by A J Waines
‘A rush or a risk?’
‘Both, I suppose.’
‘I thought you liked taking risks…’
Inwardly I’m bubbling with frustration. He’s trying to trip me up.
‘I’ve wanted to slow things down for some time,’ I say, trying to get to the point, ‘but Mum went charging ahead with arranging the wedding and it had a life of its own. I think part of me was doing it for her.’
I close my eyes for a split second. I know this is going to hurt him. ‘Sometimes, I think you’re really Mum’s choice, not mine.’
‘I see.’ He sounds grim. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’
In the sunlight, the blue in his eyes is pale, bleached out, with barely any colour at all – it makes him look like he’s empty.
His phone buzzes and he reaches into his pocket. ‘I need to get back. I’m renting out my apartment. I’ve got someone coming to view it.’
‘Right.’
‘But,’ he says, ‘I need to remind you I’m not a man who gives up easily. I hope at least you know that much about me.’
He laughs and I join in with nervous relief that this is nearly over. ‘Once I’m settled, I might write to you,’ he adds, his tone softer, lighter, ‘if that’s okay?’
‘Yes. Of course. Tell me how you’re doing, I’d like that.’
I’d prefer everything to end here, but it seems churlish not to agree. It’s only a letter.
He takes my hand and kisses it.
‘Goodbye, Beth. Take very good care of yourself, won’t you?’
He’s already pulling away.
I give him my best smile. ‘I’ll try.’
60
Rachel
Two months later
I wake early and hear the letter box clatter as I come down the stairs. Waiting on the front doormat are the usual bills. Tucked underneath, there’s a prepaid airmail envelope from the US. Beth told me Peter might write.
Beth has been up for at least a couple of hours. She’s already been for a swim, bubbling over with energy with every day that passes. She looks amazing, ready for her audition later today. She’s been asked to wear ‘casual’ to play the part of a homeless waif, and the ripped black jeans, green tie-dye T-shirt and denim jacket look perfect.
‘Any post for me?’ she says brightly, as she tips out a small portion of bran flakes into a bowl.
I wave the flimsy envelope in the air. ‘Looks like there’s something from Peter.’
Her mouth twists into a grimace. ‘Ew…I don’t want to read that now. I don’t want anything to knock me off my stride before the audition. Can you open it when I’ve gone? You can tell me later if there’s anything I need to know. Is that okay?’
‘No worries,’ I tell her.
I’m more than happy to read it for her. I want to be involved in her life in any way I can, although we’ve both agreed a new golden rule: no interfering from me – and honesty across the board. Since I got her back, it’s almost been the way things used to be between us. Like sisters or best friends, being open with each other, speaking our minds, spending time together, sharing everything. I know it won’t last, because it’s my job to help her to fly the nest, but I want to hold on to it for as long as I can.
I get a text from Beth once she’s on the train to London and it reminds me to read the letter from Peter. I take it to the sofa with a cup of coffee and break open the gummed edge. There are no return details on the back. Maybe he doesn’t want a reply. The contents are typed, this time, not handwritten.
Dear Beth
I hope you’re sitting comfortably. I wanted to fill you in on a few of my thoughts, as I’ve been looking back over our time together.
It started out well enough; you were beautiful, young, full of sparkle and star quality. I had big plans for you. In my hands, I thought you’d go far.
Then, just before Christmas, my world fell apart. It was after you came to London to audition for the Brian Lourdes’ film and we spent the afternoon admiring the Pre-Raphaelites in the National Gallery. When we left, you said you needed to be on your own to go through your lines, but you’re not a great liar, just like you’ll never be a great actress.
I followed you after we left the gallery and saw the two of you together, walking up the steps to a hotel. Learning your lines – is that what they call it, these days?
I flop back on the sofa. He knew…Peter knew about Beth and Carl, all along. Yet he didn’t say a thing, he didn’t confront her…he carried on for four months as if nothing had happened. I don’t understand.
Do you know how hard that hit me? After everything I promised you?! Let me explain something. The world of dance is vicious and I was treated badly. Roles were promised to me, only to be taken away at the last minute. My career never hit the heights it should have done, thanks to acts of treachery from those around me. Betrayal has always been my Achilles heel and when I knew you’d cheated on me behind my back, I was gutted.
So, why didn’t I drop you like a hot brick? Why did I spend thousands of pounds on a beautiful wedding? More of that later.
