The Orchid Girls

by Lesley Sanderson

  She’s working from home again this morning. It must be fun, making clothes. That’s why we get on. Mum and school were always telling me how creative I was. At the time I thought it was their way of being kind. Why not come outright and admit I was thick? But now being creative feels like a good thing to be. Grace is creative.

  Ellis tells me she’s free this afternoon and invites me over earlier than planned. Gives me something to focus on. I spend the morning in my pyjamas watching daytime TV. When that gets boring I switch to the news channel, and he’s on the screen again, the husband. Ellis says things happen for a reason and I decide that if he keeps being put in my path then I should take notice. It must be a sign.

  Grace’s on screen now, hanging on his arm at some posh do, wearing a silky red dress which clings to her curves and does things to my insides. He’s confident, clasping the hand of the interviewer to make his point, gently rocking backwards and forwards, his warm eyes welcoming me in. His charm almost works on me. I’m reminded of another boy, back in Lyme Regis. Jason. I couldn’t understand why I curled my fingers around the stones in my pockets when she told me how handsome she thought he was, and cried myself to sleep because she didn’t have time for me any more. When Gracie got dressed up for the town’s youth disco, the sight of her looking all grown up in a black dress that slid down her suntanned shoulders felt like a punch in the stomach – because it was all for him. Not a good way to hurt. That’s when I understood what these feelings meant. That it was only ever going to be girls for me.

  Then the missing girl is on screen, her school photo, which I bet she hates. Charlotte’s school shot was splashed all over the papers, which she would have been so mad about – she never liked photos being taken of her. I didn’t realise then that she would never see a photo again, and it was all my fault. Emily’s likeness to Charlotte hits me again; I can’t get over how similar they are. Now he’s on screen, Grace’s husband. It’s weird, him cropping up constantly. What if he had something to do with it? Grace might need protecting from him. Maybe I could follow him, get some evidence, catch him out. It’s a ridiculous thought. I’m more likely to catch him playing away.

  Emily’s mum and dad are on screen now, and they’re both crying. I can’t watch it any more; my mood is changing like a light switch flipping on and off and I’m grateful to have something to do this afternoon to stop me moping around the flat looking at my photo gallery. It doesn’t look as good on the grubby wall with the blinds pulled up and the light streaming in.

  I run the shower hot, dress in clean clothes, stick everything else in a bag and head down to the launderette. While my clothes spin like a roulette wheel in the machine I wander the streets nearby and take pictures of people in the market. I focus on different hair colours – pastel pinks, lilac and blue. Every time I see a blonde head my heart jolts, but it’s never her. I’ve been seeing her in shadows everywhere I go for years, but it’s different now I know it could actually be her. I can’t really see Grace in Camden Market; she’d be more at home in Kensington.

  While the washing dries on a plastic rack in my flat, I set off for Ellis’s. The afternoon used to be my favourite time for going to the pub and for a second I wonder if Jodie’s there, but I’ve lost track of her shift pattern. And that’s good. Forget Jodie. Ellis’s directions are easy to follow and I’m early when I get to her flat but I know she won’t mind.

  She leads me into her tiny one-bedroomed flat, where everything fits into its place. How my flat was meant to be. It’s the end building in a row of mews houses, a quiet backstreet away from bustling Camden High Street. The air in the white-walled flat is calm; brightly coloured prints add a splash of colour. The corner where Ellis does her crafts has shelves full of baskets of wool and fabric. A sewing machine sits on the table. The large sash window behind the desk looks over towards the park in the distance. A yoga mat is rolled up in the corner.

  ‘What exactly do you do again?’

  ‘I run a freelance craft business. Make clothes, bags, my own knitted range. Sell a few pieces. I’m hoping to earn enough to open a shop one day. That’s the dream, anyway.’

  ‘Is that one of yours?’ I point at her scarf; it’s a deep turquoise colour with a pretty pattern. Looks soft, like cashmere.

