by June Taylor
‘Sounds great,’ said Eloise. ‘So was it easy to get lifts? Is that what you did?’
‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Well, lots of people did it then. That didn’t take away the risks, but it wasn’t considered totally mad.’
‘Did you just take off then, without any more planning than that?’ Eloise was reflecting on her own trip with Anya.
‘There was no internet then, you know.’ Chrissy laughed at herself. ‘Can you believe it? How reckless.’
For a fleeting moment Eloise thought she saw the teenage girl her mother had once been. But she noticed how quickly her expression changed. ‘So why don’t people hitch any more, do you reckon?’ she asked her.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe there was more trust then. Or more fear now, what with all the media and—’
‘The internet,’ Eloise chipped in, sarcastically. Her mother hated it; she didn’t know why. Then another thought occurred to her. ‘That yellow bear … ’ Eloise stopped for a moment. ‘That’s not the one Dad gave to me, is it? I thought it was a present – for me, I mean. But, so, Juliet gave it to him?’
‘Well, I guess he wanted you to look after it. He was fond of it.’
Eloise still couldn’t help feeling disappointed. ‘Where is it, by the way?’
‘Oh,’ said Chrissy, trying to think. ‘Haven’t seen it in a while. You’ve hidden it and forgotten where, haven’t you? Don’t worry, it’ll turn up. I’m off to bed.’
‘No! I want to hear about your trip.’
‘’Night, Eloise.’
***
Eloise’s first thought on Sunday morning was to check the fridge. In her haste to hide the enormous bottle of champagne from Chrissy, she feared she may not have disguised it well enough.
‘Morning,’ said Chrissy, suddenly appearing.
The fridge juddered as Eloise slammed the door shut.
‘You look a bit tired, Eloise. Do you feel okay?’
She forced a smile. It had been a restless night, worrying that her mother would be angry with her, instead of grateful, when she finally came face-to-face with her best friend again.
Her fists clenched when she saw Chrissy opening the fridge.
The champagne bottle was still wrapped in the carrier bag, wedged behind the leftovers from Maria. Eloise watched anxiously as Chrissy removed the carton of milk and took it to the table. A small part of her wished that her mother had discovered it, and then she could tell her the truth; the rest of her was glad because that might just ruin things completely.
With so many knots in her stomach, Eloise merely pushed her cereal round the bowl. ‘I have a theory about Juliet,’ she said. ‘Do you want to hear it?’
‘Depends what it is,’ said Chrissy, licking butter off her fingers.
‘Well, it’s about that brooch.’ She winced as she said the word ‘brooch’, sensing this was a bit of a trigger.
Chrissy put down her toast and folded her arms, resting them on the edge of the table. ‘Okay. Fine. Let’s hear it.’
‘Well, I think Juliet’s been trying to communicate with you. I mean, for ages.’
‘What, via the brooch?’ Chrissy scoffed. ‘Like some telepathic thought transfer through the cat?’
‘Sort of.’
Eloise knew her theory was a good one. Most people used the internet these days; it was almost impossible to function without it. Unless, of course, you were Chrissy: ‘It’s too nosey, too public, too Big Brother-like,’ she would say. ‘You give it bits of information and soon the whole world knows your business and where you are.’
‘I just think, Mum, that she hopes you might try and Google her sometime.’
‘Like you did to her you mean?’
‘Well, yeah, it’s what people do. And when you find her website, there she is: wearing the silver cat brooch in her hair that you didn’t even think she liked.’
‘So?’
‘So, almost twenty years have gone by and she still has this thing in her hair. Don’t you get it? She wants you to see it. It’s a message just for you.’
‘Saying what?’
‘Saying: she cares about you; she misses you; still thinks about you – all of those things. Saying, get in touch.’
Chrissy took another bite of her toast, but Eloise could see that she had sent her to some distant place.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit mean not calling her back?’
‘“Mean”?’ Chrissy sprang up and started clearing the table before either of them had finished. ‘It’s not easy for me all this dredging up of the past, Eloise. You seem to think—’
A text had pinged through on her phone. It was too risky to ignore after what had happened the last time, but Chrissy was staring at her, almost challenging her. Eloise stuck it out, and when she heard her washing up, she seized the moment to take a look:
‘Open the door.’
