Richard’s doing well in his career, and he’s talking about standing for Mayor of London at some stage. I’m determined my own business will match his success. Together we’ll be a power couple. I’ve got loads of Instagram followers already. Aunt Jenny was horrified I’d even consider a career that will put me in the public eye. But she doesn’t understand that I’m a different person now.
I’ll prove Jenny wrong. Hiding in plain sight. Except I’m not hiding. Grace Sutherland is out there, loud and proud.
Twenty-Three
MOLLY
Outside the street is quiet, with most houses in darkness. She must have been scared her husband would come back at any moment and didn’t want him to catch us together. That’s why she wanted me to go. But nothing can wipe out the look on her face with her hands on my neck and her lips on mine. Desire builds up in me and I blow air from my mouth, the wind sobering me as I walk fast towards home, wanting to be inside, alone with my thoughts.
Once I’m in the flat I collapse on the bed in my clothes. The blinds are open and the moon is round and full of life. There’s so much Grace and I have to say and do, and it frustrates me that I have to wait, but I have no choice.
I grab my mobile, unable to resist calling her. The phone glows as it rings out and I picture her leaning out of bed, golden hair covering her delicate throat. But she doesn’t answer. He must be back.
She kissed me. It’s my first thought when I wake up. My head throbs when I sit up and I groan, retracing the path that led me to a drink. Nerves and excitement at seeing Grace drew me into the pub, the drinks glittering like jewels, enticing me, tricking me. I imagine Ellis’s disappointed face and I’m full of remorse.
Grace was drinking too. Why did she kiss me? Did she mean it? I smoke three cigarettes one after another and stare hard at the wall as if the answers might appear amidst the faded pattern of the peeling wallpaper. My phone is dead so I plug it in to charge, raking my hands through my greasy hair. I try to eat a slice of toast but as soon as it hits my stomach I throw it back up. My cigarette pack is empty and I hunt around the flat, searching all the places where there might be another stashed away. But all it results in is a pile of papers on the floor and a lump in my throat that won’t shift.
On my way to the station to get my ticket my phone rings. It’s not a number I recognise. I’m in the mood for winding up a PPI salesman so I pick up.
‘May I speak to Molly please?’ The voice is male, plummy.
‘This is Molly.’
‘My name is Alex Foster. I’m a journalist.’
There’s a bench outside the station and I sit down on it, taking a breath.
‘What do you want?’
‘Are you a friend of Grace Sutherland?’
Blood rushes to my head and I grip the side of the bench, pressing my feet hard to the floor to ground myself. I’d hoped the online photos would be forgotten by now.
‘Who?’
‘Grace Sutherland. The food blogger, wife of Richard Sutherland. You know her, don’t you? You were seen with her the other night.’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’ Thoughts fight for space in my mind. This must be Jodie’s doing, the journalist she mentioned, some bloke from the pub, sending me those texts. But he doesn’t sound like one of Jodie’s mates – his accent is way too posh.
‘My sources tell me you’re the woman in the photo taken with Grace Sutherland.’
‘What photo?’ It’s best to play dumb, but I’m shaking. I hope my voice doesn’t give me away.
‘Are you telling me you haven’t seen it? You were photographed with Grace at Chez Elle. Are you saying it wasn’t you?’
‘So what if it was?’
‘Can you tell me a bit about your relationship with her?’
‘I’m not telling you anything. How did you get this number?’
‘A friend of yours who told me you’d be willing to talk. I can pay you good money, Molly.’
‘Fuck off.’
I switch my phone off, light a cigarette, will my hands to stop trembling. Fucking Jodie. The best thing I can do is buy my train ticket and get as far as I can away from here.
I go straight home after I’ve booked my tickets, google the journalist and have another look at the photos online. It’s so wrong. The way they’ve captured her makes her look drunk. The shot of her outside smoking bothers me. Did she get the cigarette from that woman who was eyeing her up? Thinking about that bitch makes me squeeze my fingernails into my palms.
