The Orchid Girls

by Lesley Sanderson

  Seventeen

  MOLLY

  Chez Elle is dark inside, with crystal lights hanging low over plush leather sofas, while a mirror reflects the light behind the bar and coloured liquids glow inside the bottles. A couple are draped over one another on one of the sofas, a woman sits on a bar stool, talking quietly into her mobile, and the beat of the music travels up from the floor through my feet and pulses into my body. I feel alive. My phone buzzes in my pocket and when I see who’s calling, I stare at the screen as his name flashes over and over. Darren. What the fuck does he want? I shove my phone in my pocket; I can’t deal with this now. Nothing is going to spoil this.

  I place my order at the bar and take my coffee over to one of the booths facing the entrance, feeling proud that I’ve resisted a drink. I’m buzzing with the anticipation of seeing Grace. It takes me back to Dorset, the first day she came to stay that summer; she was late and I jumped up to the window at the sound of every car that turned into the street. I remember Mum giving me a funny look when she asked me why I was so impatient to see her.

  We went down to the beach on that first evening. Grace’s dad wasn’t keen for us to go alone at that time of day, but Mum talked him round. I think she was glad to have a break from me – my energy used to wear her out. And I was lit up when Grace was around. Months of longing had driven me crazy. The sun was low in the sky and the water was warm and everything was glorious. Grace kissed me when we had swum out far enough to make sure nobody could see. On the mouth, like we had kissed at Christmas, and I wondered, for the millionth time, if she felt the same as I did. But that was before she met Jason.

  A familiar scent makes me look up and Grace is walking towards me with a serious expression. Her sleek hair glides as she walks. She slips her pale pink leather jacket off, sits opposite me and orders a glass of wine. It must take ages for Grace to put her make-up on in the morning; she looks perfect. Her rosebud lips have a touch of gloss and I could sit and watch them dance in conversation for hours. I still can’t believe she’s here in front of me. I imagine framing her face through a camera lens and posing her to capture the best shot.

  ‘Stop staring at me,’ she says, and I turn my attention to the red neon WOMEN sign flashing above the door of the ladies. There are large red spots everywhere I look now, the sign flashing in my head.

  Grace reaches for her glass and I glimpse her wrist. Instinctively I reach for it.

  ‘Your tattoo’s gone.’

  ‘Don’t.’ She snatches her hand from mine. The betrayal hurts as if she’s hit me. ‘Of course it’s gone. I told you to stay away.’

  ‘Not after what Michael said to me.’

  She grips the stem of her glass. ‘I can’t believe you went to see him. It was such a risky thing to do. Why?’

  ‘I wanted to ask him about the letters. To check if you were telling the truth.’

  ‘Of course I was telling the truth. What did he say?’

  ‘Is he alright in the head? The woman there said he has emphysema, but he was confused. Didn’t recognise me until I showed him the photograph.’

  ‘What photograph?’

  So she thinks I showed him that photo. I wouldn’t. I’m not that messed up. ‘Relax, one of us when we were kids. Mum took it.’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t remember. What else did he say?’

  ‘He was confused. He was talking about that missing girl as if she was Charlotte. Have you seen that picture in the papers?’

  Grace looks at me and I know she’s spotted it too. The uncanny resemblance. ‘He told me that he knew about us, that you’d told him.’

  She looks shocked. ‘That’s a lie. He said the same about you to me.’

  I study her face, trying to figure out if she’s telling the truth. ‘Why would he say that?’

  ‘I told you, he’s not well, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Have you forgotten what he was like? Do you really think I wouldn’t have told you at the time? We told each other everything.’

  ‘So you remember?’

  She bites her lip. ‘This has to stop, Molly.’

  ‘Promise me you’re telling the truth. Look at me.’

  She raises her eyes and holds my gaze. I know Grace, I know her better than anyone. She’s telling the truth. So what was Michael talking about?

