Tell the Truth

by Amanda Brittany

  I hope you have a happy life.

  Laura.

  My eyes stung as I took in her strange words. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, looking up at him. ‘Why would she tell you I was dead?’ It was as though I didn’t know my mother at all. ‘When did you get this?’

  ‘Many years ago, and if I’m honest, at the time I’d just got engaged – someone my parents approved of …’

  ‘They didn’t approve of my mother?’ I cut in, raising a brow.

  He shrugged. ‘They had nothing against her, as such. But they had grand plans for me, and I guess I had them too, at that time. I’d started at a law practice …’

  ‘So basically you didn’t give a shit that your daughter was dead,’ I cut in, ‘that I was dead?’ The words sounded wrong on my tongue.

  ‘That’s a little harsh.’

  ‘Is it? Not from where I’m sitting.’

  ‘But you’re alive, Rachel.’

  ‘You didn’t know that at the time.’ I glanced at Zoe and Angela. Maybe I should leave. This man, if he is my father, is an uncaring bastard. I glared at him. ‘So now you want to get to know me. Play happy families. Why? What’s happened? Don’t tell me, you’re divorced, no kids.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’ He rubbed his hand across his mouth. ‘I’m widowed, no kids. But the point is, I’d thought you were dead all this time, but then I saw you on TV just before Christmas. Rachel Hogan talking about her mother, an artist. I needed to know if you were my daughter. If Laura had lied to me because she didn’t think I deserved you. Which I know I didn’t.’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘I came to the TV studio.’

  ‘You spoke to Emmy?’

  He nodded. ‘The TV presenter – yes.’

  ‘And you phoned in?’ My mind swooped to the strange call I’d received.

  ‘No, no, I didn’t call in,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I just tried to find you, but had no luck. So I attempted to track down your mother instead. It was easy enough, online there are mentions of her living in Dunwich. After that locals pointed me in the right direction.’ He paused for a moment. ‘But there didn’t seem to be anybody living at her house.’

  ‘The footprints in the snow …’

  ‘Yes, it was snowing one of the days I came to her house.’

  ‘And you climbed over the gate?’

  ‘Mmm, not my finest hour.’

  ‘By then she was in the care home.’

  ‘Yes, I gather.’ He dragged his fingers through his hair. ‘But I didn’t know that, so I stayed in this area, hoping to find her. And then I saw her death notice in the paper.’ He placed his hand on mine. ‘I’m so sorry, Rachel. It doesn’t seem possible she’s gone. She was far too young.’

  I stared deep into his eyes, a prod of tears behind my own. ‘Did you love her?’ I said, regretting my words as soon as they tumbled out.

  He looked down. ‘I regret not standing by her,’ he said, like a politician avoiding a question. ‘And I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have found you.’

  I snatched my hand away, picked up my drink, and looked at him over the mug as I took long sips. There was no connection. Surely there would be a spark if he was my father.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, putting down the mug. ‘Life’s pretty crap at the moment. I’m not sure I’ve got room in my head, let alone life, for a long-lost dad. That’s if you are who you say you are.’ I got up.

  ‘No wait, please,’ he said rising too, gripping my hand. ‘I am your father, Rachel. Can’t you feel the bond between us?’

  ‘If I’m honest, no,’ I said. I noticed tears in his eyes and softened. ‘Listen. What if we had some kind of test done?’

  ‘A DNA test? Yes, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Anything to make you believe me.’

  I glanced over at Zoe and Angela, who were now deep in conversation – so much for being my bodyguards. I fished a card from my bag, one I’d had made for my psychotherapy sessions. ‘Call me in a couple of days,’ I said. ‘I’ll have had time to process things by then, and maybe we can organise something.’ I went to walk away, then glanced back. ‘Did you come to my mum’s house yesterday evening?’

  He was fumbling in his pocket – then handing me his card that told me he was lawyer. ‘No, no I didn’t. Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said.

  ‘Although I came this morning – you were all getting into your car, just leaving. I’m ashamed to say I followed you here. God, that makes me sound like a stalker.’

  ‘Yeah, it does,’ I said, walking away.