My mouth falls open in utter dismay. Why would he go ahead with the wedding when he knew the truth? I feel a shivery sweat break out on my forehead, but my eyes dart back to the next paragraph:
You must have felt some semblance of guilt, eventually, because the time came when you couldn’t bring yourself to speak to me. You were too ashamed to face me. A conscience, after all.
Your mother tried her utmost to smooth things over, but I saw through it straight away when she tried to impersonate you. Her phony reply to my letter to start with, then all the rest was totally off kilter: the emails, instant messages, the video call. I’ve got to hand it to her, she made a very good stab at it (she’s a better actress than you’ll ever be, by the way), but the tone, the language, the expressions just weren’t you. When you understand body language like I do, you can tell. It was quite funny, really. I wanted to see how far your mother would go.
You should know, too, that from the moment you betrayed me, I never intended to show up for the wedding.
My cheeks burn with a mixture of humiliation and rage. He let me carry on pretending to be Beth, when he knew it was me all along. He was laughing at me. Everything was a lie. His charm, his good nature, it was all fake… Why? Why did he keep up the pretence?
We all know, including the police, that Nancy was the one taking the lead in the plot that nearly killed you, and Amelia wasn’t far behind her. Nancy thought you’d stolen her lover and she’d goaded Amelia into almost doing the dirty work for her.
But, let me side-track a little. You remember the Rite of Spring? That performance you and your mother came to see? I helped to choreograph that production. I observed every step from the wings as the savage dancers built themselves up into a frenzy. I waited as they closed in on the pretty young girl, their sacrificial victim.
Their sacrificial victim? What’s he talking about? Does he mean Beth? Did he know she was in danger?
I’d trained them so carefully, even though not once was I on stage myself, showing the world what I could do. The original concept belonged to someone else, but I gave precise instruction on the shaping, the speed, the timing – each beat of every bar was meticulously planned in advance. It was a pleasure to stand back and watch. All the dancers knew what to do, how to enact their precise part as the skittish young thing danced herself to death.
All the dancers…wait, does he mean Nancy and Amelia? The abduction. The confrontation on the dinghy. Was that all orchestrated by Peter? The perfect way to get rid of Beth for betraying him?
It took me ages to flag down a taxi the day you woke up in the middle of the English Channel; it caused a considerable delay to my arrival at the marina. And Amelia should never have set out in that old dinghy; a tiny hole had been slashed in the side and a faulty valve fitted, I understand.
Your mother and I would have reached you in our speedboat sooner, if there hadn’t been
problems with the propeller. She probably told you that a plastic bag was caught around it, even though I’d taken a good look at it before we left the marina. People will chuck their rubbish anywhere, won’t they? It meant you had even longer to endure in the water with Amelia. It was sheer luck you didn’t both drown.
Oh, my God. He didn’t just know…he was helping them. Peter wanted Beth dead! From behind the scenes, he was guiding the whole thing, covering his tracks at every step so no one would suspect his involvement.
Did Amelia kill Carl in a fit of jealousy? If she did, she almost paid the price for it. To be honest, I’ve never been particularly fond of either Nancy or Amelia. Nancy tried to implicate me after she was arrested, but of course, you need proof to make accusations like that and she had nothing to back up her outlandish claims.
He doesn’t know who killed Carl. He doesn’t know it was me. This isn’t a blackmail letter. Nor is it a confession. He’s so cunningly put it together that he makes cryptic references, but doesn’t actually incriminate himself. Clever.
So, has he written purely to gloat, or what?
In the end, my darling, you escaped remarkably lightly. You betrayed me and you hurt others, yet you’re preparing to walk off into the sunset, no doubt, to live your perfect life by now. Your happy ending, just like in the movies.
My stomach clenches at his tone. I check the postmark of the letter. Definitely US. He’s a million miles away. Isn’t he?
Well, I’m pleased to say there’s been a change of plan and I’ll be returning from America. I shan’t say when, exactly, because that would spoil the surprise. This month, next month – tomorrow? Who knows?
Be in no doubt, however, that I will watch and I will wait and one day, when I see fit, you’ll open your eyes and there I’ll be.
So, you see, for me it’s by no means over.
Until then, my dear, take very good care of yourself.
I fling the letter to the floor and make a dash for the sink in the kitchen. I retch and retch, bringing up every last chunk of the scrambled egg I had for breakfast.
