No Smoke Without Fire

by Claire S. Lewis

  Since Celeste had been given the afternoon off too, she decided to use it to attend to a matter that was long overdue. She had been planning to go to the gym at XYX on her way home from Seventh Heaven, so she had brought her sports kit in to work in a small rucksack. It was unseasonably rainy and dull this afternoon, but that would not deter her, in fact it could work to her advantage. She was going on a run. She went into the bathroom to change into her black Nike trainers, black leggings and a black T-shirt. It was that kind of day. Not a day for fluorescent Lycra or bright pink T-shirts. She would be in harmony with the weather, camouflaged by the stormy skies.

  Celeste had a particular destination in mind. It had become one of her running routes in recent weeks and she had also got in the habit of walking there with Mia as an alternative to sitting in the office during their interminable discussions about the wedding flowers and other things. In the first days of their acquaintance, Celeste had made a point of befriending Mia who seemed isolated and bored, left to her own devices for the long hours that her fiancé was working in his firm’s London headquarters during his stay in London. As she and Mia had become closer, the walks had turned into informal sessions for mutual counselling and support.

  So, on this dreary, wet afternoon, Celeste set off through the residential streets as far as the Tate Britain art gallery, an elegant white building on the banks of the Thames where she had taken Mia on one of their walks. Mia had marvelled at the striking architecture (‘You English people are so lucky having all this history right on your doorstep’), comprising a grand porticoed entranceway and a vast central dome that resembled a Byzantine temple (notwithstanding the statue of Britannia with a lion and a unicorn on top of the pediment that proudly symbolised its ‘Britishness’). Mia had also sung the praises of the ‘awesome’ collection of art housed inside the gallery, which laid claim to be ‘the home of the greatest collection of British art’ and whose treasures included a stupendous collection of paintings by the celebrated seventeenth-century British romantic painter and watercolourist, J.M.W.Turner, famous for his scenes of Venice and ships in stormy seas.

  From that point, getting into her stride, Celeste headed westwards along the Thames towards the Chelsea embankment and the Chelsea Bridge, passing en route, the Chelsea Tea Rooms, where she had introduced Mia to the delights of English ‘cream tea’ consisting of Earl Grey tea served in a china Victoriana teapot, homemade English scones, strawberry jam and Devonshire clotted cream. Leaving that behind, she picked up her pace as she ran onto the Chelsea Bridge, which she had walked across in leisurely fashion with Mia. They had stopped to admire the far-reaching views downstream of bridges, The Houses of Parliament, the London Eye and imposing bulk of the Battersea Power Station on the south bank of the river (all of which had set Mia gushing with enthusiasm for this great city).

  Continuing on, Celeste strode out over the Chelsea Bridge until she reached The Battersea Park. There the ground was soggy after recent rains, so she slowed her pace to walk over lawns alongside the river until she reached The Albert Bridge (‘the most beautiful bridge in London especially at night time when it is all lit up’ she had said to Mia, feeling very much the tourist guide).

  Back on a firm surface, Celeste picked up her pace again and ran along the historic suspension bridge, heading back towards the north bank of the river on her circular tour. But at the midway point on The Albert Bridge, she stopped and went over to the edge of the pedestrian walkway. She looked down into the dark, swirling waters below. Perhaps on account of the wind and the rain, there were no pedestrians on the bridge, which was, no doubt, fortunate for her. Celeste cut a mournful figure, leaning over the bridge in her black exercise gear. If any passers-by had seen the intensity and sadness on her face at that moment when she stared down into the water, they might have feared for her safety and sought to intervene.

  But Celeste had no intention of throwing herself off the bridge. Instead, she unzipped the pocket of her tracksuit top and took out Mia’s mobile phone. The social media posts had served their purpose but now it was time to get rid of it. The police were on Mia’s trail. Celeste smashed the handset three times on the metalwork of the bridge and then she flung it as far as she could into the black torrent below.

