The Last Day

by Claire Dyer

  And then my thoughts turn to Boyd and I imagine him driving back through the country lanes and the takeaway he and Honey will have tonight, their used plates stacked in the dishwasher, marks from Honey’s lipstick on the rim of her wine glass, them sitting on the sofa with their legs bumping up against one another as they chat or read. And I think of Belle’s small, but perfectly manicured hands. There is no logic to my thoughts and I am cross with myself about this.

  I let out a hurrumph which echoes around the studio. ‘Enough,’ I say, turning my attention back to the picture of the fucking stupid Cockapoo. ‘Right,’ I tell it, ‘it’s you and me and I’m going to get your bloody ears right if it kills me.’

  Honey

  She locks the door as the last customers of the day leave. They’d come in out of curiosity, nothing more. One of the houses Boyd has in the window must belong to friends of theirs, she guesses, and they were fishing for information. However, even under their intense questioning about why 32 Church Road has suddenly come on the market, Honey had remained totally discreet and non-committal; Trixie and Boyd would have been proud of her.

  It is when she is turning the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ that she sees him.

  She’d always known this couldn’t last: her job, her life with Boyd, loving him and being loved by him. Even Vita and Trixie had filled a gap she hadn’t realised had been there. She’d never really had any friends before, not proper ones. But, all along, she knew he’d come for her; that this person, the one who’d been showing what she’d thought was her best side to the world, hadn’t been the real her. She was, she is, a construct.

  What was it the medium had said, that she’d be found? And what had her horoscope this morning said? ‘A face from the past will reappear in your life today.’

  Holy shit, she thinks, her hand still on the sign.

  He’s standing in the doorway of the shop opposite. He’s looking at his phone, is taller than she remembers, bulkier, but perhaps he’s been working out and, after all, she’d only really known him lying down. He’s wearing a light brown jacket, jeans and sunglasses and he’s leaning against a door post. His skin is swarthy. She’d know him anywhere.

  As soon as she could after the explosion, she’d gone to the local library to find out what had happened that night. There was a newspaper report on Google which said:

  ‘Local businessman and entrepreneur Reuben Roberts has sustained life-changing injuries following an explosion on his boat offshore at East Quay Marina last night. The cause of the explosion is not known and no conclusive evidence has come forward from any eye-witnesses to the event. It is believed that Mr Roberts lost a leg in the incident.

  ‘Forensic teams are still at the scene but initial reports point to this being a tragic accident and not the result of negligence or foul play.

  ‘Mr Roberts (52) chairs a number of local enterprises, as well as being the proprietor of a string of successful nightclubs along the coast. His property portfolio is thought to be valued at £20m. His wife, Anastasia (29) is the daughter of Russian billionaire, Sergei Popolov and is herself involved in a number of local charities. Mr Roberts has one child from his first marriage.’

  The report went on to say that the boat had been completely destroyed. Over the years Honey has imagined what his injury must have been like, how could she have caused such an awful thing to happen?

  It was, however, obvious from this early report that he’d got to the press and the police and convinced them not to look too deeply into the events of that night; Camilla, the woman Honey worked for, had made it clear that Reuben and his wife had friends in high places and that they both had reputations to keep. It seems that money could buy silence after all.

  There was a smattering of other reports on the internet and some grainy pictures of Reuben and his wife at gala dinners or on board the boat, but it looked as though the trail had dried up a few months afterwards and the reports petered out, being replaced by articles about both of them opening day centres for disabled kids, holding a charity auction and Anastasia launching Resurrection, her own brand of perfume. It had all been glossed over and forgotten, by the public at least.

  It may well have been a cover-up, but Honey can still remember the taste of seawater in her mouth, how heavy her arms and legs had been as she’d tried to make it to shore.

  Now however and, from what she can see of him from her position behind the door, he looks unscarred: his skin is still dusky and smooth, but maybe his body is a criss-cross of lines; perhaps he had to undergo months of skin grafts and prosthetics’ fittings before he could walk again? And it would all be her fault. It was her fault. It is.