  She nods. ‘One of my early creations.’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  We sit on a low leather couch. Ellis makes us coffee in a cafetière and I enjoy watching her go about her business. I can’t imagine her twitchy and thin, a raving junkie, but I know she’s telling the truth because she’s that kind of person. She’s got a cork noticeboard covered in photos of her with different people. The same guy appears in quite a few of them: hiking; on a beach; his arm around Ellis, squinting in the sun.

  I sit at the kitchen table and Ellis tells me about her job and her family. It’s good to be with someone who isn’t complicating my life. I relax and inhale the buttery smell of shortbread which she’s baked specially. She seems to like me and I believe she’s genuine, which is refreshing for me. I’m so used to people using me or disappointing me. Whenever I was with Jodie I felt like an elastic band, stretched out and about to ping back into place. It was exhausting. I feel better not hearing from her. Maybe she’s finally got the message.

  The white walls in this quiet flat help me feel calm. Where I live it’s impossible to escape the noise of the traffic, the bustle from the shops across the road, Mrs Bird’s TV turned up loud and buzzing through the ceiling. On the spot I make up my mind to decorate my flat, get rid of all the stains and fingerprints from my messy life. Try and start a new one. I want it to look decent in case Grace ever comes round. Because she might.

  After she’s made a second pot of coffee, we move to the table and Ellis gets her laptop out. She uploads my photos from the market and the graffiti from the canal and we spend the next couple of hours designing a website. She suggests keeping it private until I’ve got a proper camera and can take more professional shots. Ellis says more than once that anything she advises me to do is just a suggestion, that I have a choice. So different to Jodie. Pushing me and shoving me in every direction she wanted me to go.

  Ellis is talking about how she made amends to her family, made up for all she’d put them through, apologised, worked hard to earn their trust.

  ‘We get on well now. I never thought it would happen. My sister even lets me babysit her kids. That would never have happened while I was using. What about your family? Tell me about your mum.’

  Thinking about Mum makes my stomach squirm and I wriggle around on the chair, trying to get comfortable.

  ‘I haven’t seen her since I left home. Not even when Dad died. She didn’t tell me, said she didn’t know where I was. It was Darren who let me know about the funeral.’ Bet he regrets that now. ‘I wasn’t in a good place. Me and Dad were close.’

  A sympathetic expression crosses her face. ‘What made you leave home?’

  The answer is too big for the question and I can feel it eating away at me inside. ‘Something happened that affected the whole family. Serious stuff.’ I scramble around in my pocket for a cigarette, pulling out a crumpled-up packet. Then I put it away again. She won’t want me to smoke in here, messing up her clean room. I wonder what I’m doing here. Why I’m kidding myself.

  ‘You don’t have to talk about it,’ she says.

  ‘I was a teenage brat, usual stuff. My parents were good to me, tried to help me and I threw it all back at them. I feel ashamed just thinking about it.’ That, at least, is the truth.

  ‘Does she live on her own?’

  I nod. ‘But her brother Bill lives nearby. The photographer I told you about. He’s the one who taught me how to use a camera.’

  ‘And I bet she’d like to see you. Why don’t you go and visit her? It would give you some space from Jodie. Geographical, at least. Take a bit of time to think about what you want to do.’

  She’s right. Book my ticket to Lyme Regis to get away from Jodie, tha
t’s what I need to do.

  ‘That means I’ll have to ring her. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.’

  ‘No rush,’ Ellis says, shrugging her shoulders. ‘It’s just a suggestion.’

  ‘Tell me about you,’ I say, needing to move the conversation on. Too much navel-gazing gets me into trouble. ‘Who’s the guy in the photos?’

  Her face gets a little flushed and for the first time I catch a glimpse of a different Ellis, one who’s not so in control.

  ‘You mean Steve. My ex-boyfriend. We met at college, were together since then. He wanted us to get married, babies, the works.’ She looks sad as her sentence trails off.

  ‘Not what you wanted?’

  She pulls a face. ‘For a long while I thought I did. Expected to follow my older sister. She lives in a big house with lots of kids and animals, up in Yorkshire. Proper housewife, she is. But when Steve asked me to marry him for the second time I realised I wanted something different. I’m not sure what, mind. He was gutted. Still is, apparently. We had a big group of friends and they couldn’t understand it. Makes it difficult. I’ve had to distance myself from them all. Most of my energy has gone into getting my business off the ground. But just talking about it now makes me realise you’re doing me a favour, too.’

