by A J Waines
She lets out a weak laugh.
‘I kept a journal after Russell died, you know? It was like a special place I could let off steam and be totally myself. I burnt it a few months ago.’
‘I didn’t know,’ she says, looking taken aback. ‘You could have talked to me instead.’
‘I didn’t want to burden you. I didn’t want my sadness to be the first thing you found every time you came home. You’ve been trying to prep for auditions. You’ve needed inspiration and encouragement, not being forced to sit with me being miserable. I didn’t want to bring you down.’
‘That’s life, though, isn’t it?’ she says, stroking my hair. ‘You can’t just pretend it’s rosy all the time.’
At times her sensitivity chokes me.
A vision of the two of us curling up on the sofa to watch a mushy film together comes to mind; cosy in our dressing gowns, dipping our fingers into a bowl of popcorn nestling between us.
We haven’t done that for a long time.
While Beth goes to the pool for a long swim, I slip out to the church to witness the damage for myself, wearing a headscarf and sunglasses.
Breezing along the path by the back gate, I glance surreptitiously at the graves. A group of people surrounded by buckets and wearing rubber gloves are scrubbing away at Russell’s headstone. It makes me want to weep that a bunch of idiots have done this to him. Another grave in the row in front, and one alongside it, have also been sprayed with white paint. I can’t read the words. I don’t want to know what’s been written.
I shift my gaze a few feet.
Judy’s grave is untouched as far as I can tell.
I turn and hurry home, but I’m not reassured. Just a random attack? What if the vandals come back and do a better job of things next time?
17
Beth
I don’t want to be here. Standing around in the chilly conservatory of a huge house trying to look composed and interesting. I’ve got goosebumps on my arms as though a troop of biting ants is crawling all over me.
I can’t believe I let Mum push me into this, but she said it would take too much explaining if I didn’t come.
‘This could be your last chance to see Peter before he goes to America,’ she told me. ‘It would look terribly odd if you didn’t jump at the opportunity. He’s obviously gone to a lot of trouble to make sure the right people will be there: important people for your career.’
The party is being held in the posh end of Wimbledon to celebrate a British film that did well last month at the Oscars. All kinds of important film people are here; actors, producers, casting directors, names I’ve actually seen on the screen. I’m meant to be bubbling with enthusiasm and fawning over everyone, but I just want to curl up and hide in a cupboard under the stairs.
My re-heeled stilettos clack on the white tiled floor, making a sound like someone is using a typewriter behind me the whole time. I keep being shuffled from one gathering to the next, trying to keep up my plastic smile. The worst part is that Peter insisted I wear the same backless dress I wore when I first met Carl. It even smells of Carl. I want to rip it off and make a run for it.
Peter looks in his element drifting from group to group, making witty comments and offering congratulations. Everyone seems to love him; smiling, touching his arm, his shoulder. They all want a piece of him. Soon I’ll have him all to myself.
As figures mill around, the constant twirling of champagne flutes, wafting parlour palms and array of Ming vases make me feel dizzy. This is what it must feel like to be royalty, always having to be gracious and polite no matter how you feel inside. Everything reminds me of the day I first met Carl and there’s a nauseous coating at the back of my throat the whole time, as though I keep expecting him to walk in.
Peter’s doing his utmost to introduce me to people, his hand tenderly on my back. I’m all too aware this is a great way to let people in the know ‘discover’ me, if only I could relax.
‘Parties are a great way to showcase you,’ Peter told me some time ago. ‘Producers often have a particular “look” in mind for a film and that can often be the overriding factor, even though there may be more talented actresses around.’
I’m sure he didn’t mean it, but it felt like a subtle way of reminding me I’ve got a long way to go before I even make it into the celebrity ‘D list’.
He went on. ‘Right now, the “waif-child” look is exactly what many of them are looking for.’
I’m sick of hearing that stupid description.
Peter reaches past me to tap the elbow of a man laughing at his own joke.
