The Rumour

by Lesley Kara

  Kay brightens at this.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘Why don’t we go for a quick coffee? My treat.’

  Five minutes later, we’re sitting in the Shrieking Kettle, each nursing a giant cup of cappuccino.

  ‘I’ve tried everywhere,’ Kay says. ‘I’ve even asked in here and at the Fisherman’s Shack, but no one’s taking staff on.’

  I blow on to my coffee and distort the chocolate-powder shape on top of the foam. ‘I’m sure you’ll find something soon.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘And if I don’t, I can always go back to cleaning.’ She pulls a face. ‘Look, I’m just feeling a bit sorry for myself at the moment. It’s always the same at this time of year. You know, the months running up to Christmas. I miss Gillian and the littl’uns so much.’

  ‘How often do you get to see them out there?’

  She opens a second packet of sugar and stirs it into her coffee. ‘I haven’t. Not since they left. It’s the expense.’ She stares into the middle distance. ‘That’s why I need to get another job, so I can save up for the fare.’

  ‘Another job?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I do a few alterations for the dry cleaner’s. It’s not very well paid, but I can do it from home. That’s why I like it.’

  ‘How often does your daughter come back to visit?’

  Kay screws her nose up. ‘They try and make it back every eighteen months or so, but …’ She dabs at her eyes with a paper napkin. ‘It’s such a long while to wait, and the kiddies change so much in that time.’

  ‘What made them emigrate?’

  Kay hesitates, then shrugs. ‘The usual, I suppose. Better standard of living. Better weather. Barbies on the beach,’ she says, in the worst Australian accent I’ve ever heard.

  A couple of people look our way and we fold over our coffees in laughter. When we’ve recovered, Kay wrestles her complimentary biscuit from its packet and shakes the now broken pieces into her hand.

  ‘So what brought you to Flinstead then, Joanna?’ she says. I look out of the window. While we’ve been sitting here, the sun has gone in and it’s started to drizzle. ‘Not the weather, that’s for sure.’

  ‘It was mainly for Alfie,’ I say. ‘I felt like I was never fully there for him. Do you know what I mean?’

  Kay nods. ‘I do, love. They’re only young once.’

  ‘I wanted Alfie to grow up in a safe place, and to be by the sea. I loved living here when I was a child. And I wanted to be near Mum. Alfie gets to see her all the time now. She’s on her own too, so it’s been lovely for all of us.’

  Kay shifts in her seat. Oh God. After everything she’s just been saying about missing her grandchildren. How insensitive can I be? But before I have a chance to apologize, she’s speaking again.

  ‘You a single mum, then?’

  ‘Yes, well, kind of.’

  ‘Sorry, tell me to mind my own business.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. It’s just that … most people find it a bit strange that me and Alfie’s dad are so close but not actually together.’ I take a sip of coffee. ‘Like Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre,’ I say, observing her reaction over the top of my cup.

  Kay gives me a blank look. I thought she might. Liz Blackthorne would get the reference straightaway. Which reminds me, I must give her a ring and see if she’s all right. I hope she doesn’t think less of me for passing on the rumour about Sally McGowan. What if she was deliberately ignoring me when I saw her this morning?

  ‘Okay. Try Helena Bonham Carter and Tim Burton? Except no, they’ve split up now, haven’t they? And they lived next door to each other, whereas Michael lives in Camberwell.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s strange at all, love. Makes a lot of sense to me. You’re never going to get fed up with each other if you’ve got your own space. Maybe me and Barry should have tried that. Might not have ended up in the divorce court.’

  ‘Has there been anyone else, since Barry?’

  Kay looks horrified. ‘God, no.’

  I laugh. ‘You sound like my mum. The trouble is, it’s given her a skewed view of all men, including Michael. I keep telling her he’s nothing like Dad, but …’

  Kay pats my hand. ‘As long as you and Michael care about each other, and about Alfie, and as long as it’s what you both want, then that’s all that matters in the long run.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It is.’

