by C. L. Taylor
Both men look at me in surprise. I don’t think either of them has heard me raise my voice before.
“Sorry.” My husband’s voice is gravelly but soft as he sinks into his chair and rubs the back of his neck, his eyes closed. He opens them again and reaches for my hand. “Sorry, Sue.” He looks at Oli. His chin dimples as he presses his lips together in contrition. “Sorry, son.” Oli shrugs but says nothing. He’s smarting, I can tell. “I just find it all so—”
I put my hand over his. “I know.”
Brian’s eyes search mine. “You don’t seem surprised by all this.”
“I’m not.” I squeeze his hand. “I’ve read Charlotte’s diary. I know how she felt about Liam.”
He frowns. “She’s got a diary? When did you find it?”
“This morning,” I lie.
Brian sits up straighter in his chair. If he is somehow responsible for Charlotte’s accident, he doesn’t look worried by the fact that I may have had an insight into our daughter’s most private thoughts.
“Does it…” He leans forward. “Does it reveal why she might have wanted to…”
He can’t bring himself to say the words “try to kill herself.” He refuses to entertain the thought that our daughter may have been so unhappy that she chose to end her life rather than share her unhappiness with us. I can understand why he’d feel that way, completely understand.
“No,” I say, and he visibly deflates with relief.
It’s another lie, of course, but I can’t share the truth about the diary until I know for sure if he played any part in “the secret” that weighed so heavily on her. Right now, I don’t know what—or who—to believe.
“Can I see it?” he asks.
When I raise my eyebrows, he shakes his head.
“No, you’re right, of course you are. She still deserves her privacy. But…” His eyes flick back to Oliver who’s observing the two of us with a curious expression on his face. This is the first time we’ve been open about Charlotte’s accident in front of him. The “everything is fine” façade has finally dropped.
Brian shakes his head and slumps back in his seat. We lapse into silence, and I find myself staring at the pile of crumbs on the plate in the middle of the table. I wasn’t surprised to read the entry in Charlotte’s diary about how much she wanted to lose her virginity to Liam and how excited and scared she was. I was quite touched and didn’t think much of it. I certainly didn’t wonder whether it might be connected to “the secret” Charlotte mentions in her final entry—I assumed that was to do with Brian—but now that Oliver has brought up this hotel business…
I tear my eyes away from the cookie crumbs and glance at Milly who’s half asleep at my feet. We need to take a walk—to Liam’s house.
Saturday, September 29, 1990
James told me he loved me last night—three weeks to the day after our first date.
He took me to a fabulous Mexican restaurant in Camden—all low lighting, intimate tables, flickering candles, and not a cactus in sight. I was trying to eat my fajita without it flopping all over the place, but the harder I tried to angle it into my mouth, the more food fell out the end and the more I laughed. When I looked across the table at James, he had a terribly serious look on his face. I glanced behind me to see if he was reacting to some terrible accident out in the street, but cars and people were streaming past as normal.
I put down my fajita. I suddenly didn’t feel very hungry anymore. “What is it, James?”
He shifted in his chair. “You.”
“What about me?”
“You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met in my life.”
His eyes were fixed and unblinking, his mouth set in a straight line, his hands folded neatly in his lap. It was like he was looking beyond my flowery red dress, black beads, and curled hair and peering straight into my head.
“I love you, Suzy,” he said. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you and it terrifies me, loving someone this much. I can’t sleep, eat, or think because of you. I can barely act. I’ve lost control of who I am, and that scares the shit out of me, but I can’t run away because I love you so much. I can’t ever be without you.”
He searched my eyes, looking for a reaction. I’d never seen him look so worried. I smiled, desperate to relieve his discomfort, and reached across the table for his hands. He unfolded them from his lap and held my fingers.
“I love you too, James, but I’ve never felt more scared or vulnerable in my life. I’ve got no defenses left, nothing to stop you from hurting me if you wanted to.”
“I’d never hurt you, Suzy-Sue.” He let go of one of my hands and reached across the table so he could cup the side of my face. “Never. I’d rather hurt myself than see you in pain.”
There were tears in his eyes but he brushed them away brusquely.
“Let’s just go.” He took a handful of money out of his wallet and threw it down on the table. “Let’s go back to yours, put on a record, crawl into bed, and block out the world.”
I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do.
Chapter
Six
I didn’t go to Liam’s house last night. Just as I was about to announce my intention to take the dog for a walk, Brian shot out of his seat and disappeared into the hallway. When he returned a couple of minutes later, he was wearing his jacket with Milly’s lead dangling from his hand. He said the briefest of good-byes to Oliver and then he was gone, out of the porch door like a shot.
Oli raised an eyebrow. “Not like Dad to take Milly for a walk.”
I said nothing. Instead I offered him another cup of tea and more cookies, but he shook his head, said it was getting late and he needed to get back to Leicester.
I glance at the kitchen clock. Brian left for work ages ago and it’s still only 8:50 a.m. If Liam is anything like Oliver was as a teenager, there’s no way he’ll be awake at this time during half term. I should visit Charlotte first and then go and see him. I put down my cup of coffee and stand up. But what if he goes out for some reason and I miss him? Better to try and get hold of him first and then go and see Charlotte. Maybe if I take the long route to his house, he’ll be awake by the time I get there. It’ll be at least 9:30 if I go through the park.
