Guilt Trip

by Maggy Farrell

  Billie.

  So was this song connected to her in some way?

  A horrible feeling washed over me.

  Paula from the market had said that Billie wore thick black eyeliner. Grungy she’d called it. Like Nirvana. So, had Billie been a fan of the band?

  It was possible, I supposed.

  And was that why Luke had been so angry with me? Because I was humming her song?

  My mind reeled.

  He still loved her. He still loved Billie.

  But why would he try to kiss me if he was still in love with her? But of course that answer was obvious: he couldn’t have her could he - she was gone. But he could have me. And, according to Paula, I looked like Billie, or some expression in my eyes did anyway.

  I stood up and crossed over to the sink, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. Was that why Luke, a grown man, was so interested in me, a stupid, clueless, messed-up teenager? Is that why he’d almost kissed me? Because I looked like his dead girlfriend?

  Was that all I was to him? A Billie look-alike to ease his grieving heart?

  Trembling, I grabbed hold of the sink. My whole world seemed to crash down around me. Bile rose in my throat, so I turned on the cold tap and took a drink, ignoring the usual déjà vu.

  It was all clear to me now. He didn’t like me at all. He never had.

  He still loved her.

  But no - that couldn’t be true. I’d thought all this before, hadn’t I - but I’d soon dismissed it. It was just another trick of my twisted mind, leading me off, away from reality again. And now I was making connections where no connections existed. Putting two and two together and coming up with seven.

  And anyway, Luke did like me. I knew he did. I closed my eyes, thinking about that dance. The tango. Of course he liked me. Of course he did.

  And then, eyes shut, I let my mind take over, imagining him there with me, standing just behind me. I could feel his hand twining round my waist, the other grasping my damp hair, twisting it up out of the way so that he could kiss me. And as he kissed his way along my shoulder, towards my neck, I ached for him. This was Luke. And he loved me. Me. And so, turning my head, I lifted my mouth up to his and our lips came together for that first kiss.

  But something wasn’t right. Some gut instinct told me to make it stop. Even as I wanted it.

  Confused at my own reaction, I opened my eyes abruptly, bringing the daydream to an end.

  But not quite.

  It was all so fast that my mind couldn’t quite keep up with my actions, and the dream played on for a fraction of a second longer than it should, even as I was opening my eyes, so that it was as if I was seeing our reflection in the mirror before me.

  And what I saw made me cry out.

  Because the girl in the mirror wasn’t me.

  Eyes ringed with heavy black liner, purple stripes in her hair, the girl making out with Luke in the mirror was… Billie?

  Jealousy rose up inside me again, a vicious, screaming jealousy, crying out in pain.

  And yet this was my fantasy, my imagination, my mind which had conjured up this image. It wasn’t actually real.

  But back in my room, I still couldn’t shake my paranoia. My doubt. Did Luke love me or not?

  I sat on the bed, brooding on it, my mind returning, over and over, to the image of Luke kissing the girl with stripes in her hair. The girl with grungy eyeliner.

  And then something occurred to me. A bizarre thought. A ridiculous thought. A totally-out-of-the-box thought with no actual proof to back it up. And yet…

  If Billie was into grunge as Paula had said, and she had liked Nirvana, then - I looked over to the plain beige wall, the one with the four tiny holes left by drawing pins - was that her poster that I kept seeing?

  And if it was Billie’s poster, then was this Billie’s room?

  My mind jumped back to the day we’d first arrived, when there’d been a mix-up with our accommodation. When Luke had had to put me up on the top floor. Here, in this room. I racked my brain, trying to remember it in order: whether that was before or after he’d first looked at me properly. Before or after that moment when we’d first felt a connection. Before or after he’d noticed that I looked like Billie.

  Is that why he’d done it? Had he put me up here - in Billie’s room - because he wanted to pretend that I was her?

  But, no - I had to stop this paranoia right now. I mean, I didn’t even know that Luke had noticed my supposed resemblance to Billie; or whether in fact there really was one - it was only Paula’s opinion.

