by A J Waines
‘You never told me that before.’
I shrug. ‘That’s about it.’
‘But, what about his name? Don’t I have the right to know? Have you never wanted to look him up and see if he might be interested in me?’
‘He made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with…us.’
‘When?’
‘When I got pregnant.’
‘But that was years ago. He was a kid…probably scared to death when he knew you were in trouble. He’ll be nearly forty now, he might have changed his mind.’ She looks up at me. ‘What’s his name? Why won’t you ever tell me?’
I can’t tell her. It would be too much of a risk if she tries to take it further.
‘He knows my name,’ I say pointedly. ‘He’s never come knocking on my door.’
That sends her quiet for a while.
‘How did you meet him again, was it at school or in a pub?’
‘A pub?’ A film of sweat breaks out on my palms and I almost drop the teapot.
‘Who’ve you been talking to? Have you been to see Adrian again?’
She nips her lips together and looks down at her plate.
I sigh. ‘It was at school. We only saw each other for a few months.’
‘I thought you said you’d been going out together for nearly a year.’
I hesitate. ‘No…you’re right. It was probably more like a year. I’m tired…let’s get back shall we?’
Beth is silent on the way home, but my head is buzzing. I must be more careful. I’ve got too many lies to keep track of.
21
Rachel
I notice the letter in Beth’s room when I pop in to see if she’s borrowed my hair straighteners. I found it two days ago on the mat and left it on the kitchen table, so she’d see it when she came down for breakfast. I couldn’t help spotting it had Peter’s hotel details on the back. How romantic and old-fashioned. Two days later and it’s still on her dressing table – unopened. How long is it going to stay there?
I’ve been liaising directly with Peter in my role as ‘wedding planner’ instead of getting Beth to check arrangements with him. She’s spoken to him once or twice, but only when I’ve been there to supervise her, to make sure she ‘sticks to the script’, as it were. She’s been polite, but reticent with him. It’s better than blanking him altogether, but before long, he’s bound to get seriously worried that she’s got cold feet, if he hasn’t already.
Beth’s out collecting her finished wedding dress. I turn the envelope over. It has a UK post mark, so must have been posted before he left for New York. He’ll be expecting some sort of reply any day.
Peter has become such a touchy subject, I barely dare mention his name anymore. I can almost hear the eggshells splintering beneath my feet as I walk around her.
In a split-second I make a decision, snatch the envelope and take it downstairs. Boiling a kettle, I use the steam to prise open one of the sides. It will look less obvious if it’s been opened there, than if I peel open the flap. When I glue it back together, it will look like it got a bit squashed in the mail, that’s all. I hesitate as I slip out the contents, ashamed that I’m prying into my daughter’s private world. I’d never do such a thing if I didn’t think it was justified – my thinking being that once I know what it says, I can help Beth put together an encouraging reply to smooth things over.
I hold the letter at arm’s length as I read it, as though keeping it at a distance makes it less intrusive. As expected, it’s a proper love-letter, bordering on erotic. He refers to shared special moments that have stayed in his mind, explains how he feels about my daughter.
My cheeks flare up with disgust and shame at this invasion of their privacy. With every word, I know what I’m doing is wrong; prying into the sensitive, intimate territory of Peter’s feelings for her – but I have no option. Towards the end, he writes:
You’ve been so quiet and hard to reach, lately, I’m worried I’ve done something wrong or I’ve upset you in some way that you won’t explain to me. I need to know this marriage is definitely what you want.
Then later:
If there’s something getting in the way, Beth, I need to know about it now, then we can get it out into the open and resolve it together.
He asks her to reply and be totally honest about her feelings for him.
Oh, boy…
I fold the letter and slip it back in the envelope, alarm bells ringing in my ears. Whenever we speak about wedding details I brush off his concerns, reassuring him that Beth is a hundred per cent sure about tying the knot with him. I’ve been telling little white lies about how she can’t stop talking about him and can’t wait to be his wife. But there are only so many times I can do that before he’s going to ask why Beth, herself, isn’t following through with the same level of eagerness. There’s no question about it, he knows something isn’t right.
I spend the next ten minutes scrabbling around in drawers and cupboards searching for the stick of glue I need to seal the envelope again. Beth is due back any moment. Finally, I come across it in my sewing box and get the job done, but before I put the letter back where I found it, I make a note of the address in New York where he asks her to send a reply.
As I enter her room, I hear the front door slam shut and, in my rush to rest the letter against the mirror, I knock over a bottle of perfume. She’s quick to climb the stairs and I’m backing out of her room when she reaches the landing.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks, her wedding dress in a cloth cover, over her arm.
‘I…wondered if you still had my denim jacket,’ I stammer. In the frenzy of the moment, I’ve forgotten the real reason for going in there.
‘I put it back in your wardrobe yesterday. I told you.’ She narrows her eyes and gives me a stare riddled with suspicion.
I swiftly throw my attention onto her dress.
‘What’s it like? Aren’t you going to try it on for me?’
