If You Knew Her

by Emily Elgar

  ‘Really, Cas, I don’t think you should …’

  ‘Please, Charlotte, look it’s just my low blood pressure; I know it is. I’ll rest for a while, have some water and I’ll feel better. Come and check on me in fifteen minutes and I’ll be fine again, I promise.’

  Charlotte looks stricken for a moment, unsure what to do, so Cassie repeats, ‘Please, Charlotte’, before she at last leaves Cassie on her own.

  Cassie sits motionless in the passenger seat for a few seconds as she lets the facts form a patient queue in her brain. She’s sick, and her period’s late. She feels one of her breasts; it’s swollen and feels bruised as she squeezes it gently. Shit. She thinks about texting Jonny, telling him to come and find her, but that’d only make Charlotte more suspicious and she can’t deal with any more of that now. No, no she should do a test first. She needs to know for sure before telling anyone. She looks down at her gold wedding ring, turns it round on her finger and she fills her lungs with a big, shuddery breath. She’d imagined this moment before, used to fantasise about finding out she was pregnant, but she’s shocked she can’t feel any joy. Instead she feels another wave of nausea and she covers her face with her palms, as if trying to hide from the world, and sobs into her hands.

  10

  Alice

  The female police officer, Officer Brooks, is standing at reception waiting for me. She’d already met with Elizabeth Longe for an update on Cassie’s medical condition. It was Jack’s suggestion I meet with Brooks afterwards. He said he wanted everyone to be clear on what happened. He wants to turn down the volume on the assertions and gossip that hums around the hospital ward like theme music to a movie, but I suspect there’s something else. A muscle in Jack’s jaw flexed and bounced when he told me Jonny has been granted bail.

  Brooks has dyed her short hair a rusty ochre since we last met. I never know how to address police officers: ‘Officer’, or maybe just ‘Brooks’. ‘Jane’ feels too informal for someone in police uniform.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, adding, ‘How are you?’, avoiding a name altogether.

  Her thin lips smile briefly, and, for a moment, I see more ‘Jane’ than ‘Officer Brooks’.

  ‘I thought we could go in here,’ I add, showing her into the nurses’ room.

  I was hoping we’d have a cup of tea, that we might talk freely to each other, if not quite woman to woman then at least as two female professionals working on the front line. I want to find out what she thinks about the case, but Officer Brooks sits rigid and impassive opposite me, her uniform like an armour between us. I get the impression she wants me to get straight to it, so I clear my throat.

  ‘We were told the neighbour, Jonny Parker, has been charged.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  I’m worried I’m going to have to wring words out of her like a wet towel, drop by drop, so I’m relieved when she clasps her hands in her lap and leans forward in her chair towards me.

  ‘Neighbours who attended the same New Year’s party have provided witness statements,’ she says in a low, but clear, voice. ‘They saw Mrs Jensen and Mr Parker arguing outside the party. Mr Parker says Mrs Jensen walked home in the dark soon after they were seen. He stayed at the party for a couple more hours before driving home, five times over the legal limit.’

  ‘So he lives close to Cassie and Jack?’

  Brooks blinks and nods at me, surprised perhaps I’m using their first names, like we’re friends. She knows what I’m really asking.

  ‘He drove down the same lane where Mrs Jensen was hit, yes. The theory is he returned home, still catatonic, but he let his dogs out so they could legitimately “find” her.’

  ‘And what’s he saying?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose anything more.’

  ‘I thought Jack wanted …’

  ‘Mr Jensen wanted us to have this conversation because Mr Parker is out on bail now and while his movements are of course restricted and he’s not allowed to make contact with the Jensens, we can’t place a limit on him coming to the hospital in case he’s involved in a medical emergency. Mr Jensen knows Mr Parker tried to force his way onto the ward soon after the accident and he’s understandably concerned he could make another attempt to see Mrs Jensen, which would be very distressing for him and his mother. I’ve spoken to security here; they know to be extra vigilant but we thought it was a good idea to make staff on the ward aware as well.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll try and come back?’