‘Jeremy, how are you? You must meet my fiancé, Beth Kendall, she’s fending off offers by the truck load.’
Jeremy has got a thick grey moustache turning orange at the edges and his skin is craggy. Ravaged by too much alcohol, I deduce, and the effects of smoking cigars.
Jeremy does me the courtesy of half turning towards me and looking me up and down in a cursory fashion. ‘Fending off which offers, exactly?’
I draw a breath, but for once I have no idea how I’m going to reply. Thankfully, Peter steps in.
‘Just about everything. She’s able to pick and choose…so we’re waiting for the right part to launch you, aren’t we?’ He gives my waist a pat. I feel like a poodle at a dog show as faces turn and eyes appraise me.
Normally, I’d say something outspoken at a time like this to show people what I’m made of, but my head is full of images from the night we buried Carl. There’s no room for anything else.
‘Jeremy used to work at Paramount. He’s back in the UK launching a new production company.’
‘But I’m always on the lookout for new talent, my boy. We’re in pre-production on a mood piece right now with a European ambiance to it. Do you speak Italian, my dear?’
‘Er…not really,’ I tell him.
Argh! I should have replied using the teeny bit of Italian I actually do know. I should have said I’m a fast learner.
‘Ah…shame.’
I can’t believe I’m being so meek and pathetic. What’s happening to me?
‘I’ll bear you in mind for the future,’ Jeremy adds in a throwaway tone that doesn’t ring true. ‘Email me your details,’ he says over his shoulder. He’s obviously not sufficiently interested to pull himself away from his little clique. ‘Better still, get Peter to do it. I get so much rubbish in my inbox, I’d probably delete it unless I recognised the name.’ With that he turns his back on me.
‘Don’t worry,’ Peter tells me, leading me away. ‘They’re all too big for their boots when they’re doing well. When his next film flops, he’ll come grovelling back to me.’
Peter waves at someone on the far side of the room and tells me he’ll be back in a moment. I drift towards the conservatory desperate for some air and on the way I pass the group we’ve just left, their backs to me, but sufficiently close to overhear one of them speaking.
‘She seemed a bit gormless, if you ask me,’ I pick up.
‘… and the problem with this woman-child trend is that it has a shelf-life,’ someone says, ‘in a couple of years she’ll lose those carved cheek bones and no one will look at her.’
‘I don’t like that pale, sunken look anyway…’
As if that isn’t exasperating enough, I get to the patio and freeze. I recognise her from that first party when I met Carl. It’s Amelia. Beside her is Nancy, her friend, who was introduced to us, last time.
Amelia has tired chalky circles under her eyes and she looks distressed, her arms punching angular movements like she’s fighting her way out of an invisible bag.
I turn to retrace my steps, but Peter is right behind me, urging me forward.
‘Good idea,’ he says, linking my arm, ‘it’s stuffy inside.’
Within seconds, he’s seen Amelia and is heading over. It’ll look odd if I don’t go with him.
He reaches out and gives her a hug. ‘Any news?’
‘Nothing,’ she says, air-kis
sing the space alongside his ear. ‘I was just telling Nancy, the police won’t do anything because he’s gone AWOL before.’
‘And he doesn’t have a history of depression,’ adds Nancy, knowingly. Her hair is a shade too dark for strawberry blonde, edging it into the orange category, which clashes with today’s salmon-coloured jumpsuit. On the plus side, the outfit matches her flushed cheeks.
‘What about his bank accounts?’ Peter asks.
‘He hasn’t accessed any of them,’ says Amelia. ‘That’s what worries me…when he swans off somewhere it’s never cheap. He hasn’t booked any flights or made any new travel arrangements.’
‘And he’s not answering anyone’s calls or emails,’ Nancy chips in, tapping ash from the cigarette in its holder, onto the floor. Her cloying perfume is making me feel peaky.