  ‘How?’

  She shrugs. ‘Chatting like this, getting to know someone. It’s fun. I’ve been far too isolated lately.’

  I know exactly how she feels. ‘Are you still in touch with Steve?’

  ‘No. He’d like to be, but it makes everything much harder. To be honest, I’d find it easier if he got himself a girlfriend.’

  ‘Or you might meet someone, then maybe he’d get the message,’ I joke.

  She laughs, looking away. ‘I can’t imagine being with anyone other than Steve.’ Her face is flushed and it seems odd for her to be flustered.

  Maybe she’s not so good at talking about herself, although she did open up to me the other day. I guess addiction is easier to talk about for her – it’s what we have in common after all. But the underlying problems aren’t so easy to reveal. Christ, out of everyone I should know that, and the thought makes me smile.

  ‘What’s funny?

  ‘Nothing, just crazy thoughts.’ She must think I’m mental. But it’s good, sitting here, talking. And for a couple of hours I haven’t thought about drinking. Or Grace.

  That changes as soon as I get home. Being back in my flat, switching the light on – which illuminates the dirty marks on the walls – makes me wish I was back in Ellis’s cosy home again. Not on my own with nothing to stop old thoughts coming back and not being able to blot it out with drink. Just like that, I’m back to wondering what Grace is doing with her husband and what I can do for her to forget him and look at me. Like I did with Jason all those years ago. I think about the time we were lying on my bed and Grace told me my hair was gorgeous and that loads of boys would want to go out with me. I thought she was just being nice. She ran her fingers through my curls and asked me if I wanted to know what kissing a boy was like. She was so close I could smell peppermint on her breath and I said yes, even though I already knew I wasn’t interested in boys. But I couldn’t get over how perfect her mouth was. We pressed our lips together and after what seemed like ages she pushed herself up onto her hands, one each side of my head.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ I said, her hair feather-like on my cheek.

  Her eyes were blue like a summer sky as she stared into mine. ‘I’m not planning to,’ she replied.

  In the end I upload a photo, one from the canal that I didn’t show Ellis. The second shot of Grace on her balcony. A different angle this time. She’ll know I’ve visited Michael by now, but it obviously wasn’t enough because she hasn’t been in touch. Why can’t I get through to her? His words are still a puzzle in my head, which only Grace can solve. I click send on the photograph. She can’t ignore me, she must realise that.

  It doesn’t take long before she replies. She wants to meet me, tells me to choose somewhere discreet. I’ve got exactly the place in mind. And I don’t think she’s going to like it.

  Molly’s Diary

  Tuesday 9th December 2003

  Today was the worst day in court. I can’t stand the stuffy atmosphere. Each minute dragged by. Going over and over the same questions was doing my head in, it was so hard to stay awake, and the slug I’d taken of Dad’s vodka didn’t help. This morning the ‘expert’ was up, hours and hours of tedious detail about head injuries. When I asked my barrister – Mr Foxglove, ‘call me Edward’ – what it was all about, he said the bottom line was there was no conclusive evidence on Charlotte’s head injury – it could have been caused by a fall. I could have told them that, I was there, but me and Grace have got our stories sorted, we know what we’re going to say, it’s easier that way. We made a pact, haven’t said a word about what really happened to anyone since the first interview, before I knew better. Grace will do whatever it takes to protect me.

