Late in the night I’m woken up by Richard crawling into bed. Afterwards I drift in and out of sleep and he’s gone again when I wake at nine. At least he won’t be able to go on at me to get my work done. No matter how successful I am, will he ever think I’m good enough? He forgets that I’m sacrificing having children, and the thought makes me well up with tears. Being with Molly was so easy compared to Richard. I didn’t have to agonise over every decision, or worry about pissing her off. That special bond between women is such a different dynamic, so intense. She told me every thought that was in her head. Men don’t do that. For the hundredth time I wonder what she put in the letters. To read them now would take me back to that time, remind me of the connection we once had. Dangerous, but… if I destroy them, the threat will be one less thing to worry about. After an hour in the kitchen, gazing at a blank work surface, I accept that until I ask Michael about the letters, I won’t be able to settle down to anything.
I call Angela to let her know I’m on my way. She’s surprised that I’m coming over again so soon, and I feel a pang of guilt at my loss of composure last time I visited. Now she’s seen how strained my relationship with Michael is. But it’s always been there, tension simmering under the surface. Ready to explode.
‘I was going to ring you anyway, suggest you come over. Michael has been difficult the past couple of days – it’s that missing girl on television. If he catches the news he gets into a right state. He keeps trying to tell me something, but I don’t understand what he’s getting at.’ Her voice is laced with worry.
I inhale deeply, willing my voice not to shake.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
It’s an easy journey once the rush hour is over, and I’m there in an hour. On the way I mull over Richard’s comments from the other day. He has always accepted that I wasn’t happy at home and would rather not talk about that part of my life. He understood my need to leave it all behind. So why his sudden outburst the other day? Pressure builds up in my head and I focus my thoughts on Michael, who long ago stopped being my father.
Angela lets me in, telling me Michael’s in bed. She takes advantage of my presence to slip out to the shops. He’s asleep when I enter his room and I pause in the doorway. Illness has taken away his strength, hurting his pride. The very same man who use to frighten us to death. His parishioners would listen to his sermons in awe, spellbound. They didn’t see how hard he was to live with, his impossible expectations. Michael looks perplexed when I pat him on the arm, eyes blinking fast, his forehead furrowed like the pleats of a fan. He sits up in bed.
‘What are you doing here?’ His voice is wheezy, his chest sounds worse than usual.
‘Visiting you, of course, Michael. Angela tells me you’ve not been well.’
The bungalow is quiet, reminding me we’re alone.
‘Michael!’ He spits the word as if it burns his tongue. ‘I’m your father, or have you forgotten that? Why can’t you call me Dad like you used to?’
‘You know why.’
‘Going to France was the best thing that ever happened to you. My prayers were answered when you met a good man. You should be thanking me.’
‘Successful man, you mean. That’s all that matters to you. You don’t care about my happiness.’
‘Still difficult as ever. Why can’t you let it drop?’
‘Because,’ I start, before stopping myself. ‘Let’s not argue.’ I need to keep him on side if I want to find out where the letters are. What was I thinking of, going for a drink with Molly, allowing her to get close again? Richard used to be my confidant, but lately fear has crept in, making me question everything. Molly brought all this back. My head hurts and Michael stares at me with his intense eyes, blinking over and over.
‘Angela says you’ve been getting confused. Is something upsetting you?’
‘Charlotte came to visit me.’
For a moment the room spins, but then I understand.
‘Molly, you mean. We’ve talked about that.’
‘Not her. We had an argument. She told me what you two had been up to. Said she had a photograph.’
‘What photograph?’
Not those photographs. A tremor starts up in my hand. Molly is lying. She’s been stringing me along. Or is Michael genuinely confused?
‘One of you and her when you were little. What photograph did you think it was, Grace? One of those other photographs? Of you and her, eh?’ His eyes flash at me and I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see the disgust that he doesn’t bother hiding on his face. Molly must have sent a photo with the letters. How could she? Those photos were meant for our eyes only. I thought she’d destroyed them. Sweat creeps over my scalp. I have to know what else she gave away.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But I do. ‘Where are the letters?’
I’m desperate to know. But he doesn’t speak, twisting a handkerchief around in his hands, holding the ends tight, and I want to knock it away, horrified that he remembers so much. My heartbeat quickens and hot rage pulses inside me. Why is he doing this now, when it matters most? If he talks too much it’s another threat to my anonymity. But it won’t matter, I tell myself; everyone thinks he’s losing his mind. No one will believe him.
His legs tremble as he pulls himself up in bed and stares at me with angry eyes. What did she put in those letters? My stomach lurches as if I’m on a fairground ride being thrown from side to side. Michael’s face is white, he doesn’t look well. But I have to know. I can’t let it go.
‘Where are the letters, Michael? Whatever Molly said in them was a lie.’
‘Liar!’ His voice is a shout which turns into a cough and his hands shake as he attempts to hold the cup of water, spilling it into his lap. The cough catches in his throat and he bends over double, his face almost touching the bed.
I’m frozen to the spot. His breath is bursting out in short gasps, but I’m unable to move. His fingers are white where they grip the sides of his cup.