Nancy turns to me. ‘Did you know Carl?’ she asks, innocently, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth while glancing down at my dress. She hasn’t moved an inch, yet seems to be right in my face.
I’m starting to feel giddy.
‘Oh, no. Well…’ I glance at Peter, ‘I’ve met him, but…just…you know…’
God, I’m so hopeless at this. I’ve always been brilliant at bluffing. I got an A+ for improvisation at college and was always fooling Mum and Russell whenever we played card games. Since ‘the accident’ I’ve completely lost the knack of thinking on my feet.
‘He had important meetings he should have been at by now,’ says Peter. ‘It’s not like him.’
I gulp down a sip of champagne to avoid having to say anything.
Nancy grips Amelia’s arm. ‘He’s not having an affair, is he?’
‘Nancy, please!’ snaps Amelia, spilling her drink as she recoils.
Nancy totters in her heels. ‘Well, it would be preferable to…you know…and let’s face it, he’s not exactly a novice in that department.’
‘He hasn’t strayed for a long time,’ Amelia says defiantly, running a finger around the rim of her glass.
‘Maybe that’s the answer, then. He’s overdue.’ Nancy throws back the rest of her glass in one inelegant swig.
‘What about his phone? Can’t the police trace it and find out where he is?’ Peter asks.
All of a sudden, the ground is giving way.
His phone. I’d forgotten about that. Where is it?
It was in his jacket when we were in the cellar…I think…or was it in his trousers? What happened to it after that? Is it going to lead the police right to his body in the graveyard?
‘We’re waiting to hear from them,’ says Amelia.
‘We’ve been going through his phone records,’ Nancy adds. ‘I’m sure there’ll be something…’
I feel as though my heels are sinking and I stagger backwards, certain my stomach is about to hurl its contents out any second. Lifting my arm by way of apology, I rush inside, desperately searching for the door marked ‘cloakroom’.
I lock myself in and drop down on the toilet lid, my head in my hands. I want nothing more than to hide here until I can slip away home.
After all the times Carl told me not to contact him, there was just one slip-up. One time when I called him on his mobile. How could I have been so stupid!
It was two days before the night we last met, to confirm I’d be able to get the keys to the cellar. Amelia will find that number, my number, on his phone records. She won’t know it’s me, but the police will be able to trace it.
After a while, I can hear tapping at the door.
‘Beth, what’s going on…?’ It’s Peter. ‘Are you okay? Can you come out?’
After checking the mirror to make sure I look human, I ease open the outer door.
‘What’s the matter?’ he says.
‘Sorry to rush off like that. I’m not feeling well…’
He strokes my back. ‘What’s wrong, exactly?’
‘I feel sick…just been under the weather for a few days.’
He stalls, looking wary, then leans in close. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ His whisper comes as a brittle hiss in my ear.
I pull away. ‘No…’
He shakes his head. ‘Because that would be a total disaster.’
I don’t like his tone and he seems unnecessarily rough as he tugs me away from the cloakroom door.
I tell him I have to go home. I’m in no fit state to ‘meet and greet’ with anyone, like this. All I want is to go straight to my room, climb into bed and shut out this entire farce.
His voice softens. ‘This is for you, Beth,’ he says, sending out his arm in a dancer’s flourish. ‘To give you a chance to meet the right people and showcase you.’
He kisses my cheek, softly. Showcase. I’m starting to hate that word. It makes me feel like I’m trapped inside a glass box being peered at. ‘You could be the perfect leading role for someone in this room, but you have to make the effort. You need to let people see who you are. The clue is in the title – it’s showbusiness.’
‘I know. I’m really sorry. Any other time and…’
‘Okay. I’ll put you in a taxi and I’ll stay and work the room without you, as best I can. Will you be all right getting home on your own?’ He seems back to his usual loving self.
I nod. ‘That would be the best thing.’ I say, holding his arm.
He’s punching numbers into his phone, ringing for a cab.
