me, almost as a kind of divine gift. I’ve been given a chance to make up in some small way for the sins of my past.
Jack doesn’t understand, and why should he? He doesn’t know what I did, and so far, I haven’t had the courage to tell him. We’ve only been together a year; our relationship is too new, too fragile to tamper with. I love him like crazy and can’t risk losing him. He believes I’m a good person; he has no idea about the darkness in my heart, the stain on my conscience I can never erase. Nobody knows the whole story – not my family, not even my best friend Molly.
I decide to call her and ask for some advice.
‘It’s up to you,’ she says, typically. ‘All I’m saying is, remember it’s your house, not his. If you want this woman to stay for a few days, then put your foot down.’
‘Yes, but I don’t want a big argument with Jack. He hasn’t settled here – doesn’t like Nevansey much. He keeps complaining about the commute, and he’s not very interested in the building work either. I need to keep him happy too.’
Molly sighs heavily. I can picture her sitting on the sofa with her legs up, baby Zara balanced on a cushion, suckling peacefully at her breast. She’s been an amazing friend, stuck by me through some awful times, offered me sympathy, comfort, and a few harsh words of truth along the way too. When Mum and Dad were killed, she was the first person to get in touch. She knew how devastated I would be, how I’d struggle to cope. I couldn’t have got through the last twenty-one months without her. There’s only one problem with my friendship with Molly – she doesn’t like Jack.
‘What’s he got to complain about?’ she says. ‘He’s living in an incredi
ble house right by the sea. Anyway, if you love someone, you don’t care where you live.’
‘It’s not an incredible house at the moment; it’s a building site,’ I reply, trying to defend him.
‘Well, whatever …’ I hear the baby gurgling contentedly. ‘Look, I totally get why you want to help this woman, I think it’s a great thing to do. Looking after other people can be very healing. Don’t worry so much about Jack. Trust your instincts, girl, do what you think is right.’ We end the call with kisses for little Zara and promises to meet up soon.
It was good to talk to Molly, but I don’t feel any clearer in my mind about what to do. It’s easy for her to dismiss Jack’s feelings – she thinks he only got together with me because I had money, which isn’t true, although I did once overhear him referring to me as ‘the heiress’. She’s right that it’s my house, not his – he doesn’t even pay rent. Technically, if I want Lori to stay, there’s nothing he can do about it. But our relationship doesn’t work like that. We’re building a future together and this house is at the centre of it. Once we’re married, it will be jointly owned. This could be a forever home, where we can raise a family and grow old in each other’s arms. I don’t want to put all that in jeopardy, and yet … I can’t turf Lori out either.
Chapter Five
Stella
Now
It’s nearly lunchtime. I’m hungry and need something to eat. Lori will need something too, and we’ve virtually run out of bread and sandwich fillings. Maybe I could take her out to a café and we could have a proper talk about what options might be open for her.
Pleased with this idea, I knock on the door of her room. ‘Lori? It’s me, can I come in?’ There’s a grunted reply. I push the door open and enter. She’s lying on the airbed in a foetal position. At her side is her handbag and a mobile phone. ‘Fancy a bit of lunch?’ I say, with as much brightness as I can muster. She doesn’t respond. ‘I’m sure we could both do with some sea air. There’s a little café—’