Her Name Was Rose

by Claire Allan

  His words had cut me to the quick. I’m not afraid to say I cried – but he had apologised over and over again and told me that he was just stressed and he didn’t mean it. I had held him, assured him I was okay and that we were okay while he had calmly told me that working at the level he was working at brought so many stresses he had never really thought about before. That I was lucky to have ‘a wee nothing job’ that I could ‘leave behind at the end of the day’.

  I suppose in some ways he was right – it was just that I never thought of it like that before. I did my job well. We helped people. We worked together as a team. Okay, no one was going to give me a huge contract to do it. No one was going to review my work in the broadsheets or invite me to talk about it on panel shows where everyone wore tweed and twirled their moustaches. But it mattered to me.

  I tried to shake those feelings off as I spritzed his favourite perfume on my neck and wrists and dropped the bottle into my clutch bag before walking out of the bedroom, down the hall of our flat, to where I knew he was waiting in the living room.

  With a fairly confident ‘Ta da’ I walked in and he turned from where he had been looking out the window, waiting for our taxi, to look at me.

  I’m not sure what reaction I was expecting – a ‘Wow’ would have been nice. God, even a ‘You look nice’ would have sufficed. I knew I had done my best – had scrubbed up well for want of a better turn of phrase – but his face was frozen as he looked me up and down.

  ‘Cian?’ I asked, a sinking feeling giving me a sucker punch in my stomach.

  I heard a car turn into the gravel drive outside our flat, a horn sound and Cian swear.

  ‘Jesus,’ he swore under his breath. ‘Rose, now’s not the time for jokes.’

  ‘Jokes?’ I muttered, my face blazing and tears, to my shame, stinging at my eyes.

  ‘That dress? It’s a joke, right? Your tits are practically hanging out of it.’

  I blushed harder. Felt a wave of shame hit me as the disappointment radiated off him in waves. Even that word. Tits. Horrible. It made me feel like a tramp. In a dress I thought made me look classy, elegant.

  ‘This is a book launch, not an episode of Footballers’ Wives,’ he said crossing the room in a couple of steps and grabbing my wrist, pulling me towards the bedroom – my shoes slipping on the tiled floor so I kicked them off.

  ‘I can’t believe …’ he said. ‘The taxi is here, Rose. Tonight of all nights. Could you not just get it right this one night?’

  His words felt like blows – ‘just this one night’ – had I not got it right before? Did I really look like a joke? I thought the dress gave just the hint of cleavage – the cleavage he loved. He threw open my wardrobe. Pulled hanger after hanger out throwing dresses on the bed.

  ‘Get changed,’ he shouted at me, while he cast aside other clothes he deemed unsuitable. Not that I had much to choose from – I didn’t have a lot of special occasion clothes. I hesitated, felt a sob rise from my chest and sneak out.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he said, frustrated, as he threw a long sleeved, boat neck maxi dress at me – one I had been meaning to charity shop for a while because I didn’t feel it did me any favours. It was as close to a Burka as Western fashion could get and I don’t know why I had ever bought it.

  ‘I don’t like this one,’ I said as my lovely, elegant dress slipped to the floor.

  ‘Put it on, Rose. Stop being such a baby – this isn’t about you and what you like. I’ll be waiting in the taxi.’

  He stormed out of the room – and part of me, the ‘Fuck you, Cian Grahame’ part considered putting my lovely new dress back on and going out to the taxi, telling him he could deal with it and putting him in his place.

  But this was his night and I didn’t want to make things worse. I didn’t want to sour the whole evening. I knew this wasn’t Cian. Not the real Cian. Not the man I loved and who I knew loved me. I knew he would apologise and feel ashamed for his behaviour. When he saw the bruise that was starting to form already on my wrist, he would be sorry.

  I pulled the maxi dress on and quickly patted some pressed powder on my cheeks to cover where tears had spilled.

  This was not about me.

  This was about my husband and the immense pressure he was under.

