by Caron Allan
I’ve realised now all I long for is for things to be how they were then, at the beginning of this mess. I want to go back to how things were at the start of this journal, on page one, the day of my birthday, when Clarice’s lack of consideration was really all that was troubling me in the rosy little garden that was my life.
Thurs 23 May—8.45pm
I wrote a few days ago that all I wanted was to go back to that time last year before everything changed.
But obviously I can’t go back in time. So I have to look forward, no real choice about that. I’ve thought of suicide a few times, but I’m too gutless to do anything so drastic, and therefore, as a human being I have no choice about going onwards into the future. I can’t remain in the ‘now’, let alone return to the ‘then’.
So what do I want out of life now?
Well, I still want to be left alone. I hate it when people phone up, text me, email me—actually this one isn’t too bad, it’s nice and remote and impersonal, I can open the email or not open it, as I prefer, when I choose. I hate actual, physical visitors even more.
So how do I get what I want?
I could join a monastery. Or well, no, I mean a nunnery. But I don’t think I’d like getting up in the middle of the night to pray and besides I’m still very cross with God for letting Thomas die.
Monica might be the only thing that is standing in the way of my peace and quiet. I mean, I know I’m not keen on chatting on the phone or having people over—or—even worse—going to the homes of other people for dinner or what-have-you, but in the main it’s because Monica is the one person I dread to hear, to see, to meet. She has become The New Clarice.
But on the upside, I now have no one left whom I would dread to lose. So.
I have made a decision.
In a way, I’ve re-made an old decision.
But now it’s time to get on with it. I’ve wasted far too much time already.
As an early birthday present to myself, and to greatly enhance the quality of my life, I’m going to kill Monica. Let’s get this over with once and for all. I need closure.
Sat 25 May—9.25pm
Just had the most bizarre text from Mother. And now I feel just terrible after the way I behaved. I was goaded on by Matt of course, who has not spoken to me for almost a week and seems to be sulking about something, God knows what, and acted partly out of concern for Lill and Sid, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Here’s the text she sent, word for word, with her own special text-speak.
‘Darling, plse forgive sudden invasion. Didn’t stp to thnk. Soz sweetheart I know we were bit difcult. But smthng happnd and had to get out. Cn u believe that horrid man has actlly been forcing hmslf on Whsper. She finlly told me in fluds of tears and my only thght was to get hr awa. Now in hotel in snny Med. Will be in touch. Take care Darling luv mummy. xxxx’
I feel absolutely terrible. If it’s true. And why would she make something like that up? I mean she’s many things, my mother, but a liar she is not! That poor, sweet young girl. Have tried to think of something to say but can’t quite think how to put it into words and not sound totally inane. And—can’t remember ‘his’ name. Boris? Morris? And can’t even remember if he’s Whisper’s father or a ‘step’.
She’s never called me Darling like that before. As if she meant it.
Same day: 10.40pm
As I was cobbling together some clumsy response, Mother rang. I think that’s the first time she and I have ever had what I would call a rational talk. She was like a completely different person! It was—nice! She had a little cry, said she blamed herself for her poor judgement over this chappie, husband number five, whose name apparently is Desmond (nothing even slightly similar to Boris!)
She said she was so upset last time things fell apart over the loss of her little step-son Clement, (the nine-year-old I asked her about—she said she’d found it too painful to talk about that situation!) that this time she pulled out all the stops and got custody of Whisper from her drunk father and his barmaid-mistress. Then of course, Mother met Boris, I mean Desmond and now it turns out that Desmond has been doing horrid, horrid things to poor little Whisper—no wonder she’s such a sulky little brat. So, Mother had to leave Desmond and take Whisper with her. She said she just didn’t know where else to go, and she hoped that, being a bit closer to Whisper’s age, I’d know what to do and say.
Oh God! They sought refuge with me and look how I betrayed them! I threw them out! I’ve told them to come back, but Mother says it’s all right, she has arranged a trip to Switzerland once they have topped up their tans, to give Whisper a bit of a break, but they might pop back here in a couple of months. Will set some sensible ground rules then, and hopefully we’ll all have a nice time. She said she just doesn’t know what to do about Desmond. I mean, she doesn’t want to live with him again after what’s happened as he is now officially scum, but apparently her money is running out rather rapidly and she’s worried if she doesn’t hook herself another millionaire quite quickly, she will be left high and dry.
Am wondering if there is anything useful I can do about Desmond. I mean, if he did that to Whisper, what are the chances there have been—and might continue to be—other young victims? He’s a menace to society!
Hmm.
Ponder. Ponder.
Wed 29 May—11.30am
Okay, so there’s the perfect little retreat I’ve just found on the Interweb. It’s not as grand as Chapley’s, nor does it offer quite the same range of activities and therapies. But it does have two distinct advantages: 1) They can fit me in next week and 2) They’re only twelve miles from Monica’s.
This new place is called Lavender Hall Health Spa. Bit uninspiring to be honest. Still, how bad can it be? I’m getting déjà vu just thinking about it. It’s Chapley’s all over again. Not quite sure about the details yet but I’ll think of something, I know it. I’ve just made the booking, four nights, so there’s time for some actual relaxation slash therapy!. And obviously I’ll drive myself, so that will give me plenty of flexibility.