‘No,’ she says curtly, swans into her room and shuts the door in my face.
Beth seems to assume I’m breezing through this without a care in the world. If I let her see how appalled I am by what we’ve done, she’ll crumble and collapse. I need to keep my chin up, stay grounded and sensible – even though it makes me look cold as ice.
Much later, I hear her go out again. I find myself creeping upstairs as if she’s still in the house and go into my own room to sit on the bed. Now that Russell has passed away and Beth has claimed her old room back, she and I share the ‘Jack and Jill’ bathroom, an odd feature for small spaces that allows the two bedrooms to access the facilities from either side.
It took some getting used to when Russell first moved in; perfect for on-stage farces, but not so hilarious when you always have to remember to lock the opposite door when you’re inside.
Beth and I have always been comfortable naked with each other, unabashed about using the bathroom together, but lately I notice she’s been locking my access door, preventing me from getting in.
More and more frequently, since the incident in the cellar, she’s been storming off in a hissy fit about something or other, hiding herself away. It feels as though barriers are going up between us daily and there are barely any occasions when we can have a relaxed chat together like we used to.
I go into the bathroom and open her access door. I want to take a peek at the dress. It feels almost a lifetime ago since we first pored over the wedding magazines, giggling and exclaiming in awe, until she finally came across the one she wanted. If anything, it’s that feeling I want to relive as much as to see the finished article.
I’m forced to ease the whole dress out of the cover in order to take in the full shape of it. It’s perfect for Beth; no straps, so it makes the most of her smooth elegant neckline and it’s figure hugging, all the way to the floor. It looks like it’s been dipped in silver beads and sequins, all catching the light to make it sparkle. It takes my breath away.
Since the grief of Rus
sell’s untimely death stole my appetite last year, Beth and I have been sharing clothes more often. When her wedding came on the horizon, I made a concerted effort to trim down even further, determined to be a credit to Beth on her big day. A few months ago, I tried on her skinny jeans and we were both in hysterics when I couldn’t get them over my thighs, but earlier this week I tried them on again when she was out and they fitted like gloves.
I stare at the stunning dress. I couldn’t, could I?
I’m taking it off the padded silk hanger before I’m aware I’ve made the decision. My arms seem far away as they encounter the soft feel of the silk. It’s as though I’m watching someone else. I strip off to my panties, then quickly and carefully step into it, breathing in to ease up the long zip at the back. The dress smells of the shop we visited; lavender with a background hint of rose from the essential oil diffuser they used. I squeeze my eyes shut, then turn to face the mirror.
I well up as I stare in disbelief at the vision before me. There are a few surreal seconds when my mind plays tricks, telling me it’s Beth standing there, not me. No wonder people say we look alike. There’s no denying I look unbelievable – staggeringly beautiful, like the cover of a wedding magazine.
Before long, my tears of wonder turn to tears of sadness. I’ve always shrugged off the fact that Russell never asked me to marry him, but lately it’s become a considerable regret. We could have been a proper couple, man and wife, who took that final step to seal the knot. We could have made precious vows to each other in public. I could have walked down the aisle looking like this on our special day. A day we would have treasured forever. Beth doesn’t realise how lucky she is.
Reluctantly, I peel off the dress with great care and put it back on the hanger. No one will ever know.
As I step over to the interconnecting door, I notice the letter is still there exactly where I left it, untouched, the perfume bottle still on its side. There’s nothing else for it.
An hour later, as I drop an airmail envelope into the post box at the end of the road, the acidic taste in my mouth tells me that I have seriously stepped over the line.
22
Beth
Mum’s doing a great job of being a go-between with Peter. I don’t have to speak to him at all, now.
It’s such a relief not having to pretend everything’s hunky dory with him. To be honest, I’ve put my phone down somewhere and can’t find it, so that’s a good excuse, too. I’m not using it much anyway. I’m just going from one day to the next keeping myself to myself at the gym, running through my lines for my next audition and trying to stay composed. The thought of landing a role in a production is the one thing that keeps me going.
I don’t want to think about the wedding, but I must show willing and sound a bit excited about it. For Mum. Getting her involved seemed the only way to lift her out of her misery over Russell, so I have to stay peppy for her. I showed her the dress, although I didn’t want to prance around in it. I had to try it on in the shop, so I know it fits, but I feel a total fraud at the idea of wearing it.
‘Aren’t you having any?’ she says, as I lay a single plate with scrambled eggs on the table.
I rub my stomach. ‘Don’t fancy it,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll have porridge oats, later.’
I’d prefer granola, but we’re out of it and it’s expensive, so therefore off limits. Oats will have to do.
In my mind, I leap to the future and picture having breakfast with Peter on a veranda somewhere in the sun. For some reason, I can envisage our lives further down the line and feel almost calm about it, but I can’t think about the bit that comes before it, the stage we’re in now. It’s as though it’s a different me I envisage in the future. The old me, awesome and intrepid, not this grey shadow I’ve shrunk into.
How I’m going to get the old me back is a mystery to me.
