Don't You Dare

by A J Waines

  I’m opening a box of crisps behind the bar when I hear a familiar voice. Tina, one of Beth’s friends, is leaning over calling to me.

  ‘Hi, Rachel…I’ve just been to your house,’ she says, ‘Beth’s not answering her phone. Has something happened?’

  ‘Actually, she’s lost it…and she’s lying low for a bit.’

  ‘She sent me a weird message last week – do you know what’s going on?’

  ‘She’s fine, Tina. Honestly. She’s been so busy sorting out the wedding and with work and auditions – she got a bit snowed under. That’s all. Nothing to worry about.’ I’ve been using the same casual spiel with everyone. It rolls off my tongue by now.

  I hand her the pint of Guinness she’s ordered. ‘It’s not like her to drop off the radar,’ she continues. Another customer is huffing to my right, craning for my attention.

  ‘Sorry…can’t chat,’ I say, pleased to have an excuse. ‘The hen do is in a couple of weeks,’ I add, edging away. ‘You’ll be coming? It’s here at the pub.’

  ‘Oh, definitely. Beth said she had something outrageous in mind, so I can’t wait.’

  With that, she turns to join a group of others at the stripped timber table with the wonky leg, by the window.

  Something outrageous in mind. I don’t like the sound of that. When did she tell Tina that, I wonder? We want a party that’s totally under control, with absolutely no surprises.

  Mid-afternoon brings the moment I’ve been dreading. The bar is quiet and I’m leaning back against the till with a damp bar towel in my hand, chatting to Gilly about ordering more sachets of tomato sauce, when Marvin asks me to change a barrel. I knew this time would come. I’ve managed to avoid having to go down to the cellar until now and I can think of no reason not to, this time.

  I unlock the door and close my eyes, bracing myself before I go in. I’ve replayed this scene so many times, mostly at around three in the morning. In my mind I hear Beth crying out, hear Carl grunting, see him pressed up against her from behind. I know I would react in exactly the same way if it happened again.

  The cellar seems smaller than I remember it. The spot where Carl fell looks entirely unremarkable and the tap that actually killed him has long gone, due to a routine change of barrels. I stare at the one in its place – identical to the inadvertent weapon that snatched away his life. In my nightmares, I see a pool of blood spreading in a thick splodge across the slabs and I’m clutching a cloth, but people keep getting in my way so I’m unable to bend down to wipe it clean. I picture them walking into it without noticing, then see their faces change as trails of bloody footsteps appear across the floor.

  My hands shake as I fiddle with the tubes and switches, shifting from the old cask of ale to the new one. I’m about to go back upstairs when my phone clangs in my back pocket. It’s Peter.

  ‘Rachel speaking…’ As soon as I say my name, I dip into a panic, confused for a second about whether I’m supposed to be Rachel or Beth. Then I remember which phone I’m holding and all is well.

  ‘I’m just ringing to see how things are going,’ he says, sounding tired. ‘I don’t know if you’ve being trying to reach me, but I’ve been out of range.’

  ‘Oh, no, I haven’t rung…all going to plan,’ I tell him. ‘The bridesmaid’s dresses are ready, the seating is sorted for the reception and the menus printed.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. How about drinks?’

  ‘Yeah, drinks are ordered and I’ve got together a playlist for the ceremony and the first dance. Beth said you both wanted ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, is that right? The DJ will take it from there, but we’ve asked for jazz favourites from your list and Beth has chosen a few, too.’ She hasn’t yet, but she will. ‘We just need to finalise your personal vows. Can you send me an email with your thoughts on those?’

  ‘Of course. I must get together with Beth.’

  My heart sinks at the thought of another phone or video call where I have to step in as her imposter.

  ‘I’ve transferred another amount into your account,’ he continues, ‘but please let me know if it doesn’t cover everything.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Peter. Thank you.’

  Inevitably, it isn’t long before he’s asking more about Beth. I don’t want to tell him she’s in London in case he rings his flat expecting to find her there.