No, I change my mind again as I step into the cloakroom and reach for my coat. I should ring first. Or maybe I should text. That way I won’t disturb his family. But I don’t have a mobile number for him, just a landline.
Charlotte would though.
I fly up the stairs and head for her room, then pause in the doorway. Where’s her mobile? I haven’t seen it since before her accident.
I didn’t touch Charlotte’s room for two weeks after she was hospitalized, not one thing. Not the mascara-stained makeup removal pads strewn across the dressing table, the dirty bras and underwear kicked under the bed, or the magazines scattered across the floor. Nothing. I thought that if I tidied up, I’d regret wiping all traces of her personality from her room if she never woke up. It sounds ridiculous, but I was in shock. How else could I have failed to notice that her phone wasn’t in the clear plastic bag of her things that the nurse handed me? It contained all the normal things she’d take out with her—purse, keys, makeup, and hairbrush—but no phone. Why? Like most teenagers, she was umbilically attached to her mobile.
Three weeks after her accident, my shock finally dissipated, and with it my insistence that Charlotte’s room remain untouched. Instead of seeing the mess as a sign of normality, it became a morbid shrine. My daughter wasn’t dead—she was just ill—so I tidied up, ready for her return. And that’s when I found the diary.
I throw open the wardrobe doors and root around in the pockets of some of her clothes. There are several items I’ve never seen before—a jacket that looks like it’s Vivienne Westwood and an expensively cut dress with a VB label. I stare at
it for several seconds. What’s Charlotte doing with a Victoria Beckham dress? I push it along the rack and turn my attention to the pockets of a pair of Diesel jeans instead. I’ll have to have a word with Oli the next time I see him.
I close the wardrobe door. The bus driver didn’t mention anything about a mobile phone and neither did any of the other eye witnesses, and the police immediately cordoned off the area so if it was lying crushed or broken nearby, they’d have found it. So it must be in the house somewhere.
Charlotte must have deliberately hidden it. And if she did that, then maybe she had something to hide.
I yank open Charlotte’s sock drawer and root around at the back. Nothing. I tip up the box of folders and schoolwork under her desk and sift through the papers. No phone. It’s not hidden in any of her shoes or boots or secreted behind the novels on her bookshelf. I return to the sock drawer, squeezing each bundle, but still find nothing. I search the room for fifteen, twenty minutes, going through every drawer, bag, and shoe box, but there’s no sign of her mobile.
Where is it?
I reach under the pillow for her diary and flick through the pages. I must have read it ten, twenty times, but whatever secret she was keeping, she didn’t share it with her diary. She shared other worries—anxieties about her weight, nervousness about sleeping with Liam for the first time, concern about exam results, and indecisiveness about the career she wanted—but nothing huge, nothing so terrible she’d consider taking her own life.
I close the book and tuck it back under her pillow. There are no answers here. Maybe Liam will have some.
***
White Street is completely deserted apart from a bad-tempered ginger tom who hisses at us as we walk past. I’ve been to Liam’s house dozens of times, but I rarely go in. I normally sit in the car, engine running, as Charlotte rushes in to grab him so I can take them bowling or to the cinema. She never stayed overnight with him and he never stayed at our house, but I told her that, if she was still with Liam when she turned sixteen, I’d accompany her to the doctor so she could go on the pill. Then, once it was safe, her father and I would go out for the evening and she and Liam could have the house to themselves. I thought I was being very reasonable (or “ridiculously liberal” according to Brian), but Charlotte told me it was the “grossest thing she’d ever heard” and that, if she wanted her parents to know when she was having sex, she’d put an ad in the local paper.
I open the gate of the blue house at number fifty-five. The front garden looks lovely. The beds are awash with color, not a single weed to be seen. Claire, Liam’s mum, must have been very busy. What I’d give for her green fingers.
I knock lightly when I reach the front door. The curtains are closed in the living room, but I can make out the shadowy shape of a person moving about. I knock again, louder this time, and keep an eye on the curtains. A moment later, they twitch and a pair of bright blue eyes peers out at me, then they’re swiftly pulled shut again. I hear the sound of a wooden floor creaking, and then the front door swings open. Liam Hutchinson, Charlotte’s seventeen-year-old boyfriend, stands in front of me in nothing but his navy-and-white-striped boxer shorts. He looks confused, so I smile warmly.
“Hello, Liam.”
He nods. “Mrs. Jackson.”
“Could I come in? I was wondering if we could have a little chat.”
***
It feels strange to be sitting in the Hutchinson’s living room. I’ve never been in here before, and I can’t stop myself from staring around, drinking in the unusual lithograph prints on the walls, the color-coordinated scatter cushions, and the large, expensive-looking rug in front of the original Victorian fireplace. Liam is slumped on the sofa on the other side of the room, his knees spread wide. If he finds this situation odd, he isn’t letting on. We’ve been sitting here, sneaking looks at each other, for the last couple of minutes, neither of us saying a word. I rehearsed my opening line dozens of times on my way over, but now the time has come to say it, my mouth has gone dry.