The call from this journalist bloke gives me a good reason to ring Grace. She answers straight away this time and my pulse flutters.
‘What do you want?’ Her tone sends my mood plummeting back to zero.
‘That journalist called me. Alex Foster.’
She goes quiet and I reckon she’s having the same panic I had.
‘Grace?’
Grace’s voice is low. ‘This is awful. This is why we should never have met. What did you tell him?’
Her words have got me shaking again. I can see her slipping away from me. I don’t like it one bit.
‘Nothing, Grace. I told him to get lost. Hung up. I won’t speak to him. Please don’t push me away. This is nothing to do with me.’
‘But Molly, have you seen his blog? It’s only a matter of time. He’s planning to write about The Orchid Girls. If he’s digging into your background, what’s he going to find out? You haven’t changed your name.’
‘No, but it’s a common name. Have you ever googled me?’
‘No.’ That hurts.
‘There are hundreds of us.’
‘You’ve still got the tattoo, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I’ll keep my watch on and I’ll deny everything. Mum won’t have anything to do with the press. There isn’t anyone else.’
‘What about that woman, Jodie?’
‘She doesn’t know anything about it.’ Thank God I didn’t tell Ellis.
‘Not even where you come from?’
‘Shit. Yeah, she does know that.’
‘You need to get away as soon as possible.’
‘I’ve booked my ticket for Monday.’
‘For Dorset? I still think it’s a bad idea.’ Grace sighs. ‘Don’t talk to that journalist, OK? Or anyone else. I mean it, Molly.’ She hangs up.
She still doesn’t trust me. My head thumps and I need a drink. I call Ellis instead and we arrange to go to the cinema later.
‘You sound a bit down, Molly. Are you OK?’ Ellis sounds concerned and I can’t help feeling guilty.
‘I’m great. Just need to get out.’ I can’t tell her about last night, she’d be so disappointed. I need to get back on track.
That evening Ellis and I go to see a film on the South Bank. It’s a thriller, with lots of car chases and action, nothing arty, no foreign subtitles, which is what I imagine Grace would like. She insists on treating us to a box of popcorn and I eat it robotically throughout the film. I can’t remember the last time I went to the cinema, and I try not to let my guilty hangover spoil it. Afterwards we sit in the cafe, outside, overlooking the Thames. There isn’t much to see in this light, but the distinctive smell of the river sends a rush to my head. I ignore the sounds of clinking glasses nearby. We drink hot chocolate and I wonder whether I should confide in her. Probably not, but the silence gets to me and I end up telling her about the phone call earlier.
‘Gosh, you’re involved in a celebrity scandal.’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘Are you going to talk to the journalist?’
‘No, Grace would kill me.’ I fiddle with my cup.
She misinterprets my discomfort. ‘You like her, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ I make a joke of it, but Ellis is watching me carefully. I wonder why she’s so interested in how I feel about Grace. Must be because she’s a celebrity. Or is it something else? Am I right to trust her? I look at her open face, and she smiles. It warms me. All she’s do
ne is be nice. I can’t believe I’m doubting her – she’s done nothing to deserve it. It’s not as if I’m fighting off friends.
‘Do you want to come back to mine for a coffee?’ I find myself wanting to spend more time with her.
‘Sure,’ she says, her eyes lighting up.
As I’m letting us into the flat, I remember my photo board, but it’s too late, Ellis is already inside, pulling her hat off which makes her hair stick up, looking around.
The noise of the kettle fills the room. She goes straight over to the noticeboard and I have to stop myself from grabbing her shoulders and spinning her round so she doesn’t look.
‘What’s this?’ She looks concerned and I bite my tongue, not knowing what to say. It was a mistake inviting her back here. ‘They’re great photos, but…’ She sits cross-legged on the sofa. ‘You do like her, don’t you?’
I open the window wide, light a cigarette and suck in the smoke, watching the street below me. The cut on my hand itches and scratching it releases tension. Blood bubbles out.