I asked for a room on the ground floor, told them I was nervous of fires. Hopefully they’ve still got the same windows I saw in the website photos of their guest rooms, I’m absolutely convinced I’ll be able to just hop out the window to go to Monica’s, and no one any the wiser! Still, I might need to think of a back-up plan in case they’ve done something ridiculous like replace all their windows in a hysterical refurbishment programme (and to be honest, it does look a teeny bit in need of a little refurb.)
It’s astonishing. I can feel all the old excitement of last year’s first trip to Chapley’s. Am humming ‘Like a Virgin’ as I look out of the window and find inspiration to finally deal with this ultimate pain in my perfect little bum.
Soon Monica will be no more. Must start practising tribute phrases so I can say them on the day without giggling.
‘Much missed’
‘Beloved Friend’
‘Sadly taken in her prime’
‘Senseless waste’.
Yay! ;)
Same day: 1.00pm
I think I will take all my old Clarice-killing gear, as I haven’t firmed up my plans yet.
So here’s my list:
Leotard x 2
Yoga pants & vest x 2
Zippy jacket (in case weather is beastly)
Trainers
Nice top and skirt/trousers for evenings
Nice wrap in case a bit chilly after dinner
Little heels and bigger heels
Jeans and nice blouse/t-shirt
Sports bra (in case I need to run—and because of yoga and other assorted keep-fittery)
Balaclava
Black sneakers
Black sweater and black leggings
Gloves
Small handgun or knife? Hmm not sure about the knife—don’t want to get icky)
(I wonder if Matt knows anyone who can get me a gun on the QT? Surely he has oodles of dodgy ex-con mates?)
> Ooh—almost forgot—extra-gentle moist cleansing tissues
Same day: 1.45pm
No.
I’ve got it now. Ethylene Glycol. After all I’ve waited so long, and so patiently to use it. So, so long. So, so patiently. It’s time. I will slip in and put it in, well, something, not sure what. I’m sure to happen on something as I rummage around her kitchen. Then I’ll leave. By the time it finally happens, I’ll be miles away. With luck, it should be chalked up to food poisoning or even suicide—after all, it’s well-documented that she has suffered from mental illness in the last year.
So I will add to my list ‘a tiny bottle of my favourite stuff’.
I’m flooded both by a sense of relief and a sense of fulfilment. This is what I should have done a long time ago. At last I’m going to be free of that selfish bitch, and Thomas can really rest in peace, atoned for, avenged, appeased.
It’s all so wonderful, I feel all teary.
Thurs 6 June—6.15pm
Arrived in good time for afternoonsies. Gorgeous Pimms, best I’ve ever had. It is a small place, as I suspected but so good—really personal service and very discerning clients, the few I’ve met so far. Apparently Lavender Hall is something of an open secret (probably the twee name alone puts people off) and much treasured by its clients who seem to all be regulars. One lady said this was her thirtieth year of coming here. Didn’t like to point out that it didn’t appear to be doing her much good: terrible skin, dreadfully arthritic, short-sighted, in fact I’m not sure any part of her was working properly apart from her snobbery. She was all right with me once I opened my mouth and she heard the finishing-school accent, but the comments she made about a couple of other ladies—games mistresses by the look of them, here for a dirty weekend.
My room’s nice enough. A bit small, especially when compared to Chapley’s more generous proportions, fairly plain, but actually I quite like it. One can have too much luxury. Windows even better than I could have hoped—they are mini French windows, opening onto the garden at the rear of the Spa, quite close to the car park (convenient for sneaking out!) but not so close as to endanger one’s healthy spa-experience with noise pollution.
Getting ready for dinner in a mo, should be interesting to see how their food compares with Chapley’s. Then I might have a little potter around the grounds, followed by an early night (ready for a good day of therapy tomorrow) and if I chance to have a little wander in the garden late this evening, before retiring for the night, and if my little walk should happen to take me to my car and thence to Monica’s, well, I really don’t think anyone is going to notice.
What a nice place this is.
Must recommend it to all my new friends.
Same day: 9.20pm
Absolutely exquisite dinner, the chef here really knows his stuff! And I’ve made an utter pig of myself, don’t know if can even move, let alone have a quick walk round the gardens and then go to Monica’s.
Perhaps a little sit in the bar with a couple of new pals? Got to let my dinner go down, obviously, as don’t want to get indigestion, and after all this is supposed to be a health spa—obviously one’s digestion is treated with more than the usual respect here.
Haven’t heard anything from Mother since the other day. I do hope Whisper is all right. Perhaps she’ll relax a bit in Switzerland and will be able to recover a bit from all that’s happened. And hopefully Mother will meet a nice elderly Swiss chappie who has no interest in young girls. Of course, he’ll have to have pots of cash and a dodgy heart. But where better to find someone like that than at a Spa in Switzerland?
I’m still wondering if perhaps Desmond should go the same way as Monica is about to. I think I will have to take some ‘affirmative action’!