‘Hiding something, you were. Lying as usual. That’s not how I brought you up.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’ But he does.
‘Say what you like, but I know the truth and I can prove it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where’s Angela? Get Angela. I need my inhaler.’
‘She’s not here. Forget her. Tell me—’
I’m on my feet now, leaning over him. My whole body shakes and I’m transfixed, looking down at his face. ‘Tell me what you mean.’
‘I––’ The word comes out as a splutter. He’s unable to speak, shaking all over as he drops his cup. It clatters down to the floor. He’s struggling to breathe and his head flops back on the pillow.
‘My—’
Hatred blazes from his eyes and I grab his shoulders. Gone is the father who thought nothing of striking me as punishment. His breath comes out in a horrible rasp and his arms flail above him. Time appears to stop as I look down on him, unable to believe what is happening. I’m not sure he’s breathing. He moves his hands frantically around the top of the bed as if he’s searching for something. I’m no longer afraid. The front door slams. Next thing I know I’m being shoved aside and Angela is there, scooping up the jug and pouring water into his mouth.
‘How long has he been like this?’ she taps Michael’s face, picking up his wrist. I let out the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. Angela gets out her phone.
‘Is he breathing?’
We both fall silent as we focus on the point where her fingers feel desperately for a sign of life.
‘There’s a pulse,’ she says, and I sit down hard on the chair, collapsing into it. All I can hear is my own heartbeat thumping in my head as she punches the emergency code into her phone.
‘He doesn’t look good. What happened? Where’s his inhaler?’ She scans the room, a frown on her face. ‘You know his breathing has been bad lately. Didn’t you see him drop it?’
‘N
o,’ I say, my voice sounding sharp. ‘It’s my fault, I should have been more observant.’
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘The ambulance is on its way.’
‘I have to go.’ I leave the room as if she is chasing me, throwing the word ‘appointment’ into the air, making my excuses.
Angela stares in surprise, but I can’t stay there any longer.
Back home, violent shaking takes over my body as I realise what almost happened. Michael knows about the photographs, and he knows what he is saying. But I’m the only person who knows. Aren’t I? Has Molly realised too? She lied to me about her conversation with Michael, and to think I was beginning to trust her. How could I be so stupid? Finding the letters is crucial. I have to know what’s in them. I sit on the floor and practise my yoga breathing, trying to block Michael from my thoughts, attempting to calm my mind and regain control of my life.
Molly’s Diary
Thursday 8th June 2004
I’m writing this in the garden with my flask of vodka. Dad caught me in his drinks cupboard the other day – but he believed it was my first time. The actual first time was the day Dad told me the Charlotte business was going to trial. I hate lying to him of all people, but I hate everything about myself now. I’m hooked on the fags too. Have to sneak out of school at lunchtime.
Six months now and still no fucking letter from Grace. Want to die. I post them myself now because I don’t trust Mum. She’s different since the trial. She’s stopped going on at me to tell her the truth. I’ve disappointed her, what can I do?
I’m thinking about running away. If I knew where Grace was I could go to her. She’s sixteen now, and I will be next month. They can’t stop us then. I can’t stand living here any more. Everyone knows what happened, people give me evil looks in the street. I HATE whoever called us ‘The Orchid Girls’. I hate it. Hate everything.
Wednesday June 30th 2004
Another bust-up with Mum when she found out I was still writing to Grace. She said if Michael got hold of the letters he’d rip them up. Said I’d be making things worse for Grace’s mum. But things can’t be any worse for her than being married to him. No wonder she’s depressed. I bet that’s what’s happened to my letters. Thank God Charlotte never told him about us like she was threatening to.
I’ve been kicked out of school for three days for drinking. So fucking what. It’s a waste of time. Everything’s a waste of time without her. I can’t even take photos any more. The more I think about Michael, the madder I get. I remember one time we went to a party and came back an hour late and he went ape. Over a party! Imagine if he’d known about US!!! I’m still scared thinking about it now. Grace told me he hit her mum as well as her. How can I protect her when I don’t know where she is?
Wednesday 1st September 2004
It’s been a year. Gracie isn’t going to reply. I know that now. I’m off. Catching a train to Birmingham and getting away from here. Being kicked out of school was the last straw. Mum and Dad are fed up with my drinking. I don’t want them to see I can’t stop. Me and Mum used to talk, but she just seems angry with me all the time. In the beginning she said she believed I was innocent, but something’s changed. And Dad – I can’t bear how I’ve disappointed him.
I’m going to find her. I’ll look and look and never stop until I do. Then we can be together again. Whatever it takes.
Twenty-One
MOLLY
The text message is on my mind when I wake up. I have to work out who’s behind it. One suspect looms in my head: Ellis. But I really don’t want it to be her. Last night at her flat was fun, chatting, laughing, not drinking. But everything I do gets spoilt eventually. A shot of something would still my head and warm me up inside. Instead I run a hot bath and make some toast. When my phone rings I’m convinced it’s the journalist, but I snatch it up when I see it’s Grace.