  PRESENT

  49

  You are pretty as a picture this morning, skipping down the steps of the building in a strappy bright little sundress paired with kitten heels and your new Versace designer shades (I’ve been following your purchases online and know almost as much about women’s fashion as floristry these days!) It’s Sunday morning but I can bet You’re not going to church. You look far too happy for that.

  Meghan’s Fiat 500 is parked in the street. You jump in, open the roof and you’re off.

  I follow at a distance. The traffic is light, and we make good progress, heading west out of town. Once You get to the motorway, You really put your foot down and I struggle to keep up. That little car is taking a hammering. Some fifty miles later, beyond the Oxford exit, You turn off the motorway, onto a busy A-road and then a scenic B-road and then a country lane twisting through open farmland and ancient woodlands, and then a rough stony track that leads to a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere – which is where you stop. I’m glad You knew where you were going, because I am completely lost.

  I wheel my motorbike a little way along a footpath that leads into the trees giving me a vantage point over the farmhouse. You open the car door and the dogs go crazy. Two black Labradors and a Jack Russell run out into the yard from an open back door. There’s shouting from inside, a woman’s voice, calling back the dogs. But you’re not afraid. The dogs jump up at You, tails wagging, and the woman (middle-aged, big and jolly) gives You a hug. You chat for a minute or two and then walk in together.

  About twenty minutes later, just as my eyes are beginning to close from the early start and the long hard ride on the open road, the back door opens again, and You walk down the path with two other women.

  From a distance, one of the women looks like Mia – slim, long blonde hair and petite. But when she gets closer, I can see it’s not her. The other woman, from a distance, looks nothing like Mia. But when she gets closer, I can see – it is Mia, though even at close range she looks very different. She’s put on weight and she’s cut her hair and dyed it brown and tied it back into a short sleek ponytail. Her face is flat and pale without make-up. She’s dressed in black leggings and a loose black T-shirt – and now she just looks dumpy and plain, like any other girl.

  The older woman (hauling a big suitcase – Mia’s?) and the dogs follow the three of you to the car. You open the front passenger seat of the Fiat for Mia, then with a lot of pushing and shoving, You wedge the suitcase upright into the back seat. The blonde Mia look-alike squeezes in beside it. More hugs all round and then you’re off.

  I follow at a distance, back along the track and the country lanes and the B-road and the A-road and the motorways until I see You take the turn-off signposted for Heathrow Airport.

  Something tells me that’s the last we’re going to see of Mia Madison.

  *

  Celeste got back to her London flat late that evening. Instead of driving straight back to London after dropping off Mia and her friend at the airport, she had decided to pay an unannounced visit to her mother. Now that Mia was on a plane to Paris, a safe distance from Ben, she felt free to break the silence. A heart-to-heart was long overdue. They had spent the day talking and walking and visiting Tom’s grave. Although nothing could heal the hurt between mother and daughter, it had been good for Celeste finally to open up about Ben’s lies and the psychological damage he had inflicted on her over a number of years culminating in her rape. Everything Celeste had discovered in recent weeks about his actions on the night of the party and his treatment of Mia, gave her the courage to speak out.

  When Celeste walked through the door, Anya was sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open, working on a legal document. ‘Why didn’t you answer m
y texts?’ she asked Celeste, without looking up. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all evening.’ Celeste took her phone out of her bag and plugged it in.

  ‘I ran out of charge,’ she said. When it lit up, Anya’s texts took up the first three screens. ‘What happened?’ she said as she began to scroll down.

  ‘Ben came around to the flat,’ said Anya. ‘He was demanding to know where you were, practically pushed his way in, literally kept his foot in the door when I told him you weren’t here.’ Celeste knew that Anya was not easily rattled but she could tell that Ben had upset her. ‘He was very aggressive,’ said Anya. ‘But also, very distressed. One minute he was shouting at me, the next he was practically in tears. I think he’d been drinking.’ Anya had never met Ben in the flesh before but knew him from his social media accounts. ‘You better talk to him,’ she said. ‘He’s making ridiculous threats about reporting you to the police, saying you’ve abducted Mia, that you’re sick in the head. He said if you don’t contact him by tomorrow morning, he’s going to get you arrested.’