  ‘She’s gone to the library, I think,’ I tell him instead. ‘Looking up background information for her next audition.’

  ‘Oh, good. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before she lands a big one,’ he says, without a great deal of conviction. ‘She’s seemed a lot better recently, so that’s a relief.’ There’s a whooping sound of a New York siren in the background. ‘I heard the news, by the way.’

  ‘News?’

  ‘A friend of Amelia’s emailed me to say Carl’s body was found.’

  ‘Yes, it was all over the news here.’ A film of sweat gathers in my palms. Don’t show anything in your voice.

  ‘I looked up the report online,’ he goes on. ‘Apparently, he was found in a cemetery in Winchester…’

  ‘That’s right…so gruesome…’

  There’s a sigh of disbelief. ‘I recognised the photograph. If I’m not mistaken, it was the same church where I suggested Beth and I get married.’

  ‘I know…that’s right. How utterly bizarre...’

  ‘I can’t imagine what happened to him…obviously the police are looking into it, but why there?’ He clicks his tongue.

  ‘I heard he was in Winchester meeting people at the Theatre Royal,’ I say, intent on taking the focus away from the church.

  ‘Awful, awful business…’ There’s a catch in his voice. ‘That’s also why I’m ringing, actually. Carl was my best man…’

  I’m glad Peter’s not with me to see the colour drain from my face. ‘Oh, my God. I didn’t know…’

  Why didn’t Beth tell me?

  There’s an awkward gap while Peter struggles to speak. ‘And…well…Amelia was invited to the reception, but…obviously…’

  He stumbles through the words, his voice breaking.

  ‘Right, of course, I’ll sort that out.’

  I’d completely missed the fact that the two of them were invited to the wedding. I’d need to make sure their place cards don’t end up on a table.

  I take a mini detour in my mind. What would it have been like for Beth having Carl at the wedding? Then instantly return to the present.

  ‘How’s Amelia?’ I ask, in lieu of more pressing questions I want to ask, such as: What was it Amelia found? and Should I be worried?

  ‘Oh, coping pretty badly, as you’d expect. She’s always been, how can I put it – emotionally fragile. It doesn’t take much to tip her over the edge. She’s been hysterical, needing medication…sorry, I shouldn’t be…’

  ‘No. Honestly, it’s fine.’

  ‘She’s definitely got it into her head that Carl was having an affair. She came across a gold pendant in a box in his desk a few days ago. She’s convinced it wasn’t for her. It appears she only likes diamonds and it’s a pendant with an emerald in the centre. She’s becoming obsessed with finding out who he was supposed to be seeing, but…I think she’s just grabbing at anything…’

  An emerald. My mind leaps to the vibrant colour of Beth’s eyes. People constantly refer to them as emerald green. It’s so obvious, I can’t believe Peter hasn’t made the connection.

  He’s speaking again. ‘Carl was always getting jewellery engraved for friends – he gave me a watch with a message on the back for my 30th birthday. It wouldn’t surprise me if he planned to get a few words added for Amelia – I’m sure it was meant for her – although she’s adamant it’s not her style.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Well…I’m actually at work and I suppose—’ I want to wind up the call, but he’s speaking again.

  ‘Amelia’s always been hyperactive, but she’s gone into overdrive. I think it’s to avoid the grief, but she se
ems to be on a mission to find a jeweller’s receipt or note or some indication about who it was for.’

  I squeeze my eyes shut, praying the necklace wasn’t meant for my daughter and that it has no trail that could lead back to her.

  ‘Amelia’s tearing the place apart, determined to find proof of an affair. She thinks if she can track down another woman, it could lead to his killer. A jealous husband or boyfriend, maybe, or an altercation gone wrong, if Carl was trying to end it.’

  He stops for breath.

  I grit my teeth, waiting for this ordeal to be over.

  ‘Sorry I’m banging on about this, but I feel so useless over in the States and I can’t get back to England – not just yet.’

  ‘No, of course. He was your friend. You’re upset. It’s…terrible.’

