by Fiona Harper
She steps back and takes a look at the whole picture. Her heart flutters a little. She hopes he likes what he sees.
Just as she’s reaching for her handbag on the end of the bed, the doorbell rings. She slows her breathing, tells herself to stop being stupid, and goes to answer it. She finds Jason standing there with a bunch of beautiful flowers. Nothing as mundane as uniform roses. This is a riot of colours and textures, and Heather loves them. She blushes. ‘Thank you.’
He smiles at her and she blushes again. ‘I’ll just go and put these in some water and then we can be off.’
After doing so, they walk up the hill into the town centre, taking the shortcut through the park, and end up at one of the Italian restaurants in Bromley North. They walk in the door and as the hostess leads them to their table, Heather stares around at the other diners, many of them young couples sharing a relaxed meal, and she wants to run round the restaurant and high-five them, feeling a sense of camaraderie, of being part of the same club. She’s always been the outsider looking in before, the lone diner reading a book and pretending it’s fine to be eating solo. But if anyone walks into the restaurant right now, they won’t be able to pick her out of the crowd, they won’t be able to tell she’s the odd one out. She’s on a date. She’s actually on a date!
She smiles at Jason as they peruse their menus.
‘What?’ he says, smiling too but looking slightly confused.
Heather glances down at her menu. ‘Nothing. Just having a nice time.’
He laughs. ‘We’ve only been here five minutes.’
She shrugs. ‘What can I say? I’m easy to please.’
And it’s easy to talk to Jason as they work their way through their starters and then begin their main courses. The conversation meanders through pieces of their personal histories – carefully edited on Heather’s part – what they studied at university, jobs they’ve held, movies they’ve seen and both loved and hated, but as they wait for the waitress to clear their plates Jason gets more serious.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he says.
Heather’s smile slides from her face. Oh, no. This is it. The bit where he says they ought to be just good friends. She knew this was too good to last. She pulls her features into a blank canvas.
‘Well, two things, really. The first is that I’ve decided to sell the engagement ring I bought for Jodie. I didn’t ever give it to her, and I’m never going to. Thinking about your mum and how she held onto stuff that had outlived its usefulness has made me look at my own possessions in a new way.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m ready to let go, move on, I’ve realized. I suppose I have you to thank for that.’
Heather smiles nervously. Number one was okay, but number two is still looming…
‘The second thing is that I woke up about three o’clock last night, couldn’t sleep. I started thinking about you…’ Heather flushes foolishly at his admission. ‘And then I started thinking about you and that woman, Patricia… Lydia. I couldn’t stop thinking about it so I got up, got my laptop out, and put her name in Google again.’
Heather is frowning. She was so sure she was about to get dumped that she can’t tell where this is going.
‘This time I didn’t look for Patricia Waites – I looked for Lydia Waites.’
His words are like a boulder dropping in a still, cold pool. They splash up and drench her, waking her up. Suddenly she is in the moment and everything is crystal-clear. Painfully so.
‘You found something?’ she whispers.
He nods, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and shows her. The mobile browser is open, revealing a website banner: Haven Women’s Mental Health Project. She squints at the screen.
‘Scroll down,’ Jason tells her. ‘To the News section.’
Heather does so, but her fingers feel large and clumsy, like a fist of sausages, and she shoots past the right section of the webpage and has to tap the screen to climb back up to the bit she wants.
Lottery grant awarded… TV celebrity named as new patron… Annual fundraising gala dinner…
Ah, here it is:
Tickets are now available for our gala dinner at the price of £75. Please click the link below should you wish to support us in this way. As well as an excellent dinner at the Palm Court Hotel and an evening of entertainment, we will be holding a silent auction. If you have any items, gifts or services you wish to donate for the auction, please contact Lydia Waites through info@ HWMHproject.org.uk, quoting ‘auction’ in the subject header.