After my afternoon shift, Beth joins me in the kitchen with freshly showered hair. Her audition was, in her own words, ‘tortuous’.
‘Normally, it’s just me, a camera and the casting director or whatever,’ she says, ‘but this time there was a guy with a handheld camera, another taking still photos and these other people, just kind of milling about.’
She lets out a burst of giggles.
‘They kept asking me to sit on a chair and get up again, over and over, it was ridiculous…then they asked if I could ride a camel...’ She bends over double, unable to contain herself. ‘I mean…honestly, that wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the prep notes!’
I laugh along with her, secure in the knowledge that her former resilience is back, but my mood is far from cheery. Before she sits down, she slides magazines, junk mail and old envelopes aside on the worktop, searching for something.
‘Perhaps I should read that letter from Peter, after all. Have you got it?’ she asks. ‘I said he could write to me…to tell me how things were going.’
I make a show of flicking through a pile of newspapers beside the toaster. ‘Mmm. I’m not sure where I put it, love,’ I say, vaguely. ‘It’s around here somewhere, but honestly, Beth, there was nothing to it. Just bits and pieces about his business affairs. All very boring and nothing personal.’
‘Really? Oh, well,’ she tuts. ‘Doesn’t really matter.’ She picks up an apple from the bowl on the window ledge and takes a hearty bite. ‘Let me know if you come across it.’
‘Of course.’
The truth is…I’ve burnt it.
Beth stares at the pepper pot in the centre of the table, her mind still for a rare moment.
‘You really liked him, didn’t you?’ she says.
I hesitate. ‘Sort of.’
I get up and busy myself emptying the washing machine. I turn and find her standing right behind me. I quickly change the subject.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ I say. ‘Have you registered for the refugee camp, yet?’
‘Not yet. I wasn’t sure…you know, about the timing.’
‘Are you still keen to go?’
I need her safe. Away from here. As soon as possible.
‘Oh, absolutely. I keep thinking about it.’ She stalls. ‘It’s just…I didn’t want to go too soon…you know, leaving you after what happened.’
‘Listen!’ I grab her firmly by the shoulders. ‘You mustn’t let me hold you back.’ Her eyes widen at the fierceness of my reaction. I loosen my grip. ‘You must never let me get in the way of the life you want to live, ever again, you hear me?’
She gives me a jaunty smile. ‘Our new golden rule, right?’
‘Exactly.’ I think about the letter. I wonder how many days ago it was posted. ‘I’ve been thinking. Why wait? It’s such an important thing to do.’
I need to get her out of the country. To a place where he can’t find her.
She nods. ‘I’ve already had tons of pledges of support for the crowdfunding, so...’
‘There you go. There’s no reason to hold back any longer, is there?’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. I am.’
More than you’ll ever know.
‘I’ll get on with it, now, then.’ She claps her hands together, gleefully. ‘I’ll fill in the profile and make sure I’m registered by the end of today.’
‘Good. Just one thing.’ I scrutinise her face, alert to the slightest shift in her expression. What I’m about to suggest is a huge step and a big risk – especially after our recent promises to each other. ‘If I ask you something, will you answer honestly?’
Her eyes narrow, suddenly guarded. ‘O-kaaay…’
‘How would you feel…if…if you didn’t go on your own… if I came to the camp with you?’
‘Mum, that would be totally awesome!’
‘You can think about it first, if you—?’
‘No way. It’s a fabulous idea. It would be incredible to do it together.’
‘It would be a kind of new start,’ I tell her, ‘a new beginning. Who knows where it might lead us?’
She squeezes my finger.. Once…twice… Our special signal.
Then flings her arms around me.
THE END
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About the Author
AJ Waines is a number one bestselling author, topping the UK and Australian Amazon Charts in two consecutive years, with Girl on a Train. The author was a psychotherapist for fifteen years, during which time she worked with ex-offenders from high-security institutions, gaining a rare insight into abnormal psychology. She is now a full-time novelist with publishing deals in UK, France, Germany, Norway, Hungary and USA (audiobooks).
Her fourth novel, No Longer Safe sold over 30,000 copies in the first month, in twelve countries worldwide. In 2016 and 2017, the author was ranked in the Top 10 UK Authors on Amazon KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing).
AJ Waines lives in Hampshire, UK, with her husband.
Find out more at www.ajwaines.co.uk or follow her Blog. She’s also on Twitter (@AJWaines), Facebook and y
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www.ajwaines.co.uk