  Jessi had wandered out of her bedroom and stood hovering next to Celeste, looking concerned.’ Celeste laughed. ‘That sounds like Ben. Charming as ever!’

  Anya slammed the lid of her laptop shut and looked at Celeste. ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘I think you owe us an explanation.’

  Celeste went to the fridge and poured out three large glasses of rosé. ‘I’m so sorry you had to deal with him. I’ll text him right now and tell him that if he ever sets foot in this building again, I’m the one who’s going to call the police to let them know them exactly what he’s been doing to Mia. He deserves to be locked up.’

  The friends sat at the table over their drinks while Celeste filled them in on what had happened.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to keep it all secret from you,’ said Celeste. ‘Mia made me promise not to tell anyone where she was. She was scared for her safety if Ben tracked her down. She’s left England now. She’s gone to stay with her closest friend in Paris until the baby is born. Then she’ll probably go back to America. She never wants to see him again.’ Celeste took a sip of wine. ‘You know, she almost lost the baby as a result of being assaulted by Ben. He was rough with her many times throughout the relationship, usually when they were having sex. But just before the wedding there was one night when he all-out attacked her, punched her in the stomach. She didn’t get immediate medical help, and a few days later things got serious, some kind of internal haemorrhage, and she was hospitalised for days. That’s why the wedding was off. That internet story about a former boyfriend turning up in London was fake, just a smokescreen. Ben didn’t want the world to know he’d beaten up his bride and nor did she. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know the truth sooner.’

  Celeste explained that when Mia became seriously ill and ran away from Ben after the attack, she had taken a taxi straight to Seventh Heaven. Together with Meghan and Mia’s best friend who came over from Paris to be with her, Celeste had come up with a plan. When Mia was admitted to the private clinic, she gave false contact details – ‘borrowing’ the identity of her best friend who was to have been her chief bridesmaid. The private clinic in Chelsea had refrained from asking any searching questions in accordance with an unspoken understanding (between Mia and Celeste and the consultant gynaecologist and Mia’s best friend) that in cases of domestic violence, discretion (or deception) may save lives. Thanks to the care and expertise of the medical staff, both the mother and her unborn child had made a full recovery. When she came out of hospital, Celeste had arranged for Mia to have a period of recuperation in a women’s refuge out in the countryside run by a woman that Meghan knew from years back and now, restored to health, she was on her way to Paris looking forward to a new life with her baby.

  ‘It’s so ironic that you ended up doing the wedding flowers for Ben’s bride,’ said Jessi. ‘Such a strange coincidence.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Celeste. ‘I talked to Mia about that. Seventh Heaven was in Ben’s search history. She found us when she went on his laptop because Ben had been looking for the place where I worked. We came up top of the list when she googled florists near his rented flat in Chelsea. As you know, I figured out quite early on that Mia was in a troubled relationship, but at first, I had no idea that the bridegroom was Ben. Because she was desperate to talk to someone, Mia had opened up to me without mentioning Ben’s name and, in turn, I had shared my own experiences of trauma and abuse with her, also without naming names. Anyway, it turns out that very soon she made the connection between me and the shocking events in Ben’s past. That made her all the more curious to find out everything she could about Ben as a person. By the time I found out that the person she was engaged to was Ben, things had reached a crisis in their relationship, with Ben becoming increasingly aggressive and physical in his abuse, until the night he attacked her in his kitchen and she almost lost the baby. I couldn’t turn my back on her.’ Celeste drained her wine and almost shouted, ‘I can’t bear to think of Ben out there, having learnt nothing, inflicting his violence and abuse on a vulnerable woman.’ Then she seemed to take a hold of herself and continued calmly. ‘Mia was desperate to get away from him and feared what he might do if he came after her. So, I agreed to help her. After she came out of hospital, and went into hiding at the refuge, I used Mia’s phone to post lots of pictures of her sightseeing in London. She was out of touch with her family but didn’t want them to get alarmed if she suddenly went off the radar. It bought her a few weeks to get some respite before the police started taking an interest in her as a missing person.’