  ‘The police are on to all his paperwork now, as well as checking phone and bank records, his laptop...that sort of thing. I’m sure they’ll find something. Shocking business. It must be someone who knew the area, surely, for him to end up in the graveyard, like that.’

  28

  Beth

  I woke early the next morning, glad to be miles away from the scene of the crime. I was about to help myself to bread from the freezer, then changed my mind and decided to head out for breakfast in a local café. Peter has a favourite haunt around the corner that does rich coffee that will blow away the cobwebs.

  When I was at drama college and lived in Chiswick, I used to have breakfast out all the time. I ran up a bit of an overdraft, as it happens. So many meals out, trips to the cinema, parties, taxis home. Nothing extravagant; merely that London is expensive. Mum bailed me out a few times. Neither of us knew the money was going to run out.

  Chelsea is more upmarket than Chiswick and when I see how little is in my purse, I toy with finding a cheap takeaway, before having a change of heart and sauntering into the French café on Hollywood Road. There are never any prices in the window – always a sign it’s expensive. Inside, a woman with a glossy Harvey Nichols’ bag is checking her lipstick in a small mirror and a couple of Japanese tourists are poring over a map on an iPad.

  I settle at the table Peter and I often choose, by the window, and buy an Americano with cream, together with an almond croissant. For the first time in three weeks, I have an appetite and the pastry is warm and flaky. Each mouthful – which costs around fifty pence, I calculate – melts in my mouth. This is the world I’ll soon be stepping into, I think to myself, running my fingertips over the pristine lace cloth on the table. After the wedding, it’s going to be like walking on to a stage and playing the role of someone else for the rest of my life.

  After getting no change back from my ten-pound note, I walk along to the main road looking for a phone shop. Before long, I have a new pay-as-you-go phone, ready to use, in my pocket.

  I head onto the King’s Road and am drawn to the displays in the windows; platform shoes, vintage dresses, jump suits, my passion for fashion resurging with every step. A bunch of guys digging the pavement stop in unison as I pass, their pickaxes held in the air, and I can’t hide a smile. Nothing has changed, yet being so far away from the source of my worry has sent it spinning off into the far distance.

  In this new frame of mind, I pull out my phone and make my first call.

  ‘Hi, it’s me...’

  ‘Where the hell have you been, girl? We’ve all been worried sick. What’s going on? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m really sorry I went off line,’ I tell her. ‘Just got…bogged down with so much going on…but, listen, I’m in London right now and I wondered if you’d be free for lunch.’

  ‘Ooh…you’re lucky. I’m free from noon for an hour or so,’ she says, ‘can you get to Covent Garden?’

  ‘Tell me when and where.’

  We agree on a restaurant that covers three floors near the Seven Dials. It’s spacious and airy and will give us chance to chat without feeling we need to free up a table.

  Maria’s been my best friend since my second year at drama college. She’s wacky, forthright and a fabulous listener. And she’s Spanish, with deliciously trilled ‘r’ and breathy ‘h’ sounds in her accent. She’s also a terrific sword coach and we met when she took my class through a whistle-stop course on stage combat.

  We both order a crab salad and I jump in with questions in the hope of staving off the inevitable barrage of inquiries that are sure to come my way.

  She tells me anecdotes from her recent stint on ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at The Globe.

  ‘And the big news is that Tony has got a recording contract with his band,’ she gushes.

  I manage to get through a full twenty minutes shining the spotlight on her, before she turns it on me.

  She looks down for a moment. Her plate is empty, mine still barely touched. ‘So, Beth, what is going on?’

  I’ve always loved her directness, embedded in a fulsome warmth and lack of judgement.

  ‘Just busy…you know…the wedding, auditions – crap auditions, as it happens…work…’

  She keeps her eyes on me. ‘It’s so unlike you to be out of touch. Laura and Giles, we didn’t know what to think.’

  ‘It’s no big deal, honestly.’

  She’s not convinced.

  For a second I’m tempted to tell her everything.

  ‘Look at you,’ she says, ‘You’re skinny, girl, you look tired.’ She reaches over and inspects a clump of my hair, ‘you’re out of condition – tell me what’s going on.’