  ***

  ‘I’ve suggested a DNA test,’ I said, as I drove along the M11 homewards. ‘To prove he’s not my father.’

  ‘You don’t think he is?’ Angela said, from the back of the car. Zoe had jumped in the front when we set off, yelling, ‘Shotgun’.

  ‘I don’t know. He could be, I guess. He seems certain I’m his daughter,’ I said, looking in my rear-view mirror. A red car had been behind us since we left Suffolk, and I was beginning to get agitated. Maybe it was my constant state of angst. I tried hard not to focus on it.

  ‘What if he’s some weirdo trying to worm his way into your life?’ Angela said, in her usual worry-filled tone. ‘A serial killer, or worse.’

  ‘Pretty sure he isn’t a serial killer, Angela. He seems nice.’ My tone was defensive. ‘And surely there isn’t anything worse than a serial killer.’

  ‘Serial killers are top of my “wouldn’t want to meet on a dark night” list,’ Zoe said with a laugh.

  ‘Ha, now I’d always fancied meeting one myself,’ I said, but even though they were joking, I didn’t like where the conversation was going.

  ‘Careful what you wish for, Rachel,’ Angela said. ‘Although I admit he’s far too cute to be one.’

  ‘You fancy the man who could be my father?’ I said. ‘Yikes, you could end up being my wicked stepmother.’

  We all laughed, as I pulled over into the slow lane, another glance in my rear-view telling me the red car had moved in too.

  ‘What about Ted Bundy?’ Zoe said. ‘He was good-looking, wasn’t he?’

  ‘You do need to be careful, Rachel,’ Angela chipped in. ‘It seems a bit odd to me. Why wait until your mum’s death to turn up? I mean what if he’s the person sending you those weird friend requests? The bloke who called in to the TV studio?’

  ‘He isn’t,’ I snapped. ‘Listen, can we talk about something else?’

  Silence fell, and my eyes drifted back on my rear-view mirror. The car behind was mimicking my every move, as though attached by an invisible rope. Each time I sped up and overtook, he did too. Each time I reduced my speed and moved into the slow lane, he did too.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Zoe asked after a while. ‘You’ve gone a bit quiet.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Just fine.’

  ***

  I was glad to drop Zoe at the station, to despatch her into central London to do a Zombie Escape Room with Connor, and drive the final half-mile home.

  I’d lost the red car about five minutes ago, and was relieved once I’d parked outside my house, and Angela had hugged me goodbye and disappeared through her front door.

  I carried the boxes of Mum’s stuff inside, deciding I wanted the photographs and trinkets she’d had on display at the care home. Soon I would have to sort out her house. It had stood empty for long enough. I wasn’t sure what I would do with the place. Perhaps I could rent it out – but it hadn’t escaped me that I could move to Suffolk, maybe get a less stressful job. I’d loved growing up there, and Grace would too. After everything that had happened I needed some peace.

  I called Lawrence, but it went straight to voicemail. ‘I’m home,’ I said. ‘I can come and get Grace whenever, just let me know when’s a good time. I can’t wait to see her.’

  I sat down on the sofa, tapping my phone on my knee, as my thoughts drifted to Zoe’s observations of Angela. I knew now that I couldn’t let her look after Grace
, not until I’d got to the root of what she was hiding. Why did she need strong antidepressants? Why was she attending the clinic in Kensington where I once worked? Why did she drink so much? Why did she think I would hate her?

  I scrolled through my phone’s address book, and landed on Aditi Chabra. She’d been another therapist at Bell and Brooks when I worked there, but I hadn’t seen her since we worked together, although we often commented or liked each other’s statuses on Facebook.

  ‘Hey, Aditi,’ I said in my brightest voice, as she picked up.

  ‘Rachel!’ She obviously still had my number in her phone, and I was unnaturally flattered. ‘Oh my God. How are things with you?’

  ‘Seriously, you don’t want to know. What about you? I saw on Facebook that you’re now a partner at Bell and Brooks. That’s amazing.’

  ‘Yep. It took seven years, but I’m finally living the dream.’ She laughed. ‘So is this just a catch-up call, or …’

  I took a deep breath. I knew deep down she wouldn’t be able to tell me anything, but it was worth a try. ‘I wanted to pick your brains.’