  Celeste tailed off and looked up to see both Anya and Jessi watching her intently.

  ‘You are a very dark horse,’ said Anya quietly. ‘You should take care. Ben’s out to get you.’

  PRESENT

  50

  You may have heard me riding the motorbike up to the church, but I can’t be sure. Sometimes I think You sense I’m here and that You get a secret thrill from knowing I’m watching over You. I leave the bike behind the wall and make my way to my old lair in among the trees from where I watched You on Valentine’s Day. It seems like a lifetime ago. I lose track of time watching You stripping the thorns from the stems and placing the roses tenderly around your brother’s grave. And when You lie down in the roses, well, that tears me apart. I could die for You.

  Do You remember that Bon Jovi song? ‘I want to lay you down in a bed of roses; for tonight I sleep on a bed of nails…’ I know that it’s saved on a playlist in your Spotify account. The lyrics run through my head. That’s how You make me feel… pierced with my love for You.

  Then he arrives and breaks the spell. He’s not driving the red Ferrari this time – he’s keeping that pretty baby well away from You now – ‘twice bitten thrice shy…’ Or perhaps, he had to hand it back to his employer – now that he’s going away. Anyway, today he’s driving a respectable metallic grey, VW Golf – a few years old, nothing too flashy. It belongs to his mother.

  Downgrading his car has not diminished his high opinion of himself. He walks into the churchyard as if he owns the place and I creep closer under cover of the trees until I reach a point where the stone wall is some distance from the public footpath and separated by a hedge. Here I should be well hidden from any latecomers for the fireworks (the crowd is already assembled on the village green but there are bound to be some stragglers) and I’m hoping it’s too late for dog walkers. I don’t want some dog sniffing me out and revealing my position with its barking.

  *

  It was Midsummer’s Eve, 21st June, the longest day of the year. Too early in the season to plant the daffodil bulbs, which she was saving for the autumn – but Celeste had another reason for going to visit Tom’s grave. The head-to-head with Ben couldn’t wait any longer. Ben was leaving town. She couldn’t pass by this opportunity to confront him directly before he was out of her life forever. She had decided it was finally time to have that ‘heart-to-heart’ with Ben that s
he had been dodging ever since his return to the UK.

  It seemed fitting for the meeting to take place in this churchyard on this day – the day when the sun was farthest north in the northern hemisphere and had travelled the longest path through the sky giving the most hours of daylight. She knew something of the pagan rites and ceremonies associated with Midsummer’s Eve, which related to fertility and bountiful harvests. She had heard of the Midsummer bonfires, which were believed to ward off evil spirits, and the focus on nature, which harkened back to when plants and water were thought to have magical healing powers on the longest day of the year.

  Besides the symbolic significance of Midsummer’s Eve, Celeste had chosen 21st June for the date of the meeting out of expedience. She had seen on her social chats that Ben’s time back at the London headquarters of his bank was drawing to a close. He was about to take up his new overseas posting as a senior manager within their Singapore branch. The gossip was that Ben had hoped to settle in London with his new bride. But that had all turned sour. He had asked for another overseas posting. He couldn’t wait to get away. The chats revealed only a watered-down and distorted version of the truth. Thanks in part to Celeste’s actions in helping Mia to hide away from him for her own protection and that of her unborn child, Ben had managed to conceal the shameful reality of his abusive relationship with his pregnant bride from his social network both in the real world and in the cyberspace. Mia had chosen not to speak out and expose him. Instead she had gone to ground.

  Of course, Ben had put a different spin on it. The pictures splashed on his Instagram account showed a riotous, glorious send-off from the London office as he prepared to jet off to new triumphs in the Far East. For Celeste, there was only one thing that mattered: Ben was booked on a Singapore Airlines flight the following day from London Heathrow to Changi Airport in Singapore. She might never see him again. As far as she was concerned, it was now or never.