The Orchid Girls

by Lesley Sanderson

  Julia calls when the cake is in the oven. Despite the heat pumping out, I’m shivering. I put another jumper on but it does nothing to keep out the cold. I take the call on the sofa, wrapping a cashmere shawl around myself.

  ‘You haven’t sent me the proposal for your next book.’ There’s an edge to her voice and I feel a prick of guilt.

  ‘It’s not ready. Something came up. I’m really sorry, but I’m going to need more time.’

  ‘Can you send it to me by the end of the week?’

  I calculate the week in my head. ‘Yes’ I have no choice.

  ‘By the way, Grace, what’s happening on social media? Have you seen the photos of you?’

  Fear creeps over me. ‘No, what photos?’

  ‘There’s a photo of you smoking.’

  Christ. My heart gallops. ‘Give me ten minutes, I’ll have a look and ring you back.’

  I can’t believe I haven’t seen the photos yet. I’ve been so stressed I’ve barely been online. It’s not like me. There are two images. Outside in a doorway, a close-up of me sucking a cigarette like I’m desperate for oxygen. But the second photo disturbs me more: it’s a shot inside the bar last night of me with Molly. When was that taken? I look drunk, there’s no denying it, glass raised to my lips and caught at an angle where it’s tilting, so it looks like the wine is about to miss my mouth. I clench my fists as I stare at the screen; the reality is so innocent, but who will believe me? As I scroll through the comments my fingernails dig deeper into my palms and I catch sight of the name Alex Foster. His comment reads, ‘Who is Grace’s mystery friend?’ There’s a shot of Molly, sideways on, leaning in to catch what I’m saying. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What am I going to do?

  ‘I can explain,’ I say when I call Julia back, excuses pouring out. Old school friend, yes, I had a glass of wine but I’m no saint, contrary to media perception…

  ‘Grace, calm down, this is me you’re talking to. I’m on your side, remember.’

  I slump in the chair, out of breath. ‘Of course. I’ve got myself in such a state. Richard will be furious.’

  ‘He’ll be supportive, I’m sure.’

  I doubt that.

  ‘He’s paranoid about our brand, drums into me how important our media profile is. He acts as if we’re the Beckhams.’

  ‘It’s understandable. He’s just trying to be supportive.’

  ‘How should I respond?’ So what if I drink? I don’t hide the fact, I’m just careful what I choose to put into my body. Most of the time.

  ‘It’s unfortunate, it isn’t the image we want to present. But for now, let’s deal with damage limitation. Have any journalists been in touch?’

  ‘No.’ But Alex Foster lurks in the background. Cold air blows through the flat. He can’t have been in a women-only bar, which means someone else is following me. Who? Purple nails flash into my mind and shame makes my face hot.

  ‘Grace, I’m on your side. I know you don’t smoke.’

  A twinge of guilt pricks my conscience, but there was only one other time, on the privacy of my balcony.

  ‘Who is the woman you’re with?’

  The chilly sensation intensifies. Despite my determination, Molly is encroaching into my life. And there are some serious consequences.

  ‘She went to my primary school. I wouldn’t call her a friend, even.’ I sigh. ‘She showed up at my book launch and asked to meet. It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ How wrong I was.

  ‘Is she likely to talk if she’s asked about it? Maybe you need to have a conversation with her – these journalists can be so devious. Ask her not to talk to the press. I’ll send you a couple of lines as a quote to put out – that will be our only response to this. Don’t get drawn into a dialogue with anyone. Try not to worry, Grace. But it is unlike you to miss a deadline, plus you haven’t posted much this week. Your daily features are important for building a brand. You have a huge following, and you want to keep them loyal. Is something wrong?’

  I reassure Julia that I’ll get straight back on it, but when the phone call ends working is far from my mind. Richard is still at the office and I’m dreading seeing him later. If he knew about Julia’s concerns he’d be furious. Like picking a scab, I delve further and further into the comments on my page, endlessly studying the photographs, getting more and more worked up.