It wasn’t Juliet’s number. Or anyone else in her Contacts.
Could it be dangerous? Should she tell her mother?
Sliding the chain across, she released it as silently as possible. Using both hands, she attempted to get a firm grip on the handle, and with her body butted up against the door, opened it a little way, preparing to shut it again quickly if necessary.
The walkway was deserted. Only the neighbour’s dog, tied up. It was trying to sniff the huge bouquet of flowers left in front of their doorway. Eloise was surprised that it hadn’t barked. She leapt over the flowers and peered over the side of the railings.
A man was just stepping into a car.
Cars like that stood out.
So her instincts had been right all along. That man really had looked directly at her yesterday when Maria had commented on the car. And quite possibly had followed her home the other night; she hadn’t imagined that either. Was he linked to Juliet? Or someone else who knew her mother? But Chrissy didn’t socialize with anyone except for her.
Leaving flowers was hardly threatening. Despite this, Eloise still couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling. She scooped them up, closing the door with her foot. Their flat immediately burst into colour. An exotic scent drifted into every corner of the room. The cellophane made a crinkling noise, causing Chrissy to come out of the kitchen to see what was happening. She looked puzzled when she saw the flowers, her body rigid.
‘Someone loves you, big style,’ said Eloise, putting them down on the table when she refused to take them.
Chrissy stared at the words printed on the card:
‘Chrissy Plumber xxx’
She began to examine each flower individually. ‘Must have cost a fortune,’ she said.
‘Have you any idea who they’re from though, Mum? They were just left outside the door.’
Eloise could see she was struggling to work it all out.
‘But how could they find us?’ she said, after what seemed a long time.
‘Who? Mum, who?’
She was sinking into her memories again like they were quicksand.
‘Well, maybe someone from Dad’s band told them where we live,’ said Eloise, hoping that might lead to something. ‘I’m just guessing, obviously. But why don’t they know you’re called Chrissy Lundy? Juliet knows you married my dad.’ Then she realized that Juliet hadn’t actually known they had got married, not until Eloise confirmed it for her. ‘Well, I’m assuming she did. She was your best friend.’
‘I’ll see to these,’ said Chrissy, handling the flowers roughly. ‘Let go, Eloise.’
***
She found them in the wheelie bin outside, tossed upside down. By the time she got back upstairs, Chrissy was in her full kit and running shoes.
‘I’m sorry, Eloise’ she said, twisting side to side. ‘I shouldn’t have got angry.’
Eloise held them out to her like a limp corpse. They were still in their cellophane, ruined. ‘These haven’t done anything wrong, Mum.’
Chrissy stared at them, narrowing her eyes.
Gradually her face softened. ‘No. No, you’re right. And nor have you. I suppose they’ll brighten the place up a bit, won’t they? Do your best, eh? And I’ll see you in a little while.’
Eloise rummaged in the kitchen drawer for some scissors. She would make sure these flowers would be the first thing her mother saw when she came back from her run, and then she would have to tell her who they were from.
***
‘Juliet sent these. Didn’t she?’
Chrissy wiped the sweat off her face with her sleeve. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, heading into the kitchen.
‘Who else could it be?’
Eloise stayed close.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Yes, you have. Don’t lie to me.’ She felt her cheeks redden at the accusation, squirming under the pile of lies that had spilled out of her own mouth lately.
Chrissy began to pour herself a large glass of wine.
‘Isn’t it a bit early for that, Mum? Look, maybe Juliet wants to make it up to you.’
‘For what?’ said Chrissy, eyeing her with suspicion.
‘Well, maybe for saving her from doing anything stupid on that bridge. And she wouldn’t have changed courses if it wasn’t for you. And look where she is now.’ Eloise gave her a moment before pushing it further. ‘Unless, Mum, there’s something you’re not telling me. You know who sent the flowers, I know you do. Was there someone else besides my dad? You can tell me … Mum.’