  I knew it would be like this. That’s why I haven’t been able to speak to her. Usually, her persistence is exactly what I need to draw out what’s bugging me. But not this time. Having her face me like this, with her concerned and searching brown eyes, makes me feel like I’m about to be thrown to the lions.

  ‘It’s complicated…’

  ‘That’s okay, Pequeño.’ She always calls me ‘little one’, a cute mannerism I love about her. ‘Start at the beginning and see how you go.’

  She puts down her glass of water and takes my hand.

  I have to tell her something.

  ‘It’s Mum.’

  ‘What’s she done?’

  A couple on a nearby table break into laughter and I feel a shudder of misery.

  ‘She was in a terrible state when Russell died last year. She wasn’t coping; always putting on a brave face, but underneath she was a wreck.’

  Maria nods thoughtfully. ‘Yeah…I know all that.’

  ‘Well…she still goes to his grave nearly every day and I’m sure it’s not good for her. It’s like she’s not letting him go. She told me recently he left her in a lot of debt and I think that’s part of her suffering; it’s as if he betrayed her, cheated her.’

  ‘That’s tough, that’s hard, when the man, he’s gone, and she can’t…’ she searches for the word ‘…confront him about it.’

  I nod. ‘Mum’s tried her best to hide her misery from me, but for months there was this heaviness and despondency in everything she did.’ I fiddle with the leather bracelet around my wrist. ‘That’s until I told her about Peter. She was utterly blown away when she knew I’d met someone. Then when I said he’d proposed to me…whoa…it changed everything. It was like she suddenly came back to life again. She really likes him and she’s been throwing herself into planning the big day; eating again, smiling again. It’s as though she’s found a reason to get up in the morning.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she says, ‘but what about you?’

  I glance down. ‘Marrying Peter…it feels like a big rush. I barely know him, yet soon we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘You need more time?’

  ‘I don’t know. When we first got together I thought he was amazing…he’s so sure of himself and powerful.’

  ‘He’s does seem a real catch, but I’ve only met him a couple of times.’

  ‘He’s been away a lot. But he’s funny and sweet and warm…and…’

  It feels like I’m tr
ying to convince her.

  ‘Getting married is a big step.’

  ‘That’s it. That’s right. Mum asked me after he proposed if it was too soon to think of marriage. She asked how I could be so sure about him after only a few months and I said I just knew he was the one. But now…’

  ‘Now your heart is changing?’ she says, watching my face.

  I love the way her translations into English make her words cut to the chase. I bite my lip, then shrug. ‘I’m so mixed up. I haven’t seen Peter properly for ages. I stayed in his apartment last night and I’m looking at his things, thinking “who is this guy?”’

  She nods, looking serious, waiting for more.

  ‘Mum’s so involved in the preparations. It seems like that’s what’s keeping her going. Everything’s steaming ahead. I’m getting swept along and it feels out of control.’

  I come to a stop then, aware that every word I’ve said is true, even though I hadn’t fully admitted it to myself until now. It’s by no means all of the situation, but it’s certainly part of it and the only part I’m able to tell her.

  ‘The wedding is on April 15th, right?’ she says.

  I nod.

  She takes her hand away from mine and counts on her fingers. ‘Two and a half weeks. You’ve got time,’ she says. ‘Some couples get as far as the day itself before one of them has wet feet.’

  ‘Cold feet,’ I say, looking up at her, unable to hide a smile.

  ‘Where’s Peter now?’ she asks, checking her watch. She has a class to get back to and our time is nearly over.

  ‘In America until the end of next week, I think. Thing is, I’m not really talking to him. I feel so confused and churned up, I don’t know what to say to him.’

  She sits back, mulling it over.

  ‘That’s not good. You must try to take your mother out of the calculation.’

  ‘She just wants me to be happy. I know that. She’s well aware that Peter’s got money and status and he could help me in my career…she wants all that for me and it’s very tempting.’

  ‘Like a ticket to success?’