“So…” I manage at last. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”
He shrugs. “Something to do with Charlotte?”
“Yes. Have you been to see her? I’m surprised we haven’t crossed paths.”
“No.” He picks at the ivory-and-gold throw covering his chair, plucking out the metallic threads and then dropping them on the floor. His mother will have a fit when she gets home. “I haven’t seen her. I didn’t think I’d be allowed.”
“Really?” I sit forward. “Because you’re not a relative? That’s fine. Friends and family are allowed in and”—I smile warmly—“you’re more than a friend.”
He shifts in his seat. “No, I’m not.”
“Sorry. I meant—you’re her boyfriend.”
“No. I’m not.”
I frown, certain I must have misheard him. “I’m sorry. I thought you just said—”
“We’re not going out anymore.” He glances away as though embarrassed. “Charlotte dumped me.”
“No!”
I can’t believe it. Charlotte ended it? Charlotte did? I felt sure that if anyone had called time on the relationship, it would have been Liam. She idolized him. Tall, dark, two years older than her, handsome in a scruffy hair-in-his-eyes sort of way, and in a band, she’d almost collapsed with excitement a year ago when one of his friends approached one of her friends in the school canteen to tell her that Liam thought she was “fit.”
She didn’t give the slightest hint that anything was wrong in their relationship, although…I look from Liam to the clock on the mantelpiece, distracted by the tick-tick-tick filling the room…and time slips away.
It’s three weeks before Charlotte’s accident—a Saturday afternoon—and she’s just returned from a shopping trip in town. I’m in the living room, reading, when I hear the door to the porch open. I call out, asking her if she’s bought anything nice, but I’m ignored. I don’t ask again, but I do keep an eye on the open living room door. Seconds later, Charlotte slams up the stairs, looking white as a ghost. I call after her, asking if she’s okay, but the only reply I receive is the sound of a bedroom door slamming. I half rise from the sofa, unsure what to do. Charlotte’s not one for mollycoddling, especially when she’s upset. She won’t let me hug her and flinches if I so much as stroke her arm. She’s stressed; all the kids are. You just have to stand at the school gates for a couple of minutes to work that out. Their exams are fast approaching and coursework is mounting up. Charlotte even had to go into school over the holidays so her teacher could help her complete it on time. I sink back into the sofa. I haven’t been sleeping well recently. My nightmares have returned, and the last thing I need is a screaming match with a fifteen-year-old. She knows where I am, I think as I pick my book back up again.
“Did you split up on a Saturday?” I ask Liam. “About nine weeks ago?”
He runs a hand over his face. “No, it was…” He pauses and I sense that he’s struggling to suppress his emotions. “She ended it the day before her accident.”
“Why?” I lean forward in my seat, my hands gripping my knees. Why didn’t I contact him sooner? It’s as though I’ve been sleepwalking since Charlotte’s accident—longer than that—and I’m only just waking up. Splitting up with her boyfriend has to be the reason she stepped in front of the bus. You never feel heartache as keenly as you do when you’re young. You think it’ll destroy you and that you will never love, or be loved, again. She didn’t write about it in her diary though.
Liam stands up, crosses the room, and picks up his guitar from the stand next to the bookcase. He sits back down and strums a few chords.
“Liam?” It’s as though he’s forgotten I’m in the room. “Why did Charlotte end your relationship? How was she?”
He looks at me blankly.
“When she ended your relationship, how was she?”
He sh
akes his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“Sorry?”
He looks back at his guitar, strums a few more chords, then slaps the strings with the palm of his hand, silencing the sound, then looks across at me. “She dumped me by text.”
I can sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it. That he wants me to leave. But I can’t. “What did she say? In her text? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Not much.” He reaches into the side of the sofa, and Milly starts to her feet as a small, black, plastic object whizzes through the air and lands on the sofa beside me. Liam’s phone. I look at him, to check it’s okay for me to go through it. He nods then looks back at his guitar.
Charlotte the open message is titled. I read it then look at Liam in surprise.
“That’s it?”
He nods.
I look back at the text message:
It’s over between us Liam. If you love me you’ll never contact me again.
“Did you ask why?”
Liam doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the carpet, tapping his foot repeatedly.
“Liam?”
“What?” He doesn’t look up.
“Did you contact her?”
“Of course I did.” He moves as though he’s about to put his guitar on the ground then changes his mind. He hugs it to his chest instead, the side of his cheek pressed against the fret board. “You don’t get a text message dumping you out of the blue like that and not ring up to ask what the fuck’s going on, do you? Not if you still love the person.”
Milly snuffles at my feet.
“What did Charlotte say?”
“She didn’t.” Liam looks at me blankly, like the fight has gone out of him. “She wouldn’t answer her phone. I texted her, texted her loads, but she didn’t text back. Not once.” He shakes his head. “I know she’s your daughter, but I didn’t deserve that, Mrs. Jackson. I didn’t deserve to get dumped by text with no explanation and then get ignored like I didn’t even fucking exist.”