  Brooks’ eyes fix on mine for a moment. She seems to soften slightly, and I get the impression she’s speaking more from personal rather than professional experience when she says, ‘Well, he said he wouldn’t, of course, but I’ve seen his type before. They seem sane enough until they find themselves at home, alone and emotional, and the next thing they know, they’re opening bottles and god knows what they’ll do then, so just make sure your team is aware and monitoring all visitors, OK?’

  Brooks bends down towards her feet and rips open the Velcro flap on her police bag.

  ‘Mr Jensen asked me to give you this as well. He forgot to take it when we met. He said he’d pick it up from you later.’ Brooks hands me a small brown envelope, the insides padded with packaging. On the front someone has addressed the envelope to ‘Mr Jack Jensen’.

  Brooks stands abruptly once I’ve taken the envelope. She doesn’t ask me if I have any questions. She smooths her dark-navy polyester trousers. ‘I think that’s all for now,’ she says and she flicks another small smile towards me before she leaves.

  I stay sitting in the windowless nurses’ room for a few minutes after Brooks leaves, the envelope in my lap, my forefinger twitching against the flap. It isn’t sealed well; half of the envelope flap is unstuck, puckered and raised. I wonder if Brooks noticed it wasn’t stuck down properly. I run my fingers along the opening, tease it open a little more. I know I should get some tape, seal it back down, but it’s already almost open. Wouldn’t it be better to put it in another envelope, one I can seal properly? It looks like it’s been tampered with already. I don’t want Jack to think someone he doesn’t know has been fiddling with it.

  Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I move my chair so my back is towards the door in case anyone comes in. I move my finger under the lip of the envelope, which tears easily. Inside, there’s a small, clear, plastic evidence bag holding a turquoise ring. I’ve seen it before; it was on April’s thin finger in the photo I saw on Cassie’s Facebook – the one of Cassie, April and the white-haired guy in the hospice. The turquoise is marbled, the silver band worn and bumpy, as though it’s full of stories. There’s a white label stuck onto the front of the plastic bag. It says the ring was found on the third finger of Cassie’s left hand. Her wedding ring finger.

  My heart leaps as there’s a knock at the door. I shove the bag back in the envelope and stand, holding the envelope behind my back. I turn towards the door as Sue, the ward technician, pokes her head into the room and asks if I’ve seen Mary or know anything about an order Mary made earlier today. I shake my head and Sue frowns quickly, muttering something about systems being in place for a reason before she closes the door.

  I find a new envelope from the small stationery cupboard and quickly write Jack’s name on the front, just like the police did. As I hold the gummy edges of the envelope together I search for a coherent way into my thoughts, like trying to find the end of a ball of wool, I know there was something, something I saw about Cassie’s wedding rings. Holding the fresh envelope, I walk back onto the ward and stop by Cassie’s bed.

  I pick up her left hand, feel where her wedding ring should be and finally my memory unfurls itself. I remember Jack the day after Cassie was hit; I see him again dropping Cassie’s engagement and wedding rings into his shirt pocket. I remember how he patted the pocket, how the rings rested safe just above his heart. I thought the trauma team would have given them to him, but now I know I was wrong, Cassie wasn’t wearing his rings when she was hit; she w
as wearing her mum’s. Jack must have brought them specially from home.

  I place Cassie’s curled hand back on the top of her bed, and look at her withering face. Each day that passes is like a year on her, her skin greying and the lines carving deeper into her skin. I wonder what Jack was planning on doing with those rings; did he have them with him to feel close to Cassie? Or was he planning on sliding them back on her finger, reclaiming her as his own when no one was watching?

  I think about Jonny running onto the ward; he would’ve thrown himself on Cassie if I hadn’t stopped him.

  As I pull the curtain around Cassie I remind myself that it’s Jonny, not devoted Jack, I should be questioning, and I try to distract myself from the memory of his eyes, Jonny’s eyes that were full of something like love.

  It was Carol’s birthday just before New Year so Mary and I take her for a drink after work. The Ox and Cart is a chain pub with spongy carpets and a fruit machine that explodes every two minutes with tinny music and brash lights. The only thing in the pub’s favour is that it backs onto the hospital car park. Mary and Carol are already at a round table for four; Carol’s tight, black dress strained over her chest next to Mary’s zip-up grey fleece make them look like unlikely companions. They’re sitting on stools, a half-empty bottle of white wine in front of them. I forgot to bring a change of clothes so I’m still in my dark-blue scrubs. I do a little pirouette as Mary wolf whistles and says, ‘Sexy outfit, Alice!’

