The steady climb up the beach makes my heart bang, but it’s more than just the exercise. I’m getting close. I want to be at the exact spot. I stop when I run out of breath, chest heaving, calves killing me. I sit down to take a drink of water. But it won’t quench this thirst that never goes away.
When I see the place for the first time, I almost lose my balance. My head feels like candyfloss and my legs collapse under me. Here is where it happened, the place where everything ended and nothing began.
The path is quiet apart from the screech of a seagull overhead. The memories are like a dam coming loose, bursting through and flooding my mind. No matter how sorry I am, how much I regret it, nothing can take away my guilt. And Alex Foster is on the trail. He has to be stopped. Before the truth comes out and destroys us.
Rage propels me forward and she stumbles back, not expecting me to push her. I’ve wanted to do that forever. Push and push until she’s gone. She loses her balance, reaches out but there’s nothing there. She presses her lips hard together as she rights herself. She’s so close I hear her draw in breath and the sea crashes below, sending a burst of spray into the air.
‘Oh, but it isn’t made up, is it, Molly?’ She spins around as if she’s in her gym class and then shoves her face into mine. My chest flutters like a trapped bird, my fists clenched, ready for her. Her hair lashes against her face as she talks. Words spill from her lipsticked mouth and when she tells me what’s in her bag, rage rockets around me. She slides her bag off her shoulder and there’s no going back.
My body shakes violently and I stumble as I run, desperate to get away from this place. What was I thinking? It was a mistake to come back. I can’t undo what I did. Along the coastal path, memories I don’t want to be haunted by mix with thoughts of Michael. The sea lurks to my right, churning, waiting.
At home, the shower runs as hot as I can bear but it doesn’t take away the chill of the cliff. Tears mingle with the stream of the shower on my face. Water pounds onto my head, as do Alex’s threats, my longing for Grace and my fears about Michael. A memory flashes: Charlotte’s twisted face as a fist collided with her cheekbone.
When Mum comes back after work I’m itching to get to the cottage. I wrap my arms around my body so that she won’t touch me, won’t see my fear. Mum gives me the key and I promise to return in the morning. I stop off on the way back for bread, milk and orange juice, pushing the other crowding thoughts away. Won’t drink, I won’t.
The cottage sits along a track veering off one of the roads behind the beach. Tall poplar trees stand like a row of servants awaiting my arrival and the cottage is exactly as I remember it. The key squeaks in the lock, the door stiff from lack of use. Unlike Mum’s house, the cottage lacks furniture, there’s just a basic kitchen with a large wooden table, and a sofa and chair in the living room. The windows rattle when the wind blows and it’s too cold to take my coat off.
Without thinking I head straight for the cellar which Uncle Bill made into his darkroom. A flick of the switch bathes the cold space in a yellow glow. It’s as if Uncle Bill has just gone out for a cup of tea – everything’s left exactly as it always was. The old white sink, the photographic equipment, various solutions in bottles. I examine a couple, sniffing at what’s inside – memories flood in. Uncle Bill at work, developing photos in the dark, always in his old flat cap. I’m surprised to see that the equipment looks good to go. My fingers itch to get back into working here again. And I’ve got an idea.
Ellis doesn’t sound surprised when I ring, and I picture her amidst a basket of wools, a rainbow of colours, brightening her room. I try to feel her calm, focusing on the soft click of needles as she talks.
‘How comes you won’t give up on me?’ I imagine her wide smile that lights up her eyes. But then my doubts about her creep in, spoiling the picture. What if she knew the truth? I hope I’m wrong. And I haven’t told her about the drinking, either. We don’t really know each other at all, do we?
‘You’ll get there in the end.’ Maybe she’s right. ‘And I’m so pleased your mum trusts you enough to let you stay.’
She sounds so happy for me, I can’t ignore the guilt any longer. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you. I had a drink the night before I came up here.’ Shame burns my cheeks.
‘OK.’ She stretches the word out. ‘Do you know what made you do it?’
I lie back with my head resting against Uncle Bill’s favourite armchair; I want to trust Ellis. ‘Grace invited me over. She was upset because her dad died. I got so nervous, I denied it before but we were together when we were young. She was my first love.’
‘I guessed as much.’
‘I stopped off at a pub to get some water.’
‘Not one of your best ideas.’
‘Tell me about it. I had one to calm me down, and when I got there she was drinking wine, and—’
‘You don’t need to explain. You stopped again the next day, didn’t you?’
I’m relieved that she doesn’t sound too disappointed.
‘Yes. But that’s not everything. Grace has been getting hassle from a journalist – he’s been after me, too. He was waiting on my doorstep the other night.’
‘Molly, that’s harassment. He’s trying to dish dirt on Grace’s reputation, that’s all. You don’t want to be part of that. That’s the last thing you need. Getting away was definitely the right thing to do. Is that everything?’
I pause, before deciding to tell her. ‘Grace kissed me.’
The line hums into the silence.
‘You don’t approve.’
‘It’s not that, but you’ve got enough going on as it is. Grace is married, she belongs in the past. Why not try and forget her?’
‘It’s more complicated than that. I think she still likes me too. Years back, things happened that I don’t want to talk about. Plus there’s something I need to do.’
‘Are you sure you can’t talk about it? You know you can trust me.’
Can I?