  The photos are all over the internet. Shared, reposted, retweeted. Hashtag Queen of Clean. How the hell did I miss this earlier? So many people with so many opinions. A picture can tell so many stories, but the one the public picks on is the one that does me most damage. Typical. Richard has warned me about this: if our image is good, then people want to knock that, take us down to their level. It’s only now that it’s happening I fully understand. I curse the journalist who named me ‘Queen of Clean’; I never wanted that title. It’s going to be my undoing. Part of me wants to curl into a ball and hide away, like an animal hibernating in winter, coming back up for air when everything is back to normal again. But that isn’t an option. I’m in the public eye and I have to deal with it. Deep inside I hate to acknowledge that part of me that resents Richard for forcing me into the limelight. For a moment I even wish I was back in France.

  Unable to focus on work, I look up Alex Foster, delving into his background. Television and radio appearances have made him well known in his field, and he’s often the ‘go to’ journalist when a talking head is required. I click on images, but his face is unfamiliar. Now based in London, he has a huge following online. I can’t help feeling threatened by it.

  On his blog today the featured case is the murder of a hairdresser in Southend, whose stepfather was jailed for the crime but released on appeal, thanks to a huge campaign for his release. Opinion is divided on his innocence. Alex’s countdown is getting closer to 2002. Dread fills me. Reading the details makes my stomach churn and I snap the laptop shut, no longer wanting to read about unsolved cases. There must be something wrong with someone who chooses to focus on this stuff. How does he sleep at night?

  The door slams, announcing Richard’s return. Although I’ve eaten nothing all day I want to be sick. He throws his bag onto the sofa and pulls his tie off so aggressively I think it’s going to rip.

  ‘I take it you’ve seen this,’ he says, holding out his phone. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’

  ‘It’s not what it seems.’

  ‘Promoter of clean living, Grace Sutherland, is caught drinking and smoking. Which bit of that statement have I got wrong?’

  ‘Yes, I had a glass of wine and I can’t excuse the cigarette. But you know I don’t smoke. You know what these photographers are like. And no way was I drunk, it’s just an unfortunate angle. Christ, Richard, you know me.’ Tears prickle my eyes and I will them away, not wanting to look weak.

  ‘I didn’t say anything when you were so late back last night, but I should have done. Staying out late and drinking isn’t an option for us. And you overslept this morning. You’re usually up before me, but I thought it best to let you sleep it off. You can’t afford late nights like this. It’s impacting on your work. And the timing is terrible – you can’t go off the rails when I’m fighting an important election.’

  ‘I’m not going off the rails. I just fancied a drink. I’m only human. I had one.’

  He sinks down on the sofa. ‘I know, I know. But I’ve looked at the other photos online and I recognise the woman you were with. It’s her from the other night, isn’t it? Your old school friend. You didn’t tell me you’d seen her. I thought you said you were out with Carrie.’

  I can’t believe he’s been studying the photos and made that connection. I have to be more careful.

  ‘I bumped into her, that’s all.’ The lie slips out so easily.

  ‘After she sent you that photo? You should be avoiding her.’

  ‘It was a difficult situation. She was there and I was on my own. It would have been awkward to make a fuss. She’s alright. It’s not a big deal.’

  �
�It is when people are asking who she is. You don’t know what she might say. She doesn’t sound all that stable to me.’

  ‘I spoke to Julia and she’s told me how to handle the situation. Suggested I have a word with her.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Not yet, but I will. Look, I’m sorry it happened, I really am, but can we put it behind us? I feel bad enough as it is, without you making me feel worse.’

  Richard shakes his head. ‘What a day. I need a shower.’ His face is set and I know he hasn’t forgiven me. It’s so hard at times to read what he’s thinking, unlike Molly, who has her emotions written all over her. I curse myself for comparing them.

  ‘I’ll get some food on.’