  And after all, it simply wasn’t possible to conjure up the belongings of a dead girl.

  Was it?

  Though it would certainly explain how accurate I’d been in picturing a band I couldn’t recall ever having seen before…

  An icy chill crept up my spine, so that I shivered and pulled the duvet round myself. Because, if that was Billie’s poster that I kept seeing on the wall, then was the face in the mirror hers too?

  <><><>

  There was nothing for it. I had to know.

  If only I could find out what Billie had looked like, then I’d know whether the girl in the mirror was a total figment of my twisted imagination … or not.

  But how to find out? Obviously I couldn’t ask Luke. And Paula clearly didn’t want to talk to me about it - and anyway I didn’t want to wait till the market opened tomorrow. And Sandy didn’t work Sundays and had only arrived after Billie’s death in any case.

  I picked up my phone. Maybe, if I googled the name of the town or the pub, and the word ‘Billie’ I might find something. But then I threw it back down. I’d forgotten to charge it.

  And so, as far as I could see, there was only one alternative.

  <><><>

  Leaving my room, I tiptoed past the bathroom to the door which cut across the landing. The one which led to Luke’s living quarters.

  I put my ear to the wood, listening intently. All was silent. Nervously, I tried the handle - but the door was locked.

  I sighed. I’d have to find another way in.

  And so I set off downstairs, pausing as I came to the last flight - but luckily the reception area was deserted. I crept down a few more steps, peering through the banisters into the bar which was crowded now, Luke busy serving.

  I felt an involuntary twinge of longing as I watched him. He was everything to me. My whole world. But then jealousy whispered spitefully in my ear: what was I to him?

  As soon as he had his back to me, I ran down the rest of the staircase to reception, making my way quickly and quietly to the main desk, slipping behind it and reaching for the door which I hoped led up to Luke’s flat.

  My heart hammered in my chest as I touched the handle.

  It turned and the door opened.

  Inside was a small passageway with a staircase directly in front of me. But in order to get to it I would have to pass two open doorways. Through the one on the left I could see a wall of white tiles and hear the dull clanging of metal and the rhythmic chopping of a knife: so that had to be the kitchen. Through the right one I could see the back of the bar, a couple of sinks full of water, glasses standing drying on a rubber mat. And I could hear Luke, just out of sight, chatting with a customer.

  I stepped back, retreating, giving up, shutting the door. It seemed impossible that I could reach those stairs without being spotted. But then I heard someone coming through the front door into the reception behind me, and so I had no choice but to get out of there. Opening the door again, I made a dash for it, diving at the stairs and scrambling up them as fast and silently as I possibly could.

  And so, coming to the first floor landing, I found myself an uninvited guest, an intruder in Luke’s home. A snoop, searching through his belongings for a photo of his dead girlfriend.

  There were two big rooms on this floor: a grey and white kitchen and a grey and black sitting room. Both were extremely clean and tidy. Not a thing out of place.

  As quietly as I could, I
began to work my way through the kitchen drawers, and then the units. But there was nothing. Just the basic kitchen equipment: utensils arranged into separate compartments, plastic bags and tags stored in neatly-stacked Tupperware, teabags in a sealed canister. Even a big cupboard of DIY stuff was beautifully arranged, toolbox all tidy, extra fuses, light bulbs, screw and nails all boxed and labelled.

  In the hallway I found another large, walk-in cupboard, full of ropes, and harnesses and carabiner clips, and even a wetsuit. Luke was clearly into his outdoor activities. And again, everything was neatly folded, coiled, tied and positioned.

  The sitting room was quite sparse: a bulky, black leather, L-shaped sofa, a big-screen TV, some bookshelves and a couple of guitars on stands. No clutter. No bits and pieces lying about anywhere. Nothing really personal.