The worst part coming up is the wedding day itself. Each minute will be flooded with memories of betrayal and from that murky place within me I’m supposed to look pure and innocent and say my marriage vows, like I’m made of sweetness and light. The thought of it makes me want to throw up.
As Mum slices into her egg, I drift back to my fantasy veranda in the sun. Where will we live once we’re married? In his apartment in Chelsea? In New York? With Peter away so much, we haven’t talked about where we’ll settle and, of course, with finding it impossible to face him right now, we’re not discussing those kinds of big decisions, either.
‘What about the letter?’ Mum says, trying to sound casual. ‘I couldn’t help noticing it was from Peter.’
‘I haven’t read it. He knows I’ve got it.’
‘Oh, Beth. It’s been around for days. What’s he going to think?’
She’s exasperated with me, I know, but what can I do? I shut my eyes. I refuse to cry. I’m sick of crying. I’m sick of feeling so crap.
‘Come here,’ she says. She opens out her arms for me and I fall in. I sit on her lap and cuddle up to her and we stay like that, as one, as the clock ticks and the world carries on around us.
‘How about I read the letter for you and if there’s anything that’s urgent, I’ll tell you?’
‘Yes. That would be…yes, please.’ I bury my face in her fleece feeling eight years old, like the strong, powerful core of me has snapped in half and got washed away.
I fetch the letter and hand it to her. She tears it open straight away, but I walk away. I don’t want to watch her eyes as she drinks in the words meant for me. Nevertheless, it’s a weight off my mind.
I think then about my father. Mum’s definitely hiding something about him. She seems to have forgotten what she’s told me in the past, giving me new information when I press her that doesn’t quite fit earlier versions. Who is he and why won’t she let me find out more about him? I might have to pop over to Grandad’s again soon to see if I can prise any more out of him.
A couple of hours later, as she’s getting ready for the pub, Mum knocks on the door of my room. I’m lying on my bed battling with lines from a turgid script about a priest and a young woman who’s been abused.
‘I’m off now,’ she says, with a big smile. ‘Nothing to report in the letter, by the way. It’s all fine, don’t you worry. When I next speak to Peter, I’ll tell him you’re under the weather with flu or something.’
‘Great. Thank you.’
Her smile fades and she hesitates in the doorway. ‘You’re not depressed are you, Beth? Do you need to see the GP?’
I shake my head violently. ‘No way…I’m not seeing anyone. She’ll want me to open up, ask what’s been going on and…’
‘No, of course.’
‘I’m just coming to terms with the…you know…I’m not depressed. Just in shock. I need time, that’s all.’
‘Okay, if you’re sure.’
As she’s backing out, I ask a question. ‘By the way, you haven’t seen my mobile, have you? I can’t find it anywhere.’
She puffs out her bottom lip and stops to think. ‘No. You can borrow mine if you like.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s okay. I don’t want to use it. I just wondered.’
‘You know we can’t afford a new one, sweetie, if you’ve lost it,’ she tells me with a forlorn look.
I smile. ‘I know.’
She matches my smile. ‘We’ll get through this together, don’t you worry,’ she says and closes the door.
23
Rachel
Beth thinks she’s lost her phone. She’ll never think to look inside the shoebox under my bed.
It started as soon as I replied to the letter. I’d backed myself into a corner by then and there was no other way. I couldn’t let her use it anymore.
When she went out on Thursday, I read everything between them I could find; on our shared laptop, her phone, the odd postcard he’d sent, from a pile in her sock drawer. I made myself look at Peter’s amorous words, at Beth’s equally raunchy replies. I had to fight my discomfort and scour the string of mes
sages to see how she addresses him, how she signs off, and the kind of language they use. I had to discover the exact tone of their interactions. It wouldn’t work, otherwise.
I found a batch of her college notes under her bed and rifled through them, so I could make a stab at copying her handwriting.
Then I replied to his letter, pretending to be her. I apologised for my scrawl, telling him I’d hurt my wrist, to cover any obvious differences.
I only meant it to be a one-off, to stall Peter for a short while, but it didn’t end there. Not long after I dropped the letter into the post-box, a message popped up on Beth’s phone:
To: Beth
From: Peter
Looking forward to getting a reply to my letter when you get a moment. Send times when we can video call asap. I’m only five hours behind you. Worried about you and love you to bits, P x
I replied in an attempt to put him off:
To: Peter
From: Beth
So sorry to make you worry. Your letter totally made my day and a reply is in the post. As to a video call, not feeling too well, just flu or something, but better to message as I’d scare you on screen looking this awful. Love you, really do, B x
Once I’d sent the message I had to delete it, otherwise Beth would have found out what I’d done. But then, of course, he messaged back!
To: Beth
From: Peter
Don’t care what you look like…just want to see and speak to you. Let’s fix a time. Get better soon. So wonderful to be properly in touch again. P x
Oh, what a mess I’ve made. I only did it to buy us some time. Now I’ve begun spinning a sticky web and I’m stuck right in the middle of it. How stupid am I?