by Lesley Kara
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
‘Will you at least think it over?’
I try again to speak, but all I can manage is a small squeak.
‘Look, I know you’re probably at work and can’t say much right now, but phone me when you get home. Okay?’
How I manage to make two mugs of drinkable tea and get through the rest of the day, I don’t know. It’s the first time he’s ever referred to us as a proper couple, even in a jokey way. My heart does a stupid little flutter.
‘Everything all right?’ Dave says.
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘Only you look a bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying. Why don’t you get yourself off home? I’ll finish updating those listings.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Go on.’
‘Thanks, Dave.’
Outside, the leaves are swirling on the pavement and there’s a misty vapour in the air that catches at the back of my throat. I know I should go straight home. Mum picked Alfie up from school today and she’s gone back to mine so she can stay with him while I babysit for Teri this evening. But she’s not expecting me for another half-hour, and I need to get some air and clear my head. Think things through.
I walk towards Stones and Crones and the grey wall of sea at the bottom of the road. For a few seconds I allow myself to imagine this wall moving inexorably towards me, obliterating everything and everyone in its wake, like a scene from a disaster movie.
I blink to dispel the image and hurry on towards the shop. How’s Michael going to react if this business with Sonia Martins kicks off? And what if the allegation is true? He seems so adamant that Sally McGowan is here, and there is, it has to be said, an uncanny resemblance between her and Sonia. But if it is true, then surely she’ll be taken away and given another new identity. Maybe she already has been.
The thing is, if they did move her, her safety will still be compromised, because people will know what she looks like. Press injunction or no press injunction, some hate-filled nutter will post a photo of her on Twitter and the whole thing will go viral.
But it isn’t her. I feel sure it isn’t.
The closer I get to Stones and Crones, the more I realize I’m pinning all my hopes on it being open as normal, catching a waft of fragrance as I pass the open door, seeing Sonia Martins in her usual position behind the counter, serving a customer while another browses peacefully among the scented candles.
As I draw level with the shop, I see that the door is shut. My jaw clenches.
But there she is, huddled in a big woolly jumper behind the counter, arms crossed against her chest. I exhale in relief. The door is shut to keep out the cold, that’s all. And yet, as I pause in front of the window display, pretending to examine the artfully arranged statues and charms and books, I see the expression on her face. That blank, vacant stare into the void.
Someone has told her. She knows. She looks up, and our eyes meet. Now she’s looking right at me, as if she knows I’ve come to gawp. I hear Barbara’s voice in my head from yesterday – ‘Joanna, isn’t this what you were talking about at book club?’ – and I feel sick. What if one of Sonia’s friends was in that crowd? What if they told her what they heard, described me to her?
Is that why she’s looking at me as if it’s all my fault?
It won’t stop with a picture on the shop window. That much I know.
Rumours are like seeds, scattered on the wind. There’s no telling where they’ll land, but land they will. Settling in cracks and crevices, the roots take hold. The seeds sprout. It doesn’t matter if they’re true or false. The more times they’re spoken, the faster and stronger they grow. Like beanstalks, waving in the air.
Maybe I should break my silence, once and for all. Give myself up to the baying crowd. That’s what they want, the mob. It’s what they’ve always wanted. My suffering writ large for all the world to see.
It’s been happening more and more lately. A yearning for recognition. It’s the strangest of feelings – a yearning mixed with dread. For what if someone did see me? What if they looked into my eyes and knew it was me? What in Heaven’s name would happen then?
What in Hell’s?
14
What with everything spinning round in my mind, I wanted to phone and cancel tonight’s sit, but in the end I couldn’t bring myself to let Teri down, and I don’t want to blot my copybook with the babysitting circle before I’ve even started. Perhaps a change of environment will help me clarify my thoughts, help me work out how to respond to Michael’s suggestion.
The Monktons live in what is arguably the nicest street in Flinstead – Waterfield Grove – and their house is a large, detached villa which must be worth at least £800K.
I thought Alfie’s bedroom was untidy, but Ruby Monkton’s is off the scale. Toys and clothes litter the floor like debris from a tide. I can barely see the carpet beneath. And yet the room itself has been exquisitely decorated, like something out of a fairy-tale. One entire wall is a mural of unicorns cavorting in a magical garden, and she has a day bed – swirling soft curves of white steel – with a lacy canopy over the top. It’s the sort of bedroom I dreamed of having as a child.
Hamish, who’s in Alfie’s class, has the room next to Ruby’s. It’s smaller, but no less messy, and has a pirate theme. He even has a bed in the shape of a boat. A beautifully crafted wooden boat that must have cost a fortune. I think of Alfie’s little box room with its tired, magnolia walls and old blue carpet, its cheap curtains from The Range. I’ve tried to make it as nice as I can by hanging a few Star Wars posters on the wall and buying him a Star Wars duvet set, and I’ve painted his pine chest of drawers white and let him cover it with stickers. But this … this is something else.