  I tiptoed over to the bookshelves: lots of bestselling spy novels and thrillers, a few factual books on extreme sports. I opened the cupboards below: magazines on motorbikes in a nice neat pile; CDs ordered alphabetically - no Nirvana; a big bowl full of keys, all nicely labelled. Some were for visitor attractions and ticket kiosks and stuff from his old job; some were to do with the pub. I found one labelled 2nd floor adjoining door - spare and slipped it into my pocket. I’d been lucky coming in through the door behind reception without being spotted, but I didn’t want to chance my luck again. Better to leave via the second floor landing, and just hope Luke didn’t notice that the key was gone.

  Having found nothing at all to do with Billie, I crept up the next flight of stairs, to the second floor. I couldn’t hear any noise from the bar up here; only the rain beating against the roof disturbed the silence. There was a bathroom, and a few stripped, empty bedrooms. And then I found a bedroom which was lived in. Luke’s, I supposed. But at first glance it could have been anybody’s really, because, like the kitchen and sitting room, it was strangely functional and impersonal, from the matching, navy blue quilt cover and curtains to the sleek, modern wardrobe with drawers inside. The only surface available for personal mementos and knickknacks was the bedside cabinet, but rather than a framed photo of his lost love, there were only an angle-poised reading light and a digital alarm clock.

  Carefully I slid open the top drawer: a novel and an iPod. And that was it. Nothing about Billie at all.

  I had come to find a photo. Something which would tell me once and for all whether I was actually being haunted by Luke’s dead love, or whether I was imagining it all. But, on finding nothing, something else became apparent: Billie was a thing of the past. Over. Done with. Finished. And Luke didn’t love her any more. He couldn’t. Because, if he did, he would never have wiped her from his life like this. So completely.

  I sat down on the bed, weak with relief, hope surging up in me. Maybe, just maybe - if Luke no longer loved Billie - then he really loved me.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Luke was standing in the doorway, staring at me.

  A confusing mix of shock, embarrassment and joy flooded my emotions. Luke had just found me trespassing in his private space. Sitting on his bed, for God’s sake, like some kind of demented stalker. But it would be okay. It had to be. Because he didn’t love Billie anymore. He loved me.

  “You gave me a shock,” I said with a nervous laugh.

  But Luke didn’t react. “I said, what are you doing?”

  The steely tone of his voice wiped the smile from my face. Things weren’t okay between us at all. He was angry with me again. Furious in fact. So disgusted with me that he couldn’t even look at me properly, his eyes constantly slipping away to somewhere in the corner of the room. Automatically, I followed their direction, but there was nothing there to see. A clean, cobweb-free corner. Nothing.

  But my apparent lack of concentration only incensed him further. He wanted an explanation.

  “Answer me,” he demanded, his tone ever more threatening.

  I looked at him, at the cold, hard expression in his eyes. This wasn’t my Luke, the Luke who took me to play crazy golf, who bought me a necklace, who laughed at my darts-playing and danced the tango with me - the one who didn’t love Billie, but loved me. This was a stranger.

  A tear ran down my face, soon to be joined by more. I couldn’t stop them. I was devastated. It had all gone so horribly wrong. Over before it had really begun. And I didn’t really understand how it had happened.

  “Why are you crying?” His voice softened slightly, though he made no move towards me.

  I looked up at him. “Because everything’s ruined,” I said, the tears streaming, unchecked. My voice cracked and the next words came out in a thick rush of emotion: “Because I just want everything to be the way it was before!”

  He was back in an instant. My Luke. Kneeling on the floor in front of me, his hands cupping my face. He looked deep into my eyes, wiping away my tears with his thumbs. Then he drew me to him, kissing me on my forehead, a warm, loving kiss, like a father to his child. And then he kissed me on the tip of my nose so that I let out a tiny, embarrassed giggle. And then we were both smiling and laughing and he was kissing my face - tiny, gentle kisses. Kissing away my tears.

  And when his lips finally met mine, I melted into him. My first real kiss. Don’t get me wrong, obviously I’d made out before - experienced the clumsy fumbling kind of kisses of boys from school who just wanted to ‘get lucky’. But this was a real kiss. A loving kiss. A kiss full of love.