  ‘Ah, well I’m not sure I’ve got any.’

  I laughed. ‘Listen, do you know a woman called Angela Frost?’

  ‘The surgeon?’

  I held in a gasp – had she got the right Angela Frost? ‘Could be,’ I said, as calmly as possible.

  ‘She’s a client, Rachel. You do know I can’t discuss her case. You of all people should know that. What’s this about?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have called.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you did. We should catch up sometime, it’s been too long.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘OK text me some dates, and we’ll grab a pizza and a glass of wine, and you can catch me up on everything. Are you still madly in love with Lawrence?’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Ah, that doesn’t sound good. Sorry, Rach, I thought you two were in it for the long haul.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you all about it when I see you,’ I said, not wanting to go there.

  Once we’d ended the call, I flopped back against the sofa.

  If Angela had been a surgeon, why had she told us she worked in admin? But before I could let the strange news settle, my phone pinged. It was a message from Emmy:

  So sorry to hear about your mum – I know what you must be going through. Call me if you need to talk. Emmy X

  I closed my eyes, trying to unpack my thoughts. But they were so confused and unsettled, as though they’d been thrown in a case in a hurry, and I’d left the vital things behind. I opened my eyes, picked up my phone, and called Emmy.

  ‘Rachel, it’s so good to hear from you,’ she said. ‘Did you get my text? I heard about your mum. How are you?’

  ‘Not great,’ I said, honestly. ‘You?’

  ‘Still pregnant,’ she said. ‘I texted you some time ago, needed to talk, but I’m guessing you didn’t get it.’

  ‘No,’ I lied, knowing I should have got back to her, but with everything that had happened it had gone out of my head. ‘My phone’s been playing up.’

  ‘So, how did your mu – mu – mum die?’

  What had brought on her stammer? Was she agitated, excited?

  ‘I’m stammering, aren’t I?’ she said, as though she could read my mind. ‘I can feel my old anxieties rising. I keep worrying about the baby.’

  ‘It’s only natural, Emmy. Just try to remember the techniques we practised. Everything will be OK. Honestly.’

  ‘Thanks, Rachel.’ A pause. ‘So, what happened to your mum? Unless you don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I said. Although I wanted to put it in a box marked ‘painful’, and hide it away. ‘She had a heart attack. I didn’t want to lose her, Emmy. It was far too soon.’

  ‘No, of course you didn’t. But it’s not like you’re a child.’

  Like you were?

  ‘If I can handle my mother dying of cancer when I was eight,’ she went on, ‘you can handle this.’ Her voice was soft and kind, but her words were sharp and careless. Could she not hear herself?

  ‘You can’t compare losses, Emmy. Every death is different. Everyone grieves differently.’ I needed to get off the phone, before I undid all my good work as a therapist, and lost my cool. Truth was, I liked Emmy, even if she didn’t know the meaning of the word tact, but she was so wrapped up in her own problems; she rarely considered that others might be suffering too. ‘What did you need to talk to me about?’ I asked. ‘When you sent me the text a few weeks back?’

  ‘Well, apart from feeling wobbly generally and desperately needing to talk with you, my producer asked if you’d be interested in coming on the show again. It would have to be soon, as I’m taking early maternity leave.’

  ‘Sorry, Emmy, it’s the last thing I want to do.’

  ‘It’s because of the Polly-put-the-kettle-on man, isn’t it?’

  The Polly-put-the-kettle-on man? Is that what we’re calling him now?

  ‘Partly, yes,’ I said. ‘But life is a bit messy all round at the moment.’

  ‘Ah, OK,’ she said. ‘Well, the offer’s there at the studio, and let’s get together soon, please.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, knowing I didn’t want to. Not at the moment, anyway. I needed to be alone – to have time to think. ‘You take care of yourself and that baby of yours, won’t you?’

  ‘Will do. Bye for now,’ she said, hanging up.

  I rose and approached the boxes, packed with the last months of Mum’s life. I dropped to my knees. The first box was full of the photographs that had stood on the dresser – a picture of me in school uniform grinning at the camera, my two front teeth missing; one of mum and me on my graduation; and a study of us on the beach at Southwold when I was eight or nine.