  I buy a bottle of wine for Carol’s birthday and remind Carol and Mary that I’m on ‘dry January’ to avoid comments when I get myself a lemonade. Carol fills us in on Shane, her new man. They met on a dating site, a fact that seems to have turned Carol off even though she was on there herself.

  ‘I know, I know it’s irrational,’ she says. ‘I just feel a bit ashamed when people ask how we met, you know, that we don’t have a sweet romantic story.’

  ‘So make one up.’ Mary shrugs. ‘Everyone lies about their life from time to time.’ Mary takes a gulp of wine.

  ‘I don’t,’ Carol says primly back to her.

  ‘Well, that’s my point. Maybe you should give it a go.’ We always promise not to talk about work when we meet as friends but this evening we break quicker than usual as Mary says, ‘Bet even Cassie Jensen, with her gorgeous life, stretched the truth every now and then.’

  ‘Well, she obviously did about this baby. I still don’t buy it that she didn’t know she was pregnant.’ Carol shakes her head as she talks.

  I clutch my glass and think about going to the loo for a few minutes, in the hope the conversation has moved on by the time I get back. I know some of the nurses have been whispering about it; I’d probably join in if I didn’t understand why Cassie didn’t tell people about her pregnancy. She was protecting Jack, so he didn’t have to go through the pain of another miscarriage. I know that takes guts … guts and a lot of love.

  ‘Earth to Alice, whoohoo.’ Mary snaps her fingers in front of me. I blink twice and say, ‘Sorry.’

  Mary holds the stem of her wine glass between her index and middle finger like a snooker cue. I’m craving a glass myself; lemonade just doesn’t cut it when I’m with these two.

  Carol leans forward towards me, conspiratorially. ‘We were just saying we’ve got some great gossip for you. It turns out she was in an advert.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Cassie Jensen.’ Carol sounds vaguely irritated that I’m being slow, ruining her big news.

  ‘An advert?’ I frown. My mind’s a blank; I can’t think of any adverts.

  Mary rolls her eyes at me and leans forward, next to Carol. ‘Lizzie was going on about how she recognised Cassie and wouldn’t leave it alone. Then suddenly it clicked and she said, “There’s the sun”, and that’s when it clicked for me too.’

  Mary pauses. Carol smiles at me. Both of them want to catch the moment I twig.

  I shrug at them both. ‘I don’t get it.’ I have no idea what they’re talking about.

  ‘She’s that girl, the girl from the orange juice advert. Juice-C?’ Carol says it like it’s obvious. ‘You know, the blonde one who looks all miserable? Come on, Alice. You must remember. I mean, it was a few years ago, but everyone, everyone, was doing the catchphrase, even you …’

  My mind is totally blank. I still can’t think of any adverts, especially none I’d impersonate.

  Carol holds her wine glass close to the side of her face. She takes a long sip, finishing off her wine in one draw. She exhales, as if sated, and says in a wispy Marilyn Monroe-style voice, ‘There’s the sun.’

  I stare at Carol and then Mary.

  Carol starts laughing again, delighted. ‘It’s her, Alice! Lizzie looked it up. Cassie’s the girl from the Juice-C advert.’

  Mary and I sip, Carol gulps. The fruit machine sounds like it’s having a fit.

  ‘You don’t remember it, do you?’ Mary sounds deflated.

  ‘No no, I do remember something like that. I’ll have to have a look when I get home. Was she in anything else?’ I don’t really remember but I want them to stop looking at me, expectant, like I’m about to perform some amazing trick.

  ‘Not really, not that I know of. She’s a bit like the MilkyBar Kid, isn’t she? I don’t think he was in anything else either.’ Mary’s voice is already sticky with wine.

  ‘What a weird old world, huh?’ Carol turns to me. ‘The girl from the Juice-C advert on our ward, pregnant and in a coma. You couldn’t make it up.’

  ‘Does anyone else know?’ I ask. ‘About Cassie and this advert, I mean?’

  Mary blinks at me and Carol shakes her head.

  ‘OK, good,’ I say, ‘Sharma was going on about confidentiality to me again yesterday, silentius maximus.’