There was no response.
‘Would Juliet know then – if I asked her?’
‘Don’t you dare, Eloise.’
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘No,’ said Chrissy, glowering at her. ‘But I’m asking you – again – not to do that. And I will know if you have.’
‘How? How could you know?’
‘Oh, believe me, Eloise, I will know.’
She stole the glass out of her mother’s hand. ‘Right. You can have this back if you tell me some more. Tell me about France.’
CHAPTER 10
France: summer, 1989
‘Told you it’d be easy,’ Juliet shouted as they jogged towards the truck in the blinding sun, rucksacks bouncing on their backs.
They had trudged out to the recommended spot near Porte d’Orléans station at the end of Ligne 4 on the Paris Métro. Eleven fifteen, and they already had their first lift out of Paris.
Chrissy had been feeling stiff from the long coach journey, queasy from the rough Channel crossing and weary from lack of sleep in a couchette that refused to recline. The cheaper overnight ferry meant arriving in Calais around four in the morning with stinging eyes and grinding stomachs, yet all of this fell away the moment she stepped off the boat.
‘Ça sent bon,’ she said, taking her first breath of France.
‘Must be something wrong with your nose,’ said Juliet. ‘We’re still in the port and ça pue!’
‘Don’t spoil it, Ju. I just want to savour the moment.’
On the five-hour coach journey into Paris, Juliet only wanted to sleep but Chrissy made constant observations about driving on the wrong side of the road and how much she wanted a Citroën 2CV. Once they hit Paris she talked dreamily of strolling by the Seine or meandering through the labyrinth of streets in the Latin Quarter; she wanted to browse the flea markets and eat Proustian madeleines in a salon de thé, drink wine with the ghosts of her literary heroes in Café de Flore or Les Deux Magots.
Sadly, on this occasion, Paris was well beyond their budget and as soon as they got off the coach they were straight onto the Métro. For Chrissy, though, even the smells and sounds of the Paris Métro were a delight. ‘How many times have you been to Paris, Ju?’ she asked as a distant rumble came down the tunnel.
‘Four or five,’ said Juliet, yawning. ‘Plus, I went to a summer school here once. Can’t remember where.’ They stood back as the train pulled in. ‘Kind of wish I was seeing it through your eyes.’ She glanced at Chrissy as they stepped onto the carriage.
They didn’t even attempt to get a seat, clinging to the handrail facing one another with their rucksacks still glued to their backs. Chrissy could feel her dress sticking to her skin and she noticed fellow passengers were frowning, no doubt jealous of their great adventure. The doors beeped shut. She grinned at Juliet, screwing her eyes to suppress her excitement as the train jerked on its way.
In spite of all that Paris had to offer, Chrissy was keen to move on. ‘Tant de choses à faire et si peu de temps,’ she said as they had emerged at ground level at Porte d’Orléans. But her romantic notions soon vanished when they were confronted by booming traffic, tall buildings, wide boulevards and a frenetic intersection of roads. ‘What now, Ju?’
‘Not sure, I haven’t hitched from here before.’
‘Well, I thought you had.’
‘I never said that,’ Juliet protested, removing her rucksack. ‘On parle bien le français, hein? You stay here with the bags. Someone’s bound to know where the Périphérique is.’
Chrissy watched her go, massaging her shoulders as she walked; envious that Juliet could still look that good even in their dishevelled state. As she waited, she looked around, taking in the street names: Boulevard Jourdan, Avenue du Général Leclerc, Boulevards des Maréchaux. They didn’t mean much and she hated not knowing where she was.
‘Right,’ said Juliet, returning with a paper bag, a smiling orange croissant on the front. ‘We need to be opposite those traffic lights.’
‘Which traffic lights? There’s hundreds of traffic lights.’
She waved a map in front of Chrissy’s face. ‘Knew that would make you happy,’ she said.
Chrissy stuck her tongue out and snatched it from her. They ate their croissants as they went, but a sense of unease began to set in when cars honked their horns and well-dressed Parisian women on their way to work shook their heads in disapproval. Was this a crazy thing to be doing? Chrissy asked herself. Putting themselves at the mercy of complete strangers, with their false smiles and Juliet’s cardboard sign that said ‘La côte SVP!’