A fox stands under the lamp post opposite, eyes glinting.
‘Something bad happened when we were young and we were separated. I’ve been looking for her ever since. Taking photos, it’s how I work things out.’ I realise how pathetic I sound and I hate myself for it.
‘What happened to you?’
I’m tempted to talk, but Grace’s warning stops me. Plus, I can’t ignore my niggling doubts about Ellis. I don’t really know her. It’s way too soon for her to know the truth.
‘I can’t talk about it.’ I stub my cigarette out on the window ledge and slam the window shut, which sends the fox scuttling down the street.
‘That’s OK,’ she says. ‘The photos of Grace I sort of get, but why have you got photos of her husband too?’
‘You’ll laugh if I tell you.’
‘Try me.’
‘He’s good-looking and he’s powerful, isn’t he? He’s bound to get loads of female attention. If I catch him playing away, Grace needs to know. Also he’s on the news all the time, talking about the missing girl. It’s weird. What if he was involved?’
‘That’s a bit far-fetched.’ I can see she’s trying not to smile. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s what we addicts do, give up one addiction for another.’
‘You think this is an addiction?’
‘Well, it is a bit obsessive, you have to admit. And, dare I say, unlikely. It sounds like it could be a case of wishful thinking…’
‘Just a bit,’ I say, realising how right Ellis is. We both burst out laughing. It’s weird how well she gets me. I feel lighter already. After that we chat about the film until she decides it’s time to go. I pass her jacket over and she spots dried blood on my hand.
‘That looks nasty.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, hiding it behind my back. ‘I’ll see you out.’
Concern crosses her face. I walk to the end of the path, surprised that Mrs Bird’s light is still on. I watch Ellis until she gets to the street corner, where she turns and waves twice. At the same time a figure emerges from the opposite direction. For a split second I think it’s Jodie, but this person is taller and bulkier. After a moment, I realise it’s a man.
‘Molly? Molly Conway?’
He walks towards me, heels like shots in the quiet street. ‘We spoke on the phone,’ he says. ‘I want to ask you a few questions.’
Oh God, it’s him. ‘I’ve got nothing to say.’
‘I recognise you, Molly, you’re the girl in the photograph.’
‘So what if I am? Get off my property. What are you doing here?’
‘It’s not your property, though, is it? Mrs Bird is the homeowner, very friendly she is too, told me lots about you and your friends. Chatty lady, Mrs Bird.’ He looks proud of himself, like he’s got one up on me.
‘You’ve got no right to hassle me. Get out of my way or I’m calling the police.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you want to be doing that, Molly, do you? Might bring back nasty memories.’
His words send a chill right through me. ‘You’re not making sense.’
‘All I’m asking for is a few comments about Grace Sutherland. How you know her, that kind of thing.’
‘I just met her, OK? For the last time, get out of my way.’ I hold my arm out in front of me, trying to put some distance between us.
‘Threatening me, are you?’
He holds his phone up and the shutter sound goes off. I squeeze my hands around my keys, willing myself not to lose my temper. I can’t make a scene.
‘If you let me get past I’ll think about it, OK? That’s the best you’ll get from me.’
‘Fine.’ He shoves his phone into his pocket. ‘Your mate Jodie said you’d be willing to talk. And quite a story it might be, I reckon.’
‘There is no story.’ My shoulders slump as exhaustion washes over me. I just want to get into bed, shut the world out.
‘Oh, I dunno,’ he says. ‘Maybe you might want to think about that little comment you left for your friend Grace, who you hardly know.’
‘What comment?’
‘The one where you called yourself “OrchidGirl”.’
Gracie, it’s me…
The keys slip out of my hand and clatter to the floor, echoing in the night.
‘I’ve left my card with Mrs Bird,’ he calls out as he disappears into the darkness.