She looks up at Jason, phone still gripped in her hand, her finger poised to scroll on. ‘I know it’s not a common name, but do you really think it’s her? It could just—’
‘Read on,’ Jason says seriously. Heather scans the rest of the paragraph. There’s nothing more, just details of the hotel the event is being held at. When she reads the address, she actually jerks back in surprise and almost drops Jason’s phone.
‘Hastings!’ she says, a little too loudly, and the couple on the next table turn to look at her. That feeling of being part of the same club has disappeared now. Now she’s just a girl making a scene in a public place. ‘Hastings?’ she repeats more softly. Jason just looks back at her, saying nothing.
‘It’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ she says, knowing she is voicing his thoughts as well as her own.
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he replies.
* * *
The following Monday, both Jason and Heather take the day off work and travel down to Hastings. They go in her car, now with a replacement battery and showing no hint of having a relapse. This really isn’t a motorbike kind of visit.
Heather walks into the registered offices of Haven Women’s Mental Health Project at 11.30, while Jason waits outside. A woman is sitting at reception, head bowed as she scribbles on a pad. She has wavy dark hair, a bit like the woman in the photograph, but Heather can’t see her face. She walks up to the desk, her pulse drumming. It’s stupid. Although it’s Lydia that Heather has come here to see, she suddenly feels unprepared.
The woman lifts her head. It’s not her.
Heather breathes out again, feeling the double-pronged jab of both relief and disappointment.
‘Excuse me?’ she says. ‘I was wondering if I could speak to Lydia Waites?’
Heather expects the receptionist to smile politely or reach for the phone on her desk, but she does neither of those things. ‘What’s it about?’ she asks, raking her eyes up and down Heather’s face and body, measuring her up.
‘I… I…’ Heather grapples for the speech she rehearsed in her head all the way down in the car. ‘I have something I’d like to donate for the silent auction she’s organizing. For the fundraising dinner.’
The hardness in the receptionist’s eyes dims a little, but not much, and Heather wonders how on earth she got this job. She’d be surprised if the woman didn’t scare all but the most robust clients away.
‘Oh. Well. That’s lovely. What is it you want to donate?’
Heather shuffles on her feet. As much as she’s been planning this conversation during the entire hour’s drive to Hastings, she hasn’t done a very good job of covering all her bases. She hadn’t expected an inquisition at the first hurdle.
‘I’d rather discuss that with Lydia, if you don’t mind.’
The woman straightens her spine and looks down her nose at Heather. She clearly does mind.
‘So can I see her?’ Heather asks. Her nerves start to prickle. She wants to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
‘She’s not here.’
Heather glances towards the row of uncomfortable-looking upholstered chairs against the wall. ‘Can you tell me when she’ll be back? I don’t mind waiting.’
The woman smiles and then plays her trump card. ‘Sorry, love. But she doesn’t work here.’
‘But the website said—’
‘She’s a volunteer,’ the woman says. ‘But if you’ve got something for the a
uction, you can email this address.’ She shoves a colourful leaflet about the gala dinner across the desk towards Heather. It’s no help at all. Even before Heather picks it up, she can tell it contains exactly the same information that was on the website.
‘Is there any way to contact Ms Waites directly? It really is rather urgent. Could you give me her email address or a phone number?’
She was hoping to be able to confront Lydia face to face. She knows she’s grasping at straws now. Even if the woman does give her what she wants, the likelihood of Lydia responding if she contacts her is probably slim to none.
‘Sorry,’ the receptionist says, not looking the tiniest bit penitent. ‘Data protection and all that. But I can get my manager, if you like? She supervises Lydia when she’s in.’
‘Oh, no. It’s okay…’ Heather glances towards the front door, wishing she could just teleport herself to the other side of it and find herself back in the street where Jason is waiting for her. ‘I’ll just, you know…’
The woman is looking suspicious now. She opens her mouth slightly, as if she’s trying to decide whether she should call her manager anyway.
‘I’ll just use the email, like you said,’ Heather replies, then turns and scurries out of there before the woman can say anything else.