  And then his hands were in my hair and his kisses became more intense, more passionate. And I felt so wanted. So loved. And then the pressure of him against me gradually pushed me back onto the bed so that his weight was on top of me, and he kissed his way down my chin, then down my throat, so that my body hungered for more. And then he breathed a sigh of love into my neck.

  “Oh, Billie.”

  23

  My feet splashed through puddles as I stumbled heedlessly across the empty market square, my vision blurred by tears and rain alike.

  Billie. He’d called me Billie. He’d been kissing me, holding me, touching me. But all the time he’d been thinking of her.

  Staggering up to a modern, one-storey building, I crashed through the double doors and into a brightly-lit hall. The community centre.

  It was full of people standing about, chatting and drinking tea, all of them turning to stare at me as I stood, dripping, a puddle forming around my rain-drenched feet. I thought maybe I’d made a mistake; that this couldn’t possibly be the right place. But then someone detached himself from the crowd and hurried over. Dad.

  “Melissa!” he cried, his forehead creased with worry. “What’s happened, sweetheart?”

  “Dad!” The urge to throw myself into his arms was overwhelming. But how could I tell him what was wrong? How could I admit to him that his only child - his ‘honeybee’ - had willingly kissed a virtually middle aged man? Lying on his bed, making out with him. He’d be horrified.

  No. I had been a major fool and now I was paying for it. Alone.

  So I had to stand there, pretending that everything was fine. “I just thought I’d join you after all,” I said, trying hard to hold it all together. “But I forgot my umbrella.”

  Dad laughed, briefly putting his arm round my shoulder and giving me a quick hug, his funny little daughter. But then he quickly let go of me, realising just how soaked I was, making a fuss about how I was still recuperating and shouldn’t be sitting around in wet clothes.

  By now a couple of women from behind the tea urn had bustled over, one handing me a tea-towel to try to dry myself off, the other a ‘nice cup of tea’, a custard cream balanced on the edge of the saucer.

  And so I was welcomed into my first Spiritualist meeting.

  “You better hurry up, dear,” the first woman said. “We’ll be starting again in a few minutes.” She held out a shallow dish in front of me, on which lay various small items. “Have you an object to hand in?”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “An object, dear. Some
thing personal, which you carry with you often.”

  “Why not hand in your ring, Mel,” Dad said and unthinking, among all the fuss and flurry, I did as he said, giving him my tea to hold as I took Mum’s wedding band off my finger and placed it on the tray.

  “Something to help channel the energy,” the other woman explained. “Help the spirits to find their way.”

  “No, I -” But the first woman had already gone, carrying the dish to the front of the hall where she placed it on a table, centre-stage, while everyone began to take their seats, which were arranged in rows facing it.

  “But, my ring-”

  “Don’t worry,” Dad said as he steered me to a row near the back, “you’ll see it again.”

  And so I sat down beside him, powerless to do anything about it. They had taken my mother’s ring to help channel the energy. To help the spirits make contact. But I didn’t want to talk to mum, the woman I had watched die - what could I possibly say to her?

  I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to curb my growing panic. I was being hysterical. Ridiculous. I mean, I didn’t even believe in ghosts.

  Okay, so for a second there I had allowed myself to think that maybe I was being haunted by Billie. But that had all been in my head. I knew that now. My subconscious creating an image of some random girl in order to tell me something. Something I already knew, deep down, but was refusing to see. That Luke didn’t love me. How could he? He still loved Billie.

  I thought back to earlier that evening. When he’d called me by her name. How I’d scrabbled out from under him, like a wildcat, kicking and scratching, a primeval instinct to fight myself free, while he, the stronger of us, was too stunned to do anything about it. I’m not even sure that he realised what he’d done at that point. That he’d called me Billie.

  But now everyone started shushing each other. The Spiritualist had returned. Nervously, I peered round the people sitting in front of me, trying to get a better view. And there she was. An older woman - wearing a chiffon scarf. It was the woman from the shop - the one who’d accosted me so dramatically. The one I’d callously labelled ‘the village nutter’, descendant of a witch.