  I eat the last fragment of my biscuit. Mum said something similar once, when she’d finally got her head round the peculiar parameters of our relationship, except she made a point of putting the emphasis on the word ‘both’ – ‘as long as it’s what you both want’ – which made me feel like I was the one making all the compromises. The injured party.

  ‘I’d better be making tracks,’ Kay says, twisting round for her coat. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you pop round sometime and I’ll show you photos of my Gillian and the grandchildren? It’s half-term next week, isn’t it? Bring Alfie with you. I’ve got a tropical-fish tank he’ll enjoy looking at. Ketifa loves them. She’s named them all after characters in Finding Nemo.’

  I smile. Kay’s lonely. That much is obvious.

  ‘Thank you. I will,’ I say. ‘Alfie loves Finding Nemo.’

  12

  On my way back to Pegton’s I notice a small gathering at the end of the road. Something unusual is happening outside the electrical shop.

  My first thought is that someone has fallen over and hurt themselves. One of Flinstead’s frail pensioners has tripped over a wonky paving slab. Or a mobility scooter has toppled over in the north wind that shoots up the road from the sea. Once, I saw a helicopter land outside the curry house and a heart-attack victim was stretchered inside and flown away.

  But as I get closer I realize they’re standing outside Stones and Crones and nobody is lying on the pavement injured. People are pressing up against the plate-glass window, pointing and exclaiming. Snippets of conversation reach my ears:

  ‘Looks just like her, you’ve got to admit.’

  ‘Some kind of sick joke.’

  ‘Who did this?’

  ‘Maybe there’s something in it.’

  Reluctantly, I move towards the window. I’ve got a horrible feeling about this. And there it is. Someone’s stuck an enlarged photocopy of that photo of Sally McGowan, the famous one of her at ten years old, looking directly at the camera with those unnerving eyes, and right next to it is a picture of Sonia Martins, the shopkeeper. An old one that’s been cut out of the Flinstead Shopper – a promotional feature from when the shop first opened.

  The shop is empty and the closed sign hangs at the door. She always shuts on Wednesdays. She’s one of the few shopkeepers round here who do. Most can’t afford to lose out on a day’s custom. So whoever’s stuck these pictures up has chosen the day on purpose, to get maximum exposure. Whether it’s true or not, the damage will be done.

  ‘Never liked this shop much anyway,’ says a woman to my right. ‘My friend June says she sells a lot of that Wiccan stuff.’

  ‘That’s witchcraft, isn’t it?’ says someone else, and an uneasy murmuring ripples through the crowd of onlookers.

  A horrible thought pops into my mind. What if Maddie did this? She wouldn’t, surely. She’s not that kind of person, and yet, when I think of how she cornered me that time in the playground, how convinced she was …

  Oh God. If this is Maddie’s doing, then I’m partly responsible. Maddie doesn’t mix much with the other mothers. If it weren’t for me blabbing about it at book club, she might never have heard the rumour. But surely she wouldn’t have done something like this. It’s a horrible, spiteful thing to do. And based on what kind of evidence? A weekend trawling the internet? No, I can’t believe she’d stoop this low. And yet, how well do I really know her?

  ‘I think we should take them down,’ I say. ‘It’s someone’s idea of a nasty joke.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get involved, if I were you,’ a voice from the crowd says. ‘It’
s her shop, let her deal with it.’

  I twist round and see a rough-looking woman in a grey tracksuit with greasy hair swept off her face in a tight ponytail. ‘But she can’t, can she? She’s not here.’

  She gives me a sullen look. ‘What if it’s true, though? Do you really want someone like that living and working here?’

  As fast as people drift away, more gather on the pavement to take their place. Barbara from book club appears. She stands right next to me, screwing up her eyes to read the small print. She’s so close I can smell her face powder.

  ‘Joanna, isn’t this what you were talking about at book club?’ she says, in that annoyingly loud, posh voice of hers.

  Heat floods into my face. I give her a withering frown. Is she stupid or something? Doesn’t she realize how that might sound?