  She’s deliberately not looked for references to him on the internet for years now. In true ostrich form, she’s not wanted to know.

  It had all started so innocently. She was working behind a bar when her colleague, Sioux, said, ‘Hey, fancy earning some extra cash?’ And hey, who wouldn’t?

  She began working the sex lines and was quite good at it. The callers seemed to like her. However, as ever with these things, it didn’t stop there. Maybe it’s like drugs, she’s often thought. You get used to the strength of one and then you want to move on to something that gives you a bigger hit. So she started camming. That was harder – the ‘clients’ more choosy, and the scoring system and competition harsher – but the rewards were good and, with her bar wages, she was managing to make ends meet, could even afford the odd Starbucks. It sounds crazy, but when you have so little, something like that matters.

  And then came Camilla and her escort agency. Honey had once believed that being an escort was accompanying a James Bond look-a-like to the door of a swanky hotel in the West End, holding his arm, only to peel off discreetly and wait to be called upon for erudite conversation when it suited him. She also thought that being an escort meant she’d always get home safely and sleep in her own bed. But it wasn’t like that. There were some dreadful gigs, dreadful sex on dirty sheets and then the bookings on the boat and the promise of extra cash.

  At the start she’d liked the fact it was glamorous and risky, that she’d been the chosen one. Seemed stupid now. It was, she’d soon realised, like she’d traded her soul, and the money made no material difference to her life at all. She still wasn’t able to afford to live anywhere nice or fund a college course. Her life was a vicious circle of her income never quite matching her outgoings. It was as though Camilla’s business model was to pay her girls just enough, but not so much that they’d get ideas above their station. In those days Honey’s regrets could have filled a football stadium.

  Reuben was dangerous and liked it rough but, because he was the pillar of the local community, married to his ridiculously young, beautiful and wealthy wife, what happened on the boat had to be a total secret. Honey was his fantasy, the thing he thought he could get away with, the dark underbelly of his otherwise perfect life.

  There were numerous mucky transactions but that one night, that last night on the boat has haunted her ever since.

  Honey left the agency soon after, got a cleaning job and, for a while, things were OK until the PTSD set in; she guesses that’s what they would have called it if she’d gone anywhere official like the doctor’s. All she knew were the panic attacks, the feelings of worthlessness, guilt and shame, the need to hide. So she left her jobs and moved from the coast to here in the hope that she would feel better about herself, and safer too. She’d always believed Reuben would want to punish her for the damage she’d caused, or silence her, or both. Living with the fear of this was exhausting but, as the months went by and he didn’t come after her, she started to pull herself together. She got a job in Ali’s corner shop, bought fake ID from a guy Ali knew, rented a bedsit with the last of her money and signed on. And then came the interview at Harrison’s where, dressed in charity-shop clothes, she told them her name was Honey Mayhew.

  She’s often thought of the person she was before: her real name – the name her mother gave her – a
nd then she thinks of the foster carers and the dark days and truly believes it’s better to have re-invented herself, at least this way she has chosen who she is; she likes being Honey Mayhew. There are still times, however, when she looks at her name on an official document and wonders how long it will be before she’s found out. Fake IDs are never bullet-proof and though she had done some things to cover her tracks, the worry and the fear of discovery will, she honestly believes, never leave her.

  Reuben’s still there; he’s put his phone away and is scanning the street, studying the shopfronts and the passers-by. In a move she’s seen before, he sweeps his sunglasses off his face and fixes his eyes on the door she’s standing behind. He shifts his feet and a flash of what appears to be pain crosses his face.

  Although she looks totally different, she knows he recognises her too. She’d had long brown hair before, was plumper; the dyed crew cut and diet of anxiety and poverty had, she’d hoped, turned her into someone unrecognisable. But he must be cleverer than that. She is convinced he can see through her disguise.