  Carol snorts on her wine and Mary scoffs, ‘Arrogantius prickus.’

  Mary moves on to tell us about her little grandson, Thomas, who has had the measles recently. He’s been wailing so much Mary’s daughter hasn’t left the house in three days. Carol commiserates. Her daughter had it when she was little and it was a bugger to get rid of apparently.

  I want to leave, to google the Juicy-C advert, but now they’re talking about kids I’ll have to stay at least another fifteen minutes. I don’t want them to feel bad or think that’s why I’m leaving. I wait, trying to be patient, while Carol asks us for the tenth time if we think she should have laser surgery on her eyes. Mary tells her again that she’s too young to have ‘reading glasses’.

  I probably haven’t been listening long enough for them not to worry, but I can’t stop thinking about that advert so, in what I hope is a happy voice, I say, ‘Sorry, ladies, I’m going to leave you to the wine.’ I kiss them both. ‘Happy belated birthday,’ I say to Carol.

  They tut and ohh their disappointment that I’m leaving so early, but I reassure myself they’ll be back to their stories as soon as I’ve picked my bag off the floor.

  I watch the advert on my phone twice in my car. As soon as the mocked-up grey, 1950s, black-and-white street comes onto the screen, I remember it. An attractive young woman – more of a girl really – walks down the dull street, although they’ve made her skin light grey, similar to what it is now. She is undeniably lovely but a low-key, natural lovely. Her face isn’t showy, demanding adoration, and her dimples and long neck are quietly gorgeous; there should anyone notice. Advert Cassie walks close to the camera and appeals right into the lens, ‘Where’s the sun?’

  Immediately, a carton of Juice-C drops down from the heavens into her hands. She takes a good, long gulp through a convenient straw and, all of a sudden, the sky opens, the picture turns into brilliant colour and out of nowhere, laughing, beautiful people bounce onto the street. Cassie is transformed. She’s sparkling, her hair in a ponytail, her smile wide and her teeth California-white. A brass band marches behind her, cheerleaders twirl about, fireworks explode in the background and Cassie looks at the carton in her hand, her smile never shaking, and turns back to the camera. ‘There’s the s
un!’ she says, with laughter in her voice.

  The advert feels made to be annoying, aggressively catchy. I remember promoters outside a supermarket handing out free tasters of the drink to anyone who did the catchphrase ‘There’s the sun!’ I just scuttled past.

  I don’t know this Cassie. She’s too produced, too shiny, to fit with my idea of the strong, beautiful artist, who rose to all the challenges the world threw at her with dignity and grace. Trying to know Cassie is like wrestling with smoke; whenever I think I’m getting to know her, the image blurs and she comes back into focus as someone else.

  My phone starts buzzing in my hand, it’s David. Shit, it’s already 7 p.m. Jess and Tim will be arriving at ours any minute. I turn the car on so David can hear the engine in the background and tell him I’m on my way. As I wait for the machine to read my staff card and open the barrier so I can leave the car park, an old blue estate pulls up opposite on the other side of the road, in front of the entrance barrier. The man, who looks like he’s in early old age, has parked too far away from the side of the barrier and can’t reach the parking ticket. He kicks his door open and uses it to pull himself up to stand. He stumbles slightly as he leans forward to pull the ticket out of the machine. The wind blows his white hair as the barrier rises with a jerk and he holds onto the car door again as he lowers himself, with a wince of pain, back behind the wheel. Maybe he’s at Kate’s to have his hip seen to.

  The car behind me beeps for me to move on. I shake myself to wake up, and wave an apology at the car behind as I drive away.

  Heat singes my face as I heave the lasagne David made out of the oven. It bubbles and pops so I leave it on the side to cool a little and turn to Jess, who sits at our kitchen table, cluttered with David’s architecture magazines, candles and paperwork. She’s cleared a little space to chop tomatoes for our salad. She’s wearing a threadbare apron printed with little wild flowers I’ve had since I was a child over her light-grey fitted work dress. She’s left her heels by the back door in favour of my slippers and her red lipstick is starting to wear to a diluted beetroot but her dark-chocolate bob is still sleek. There’s still a hint of the Sony Executive she’s worked so hard to become.