  The tears came, quiet at first, followed by sobs, loud and abandoned, my shoulders shuddering.

  Oh Mum, why did you leave me?

  As I opened the second box, the shock hit me. ‘Mr Snookum,’ I whispered. I looked behind me at where I’d placed my toy rabbit on the shelf, after finding him the day Mum died. He was still there, and yet he was here in my hands. I fiddled with his waistcoat jacket, stunned and confused. There was a dark patch of red on his chest, and his fur was worn. One ear had almost fallen off. He looked different somehow.

  I dropped the toy, and scrambled to my feet, my eyes snatching looks at both of them in turn as I tried to make sense of it. But I couldn’t, and panic surged through me. I raced to the front door, and opened it, intending to go to Angela’s.

  ‘Jesus,’ I yelled, looking down at my doorstep. A gnome with a cheesy grin, a red hat, and holding an axe had been put there.

  I hurried by it, and as I dashed towards Angela’s house, crying and breathless, I felt sure someone was staring at me from the end of the road. My stomach tipped and I darted up Angela’s path and hammered on her door.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong, sweetie?’ she said as she opened up, taking me into her arms, and hugging me close, the hum of alcohol now so familiar. ‘Come in,’ she continued. ‘You look like you need a drink.’

  Chapter 42

  March 2018

  ‘I don’t want a drink,’ I said.

  Still, Angela splashed brandy into two crystal-glass tumblers. ‘Well, you look as if you do,’ she said, thrusting one towards me.

  I took it and placed it on a silver coaster on her coffee table, my eyes skittering around the room – so cream, so clean. Impossible to believe anyone actually lived here.

  ‘I’m guessing it’s the loss of your mum that’s getting to you,’ she continued, as we sat down on the sofa. ‘It’s understandable.’

  ‘No, and yes,’ I said, rubbing my temples with outstretched fingers.

  ‘It’s such early days, Rachel. Give it time.’

  ‘How can I when so many odd things are happening?’ I picked up the glass, took a sip, and winced. Alcohol was th
e last thing I needed. ‘I can’t make sense of any of it. I think I’m going mad, if I’m honest.’ I thumped the glass back down on the table.

  ‘The friend requests?’

  ‘Yes, and now there are two Mr Snookums and a fucking gnome.’ It sounded funny – ridiculous – and I expected her to laugh. But she didn’t.

  ‘You’ll need to explain that, I’m afraid,’ she said, with a concerned smile, pressing her hand down on my knee before taking a long gulp of her drink.

  ‘Mr Snookum was my toy rabbit when I was a kid,’ I began. ‘There was one at Mum’s care home when I visited a while back, and then I found one in the loft. But the one in the loft somehow ended up in my lounge. I have no idea how.’ I was talking too fast, making little sense. ‘And, God, I know this sounds ludicrous,’ I went on, ‘but now there’s a bloody gnome on my doorstep. I can’t help thinking this has something to do with Marcus McCutcheon.’

  ‘The bloke in Ireland who collects gnomes?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Tears weren’t far away. ‘I’m so shaky, look.’ I held out my hand. It wobbled, as though made of rubber. ‘I’m a mess, quite frankly. And I wasn’t going to mention it, but I think someone followed us home from Suffolk.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She took another gulp of her drink.

  ‘Someone’s trying to send me crazy, Angela.’

  ‘But why would anyone do that, sweetie?’ She gripped my hand and squeezed.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged helplessly, a pang of guilt rising that earlier I’d been snooping around, making phone calls about her. ‘I should have gone to the police before, but then Mum died, and now things are getting worse.’ I pulled my hand away from her, and buried my face in my palms. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I said through my fingers.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the way you’re feeling at the moment. Perhaps the grief is making your mind spin out of control. It happens. Take my word for it.’

  It was as though she was talking from experience, and I looked up and met her eye. She’d clearly had a shower since she arrived home, and was make-up free. Broken blood vessels speckled her pallid skin, and her eyes were puffy. And maybe it was a distraction from my own worries, but I needed to know what her problem was. Had she been a surgeon? What had gone wrong in her life that made her drink, take antidepressants – see a psychotherapist?