Michael’s words come back to me: ‘A book like this could generate publicity. It could make us a lot of money.’ He’s always wanted to write a book, and he’s right: if he could pull this off and gain Sally McGowan’s cooperation, the papers would be full of it. It could mean a whole new life for us all. We could sell his flat and my cottage and buy a place together. A home for the three of us. It won’t be as grand as this place. I doubt we’ll ever be able to afford something like this, but even so, the more I think about us living together, the more appealing it becomes. And I can’t pretend I haven’t fantasized about it.
But is it really the right thing to do? What if the reason we’re so good with each other is precisely because we don’t live in each other’s pockets? And how do I know for sure it’s what he really wants? What if he’s got the scent of a story and suddenly it’s more convenient for him to live here? If that’s the case, then what’s going to happen if his sources are wrong and McGowan isn’t here after all?
And even if she is here, and he gets to write this book, how long will it be before he gets fed up with the quiet life and moves back to London? Flinstead is the very last place he’d want to live. He takes the piss out of it at every opportunity. He’s a city boy through and through. Always has been. Always will be.
And yet, if it was just about investigating the Sally McGowan case, he wouldn’t have to move all the way to Flinstead to do it, would he? We’re only an hour and a bit away from London and he knows he’s welcome to stay whenever he likes. It might have sounded like an afterthought, the way he tacked it on to the end of the conversation, but I know Michael. That’s how he always broaches subjects he wants to talk about. As if he has to work his way up to it, approach it indirectly. Maybe this has been playing on his mind for ages. Ever since I left London. Maybe even before.
I’ve always loved him. Ever since that first time at uni, when some idiot set off a smoke bomb in the common room and I had a panic attack. I honestly think I might have died of a heart attack if he hadn’t been there. His calm voice talking me through it, him staying by my side the whole time, telling me I was safe. He understood what I was going through.
I told him everything that night. About the fire when I was a little
girl, only a couple of years younger than Alfie is now. The smoke in my nostrils. The terror until the fire brigade arrived to rescue us. Some men might have taken advantage of my vulnerability, but not Michael. There’d been a party and I’d been drinking all night. Far more than I’d ever drunk before. It was my very first term and I was trying to keep up with everyone else. How stupid was that? Michael stayed with me for ages, and he didn’t try it on. Not once. He just rubbed my back and talked to me till I fell asleep.
When I woke up he’d gone, but there was a bucket by the side of my bed and a pint glass of water on my bedside table with a packet of paracetamol next to it and a note.
‘Joanna the Brave and Beautiful’. That’s all it said.
‘Are you going to put your toys away before getting into bed?’ I ask Ruby and Hamish, before the three of us settle down on Ruby’s bed to read some stories.
The two of them exchange a secretive look. ‘No,’ Ruby says. ‘They like being on the floor.’
‘Lisa’s coming tomorrow,’ Hamish says. ‘She usually tidies our toys.’
‘Who’s Lisa?’ I say.
‘Our cleaner.’
‘Oh.’
Later, when Ruby’s fallen asleep and Hamish is tucked up in his boat bed, listening to James and the Giant Peach, I tiptoe downstairs and put the kettle on in Teri’s gleaming white kitchen. I open the obscenely huge American-style fridge and reach in for the milk. Before he got into bed, Hamish showed me the Dracula cloak and waistcoat he’s wearing to Liam’s Halloween party. It looked like something you’d pay a lot of money for in one of those fancy-dress shops.
‘Mummy made it for me,’ he said. ‘And Jake’s mummy’s making him a werewolf costume. What’s Alfie going as?’
Good question, Hamish. Good question. I smiled. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
Last night, I had a look at various costume sites online. Some of them seemed reasonable enough in the photos, but I know they’ll look flimsy and cheap once they arrive and I open up the package.
It’s all right for Teri and Cathy. They’ve both got big houses and plenty of money, husbands who work in the City. Above all, they don’t have jobs, which means they’ve got time to do all those things good mums are supposed to do. Like baking cakes and organizing birthday parties and making fantastic outfits at the drop of a hat. Like choosing themes for their children’s bedrooms.
It’s not that I’m envious of their lives. I’m not. I’d hate it if Alfie refused to tidy his bedroom because that’s what the cleaner does. And it’s not about trying to compete. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’ve always been cack-handed when it comes to making things. But still, if all the other boys are going to turn up in amazing costumes, Alfie will be the odd one out.
I take my tea into the dining-room extension with its massive Velux windows and sit down at the table. Alfie’s already having to contend with being the new boy and, apart from Ketifa, he’s the only non-white face in his class. The last thing he needs is something else to make him feel like an outsider.
I take a sip of tea and gaze up at the night sky. It must be romantic sitting here of an evening, under the stars. My mind drifts into a daydream: Michael is sitting opposite me and we’re drinking champagne, toasting the success of his book. This is our new house and Alfie is sleeping peacefully upstairs in his beautiful new bedroom.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check it for messages. Michael’s sent me two since our phone call and I haven’t answered either of them yet. It’s about time I did.
I tap out a response. ‘Okay. You’re on. Let’s give it a whirl! Xxxxx’
I press Send before I mean to. Fuck! Let’s give it a whirl! Why the hell did I say that? It sounds so silly. So glib.