  The witness woman was up this afternoon. Mary Fish. Mr Foxglove did a lot of paper-straightening and adjusting his wig, and I could tell he was nervous. She was wearing a raincoat and clutching her bag as if someone was gonna try and snatch it from her. Her voice was like a mouse and the judge asked her to speak up and she clutched her bag harder. You could tell she didn’t want to be there. She said her piece about going for a walk with her dog and seeing three girls over on the cliff, standing in a triangle, like they were talking. She said she thinks one had reddish hair and they could have been arguing. I’m surprised he didn’t ask her if she was close enough to see our tattoos, the way the papers have been going on about them. That would have made Grace laugh, but I hate the way they’ve taken our special name, The Orchid Girls, and made it into something horrible, all because Charlotte got the same tattoo. But when my barrister jumped up for his turn he made Mary think the sun might have been in her eyes and she couldn’t be sure the hair was red. She looked like she wanted to cry. I could have told him I don’t remember any sun that day. See, it’s much better if I don’t say anything. At the end of the session Mr Foxglove was smiling when he talked to Mum and Dad about the lack of evidence and credible witnesses and I had a feeling we were going to be OK. If I could just catch Grace’s eye, I’d feel better, but her Dad won’t let me anywhere near her.

  Wednesday 10th December 2003

  IT’S ALL OVER. NOT GUILTY!!!

  I can’t wait to see Grace.

  Thursday 1st January 2004

  Grace hasn’t written back. I posted the letter five days ago so she should have got it by now. I thought we’d get a chance to talk after the trial, and I couldn’t believe it when Mum bundled me off home without letting me speak to her. I cried for two whole days. I keep picking at the cut she made on my hand so it stays fresh. A scar will keep her with me until we meet again. We made a promise, so she’ll stick by it. Won’t she?

  I still can’t believe all this has happened. That summer was supposed to be Grace coming to stay, like every summer since I can remember, just me and her, like it always is. Why did we have to meet Charlotte on the beach, her of all people? I’d just moved schools to escape her and her bullying friends.

  I hate Charlotte for starting all this. Why did she have to introduce Grace to Jason? First I was scared Grace would like Charlotte more than me – she was girly and pretty in a way I’ll never be with my red hair and freckles everywhere. Always the odd one out. Plus she was such a bitch to me in school, and then being all nice that summer when Grace was around. So two-faced. Drove me fucking mad. Not to mention she got in the way of me and Grace.

  Grace asked me what was up once. How could I tell her my gut ached because of how much I liked her? The day it all kicked off she was wearing a white vest which showed off her body, and those sexy denim shorts. She looked like a woman. Her legs were tanned and made mine look like twiglets. That’s when I started taking photos of her. Photos she made me burn. Wish I hadn’t now. That same day she got me to pl
ait her hair and when she flicked it back it tickled my arm, like an electric shock. She stuck her legs out and her hair shone like gold, soft to touch. I massaged her head like I’d seen the hairdresser do to Mum, felt her warm body against mine. That made me go all tingly and I thought she liked it because she sighed out loud, and the knot in my stomach unravelled. Was it then that she started to like me too? She was the only person I could talk to, but how could I tell her I didn’t understand the way she made me feel? It’s called irony – we learned it in English the other day. And now she’s not writing back to me, I’m left not knowing.

  Before I lock my diary at night I look at the wild orchids she gave me, picked up on the cliff and placed in my hair. I’ve pressed them into the back of this diary, pretty purple smudges that I look at every night and imagine her smile.

  Friday 2nd April 2004

  Still no letter. Mum and I had a massive row last night because she won’t give me Grace’s phone number. Said she’s not at home anyway, but won’t say what she meant. Is Grace getting my letters? I just don’t know. I can’t sleep or eat, all I can think about is us. When my hand throbs I feel closer to her. Mum took me to the doctor and he said I’m depressed but I’m not, I just wanna be with Grace. But I couldn’t tell them that, they wouldn’t understand.

  Does she still love me? She won’t change her mind about us being together, will she? People say teenage love isn’t real but they don’t know anything, they’ve just forgotten. Or maybe she did prefer Jason after all. After the barbecue, when I caught her kissing him, she hated how upset I was, told me it was all an act to wind Charlotte up. Was I wrong to believe her? Every day I don’t hear from her makes me less sure. I go up to the cliffs a lot when I want to get away from everyone and think. What with everything that happened there I thought it might not feel the same, but it does. Our initials are still carved into that tree. I keep trying to work out what happened that day, but it’s like my head is full of air. Nothing. I so wish we could talk. Sort it all through. I’ll keep writing until she writes back. I won’t give up.