  You hurt the ones you love, so they say. I was his safe place to let off steam.

  Things would settle. Would calm down. I would get my Cian back. My wonderful, loving Cian. Usually loving anyway.

  Chapter Twenty

  Emily

  I had spent the hours before bed checking and double checking that my doors and windows were locked, my curtains were pulled and even going so far as to push my hall table up against the front door. I made sure I had the police on speed dial, and that my phone was fully charged and my bedroom door locked. I had slept with a knife under my side of the bed, just in case. And I had vowed to call my old support worker at Women’s Aid the following morning.

  I had even clicked into Ben’s profile. I’m not sure why. It was unlikely he was going to give away his guilt on his timeline, but I needn’t have bothered. His privacy settings were solid.

  I googled his name, uncovering a LinkedIn profile that had him working for a bank in Birmingham. It offered me some comfort at least, even though he hadn’t updated his details in eighteen months.

  When I woke it was just starting to get light and everything seemed, for the moment anyway, a little less scary. Still, I’d make sure to keep the knife under my bed and maybe add another lock to my door.

  But for now, I had to pull myself together. I had to think of the present and to the future and not fixate on the past.

  Cian and Jack were due in for their appointment that day. That would be my focus. I had moved things around a little the day before to make sure Sarah would need help with record-keeping during the appointment and I’d be the very girl to do it. And even though I never considered myself to be much of a girly girl, I admit I made more of an effort that morning with my hair and make-up. A bit more smoky-eyed, a bit fuller of lip. My hair extra bouncy – but not too much. Not enough to be obvious.

  Owen commented that I looked brighter and said he was sorry for sounding off to me and that he was just trying to process all that was happening. He asked me not to say anything more about the police investigation to anyone – not until he knew more himself.

  Donna seemed a little brighter, a little more rested as well. The boys had behaved last night: saw she was stressed, cooked dinner and washed up without having to be asked. Her eldest had even poured her a glass of wine. I told her it was okay to have an off day. We all had them.

  But today would be a good day. I would bring myself into the moment. I’d message Maud later to tell her I was doing better and when Cian Grahame came into the surgery, I would look every inch the professional, elegant and trustworthy woman he could feel comfortable confiding in again. Because surely that was only one step away from him falling for me – properly.

  By the time he arrived, I had butterflies in my tummy. I had to remind myself not to spring from my seat grinning when he walked in. Not to look so needy. Not to be so needy – wasn’t that what got me into so much trouble the last time? So I sat at the desk and waited. When Cian saw me, I was sure I saw a hint of a smile on his face.

  ‘Emily,’ he said, as he lifted Jack from his buggy. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

  Jack turned around to look at who his daddy was talking to and he smiled widely when I waved at him. ‘It’s nice to see you, and this little man too. Hi Jack, are you going to show off your lovely toothy pegs?’

  He grinned, opened his mouth and shouted ‘Ah!’ at the top of his lungs.

  ‘I’ll bring you through to Sarah now,’ I said, smiling. ‘You don’t mind if I sit in on the appointment, do you? All the girls are busy today but it’s a first appointment – so I’ll just be getting this young man’s notes up and running.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Cian said as I
held the door open for him and he walked through carrying a beaming Jack and sat him in the dentist’s chair, where the toddler immediately opened his mouth as wide as he could.

  Sarah laughed and Cian blushed. ‘We might have been practicing a little too much,’ he smiled. ‘Haven’t we Jack?’

  Jack nodded and smiled up at Cian while he held his hand and Sarah set about chatting to him. For a dentist who didn’t normally take young patients she had a lovely way with him and the pair were soon laughing and giggling as she counted the little white teeth in his mouth.

  She called out a series of numbers and letters and I jotted notes in the folder in front of me. I was struggling to concentrate but I didn’t want to make a show of myself in front of Cian so I forced myself to pay attention. All too soon, the check-up was done with both Jack and Cian wearing ‘I was good for the Dentist’ stickers. I watched as Cian bundled Jack back into his coat and made to leave.