‘I’ve been to see Michael again. You lied to me, Molly. Why didn’t you tell me you’d told him about our relationship?’
The liar. ‘I didn’t. What’s he said?’
‘He said he knew about us and you had a photo to prove it. You’ve been threatening me with this photo, so why not admit it?’
‘I swear I didn’t mention it to him. Are you sure he meant me?’
‘Of course. Who else would he be talking about?’
‘I don’t know, but he’s getting Charlotte and the missing girl Emily muddled.’
‘They found her body. It’s a murder investigation now.’ I wish I could see her reaction to that word, wondering if it makes her insides cold like it does mine. But she’s still speaking, skipping over that crucial detail.
‘He was talking about the letters you sent. It’s possible he still has them. Did you ever send a photo with them?’
I hate the thought of him reading the words I sent to Grace. They were only ever meant for her. Bastard. ‘No, I swear. If you read them, Grace, you’ll know what I went through. Why finding you was so important. It was hard for me.’
She ignores the hurt in my voice. ‘Michael said he knows the truth. What does he mean?’ Words spill out of Grace in panic.
‘I think he means he knew about our relationship. He warned me off you, now that you’re married.’ I can’t help stressing the last word.
‘Really? Only because he thinks it will reflect badly on him.’ She sighs. ‘This sounds harsh, but maybe it won’t matter. He was taken ill when I was there. He’s in hospital now. And there’s something else. A journalist contacted me, pretending to work with a woman who interviewed me recently. He asked me about my time in Dorset.’ Grace’s breath catches in her throat. The word ‘Dorset’ comes out in a whisper. ‘I’m scared, Molly. You’re the only person who understands.’
I hate hearing her upset like this. ‘Let me come over.’
‘How do I know I can trust you? You know people at that bar, you could have arranged for that photo to be taken. Isn’t that what this is all about? You threatening to expose me, splash one of our photographs over the internet? How could you do that? It’s not who I am any more, but what we had was special. It always has been.’
I sit down, winded. She’s finally admitted it.
‘I swear on your life it wasn’t me. Someone else is involved and I don’t know who it is. You can trust me, Grace, please believe me. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Let me come to your flat.’
‘No. Richard’s so stressed at the moment, especially after seeing the photo. He knows I was out with you. He’d go mad if he caught you here.’
‘He doesn’t have to know.’
She’s silent for so long I wonder if she’s still there.
‘Grace?’
She’s crying now. Quiet, steady sobs, and I can’t bear it. I want to put my arms around her and make everything OK.
‘When they announced on the news that Emily’s body had been found – it was like I was back there all over again. Did you feel it too?’
Did I? ‘It was like a punch in the gut.’
I keeled over when the policeman arrived at our door holding his hat and white as a ghost. Mum put her arm round me and Grace took my hand and squeezed it tight, pressing our scars together. She was reminding me to keep our promise. It didn’t stop me throwing up though, over and over. That sick feeling, knowing what I’d done, has never left me.
She’s still talking.
‘I feel so alone. Richard… he’s so hard on me. Wants me to be perfect. And he’s never here, he’s always working late. We rowed last night and he’s out late again tonight.’
‘Then let me come over.’
If we can just press our scars together again, maybe everything will be alright.
My nerves have been building, and by the time I’m due at Grace’s, I’m a mess. I had to persuade her, promise I wouldn’t come until it was dark. My bike’s got a flat tyre and I can’t be bothered to fix it so I walk there. I’m too hot in my parka and I wish I had something to drink. When I find myself going past the same pub twice,
having circled around it, I go in to ask for a glass of water. The bar is empty and I sit on a stool, calling out ‘Hello’, but all I can hear is the sound of crates crashing about and glasses jingling. Familiar sounds, welcoming. Ellis would have told me not to come in here but it’s too late now and I’m feasting my eyes on the rich colours of the bottles lined up behind the bar. The golden whisky right in my eyeline would take the edge off my nerves and help me say the right thing to Grace. It’s not my usual drink, so one will do, I convince myself. When a barman appears in front of me, slightly breathless, hair dishevelled, surprised to see a customer, I ask him for a single shot. A single can’t hurt, just enough to stop the tremble in my hands. I remember my conversation with Ellis last night. She’d be so disappointed if she could see me now. But who is she? Can I even trust her? I squash my thoughts, downing the shot in one, enjoying its burn.
The lift door closes behind me. My eyeliner is smudged and I touch it up in the mirror, making my eyes look more defined. I kind of look OK, as good as I can right now, so I press the button for Grace’s floor, butterflies in my stomach.
Music is playing in the flat, upbeat but quiet, something sophisticated. It’s not the kind of stuff we used to listen to, moody indie bands we used to blare out really loud.
Grace wears a loose silk skirt and a white vest, hair piled on top of her head. Papers are scattered over a leather couch. A half-empty glass of red wine sits on the coffee table. I curl my fists in my pocket to stop myself from reaching for it. But when she pours me a glass I don’t stop her. I don’t even think about it for a second. It tastes good and I long to lean back and close my eyes, savouring this moment: just the two of us, the rush to my head.
The Orchid Girls Page 19