  I gather ingredients together but my thoughts couldn’t be further from eating. Red Camargue rice will cook quickly and is Richard’s favourite. I’ll make it specially for him, to help him forget his bad day. He’s my priority. I chop aubergines and red peppers and wish my life could go back to how it was a few weeks ago, before Molly got catapulted back into it. But she’s here now, seeping her way into my thoughts. As I’m washing basil I puzzle again over the photographs. I don’t remember anyone taking them. I stir diced shallots, the heat too high, the oil sizzling and spitting at me. One of Molly’s friends, that must be it. How can I believe anything she’s telling me? I should know better by now than to trust her. I stir the vegetables, the fragrant smell of basil soothes me and the wooden spoon jerks against the pan as my nerves get the better of me. It’s not the first time the Daily Tribune has given me an unwanted title, sending journalists snooping into my life. I was able to run away last time. But this time? I don’t realise Richard is behind me until his arms go round my waist and I almost knock the pan onto the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Richard says, nuzzling his chin into my hair, and I let myself sink into his arms. I love him so much. ‘We’re a team, always have been. We’ll get through this.’

  This time I’m not running anywhere.

  Nineteen

  MOLLY

  I’m up early the next morning, unable to sleep, last night’s conversation with Grace buzzing in my head. She draws me to her and I walk as fast as I can, force myself back to the canal. I shudder at the sight of the murky water, but it’s worth it to be near her. I can’t help looking up at Grace’s flat, wondering whether she’s up there. Is she going over and over last night too? Seeing women together, I wanted her to know that it doesn’t have to be a secret, that attitudes are different now – that not everyone thinks like her dad. I keep on walking – fast, determined steps – trying to drive my anxiety away. By the time I get to Victoria Park I’m feeling light-headed, so I cut across the grass where a van is selling food and drink, and I buy myself a flaky Danish pastry and a warm cup of tea. A little boy runs past, chasing a squirrel, an older girl following him, exasperation on her face and I think about Darren. He looked up to me once, until I let him down. Over and over. He’ll call again if it’s important. Heat hits my cheeks when I remember the last time I saw him. No way I can face calling him.

  I take a slower pace on the way back, the pastry sticking heavily in my stomach and I realise I’m not used to eating so much. Without drink in me I’m hungrier, which can’t be a bad thing. By the time I get back to Grace’s flat I can’t resist sitting outside for a bit, smoking a cigarette on the bench. Niggling inside me is Grace’s voice telling me not to pursue what happened to Charlotte. Maybe she’s right and we’ll never know. But if that’s the case, how will I ever forgive myself? I know what I did. An image appears in my mind, the courtroom, harsh lights making my head pound, a man in a ridiculous wig firing questions at me. Not daring to look at Grace for reassurance, losing it when the man wouldn’t stop with the questions, yelling at him to stop. Men scribbling furiously until the judge ordered everyone out. What else was I supposed to tell them?

  The canal is busy with commuters now and I’m about to head home when a man exits the flats, walking with purpose, briefcase in one hand, head to one side as he talks into his phone. It’s him. I slide my mobile out and take a series of shots, zooming in on his face. I’ll get these printed, add them to my collection. Work out what he’s up to.

  On the way home I pick up some bread to make toast, resolving to eat more. My phone pings as I’m unlocking my flat and I catch my breath when I see that it’s Darren.

  I picture his boyish face with a cheeky grin, so like Dad, and just thinking about him sends a pang of loss through me. Dad would know what to do. And he would want me to answer.

  I pick up.

  ‘Molly, is that you?’ His voice is also like Dad’s and my throat seizes up.

  ‘Hey, Darren.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m OK, better than last time anyway.’

  ‘That’s not difficult.’ He’s silent for a moment and then we both laugh. ‘Seeing as last time I saw you was when the police called me from the hospital.’

  I rake my hand through my hair. It needs a wash. Dad’s funeral. I was so gutted when he died, I couldn’t believe I’d not spoken to him since I left home, and then it was too late. Drunk until I could face the funeral, so blotto it was all a blur. Shame heats my body.