She finds Jason perusing the outside menu of a cute little café a few doors down. ‘That was quick,’ he says when he sees her, but his eyes wander back to the menu while he waits for her answer. Heather decides that maybe her story is better told over a sandwich and a pot of loose-leaf tea.
They choose to sit at a little table in the courtyard garden at the back of the café, and Heather gives Jason a blow-by-blow account of her time in the charity office. ‘That Lydia woman is definitely very good at disappearing when she needs to,’ Heather says, sighing. ‘Here we are again – back at square one.’
Jason stares into the distance as he finishes his sandwich. He swallows before looking at her. ‘Maybe not,’ he says.
‘Have you got another idea?’ Heather asks. ‘Because, aside from staking out the charity offices for the next month or so, I’m all out.’
He smiles and jabs a finger at the flyer lying on the table. It’s the one the receptionist gave Heather. She was still clutching it when they came out here and sat down.
‘Did you notice the date?’
Heather looks at the flyer and then meet his eyes. She gets that quivery feeling again.
‘It’s this weekend. We might not know where Lydia Waites is at this very moment, but we know exactly where she’s going to be in six days and nine hours’ time.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
NOW
Heather arrives at the Palm Court Hotel that Saturday evening for the Haven Project’s gala dinner. She plucks nervously at the hem of the new dress Faith made her buy. When she told her sister of her plans for the weekend, Faith had jumped in the car and frogmarched Heather round Bromley for some late-night shopping. They’d ended up getting a chiffon thing in midnight blue. When she tried it on in the shop, she’d been reassured by the practically Amish neckline, but she hadn’t realized it would show quite so much leg when she walked.
She glances at Jason. He looks as he always looks: relaxed, confident, ready for anything life has to throw at him. Heather wishes she felt the same way. Inside she’s like a ball of wool that’s been mauled by a kitten: all frayed and tangled.
Once she’d booked the tickets, she also had to make good on her bluff and rustle up something to donate to the silent auction. At first she was at a loss, but then she struck gold: Cassandra. Her mother – for once – had been right about one of her treasures: the ringleted horror is worth something even with her busted fingers.
Heather had hoped to drop the doll off during in the week so she could hand it over to Lydia Waites personally, therefore doing away with the need for this whole charade, but the woman was continuing to be elusive, even though Heather had invented a false name to put the donation under. They’d wanted the doll sent to the charity offices, so she’d just packaged it up and taken it to the post office. And now she is here. Scouting. Waiting.
She takes a deep breath as she and Jason enter the lobby. People are milling around, sipping flutes of champagne, dressed in dinner jackets and cocktail dresses. A few women have even gone the whole hog and opted for ballgowns. It’s all very fancy. It feels like the first day of school, and Heather knows what a torture school can be. She’s very glad Jason’s large, warm hand is wrapped around hers.
She inhales sharply as she spots a table on the far side of the lobby. A mop of chestnut curls and piercing blue eyes catch her attention. She scans the rest of the display, realizes these must be the auction items, and stops walking. Jason pulls up short beside her, starts to ask what the matter is, but then follows her gaze and goes quiet. Heather knows she should walk over there and see if Lydia is manning the display – this is what she came for, after all – but some deep, primal sense of self-preservation is telling her to turn and walk the other way. But then a group of people shifts and she gets a glimpse of the volunteer on guard: a starchy-looking man who’s seventy if he’s a day.
Not Lydia, then.
Does she know? Heather thinks. On some elemental level, does she sense my net is closing around her, that she’ll have to answer for her crimes – not to the police or society, but to me? Her victim.
‘Don’t give up hope,’ Jason whispers in her ear. ‘She has to be here somewhere, even if she’s skulking behind the scenes.’
Heather nods, doesn’t tear her eyes away from the man as they walk into the ballroom, which earns her a penetrating stare. He straightens as if he’s on sentry duty, and then she lets Jason lead her away.