  She looks away first and I wish I could read her mind. I’m about to speak when a woman walks past in a smart trouser suit. She pauses and her glance lingers on Grace.

  ‘Grace, isn’t it?’ she comes closer and my shoulders droop. My time with Grace is precious and I don’t want to share her with anyone.

  ‘Love your sourdough bread basket,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Any chance of a selfie?’

  ‘Sure! No problem.’ The woman crouches down beside her, her hand over Grace’s silver-grey nails, and together they hold the phone up high. I might as well not be here. I stir sugar into my coffee, the spoon clinking against the side of the cup, waiting for them to finish.

  ‘Cheers!’ she says, touches Grace’s arm and goes back to the bar and sips her drink. She watches us. I look back at Grace.

  ‘That would drive me insane,’ I say.

  The bar is filling up now, a group of older women sliding into the booths behind us, but Grace seems unaware of her surroundings. I wonder if she’s realised yet. Maybe she wouldn’t have been so welcoming to that lapdog of a woman if she had. She continues watching us from the bar and I give her a look. She picks up her lager and moves away. The music’s still pulsing and I sip my coffee, wishing it was a glass of vodka that would send a stronger burst to my head. Don’t, Molly. It’s being here with Grace that makes me nervous. Needing something to take the edge off.

  ‘How do you deal with it?’

  ‘Being recognised?’

  ‘No. What happened back then with––’

  ‘Shhh!’ Grace leans forward. ‘You have to find a way to deal with it. I went on this mindfulness course recently, “unwelcome thoughts”, they call them. You put them on a little bus in your mind and they trundle away. Just like that. If they come back, you put them back on the bus. I boxed it up and threw away the key. You should try it.’

  Shock reverberates through me. Was it really that easy for her? After everything we went through? ‘It was alright for you, moving away. I was stuck in Lyme, where it all happened, on my own. Me and my crazy thoughts. The cliffs forever haunting me. It might have been different if you’d stayed in touch. That’s why I wrote the letters.’

  ‘Don’t start on about that again, you know it was out of my hands. You need to take a leaf out of my book.’

  ‘Grace, really? A fucking bus! Like all my problems will zoom off, just like that? How can you live in the public eye? Aren’t you worried?’

  ‘Why should I be worried, Molly?’ She’s lowered her voice and leans forward to make sure I hear. ‘The courts were on our side, there’s nothing to be ashamed about.’ Grace puts her hands on the table, leans forward. ‘You can’t keep pursuing me like this. We need to sort this once and for all. What is it you want?’

  ‘You know what I want. I need to know what happened that day.’

  She flicks her hair back over her shoulder. I wonder if it’s still as soft to touch.

  ‘You didn’t answer me properly last time. What happened after the fight? We thought she’d gone home, and then… don’t you want to know?’

  ‘Stop it, Molly. Why are you dwelling on it? At least she made it into town, which wasn’t inevitable given what you’d done to her. We’ll never know why she went back to the beach. Nobody was ever charged with the crime. You have to forget it.’ She reaches out and takes my hand. Her touch is electric, it’s so unexpected. ‘I have, and you can too.’

  Grace gazes into my eyes and my stomach turns to liquid. Her lips are slightly parted and I look back into her eyes to see if she feels it too, but she avoids my gaze. I don’t want to let go, but she drops my hands and the moment is gone. Did I
imagine it?

  People are dancing. A couple slow-dance behind Grace and she notices me looking and turns to watch. When the women kiss, long and slow and deep, she turns to me, her eyes flashing.

  ‘This is a gay bar.’ Her voice is filled with venom.

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’ve done this deliberately, haven’t you?’

  She purses her lips together and takes a sip of her drink.

  I shrug. ‘You said to find somewhere that you didn’t normally go. So I got that right, didn’t I? I come here a lot, I feel relaxed. We can move to a straight city pub if you prefer.’

  ‘I’m not staying.’ She picks her bag up, then pauses. ‘What about the anonymous text? Who could have sent it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but you ought to know my ex has been talking to a journalist. I guess it could be her.’