‘Why can’t it be somewhere more specific, instead of just saying “the coast please”?’ Chrissy had queried. ‘Like Lyon? Or Autoroute du Soleil?’
‘Trust me, will you? I’ve done this a zillion times.’
Juliet stuffed the screwed-up paper bag into Chrissy’s hand.
‘Well, not from here you haven’t.’
She tapped Chrissy over the head with the cardboard sign, saying: ‘Told you, you always worry too much. Finish your croissant. You’re so tetchy when you’re hungry.’
They were not the only ones hoping for a lift. Chrissy counted four young men spaced at intervals by the side of the road with their thumbs out, and one middle-aged woman with a ferocious-looking dog.
‘I bet you we get a lift before any of them,’ said Juliet.
Twenty minutes later a lorry pulled in. Juliet could have choreographed it herself. The driver shook his head at the four young men bounding towards him, pointing to the two of them instead. The woman’s dog began to bark, upset at the unfairness of it all, but she held it back, resigned to the fact that the lift wasn’t hers either.
He was a Spanish trucker, obsessed with The Beatles, and had to finish off his rendition of ‘Let It Be’ before he spoke, unfazed by all the horns blasting in protest of his stopping.
‘Buenos días. I’m going as far as Dijon,’ he said in a mix of French and Spanish. ‘Ça va?’
‘Yes,’ said Juliet. She turned to Chrissy for approval.
‘Don’t we need to go more like Orléans, Ju?’ She was about to get her Michelin road atlas out, but was getting ‘that look’ from Juliet.
‘It’s not a taxi service, Chrissy. And it’s still south. The main thing is, do we get a good vibe?’
Chrissy peered inside his cab. A photograph, presumably of his wife and daughters, was attached to the mirror. ‘Well, I guess so. Do you? You’re the expert.’
Juliet tossed her bag in and climbed up
.
Chrissy had never ridden in a full-sized truck before. It was even better than her dad’s van, giving her a real sense of the open road. She noticed Juliet grinning at her, mocking her innocence, so she gave her leg a sharp pinch.
‘Ouch. What’s that for?’
‘Looking smug.’
It was a while before they cleared the sprawl of Paris, and Chrissy was still desperate to get out the road atlas to see where they were heading, but couldn’t because her bag was trapped behind the seat. Juliet would only give her grief in any case. She began to feel more at ease when it became clear that the only thing the trucker wanted in exchange for the ride was a translation of Beatles’ songs. He fished out a bundle of shabby, handwritten lyrics and Juliet set to work. Chrissy must have fallen asleep because, the next thing she knew, a whole four hours had gone by and they seemed to be pulling onto the hard shoulder.
‘This is where I drop you,’ she heard him say. ‘The turn off for Dijon is in seven, ten kilomètres. You should stay on this road.’
Chrissy looked out of the window. This really didn’t seem like the ideal spot to try and pick up another lift.
‘Here?’ said Juliet, also surprised.
But they thanked him for getting them this far and he pushed their bags out onto the tarmac, wishing them luck as they jumped down. The traffic thundered past, kicking up swirls of dust.
‘Don’t let les flics see you,’ he shouted as he swung his door shut.
‘What did he mean?’ yelled Chrissy, rolling her rucksack out of the way of the motorway blast, pinning her hair down with her hand. She got out her Michelin road atlas and felt slightly better, climbing up onto the metal crash barrier where it felt that bit safer.
‘What are you doing?’ Juliet screamed. ‘Get your thumb out; it’s the only way out of here, Chrissy. You should dump that. We don’t need it.’
Chrissy ignored her. She remembered seeing signs for Lyon. At a quick glance she noted it was almost due south of Dijon so this was taking them in the right direction. Slapping the atlas shut again she put it back inside her rucksack and began slowly edging her way towards the wall of traffic. She took hold of her corner of their cardboard sign, trying her best to smile even though she feared for her life. ‘You never said it was breaking the law, Ju.’