  At the second his gaze meets hers, a woman stops in front of the door and rummages in her handbag for something, blocking her sight of him and, when the woman moves on, Reuben’s gone and it’s like he’s never been there at all. But Honey knows; she knows he knows where she works now.

  It takes her another ten minutes to pluck up the courage to pull down the blinds behind the window displays, check the front door is locked and the computers turned off and sneak out the back, watchful, terrified, in case he’s found his way round there.

  He hasn’t.

  Her heart is knocking against her ribs. She holds her phone in her hand, ready to dial 999, and starts walking back to the house in Albert Terrace. She’s careful not to tread on any cracks in the pavement in the forlorn hope that this will keep the evil undisturbed, but knows deep down that this is a futile gesture and that nothing is ever going to be the same again.

  Thankfully Boyd isn’t in when she gets back. The house is in semi-darkness now the evenings are beginning to draw in. She guesses Vita must be in her studio and, although she’s not ready to face Boyd yet, she craves company and so, leaving the lights off in the house, makes her way through the lounge, into the kitchen and out the back door.

  It’s all still there, whirling in her head: the sex, the precariousness, the cash, the guilt. She can never let Boyd know the type of person she really is, what she was driven to do, that she is damaged goods. She truly believes he will stop loving her if he ever finds out.

  This is awful. She loves being here, she loves Boyd, she likes Vita, she is happy in this house but, just like it was after her session with Elizabeth, she has been reminded that none of this, not one tiny iota of it, can be for keeps.

  She’s right, Vita’s working. Vita’s also been busy in the garden, clearing up after summer, getting it ready for winter. Honey doesn’t know how she finds the time, but the garden looks abundant, tended. The leaves of Vita’s shrubs brush against her legs as she walks down the path and she likes this. At the front of the house the Virginia creeper is starting its autumn blaze.

  The sun has slipped below the roofs of the nearby houses, the neighbourhood is Sunday-quiet and suddenly, through the welter of thoughts about what has just happened, the idea comes to her and she feels oddly blessed, blessed that she has the chance to do something to preserve what Boyd and she have together. Whatever may happen next, at least she can give him this.

  She knocks on the studio door.

  Vita makes an ‘Mmmm’ noise from within.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, ‘it’s me, Honey. Can I come in?’

  Vita doesn’t answer so Honey takes that as a yes. Inside, the light from the spot lamps is weird; it’s not fluorescent but more like daylight and Honey assumes this is intentional. Vita’s sitting in a pool of it, her hair made almost luminous by it. Her woollen dress is the same red as her glasses, it’s long and its hem is brushing the floor. Around her shoulders she’s wearing a black shawl which she’s clipped together with a large silver butterfly brooch. She has a pair of clogs on her feet. Although it’s still quite warm outside, she has her heater on. The air smells of linseed oil and turps.

  She turns to look at Honey and nods briefly before saying, ‘Yes? What is it?’

  Honey’s getting used to Vita’s ways now; her bark is always much worse than her bite. She comes over as perfunctory, but Honey knows she has a good heart. She must have done to have loved, and been loved by, Boyd. However, despite this Honey’s suddenly lost for words. As she’d stood outside the door she’d been so sure, but now face-to-face with her, she’s not. So, instead, she says, ‘Hi. Just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ Vita replies, her voice flat and disinterested. She picks up a paintbrush and taps it against her glasses.

  ‘Nice picture,’ Honey says lamely, looking at the canvas on the easel. It’s of some kind of dog with soulful eyes and who looks like he’s wearing some sort of handlebar moustache.

  ‘Fucking Cockapoos. Everyone thinks they’re so cute. I can’t see the point in them myself.’

  ‘I’ve never had a pet. Have you?’ Honey asks.

  ‘No. Why would I want to do that?’

  Vita’s washing out the brush now, studying its bristles and not looking at Honey. It’s getting darker outside now and Honey feels confused by the colours in the studio: the yellows and browns and blues are shouting at her from the pictures stacked against the walls. She’d thought she would get accustomed to what had happened earlier, but it’s obvious she won’t, not immediately. She needs to sit down. The silence between them stretches as she tries to think of what to say next.