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t implying it had anything to do with you. I was just …’ She flounders for something to say, something to salvage the situation, but there’s nothing she can say. She’s just making it worse. She pulls a face and mouths ‘sorry’ at me. I want to tell her what an idiot she is, but all I do is sigh and give a little shake of my head.

  ‘I can’t believe someone would do this,’ I say, in the loudest, most indignant tone I can muster. ‘It’s not right to make accusations about someone, especially when they’re not here to defend themselves.’

  The man from the electrical shop comes out to see what’s going on. He takes one look at the pictures then quietly peels them off the glass and takes them into his shop. It’s what I should have done. It’s what I would have done if I weren’t so worried about Barbara and her big mouth. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I hurry back to work.

  Anne Wilson is sitting at my desk drinking a cup of tea when I get back.

  ‘Ah, here she is now,’ Dave says. ‘I’m sure Jo will sort it all out for you.’ He’s wearing his usual professional mask but there’s a slight wariness in his eyes as he looks at me.

  Anne puts her cup down and gets to her feet, extends one well-manicured hand towards me. ‘Joanna, how lovely to see you again. I’m making a nuisance of myself, I’m afraid.’

  I smile and try to put the last few minutes out of my mind. For the moment, at least.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  Anne sits down again and crosses her legs. She’s wearing a very short skirt with sheer black tights. ‘I want to have a third viewing of the Maple Drive property.’

  I glance at Dave, who’s trying not to look at her legs. ‘Oh, I thought you’d already made an offer.’

  ‘Yes, I have. But I’d quite like to bring a builder in to have a look at a few things. It’s all right,’ she says, leaning forward. ‘I’m not going to change my mind. The house is perfect. Well, it will be, when I’ve completely changed it.’ She laughs then. A high, tinkly noise that’s as false as her eyelashes. ‘It’s just that I’m rather impatient and I’d like to get someone lined up for the job right away. You know what builders are like. All the good ones are booked up for months and, since we’re cash buyers and Mrs Marchant isn’t looking to synchronize the sale with a new purchase, I’m sure we can exchange and complete on the same day.’

  Dave sucks his cheeks in and I have to look away.

  ‘Well, that does occasionally happen,’ I say. ‘But you never know how long these things are going to take, and we’d always recommend—’

  ‘I’ve got a very good lawyer,’ Anne says, as if that’s all it takes to cut through the bureaucracy of moving house. I’m starting to dislike this woman. What I’d previously interpreted as confidence now has a whiff of arrogance about it. That sense of entitlement some people have. Especially those with money. First impressions aren’t always to be trusted.

  ‘The thing is …’ she says. ‘I was rather hoping it could happen without …’ She hesitates and glances at Dave. He already knows what’s coming. That’s why he said, ‘I’m sure Jo will sort it all out for you,’ and gave me that funny look when I came in. ‘… without the owner being present,’ she says, and lets the words settle in the air before continuing.

  ‘The changes I have in mind are fairly – how shall I put it? – radical. And she’s hardly the friendliest of people, is she? I’m afraid she might take umbrage and put the property back on the market.’ She gives me a conspiratorial glance. ‘She certainly looks the type.’

  I keep my face as still as possible. However rude or ill mannered our clients, and Mrs Marchant certainly isn’t the friendliest, we never, ever, bad-mouth them to buyers. In a town this size it would be professional suicide. A fleeting twitch of the mouth is the furthest I’ve ever gone to indicate my agreement with someone, and now that I’ve cast Susan Marchant in the role of aggrieved ex-wife, coerced into relinquishing her lovely house, I’m not even sure whether I do agree with Anne Wilson’s damning character analysis. There must be a reason why Susan Marchant is so unsociable. Perhaps she’s depressed.

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ I say. ‘Mrs Marchant has always wanted to be present during viewings, so it may be a little awkward.’ I clear my throat. ‘I can’t really ask her not to be there.’

  Something flickers over Anne Wilson’s face, something akin to annoyance, but it’s immediately replaced by one of her effusive smiles, which I see now are not warm and generous at all but manipulative and insincere.

  ‘But you could suggest that she might prefer not to be,’ she says. She stands up then and, once again, holds out her hand. Reluctantly, I shake it.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way,’ she says, her voice a curious blend of honey and steel.