The dinner starts. There’s a salad of some kind, and a singer who serenades them through the eating of it, but Heather can’t seem to pay attention to anything. When the waiters and waitresses come to clear their plates, she takes the chance to slip to the Ladies. It’s right off the foyer near where the auction table has been set up. A perfect excuse.
She hurries along, dress swishing against her legs, and it’s only when she’s right beside the display that she risks a proper look. What she sees stops her in her tracks.
Finally, it’s her. Lydia. Standing there beside the table as if she has a perfect right to be living a normal life, doing normal things. She’s not as dressed up as some of the others, only wearing a sparkly top, smart black trousers. and a pair of really ugly shoes. She’s busy leafing through a sheaf of papers and doesn’t notice Heather at first, but she must sense someone hovering nearby because after a few seconds she stops what she’s doing and looks up.
‘Oh!’ she says. ‘It’s you.’ Bland words that do nothing to convey the utter shock written all over her features.
‘Yes,’ says Heather. ‘It’s me. Again.’
Lydia starts shaking her head. Her feet haven’t moved, but Heather gets the distinct impression she’s backing away. ‘I don’t think…’ she begins.
‘Please…’ Heather begins. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Lydia takes a shaky breath. ‘This isn’t a good idea.’
Heather takes a step forward and surprises herself with her bold words. ‘For you, maybe. Don’t be so selfish – you owe me at least this.’
Lydia swallows, then nods. ‘Okay.’ She looks over her shoulder to a large set of glazed doors that open onto the gardens behind the hotel. ‘Maybe somewhere more private?’
Heather nods and they walk silently, side by side, inadvertently matching each other’s stride, across the lobby and out onto the paved terrace beyond. When they reach a shadowy section shielded by shrubs, Lydia turns and waits. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to slip away. Heather gets the feeling she’s been waiting for this day to come and, now that it has, she’s totally resigned herself to her fate.
She doesn’t look like a monster, though, standing there with her frizzy dark hair, her sparse make-up, and supermarket-chain clothes. S
he just looks… normal.
That makes Heather angry. Why should this woman have that luxury? Up until this moment, she’s been struggling with how to start, but now the words flow easily from her mouth. ‘You stole my childhood from me,’ she tells Lydia. ‘I want you to know that. What you did changed everything. It ruined my family.’
Lydia looks down. Her shoulders slump forward. ‘I’m so very sorry.’
Even though Heather can no longer see her eyes, remorse is radiating from the other woman in thick, grey waves. She knows Lydia feels humiliated and ashamed and guilty, like she’s the scrapings of dog’s mess on the side of someone’s shoe. Just the way Heather has felt for most of her life.
Heather knows she should feel jubilant. She has sought and found, marched out and conquered, and now she’s standing face to face with the woman who has eluded her for so long. Not only that, but her quarry is repentant, defeated. However, Heather discovers it’s not nearly enough. The whirlwind inside is not dying down. If anything, it’s getting worse.
‘That’s all you can say?’ she spits out. ‘Sorry?’
There is a small, almost imperceptible bob of Lydia’s head. ‘If I could change what I did, I would. I didn’t mean any harm…’
Heather lets out a loud, barking laugh and Lydia starts to back away. Heather’s hand flies out and she grabs the other woman’s arm. The action surprises both of them. However, it wasn’t just her own lightning reflexes that shock Heather, but the feeling of solid flesh beneath her fingers. For so long this woman has been a phantom, a hazy outline of a memory that was never fully coloured in. Lydia looks up at her, and there is pleading in her eyes.
‘I don’t think I can give you what you want,’ she whispers. ‘I want to, but I can’t because I don’t think anything I can say will ever make it better. That’s why I didn’t want to talk to you in the first place.’
‘Surely that’s my call.’ Heather waits until Lydia meets her eyes, until there is silent agreement between them, and then she lets go, slowly and deliberately, one finger at a time, knowing the other woman won’t leave without her permission.