  I felt deflated. A hint of a smile and a wave from Jack? This is not what I had been hoping for. I followed them through to the reception area, sat behind my desk and tried to hide my disappointment.

  I heard Cian say my name and looked up, just in time to catch Jack as he jumped into my arms. ‘He wants to say thank you for being the best helper lady.’ Jack planted a slobbery cheek on my face, which tickled and I laughed loudly – and that sent Jack into a fit of giggles himself.

  ‘It’s so good to hear him laugh,’ Cian said.

  I smiled. ‘He seems a happy little boy, and that’s all credit to you.’

  ‘In spite of everything, eh?’ he said.

  ‘How are you holding up? I asked. Despite Owen telling me not to talk about the police visit, I wanted to tell Cian about it. Surely he, of all people, deserved to know? But this was not the place.

  Cian shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you would expect.’

  ‘If you need to talk?’ I asked, handing Jack back to him, enjoying the momentary contact with the warmth of his body.

  ‘I’ll message you later,’ he said, his voice low.

  ‘Any time, Cian. I mean that.’

  ‘Before I go,’ Cian said, ‘is Owen here?’

  I was about to say yes – tell him I would see if he was free when Tori chimed in that no, he had gone out for a late lunch. Cian shrugged his shoulders and, putting Jack back into his buggy, he left.

  ‘It’s not like Owen to go out for lunch,’ I said, while checking who was next in with Sarah.

  ‘He’s not really,’ Tori whispered. ‘He just told me to say that. Said he didn’t want to get caught up in a conversation with Cian.’

  ‘I don’t get what’s going on between them,’ I said. Tori just shrugged her shoulders, and turned back to her computer. She clearly wasn’t in the mood for getting caught up in a conversation with me either.

  ‘Who’s next with Sarah?’ I asked her.

  ‘Louise Flanagan – but she hasn’t showed yet.’

  ‘Is there anyone here early we could take instead?’

  Tori shook her head. ‘Looks like you have a free few minutes. Lucky you. Maybe you could leave these files back in the office for me?’

  I lifted the bundle of files and turned on my heel. I have to admit I wasn’t particularly enamoured with Tori’s attitude, or her ordering me about. I wondered what was eating at her – and then it struck me, she must have seen how Cian looked at me. She was probably suspicious, jealous even. I vowed to play it extra careful over these next few days and weeks. In the meantime, I would do as I was told and be a good little employee.

  I hadn’t been expecting to find Owen in the office surrounded by a pile of files on his desk.

  ‘I’m just putting these back for Tori,’ I said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  He shook his head. I noticed that his eyes looked bloodshot, his face tired. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Owen. You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said tersely. ‘Just trying to find something.’

  ‘Can I help?’ I offered, trying to ignore the fact everyone in Scott’s seemed to have swallowed a grumpy pill that day.

  He stood up, lifted two files from the desk and made to leave the room. Only when he reached the door did he stop to look at me. ‘You can tidy this lot up,’ he said, just as I noticed the file in his hand was labelled with Kevin McDaid’s name.

  *

  I tidied the file room, assisted with a few more appointments, made tea for everyone who wanted it – and by the time home time arrived I was finding it hard to maintain pleasantries. Everyone was in a fouler of a mood and I started to feel my own slip. As daylight faded, I started to feel uneasy again and all I wanted to do was to get home to the safety of my flat, lock out the world and wait for Cian to get in touch.

  As I walked away from the surgery towards the carpark at Foyle Street, I was interrupted by a call of ‘Excuse me’ from behind. I walked on a few feet, sure whoever was calling couldn’t have been looking for me, until I heard it a second time – this time closer. It was a female voice but that didn’t make me feel any less uneasy. I picked up my pace and walked on, head down, my keys poised in my hand just in case.

  I heard footsteps quicken behind me and I walked a little faster, my heartbeat picking up with every step. I reminded myself to keep breathing. This was a well-lit, busy area. What harm could come to me? Except, of course, when Rose died it had been in a well-lit busy area.