  ‘Christ Molly.’ Grace takes a long sip of her drink. If she hadn’t realised before, she has now. It looks like it’s only just sinking in.

  ‘Have you always had girlfriends?’

  I nod. ‘Men have never interested me. How about you?’

  She looks annoyed. ‘Why ask me that? I’m straight, obviously.’

  ‘How long have you been with Richard?’

  She pushes her glass away. ‘I’m not doing this, Molly. This isn’t a normal catch-up with an old friend. All that secrecy, hiding away, it’s not what I want any more. I love Richard and I’m proud to be seen with him, OK? The anonymous text changes everything. Surely you understand? We can’t be seen together. Please, Molly.’

  The couple behind Grace continue to slow-dance, hips locked together. It takes me back to the town disco, watching Grace with her arms wrapped around Jason’s neck, sat on my fists to stop myself from dashing across the room and pulling her away from him. Charlotte was glaring at me, her over-painted lips moving rapidly, telling me to stop staring. She said I was acting as if I’d never seen anyone kiss before. That had made me look round and my stomach had clenched into a knot as I watched Grace snog the face off him. I had to bite at the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying. She’d only known him two weeks. Charlotte didn’t look happy either, and we both watched as Jason put his hand on her lower back. Any lower and he’d be grabbing her ass – it made me furious. I stood up and the bottle of Coke crashed onto the table, sending a stream of brown liquid right into Charlotte’s lap. She screamed at me for ruining her top. But it was all her fault we ended up hanging around with him.

  That’s when I decided I was going to get her back. Big time.

  In front of me, Grace is pulling on her jacket, standing, wine left unfinished. It tugs at my insides that she’s leaving, but I force myself to stay seated. I try and understand how she feels. She’s explained about her reputation, why she can’t be seen with me. I watch her cross the bar, like a model on a catwalk, heads turning in her direction. But she’s stopped now. It’s the woman who bothered her for a selfie earlier, and now she’s touching her on the shoulder, just a tap, but I don’t miss anything where Grace is concerned. They speak for a few seconds and Grace disappears through the exit. A second later there’s a flash of red as the woman picks up her jacket and slings it over her shoulder, following her out. Grace’s undrunk wine tempts me to drink it. I decide I’ll count to fifty, see if I still want it.

  ‘Molly!’

  Ellis is standing in front of me holding a pool cue. I push Grace’s glass away, her pink lipstick decorating the edge. Instead I pick up my cup. I can’t help wondering what Ellis is doing here.

  ‘I noticed you a while ago, but didn’t want to interrupt. Fancy a game?’

  I nod. It’ll give me something to take my mind off Grace, stop me from running after her.

  ‘That was her, wasn’t it? What was she doing here?’

  ‘We had things to talk about.’

  ‘It’s a good choice of venue. Women will respect her privacy here.’

  I hope she’s right. ‘Are you ready for me to thrash you?’ I reply.

  I want to win. I switch my mind off, focus on the game. Ellis is good, but I won’t let her beat me. Halfway through, the woman in the red jacket returns and I wonder where she’s been. Then I remember the call from my brother. Why is he calling me now? Has something happened to Mum? I wonder if he’s forgiven me. My cue slams so hard into the ball it jumps off the table. Ellis wins easily after that.

  Away from the music and voices, walking home in the silent street, Grace is back in my head, crunching thoughts that won’t let up. It hurts when I scrape my knuckles against the wall. I concentrate on the stinging sensation as I count the minutes down. I’m furious with myself for ever mentioning Jodie and her threats – I should have known it would frighten Grace away. I chew at my knuckles, the metallic taste of blood flooding my mouth.

  Grace’s Diary

  Tuesday 1st June 2004

  It’s been six months since I heard from Molly. Six months in a new country, new language, new me. I hate her now. How dare she forget me? After everything we went through?