  Eventually Vita looks at her. ‘Shit, you OK?’ she asks. ‘You look awfully pale.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just hungry, probably.’

  ‘Boyd says you’re having a takeaway tonight.’

  Honey feels a faint frisson when Vita says this. She’s not sure what it is, but it’s not comfortable. Boyd had said he’d call Vita, but even so, part of Honey still doesn’t like the fact that he has. It’s stupid of her, she knows.

  ‘We’re hoping to,’ she says. ‘What are your plans?’

  Vita pauses, gazes out of the window and then says, ‘I’m going to try and get some more of this bloody picture done and then I’m going out.’

  She doesn’t tell Honey where she’s going and Honey doesn’t like to ask. Despite how well they seem to be getting along right now, Honey doesn’t want to push it. However, she does still need to ask her.

  ‘Look,’ she says, shifting her feet. ‘I was wondering if you’d do me a favour.’

  ‘Oh,’ Vita replies, ‘what’s that?’

  ‘It may seem a strange thing to ask.’

  ‘I won’t know if it is or it isn’t until you say it.’

  Vita’s still not looking at her, but has put down her brush and has picked up a tube of paint and is picking at the label with her fingernail.

  ‘Will you paint me? Paint my portrait, I mean.’ Honey carries on in a rush, not pausing, afraid now of how Vita’s going to react. ‘I’d like you to do it so I can give it to Boyd.’

  ‘You want me to do what?’ Vita says. ‘Why the fuck would I want to do that?’

  Honey immediately regrets asking her. What kind of gold-plated fool is she to think Vita would welcome the idea with open arms? And yet, still, it’s something that she realises she really, really wants.

  ‘Please,’ she says. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She closes her eyes. The words are burning her tongue. She’s never told anyone before and, although it’s obvious why she’d want to now, why should she want to tell Vita?

  But she does.

  She says, ‘There are things about me that Boyd doesn’t know and that I don’t want him to know, but I think that one day he may find out and I want to do this for him so he’ll have something good to remember me by, something that’ll remind him
of who I am right now.’

  The words come out in a rush. Honey realises she must appear like a mad, wild-eyed woman and has no idea if what she’s said makes any type of sense.

  ‘That sounds dramatic,’ Vita replies. ‘We’re not in some Hollywood movie, you know.’

  ‘I know we’re not. It’s just that I’m so worried, Vita. I’m worried that what I’ve done in my past is going to catch up with me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Vita is looking at her now, her eyes drilling into Honey’s, but her voice is kinder than Honey had expected it to be.

  ‘I’ve never wanted to deceive him. It’s just that there are things I can’t tell him, things I did before I met him.’

  ‘Like what?’

  So Honey tells Vita about the boat and the explosion. She doesn’t say what she was doing there or why, she just tells her about the blast, that it was an accident, that the boat’s owner may be after her and that she’s sure she saw him earlier today standing on the opposite side of the road to the office. She also tells her about her visit to the medium and what she said about the fall and about being found. She says nothing about her mother though, or the child. It is a kind of half-truth, half-lie, but it has to do. She doubts she’ll ever be ready to tell anyone the rest of it.

  ‘My God,’ Vita says. ‘There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?’

  Honey bristles at this. Now the words have been spoken, she feels surprisingly light-headed as she says, ‘I guess there’s more to all of us than meets the eye. Even you, Vita. We all have stories to tell, don’t we?’

  Vita nods at this and places the tube of paint down carefully on her work table. ‘We sure do,’ she says, ‘we sure do. And Boyd knows nothing of this? About the boat, or the medium?’

  ‘No, I told him the medium had said everything was going to be OK.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘he told me what you’d told him.’

  ‘Did he? I hadn’t realised he’d done that. You won’t say anything though, will you, Vita? You must promise me. He must never know. I’ve only ever lied to protect him. Well, not lied exactly; it’s just I’ve never told him the truth. I can’t, I just can’t.’