Fri 7 June—10.10am
Why on earth she needs such a massive house, I’ll never know. After all she has no one to share it with—not a boyfriend, a cleaning lady or even a cat. (I wonder how Tetley and the babies are, must text Lill in a mo.)
I arrived last night in time to see Monica’s lights glowing behind upstairs curtains—she must have been in bed. The rest of the house was in darkness so it was easy to nip in the gate and stand in the shadows of the little shrubbery by the front door, taking it all in and waiting for the right moment. I put my gloves on.
I waited. The drizzle was cool and pleasant on my face, the night full of the soft noises of the evening. I could hear the murmur of her TV as I made my way through the negligently unsecured side gate and along a rather nice undulating walk to the rear of the house and the kitchen door.
I was going to whack the glass in the window next to the door with my torch. But on an impulse I tried the door and that too was unlocked! Honestly, single women living alone ought to have a bit more sense, I mean, anyone could just walk right in, and that is exactly what I did.
I was in a darkened room. I risked a quick flash of my torch, curtained by my fingers, and holding it below the level of the window. I was in a utility area.
Ahead of me, an open door revealed the dim interior of the kitchen—the red eyes of the microwave and cooker glowing softly. A humming nearby told me I was by the fridge.
I opened the fridge and peeked in, dazzled by the sudden brightness. From somewhere above my head I heard a soft movement and I held my breath, letting the fridge door close. There was the sound of a door closing and a bolt being drawn across. I could hear someone—presumably Monica—peeing and then a couple of unladylike farts. Really, I thought, then remembered that of course she thought she was alone.
I looked in the fridge again. And found an opened bottle of Sangria, still half-full (optimist that I am), so I decanted some of my precious cargo into that. The remaining anti-freeze I poured into the last quarter of a carton of orange juice. I felt that I had covered all bases.
Mission accomplished I closed the fridge and waited for a few seconds for my eyes to readjust to the darkness.
Upstairs, the toilet flushed and water ran in a basin, and a moment later the door opened and was followed by a soft sound that told me she had gone back to bed.
I waited another minute for her to get settled then quickly flashed my torch in the direction of the rubbish bin.
In the bin I found an empty water bottle. This was perfect for my plan, and served her right for not recycling. The woman clearly had no social conscience at all. I imagined my suicidal friend, trotting out to the garage, tipping some of her antifreeze into a handy little mineral water bottle, taking it back into the kitchen, doctoring her fave tipple and her healthy breakfast drink, then binning the empty(ish) water bottle. It was perfect!
I emptied the dregs from my bottle into Monica’s discarded one, being very, very careful not to touch it more than I had to, and only gripping it by the screw top—didn’t want to run the risk of spoiling her depressed little fingerprints. A quick swish and then I put the bottle back in the bin.
Two minutes later and I was back in my car. Fifteen minutes after that, I was back at Lavender Hall tucked up in bed with a nice book.
Slept wonderfully last night. I feel so full of hope, of confidence. Life seems once again full of possibilities. Hurrah!
Sun 9 June—5.35pm
Hmm. Must admit to feeling a vague sense of anti-climax. Have heard of no calamities relating to a single lonely, mentally unstable woman killing herself with anti-freeze in either sangria or orange juice. I’ve listened to the radio news and the television news, and scanned local and national papers. But not a sniff of a police person laden with sad news in the village. How disappointing!
Not quite sure what to do. I mean, I can hardly ring Monica and ask her why she’s not dead yet. And I don’t really know anyone that is still in touch with her. It’s all a bit of a predicament.
And I’m finding it very hard to properly enjoy all the pampering and the therapy with all this uncertainty hanging over me. Greta, the masseuse, says I’m really very tense and knotted up. ‘Relax!’ she keeps telling me. ‘About what do you h
ave to worry? You here to relax, Mrs Cressida, so do that!’ Nice lady, a bit butch.
Did think about casually driving passed a few times in the hope of catching sight of her—thus alive—or seeing the house engulfed in crime-scene tape—thus dead. But obviously I can’t exactly frequent the vicinity in case I arouse any suspicions.
What to do?
Sun 16 June—3.45pm
It’s been a little over a week since I popped round to Monica’s, and I’m falling apart.
I can’t stand the tension. I mean, I know I don’t need to go over there, because I know that she’s still alive, because if she was dead, by now I would have heard something one way or another. But not a dickey-bird. And the urge to go and check for myself is almost overwhelming. I just don’t know what to do. And all that good work at Lavender Hall has been undone.
And as if things couldn’t get any worse—must pause to detach a rotund tabby kitten from my bedroom curtains—as if things couldn’t get any worse, I am now completely and utterly certain that I’m pregnant!!!!!
I’ve peed on three sticks in the last three days, and the same result each time. There’s no doubt whatsoever. Plus my tummy feels tender, my boobs are sore and I feel very slightly queasy most of the time.
My feelings are an utter mess of contradictions. I mean, first of all, obviously, it’s Matt’s baby, and I could write about 1000 pages on that problem alone. BTW he seems to still be sulking over my apology for seducing him.