  ‘Molly?’

  I’d come to in hospital, covered in bruises and on a drip, with Darren at my side, his face drained of all colour.

  ‘No, I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘Are you still seeing that woman?’

  ‘Jodie? No, thank God.’

  Jodie had turned up when Darren was there, still a bit out of it. That was in the early days when I thought she’d leave her girlfriend. All I could think about was whether she’d told her yet. My life was like that, a series of events with gaping holes in between where I had no idea what happened. The thought scares me now.

  ‘How are you, Darren? Is everything OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, still in Manchester, same job. But it’s Mum I’m ringing about, I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Is she ill?’

  ‘No, well, she’s not been herself since Dad died, but she’s not looking after herself properly. The house is a mess.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘She’s still working, but… she misses you, Molly. You sound a lot better—’

  ‘I am – just about. I’m sorting myself out. I was wondering about going to see her, but I’m scared, I’m not sure it’s a good idea, you know, to be in Dorset.’

  There’s a silence on the end of the line. Darren was too young to understand at the time and Mum tried to keep him from finding out what happened, but it was impossible. The legacy of The Orchid Girls.

  ‘She’d be made up,’ he says, ‘she misses you. We speak most weeks and she always mentions you.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Get in touch with her, Molly, she’s having a tough time. It would do her good.’

  We chat some more and my mood is better than it’s been for ages. After our call ends, I’m ready for some toast. As I reach for the bread my phone pings again.

  Jodie. I thought she’d got the message. What’s she contacting me about? She’s sent me a link to a website so I log on to my laptop; the loaf of bread lies unopened on the counter.

  The link takes me to a blog page of a journalist who’s been inspired by the recent case of the missing girl, Emily Shaw, and is looking at old cases linked to missing teenagers. I slam the laptop shut, feeling sick. A drink would help me blot all this out. But one drink would lead on to the next, and who knows what else, so I make myself a cup of tea, forcing myself back to my laptop. Great – he’s going to be looking into The Orchid Girls. I wonder if Grace knows about this. It’s funny that I’ve been thinking about it all so much, and now this is happening. The thought stresses me and I chew my thumbnail, unable to leave it alone.

  Steph from the internet cafe, rings when I’m eating cheese on toast, interrupting me reflecting on last night’s conversation with Grace for the
hundredth time.

  ‘Have you been online this morning?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Come to the cafe, I want to show you something. Now’s a good time, not many people are in.’

  Ten minutes later I’m sitting behind the counter with Steph. She prints my photos while she shows me what she’s seen. A photograph of me and Grace at the bar last night. A picture of Grace smoking has gone viral.

  ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah. Me and Grace were at school together.’ I drag my fingers through my hair. ‘All this fuss about a cigarette is like being back at school.’

  ‘She won’t be happy. It’s not the best publicity for her healthy eating, is it?’

  Steph tightens her lime-green scarf around her neck. It clashes with her pink hair. ‘I don’t know if this is a coincidence, but a woman was in here asking after you the other day.’

  ‘Jodie? You know we’re finished.’

  ‘About time! I couldn’t stand her. I can say it now you’ve seen sense. But no, it wasn’t Jodie. I’d never seen this woman before.’

  Heat rises in my body and my armpits feel sweaty.

  ‘What did she look like?’ If it’s not Jodie, then who could it be? Not Ellis, surely?

  ‘She had a black woolly hat on covering her hair, but I didn’t get a good look at her. It was busy at the time.’

  ‘Did you say anything to her?’

  ‘Shut up! What kind of a friend do you think I am? I told her to get lost.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  On the way home Ellis texts me, inviting me to dinner. Last night obviously didn’t put her off. I say yes because it gets me out of the house and I’m still intrigued by her being at the bar. Was it a coincidence? Ellis has to be genuine, she has to be – I’d be gutted if she wasn’t. But the person who went to the cafe is playing on my mind, making me paranoid. Is this how Grace feels, living in fear of the past, always expecting her identity to be found out?