Daily Tribune
22nd August 2002
TEENAGE GIRLS QUESTIONED IN CHARLOTTE CASE
Two teenage girls are being questioned in connection with the murder of Charlotte Greene in Dorset. The two girls reported leaving their friend in town, but no images of Charlotte have been detected on CCTV camera and witnesses have failed to come forward.
28th AUGUST 2002
MYSTERY OF THE ORCHID GIRLS
Police have revealed that parents of recently murdered teenager Charlotte Greene failed to recognise the tiny tattoo of an orchid found on the inside of the girl’s left wrist. The two friends last seen with her also sported identical tattoos, initially unnoticed as they were hidden under jewellery. The girls allegedly got the tattoos at a summer fair and insist the orchid has no significance.
Twenty-Four
GRACE
The best thing I can do today is work. Keep busy. Stay distracted. Take back control of my life. Maybe look at flight prices. But it’s impossible. The Orchid Girl story is scheduled to appear online any moment now. I’m determined not to look until I’ve done everything I need to do. Molly’s promised to destroy the photos, and that eases some of my worries. I briefly allow myself to remember the feel of her lips on mine, and I know that she will. I believe that I can trust her.
I choose a seeded nut bread I often bake, but it’s hard to keep my mind in one place. Nuts jump around noisily in the food processor, chips bouncing around, hitting the glass. Kneading the dough, I press down hard, pummelling the sensations Molly has awakened in me. I won’t be that girl again, I have too much to lose. Nothing could make me live a clandestine lifestyle again, having to hide who I am, being ashamed of my feelings. I want to be able to show off my business, show off my husband. Live in the limelight. The dough isn’t perfect but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances. As long as the photographs turn out well, that’s what counts. Adding a filter and editing the photo should do the trick.
Angela calls just after I’ve left the loaf to rise.
‘How are you?’ She sounds tearful.
‘Oh, you know, it’s always been difficult between us…’
Angela protests, but I hold my hand in the air to stop her as if she’s in front of me.
‘It’s true, there’s no point pretending otherwise. We were never close. As awful as that sounds.’
‘You know I never understood that, Grace. You’re such a lovely woman, so inspiring.’
‘Thanks Angela, that means a lot. Richard has been great, he’s organising the funeral arrangements so I do
n’t have to worry about all that. And I’m coming over soon to clear the house.’
‘Why don’t you let me take care of it?’
‘No,’ I say quickly, needing to shut her down. ‘There are things that belong to Mum over there, sentimental stuff. You understand. Thank you for the offer, though.’
‘I guess you can come any time now that the police have been.’
‘The police? What did they want?’ I lean my weight against the wall, pressing my spine into the hard, cold surface. Any mention of the police takes me back in time, making my pulse race.
‘Just following up from last night. It’s routine. It’s hard to believe it was such a short time ago. So much has happened since then. They asked me about when he choked, but I told them I wasn’t there.’
I lower my voice. ‘I feel awful now, but at the time I froze on the spot, I went into a complete panic. I just didn’t know what to do.’
‘I’m glad you’ve explained that, I thought something like that must have happened. You looked like you weren’t responding to him. You must have been in shock. His inhaler was under the bed. Did he have it when you were there?’
‘I think so. It’s a bit of a blur, to be honest.’
‘Are you sure that you didn’t notice him drop it?’
‘No, I would have said. What did you tell the police?’
She hesitates. ‘I told them what I saw, that’s all.’
‘Of course.’
The oven bell rings. The dough looks ready to go in, and I spend the rest of the day working on recipes for the book. The smell of freshly baked bread fills the kitchen, and for what seems like the first time in ages I’m satisfied with my work. But once I’ve stopped baking, the thoughts I’ve held at bay flood back in, overwhelming me, and the evening ahead feels interminable. The dark sky outside brings an oppressive atmosphere to the flat, a mood that’s hung around ever since Angela mentioned the police. And what did the police want with Richard? My thoughts claw at me, leaving me feeling claustrophobic. I have to get out.
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