‘I must have picked up a bug or something.’ I rub my stomach, grateful I’ve got something to blame.
18
Rachel
Beth bursts in through the front door as I’m mending the zip on my work trousers.
‘Where’s his phone?’ she yells, without any greeting.
‘Beth! Steady on…’ I’ve got a needle in my hand and pins sticking out everywhere. ‘What if someone had been here with me? You need to be more careful.’
She’s back sooner than I expected. Her hands jab at her hips. ‘I’m sick of all this sneaking around, not being able to say anything.’ She’s shaking, her hair dishevelled. All is not well.
‘Are you okay? Where’s Peter?’
She kicks off her stilettos and drops onto the sofa. ‘He’s still at the party. I couldn’t stomach any more of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘She was there…Amelia, at the sodding party! I couldn’t believe it.’ She brings her knees up to her chin, clasping her arms around them. ‘She and this other woman were talking about where Carl might be and asking about his phone…and I couldn’t remember what happened to it.’
‘His phone? It’s okay – I switched it off when we were in the cellar. Then I threw it in the river. It’s untraceable.’
‘When?’
‘Earlier this week, on the way home from talking to Russell at the church.’
She lets out a gusty breath. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been petrified.’ She stretches back, flopping both arms out to the side.
‘What else were they saying?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know…that him taking off without using his bank account was odd…that he might be having an affair.’
‘You didn’t…give anything away, did you?’
‘NO!’ She yells at me, storming off.
I am working at the pub that evening, so we have an early meal. Beth rustles up something simple, but neither of us are hungry. Since the accident she’s been on one long detox, at first cutting out wheat, then dairy, then sugars. There’s not much left she can eat. I know what she’s doing – she’s trying to cleanse her system. It’s a futile attempt to purge herself of the dreadful thing we did.
I watch her push peas and baby carrots around her plate, aware that she’s getting thinner by the week. I could see the bones of her hips poking through her dressing gown this morning.
‘How’s the quiz work going?’
‘All right,’ she says vaguely.
‘When’s your next audition?’
‘Next week.’ She gets up even though her plate is barely touched. ‘I�
�ll have the rest later,’ she tells me and takes it into the kitchen. I know she won’t. Most of her meals for the past week have ended up in the bin.
‘When does Peter leave for the States?’ I ask. I manage to finish my vegetables, at least, but like her, I can’t stomach the lasagne.
‘Tuesday,’ she mutters. ‘I’m glad. I’ve been so shallow. Such a bitch.’
‘Beth…’ I stand up, reaching out to give her a hug, but she backs off.
‘Aside from what we did afterwards, I can’t believe I did that to Peter. What kind of person am I?’
‘I have to say, having met Peter, I’m rather surprised you felt the need to be with someone else. He’s such a lovely man.’
‘He deserves someone far better than me.’
‘Well…you made a mistake, that’s all. Show me any woman who hasn’t been tempted to stray at some stage in their relationship. Apparently, it isn’t uncommon just before getting married – a kind of final fling before long-term commitment.’ Although personally, if you really love someone, I can’t see why. ‘You’re certainly paying a price for it. If you’re remorseful, it’s a sign you won’t do it again. It’s a good sign, darling.’
On the way home from my shift, I get an unexpected call from Peter.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to reach Beth. She’s not answering her phone and I wanted to check she’s okay…after the party.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. She’s been off her food and quiet, but she’s fine. I can’t see why she wouldn’t answer her phone.’
‘I’m a bit worried about her, to be honest. She’s usually the life and soul of the party, but she doesn’t seem to have been herself at all lately. Like she’s shutting herself down. Is something worrying her? Is it the wedding?’
‘Goodness, no... she’s thrilled to bits about getting married to you.’ It comes out sounding stilted.
‘Is she ill? Has she said anything?’
I think swiftly on my feet. ‘Maybe it’s these auditions. She keeps getting one rejection after another. Everyone seems to be doing so much better than she is.’