  Aunt Jenny’s told me this is a fresh start, and she’s right. She wants me to change my name to hers. GRACE MARTIN. No more Grace Cavendish. It looks good.

  Dad’s rung once a week since I’ve been here but I won’t speak to him. I’m so pleased to be away from the bastard. He’s no dad to me.

  Today I’ve made some decisions:

  Change my surname to Martin.

  Dad’s now called Michael, and I won’t answer his calls until he gets the message.

  Date guys. No more girls.

  Invent a new past for myself.

  Number 3 is because I will never let a girl get close to me again.

  Number 4 is because all that shit is over.

  PS: Number 3 is also because I’ve been thinking about Jason a lot lately. I was attracted to him until Molly got in the way. It was like she cast a spell on me and I couldn’t break free. Next time a hot guy comes along nothing is going to stand in my way. I’m not a gullible teenager any more.

  Eighteen

  GRACE

  A black cab speeds past as I leave the warmth of Chez Elle and I pull my scarf around my neck. The door bangs and the sourdough woman emerges, her perfume so strong I feel dizzy. She slips a pack of cigarettes from her clutch bag, lights one. She sees me watching.

  ‘Do you want one?’ Her blonde fringe falls over her eyes.

  It’s cold and the cab has long gone. My nerves are twisted up; I have to calm down before I go home. I don’t want to be recognised standing outside. I feel a flutter of anger – is this a set-up? Was it Molly’s intention all along? But the woman seems friendly enough.

  ‘Please,’ I say, needing the comfort of the ritual, lighting up and breathing smoke deep into my lungs. It stops me fiddling with my hands and revealing how agitated I am.

  ‘You won’t have long to wait for another cab, they come round pretty regularly. Which way are you heading?’

  ‘Camden.’

  ‘Shame, I’m going south. We could have shared.’

  She looks at me, blinks her long eyelashes and I look away. Another black cab is pulling up outside and I raise my arm, calling it over.

  ‘Ladies first,’ she says. Her nails are painted bright purple and she places them on my arm. ‘I’ve not seen you here before.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have.’ I wave at the cab driver again, wanting to get away from her now. He’s pulled into the kerb and is waiting for me. ‘Thanks for the cigarette.’

  ‘No sweat. Take my card, in case you fancy a drink sometime.’ Her purple nails release my arm and she slides her business card into my pocket, her fingers lingering on my thigh.

  ‘Sweet dreams, honey.’

  The cab pulls away and I don’t look back, not wanting her pretty face to see the reaction her touch has set off. The bar has unsettled me. Seeing women together so naturally. All over each other. Not a care in the world. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in a place like that. Despite coming cl
ose in Paris, I’ve deliberately kept away. Buried it deep. Those feelings I had when I was younger weren’t real; they had nothing like the strength of my feelings for Richard.

  But later, when he reaches for me in bed and rolls on top of me, I flinch and find myself picturing the pale blonde hair of the woman, painted nails pressing into my thigh.

  It’s silent when I wake and I rub my eyes, checking the time. It takes me a moment to realise that I’ve overslept. My plan was to get up early and start cooking. The brand designer wants the names and details of the products to be included in the range, and I’ve not done the required recipe-testing. I’m supposed to be taking printouts of the recipes to a meeting with my editor for her to sign off on them later, but I’m not ready. I need more time. I need structure. I’ve let things slip yet again. I sit cross-legged and do some yoga breathing, trying to calm my breath, which feels like it’s trapped in my throat. If I work out a timetable for myself, I’ll be able to negotiate a new deadline. But what I can’t factor in is the emotional ups and downs that are stopping me from doing my work, getting in the way of everything.

  Richard has left his ironed shirts out and I can’t settle down to my baking while his pristine white cotton garments hang like a blot on the landscape. They spoil the clean lines of the flat and have to be put away. That cuts half an hour out of my day. Today I’m making an apple and poppyseed cake, and the kitchen is soon flooded with the smell of sweet apples and cinnamon.