  As the door clicks shut behind her Dave lets out a long sigh.

  13

  Whenever there’s a brief lull at work the next day, my mind inevitably wanders to those pictures stuck on Sonia Martins’ shop. I make a point of updating the Pegton’s window promotions more often than I normally would, and each time I go outside to check what it looks like from the street I glance towards Stones and Crones. There’s no crowd gathered outside today, although Karen from book club and a woman I don’t recognize are peering through the window.

  I go back to my desk. Sonia Martins must know what’s happened by now. How could she not? Unless the man from the electrical shop decided not to show her the pictures. But if she doesn’t know yet, chances are she’ll find out soon enough. Flinstead is a small town. Something like that will get out. There’s only one street of shops, after all.

  I try to imagine what I would do in her position. I’d have opened up the shop and carried on as usual. The worst thing would be to stay closed and avoid people. They’d be more likely to think it was true if you did that. And it can’t be, can it? I mean, if Sonia Martins is Sally McGowan, would she really have chosen to open a shop? All those customers trooping in and out every day, getting a close look at her. It would be far too dangerous.

  ‘Jo,’ Dave says. ‘Someone just waved at you from the window. You look like you’re a million miles away.’

  I glance up to see Karen and the woman she was with at the shop turning away, arms linked. It must be her mother. Mum said something about meeting her in the playground the other day. I walk towards the door and, as I do, the older woman looks back at me over her shoulder. I smile and raise my hand in a wave, but she doesn’t smile back. Maybe she can’t see me through the glass. Mum was right. She does look painfully thin. Maybe she’s ill.

  Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s probably Teri. I’m meant to be babysitting for her and her husband Mark this evening. She said she’d call me in the morning to confirm times. But it isn’t Teri, it’s Michael, and he’s using his serious voice.

  ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

  My stomach tenses. Whenever he starts a sentence like that I panic that he’s going to tell me he’s met someone else – maybe even the one. Much as I try to kid myself that I’ve got the best of both worlds, this continual worry that I might actually end up with nothing at all never g
oes away.

  ‘Hold on a sec, reception’s a bit bad.’

  I take my phone out to the kitchenette at the back of the office, collecting Dave’s empty mug as I go. My throat tightens. Last weekend seemed different somehow. More special. Was it because he’s seeing someone else? Was it guilt that made him so loving?

  ‘I’m thinking of doing a bit more research into the Sally McGowan case.’

  I let out a long, slow exhalation.

  ‘I know it’s a long shot,’ he says, ‘and it’ll probably come to nothing, but I’ve got a couple of really interesting leads from a new source, and I mean really interesting. If there’s any way I can track her down, I’d like to try and write a book about her, see if I can gain her trust and get her cooperation. Her identity would be protected, of course. I’d never be able to disclose where she is, but if I could tell her story of what actually happened … I’ve sounded my agent out and he’s practically wetting himself with excitement.

  ‘The thing is …’ He pauses. ‘I don’t want this rumour that’s going round to bugger things up.’

  I chew the inside of my lip. I haven’t heard Michael this excited about something for ages. How can I tell him the rumour’s just taken on a whole new dimension and that it’s probably all my fault?

  ‘If my latest source is right,’ he says, ‘and there’s a good chance he is, then Sally McGowan really is living in Flinstead. So if there’s any way you could put the word out that it’s all a load of old bollocks, you’d be doing me an enormous favour. A book like this could generate publicity. It could make us a lot of money, Joey.’

  Us. There’s never been an ‘us’ in relation to money. There’s only ever been his money and my money and what he pays towards Alfie’s upbringing.

  ‘That’s the other thing I wanted to ask you.’ He hesitates, hearing my silence on the other end. ‘I hate not seeing you and Alfie all the time. I miss him. I miss you. What do you say about me moving in with you while I’m researching this book?’ He laughs, almost nervously. ‘We could see what it’s like, living together like a proper couple.’ I hear him take a breath. ‘A proper family, I mean. For Alfie.’