He replies at once. ‘I love you, Joey. Lots to talk about. I’ll come tomorrow. M xxxx’
I love you, Joey. He’s actually said it, after all these years. Well, texted it. I get up and pace around the room, read his message again. And again for good measure. I float around the house in a dream. All those niggling worries about that horrible business with Sonia Martins are starting to ease off. I didn’t start that rumour, and lots of people have been talking about it, not just me. It’ll die down soon enough.
People will recognize those pictures for what they are: a malicious prank. This is Flinstead, after all. It’s a nice town. A real community. And people like Stones and Crones. It’s popular with locals and tourists alike. Nobody’s going to want to see another independent shop close down.
But if it does all go pear-shaped and Michael’s search for Sally McGowan goes cold because of it, well, so be it. He’ll have to find another book to write. Another story. Stories are everywhere. You just have to find them. Isn’t that what he told me once?
I sink into the Monktons’ gorgeous cream sofa. Teri’s left a couple of box sets out, but I doubt I’ll be able to concentrate on much this evening and there’s nothing on TV that takes my fancy. I pull out my phone again and press the Twitter app. I’ll see what’s trending, maybe check out the latest nonsense Trump’s been coming out with, or what people think of that new drama I watched the other night. Anything to while away the hours till Teri and Mark get back.
I’ve got six notifications. Most of them are just telling me who liked this and who retweeted that, but there are a couple of new followers, so I check out their profiles to see if they’re worth following back. One is a well-endowed spambot that I immediately block. The other is …
A chill passes through me. The letters swim before my eyes. The other is somebody called Sally Mac @rumourmill7.
I try to swallow, but there’s no saliva in my mouth. I click on the photo, which isn’t a photo at all but a cartoon avatar of a woman holding a finger to her lips – the classic gesture to keep quiet. I force myself to read her one and only tweet:
Rumours can kill.
15
I stare at the screen in shock. Another tweet has just appeared: ‘A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes – Mark Twain.’
Okay. So there’s no way this can be the real Sally McGowan. If she’d got wind of the rumour and was worried her cover was about to be blown, the last thing she’d do is draw more attention to herself by setting up a Twitter account in the name of Sally Mac. That would be madness.
Perhaps it’s Sonia Martins. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I think of how she looked at me earlier today. As if she blames me for what’s happened. But she doesn’t know my name. Oh God, maybe she does. Barbara said it out loud, didn’t she? ‘Joanna, isn’t this what you were talking about at book club?’ Anyone could have heard that and passed it on to her. It wouldn’t take too much detective work on her part to discover my surname and find me on Twitter.
But then, she’d hardly start tweeting as the person she’s falsely accused of being. That wouldn’t make any sense. Unless she’s just trying to scare me.
Her face hovers behind my eyes. If someone did one of those ageing techniques on that infamous mugshot of McGowan as a child, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Sonia Martins’ face was the result. Perhaps she really is McGowan and she’s already notified her people. Maybe they’re on standby right now, waiting to see what happens, getting ready to whisk her away again.
Either that, or by some amazing coincidence I just happen to have a new Twitter follower called Sally Mac who’s tweeting quotes about lies and rumours. I try to convince myself that this is possible. Lots of people share the same name. You’ve only got to google yourself to realize that. Perhaps this is simply one of those boring accounts that spews out naff quotes and has an app that follows random people. Not personal at all, then.
I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, to put things into perspective. There’s another possibility, of course. It could be one of the mums playing some kind of joke. In fact, the more I think about this, the more likely it seems.
Uneasy, but not quite as freaked out as I was a few
minutes ago, I tuck my phone into my back pocket and stand up. I need to move around. I can’t just sit here worrying.
Upstairs, Ruby is curled up in a little ball on her side, clutching her doll. Hamish is flat on his back, arms flung out like a starfish, his cheeks like rosy apples. I tiptoe along the corridor and pause outside Teri and Mark’s room. The door is ajar and they’ve left their bedside lamps on. I can’t resist having a quick peek. She must have wanted me to or she wouldn’t have left the lamps on and the door open. It’s as if it’s been staged for a viewing.
The room is spacious. Pale grey walls and dark, solid-wood flooring. Those white wooden shutters at the window that everyone seems to have these days. It’s a restful, warm-looking room with an en suite. I can just glimpse the chrome bars of a heated towel rack. So different from my own small bedroom with its squeaky floorboards and mismatched furniture.
I go downstairs again and turn on the TV. Only another half-hour before Teri and Mark get back and I can go home. Mum’ll probably be dozing on the sofa by now. It’s well past her usual bedtime.
My phone buzzes. I brace myself for another tweet from Sally Mac, but then I remember. I haven’t followed her back, so I won’t get notified when she tweets again. I’ll have to click on her account and check for myself. Which I won’t. This must be something else, and it is. It’s a text message from Michael.
‘See you tomorrow. I’ll get to you for about one. M xxx’
I jump when I hear the key in the door, even though I’ve been expecting it for the last few minutes. Teri promised they’d be back by 11.30 and here they are, right on time. Teri sways a little as she quizzes me about the children.
‘They were fine,’ I tell her. ‘Very well behaved.’
‘I hope you helped yourself to some chocolates and wine,’ she says, slurring her words.