  I felt the brush of a hand on my arm, a pull as she gripped my jacket. I turned around ready to shout as loud as I could that she should leave me alone when I saw a rather flustered-looking woman, perhaps in her thirties, hair bone-straight in a perfectly set blonde bob. Minimal make-up – but flawless skin. She wore a full-length military-style coat, and she had pulled the collar up around her neck to keep warm. There was a hint of a pinkish glow to her cheeks and as she apologised for stopping me, she appeared to be a little breathless.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you are probably really busy but I wondered if you would be able to help me at all, I’m really quite stuck.’

  I looked around, tried to see if anyone else was watching or lurking nearby. She seemed to be on her own. I expected her to ask me if she could use my phone, or perhaps give her some money for the bus home – although she didn’t look the kind that would ever need to ask for money.

  ‘You work at Scott’s, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, not as calmly as I would have liked. I could still feel my heart thumping. ‘But we’re closed now. I’m afraid if you’re looking for a dentist you’ll have to call back in the morning.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no. It’s not like that. I just need to speak to someone from Scott’s. My name is Ingrid Devlin, I’m a reporter for the Chronicle.’ She fished in her pocket and made to hand me a card but I had no desire to talk to anyone from the press, so I shook my head, said I had nothing to say to her, turned on my heel and started to walk off in the direction of the car park.

  ‘Please,’ she called after me. ‘I’ve been sent out here to get something – if I don’t come back with a story, I might as well hand in my notice.’ Her voice cracked as she came to the end of her sentence. I could hear her footsteps speed up behind me again. ‘Look, I’ve been trying to speak to people – just to do a piece on Rose Grahame – how well she was thought of. That kind of thing. But nobody is talking and I’m running out of leads.’

  I turned around to look at her – saw her pleading eyes, as she hastily brushed away tears. ‘My boss has told me if I fuck this up, I may as well start looking for another job, so I’m really desperate.’ Her head bowed, I watched as her shoulders started to shake.

  She looked the perfect picture of misery – the kind of picture of misery I was only too familiar with.

  ‘Look, I’m not sure I can be any help to you. I’m relatively new.’

  No doubt sensing she had an in, Ingrid looked at me, a hopeful expression sneaking out from behind her tears. ‘Any help at all you could
give me would be great. I’m sure you’ve heard people talking about her? It will be anonymous, you know. I mean I’ll know your name and all – but in the story you’ll just be a source. No one will ever know it’s you. You won’t get into trouble and it would really save my life.’

  Against my better judgement, I asked what it was she wanted to know.

  ‘Maybe we could have a sit down and a chat?’ she said, her demeanour suddenly more chipper. ‘Why don’t we call in here?’ she asked, nodding towards The River Inn, a pub at the very bottom of Shipquay Street. ‘Glass of wine on me? As a thank you.’

  I looked around me just to check that no one from Scott’s was watching, and then I followed Ingrid Devlin into the bar, where she found us a booth within seconds and had ordered a bottle of wine before I had the chance to say I really should just stick to tea.

  Of course when it arrived, it looked too good to resist. Condensation formed on the outside of the bottle, drops running in rivulets down the neck into the ice bucket. Ingrid lifted the bottle and poured two generous glasses.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I could really do with this today,’ she said, as she fished in her handbag, pulling out her phone, a notebook and a pen. She set her phone to voice record and sat it between us before lifting her glass and gesturing to me to do the same. ‘Cheers,’ she said, as I half-heartedly clinked my glass against hers. ‘To a lifesaver – and girls helping each other out.’

  I took a large gulp from my glass – anything to settle the feeling of unease sitting in the pit of my stomach. If Maud were here she would grimace. Tell me I’d gotten myself into another fine mess.

  ‘So tell me,’ Ingrid said, ‘have there been any whispers around the workplace? Any rumours Cian Grahame is not the man everyone thinks he is?’