I wish I could tell her, I wish I could unburden myself, but I daren’t, just in case. ‘I’m sure. Thank you, though.’
‘I’m here if you change your mind. This change of scenery could be good for you. Use the time to work out what you want to do. And if you can talk to me it will help. Think about it. I won’t judge you, Molly. Otherwise it could be dangerous, being on your own, stuck in that cottage with bad thoughts. Try not to drink tonight?’
‘I’ll try.’
Cold air hovers inside the cottage and my jacket is too thin. A tatty overcoat hangs by the door and I wear it to go outside, gathering up some of the logs scattered in the forest area at the back of the garden. A battered wicker basket is perfect for holding the twigs and branches. The wind blows my hair into my eyes, and by the time I’ve finished stocking up I can no longer make out my surroundings, other than the light from the kitchen, which creates a warm glow in the garden.
When I’ve lit the fire, the blackness outside presses against the windows and the wind lashes at the walls. Trees are rocked back and forth in the wind, and thoughts batter my head. The desire for something to drink chews at my stomach and I can’t help looking in all the cupboards but there are no bottles stashed anywhere. The orange juice has bits in which catch in my throat. Beats from the large clock on the wall remind me that a solitary evening stretches ahead of me. There’s still an hour to go until the shop closes. In my mind I make the journey, walking fast back into town, the sea a black mass to my right, picking up a large bottle of vodka to take away the shakes. Ellis doesn’t sound surprised when I call again.
‘I’m desperate for a drink.’ A whisper.
Her voice is calm.
‘Have you got anything in the house?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good. The first days are the worst, you know that. I’ve got an idea. Say no if you want, I won’t be offended, but would it help if I came down for few days, to be with you while you get over the worst? You’d be doing me a
favour, too, as there’s a fellow craft blogger I’ve been meaning to catch up with. She lives in Dorset.’
Wind rattles against the windows. I huddle closer to the fire.
‘I’d like that.’
‘I’ve got a few things to sort out in London, but I’ll be down in the next couple of days. Until then, we’ll stay in touch, OK? You can do it Molly.’
I’m not so sure.
Thirty
GRACE
Richard rings this afternoon with good news. New evidence has come to light in the Emily Shaw case and he’s been exonerated. A news bulletin on the radio broadcasts a clip of him insisting that the police are only doing their job and that he is doing all he can to assist them with the search. The euphoria I feel is short-lived. All day long I’ve been alone in the flat. I feel safer in here; I don’t want to go outside, and the thought of going online makes my stomach cramp. I’d been counting the hours until he arrives home – I completely forgot he was out until he reminded me.
It seems a bit sudden. He’s out so often; what if he’s not where he says he is? Now I know he’s not involved in anything shady, an affair crosses my mind. Would I want to know if he was seeing someone else? Could I object, given that Molly was here, given what happened? And, more importantly, the way I can’t stop thinking about her since she mentioned the cottage? There’s only this evening to get through before I begin the journey I swore I’d never make again.
I pour myself a large glass of red wine. Watching the ruby-red liquid spill into the glass reminds me of Molly – she’s clearly got issues with alcohol. She said she was drinking during the trial, but I didn’t notice. Michael had forbidden me to look at her, said it could affect me, make me emotional. I was scared to even glance at her after that. Michael hates emotion. Hated. I feel a little skip of glee that he’s dead, followed instantly by guilt. But he won’t be able to control me any more. He always made me feel so ashamed. I drink more wine.
The first night Molly and I drank alcohol was the first night we kissed. I’d wanted to for ages, keeping up the stupid pretence of fancying Jason. I only did it to get on Charlotte’s nerves. I wonder if she knew that Molly had told me exactly what she and Belinda did to her at school. Fluttering her over-mascara’ed eyes at him, flicking that annoyingly high ponytail over her shoulder like a restless horse. I didn’t expect him to fancy me or for it to go so far. But seeing Charlotte flounce about, permanently pissed off, was so worth it. Served her right for locking Molly in the school toilet. Jealousy making her as green as her too-thick eyeshadow. But Molly getting jealous, that was unexpected, interesting. It made me sad. I wanted to take that feeling away from her, to kiss the pout from her lips. I started to notice how she watched me all the time when she thought I wasn’t looking. How she could make me laugh like nobody else in the world; make me forget my sick mum and my dad’s rages and religion, which he rammed down my throat at every opportunity. I’d have disappointed him whatever I’d done, I know that now. If he’d known I’d lost my virginity to Jason only a week before, would that have made him less angry? I don’t think so. Sex before marriage was a major crime to him, for Christ’s sake, never mind if it was with a man or not. Molly never found out, but that was another thing Charlotte was threatening to tell.
That night, we were allowed to stay in the cottage. When Molly’s Uncle Bill was out at the pub and we knew he’d be back late, singing and stumbling into things, and we thought we’d see why he liked to drink so much. Molly stole a bottle of wine from her mother’s cupboard and we took it with us. The first taste was vile and I spat it out, but Molly ran her tongue around her lips stained red by the wine and that’s when I realised I wanted to kiss it off. After the third glass, the room glowed and being together in the cosy cottage seemed like the perfect place. She was lying on the carpet, stretched out like a cat, and I lay down beside her and told her I wasn’t interested in Jason, never had been. Happiness danced in her eyes and she pressed her lips against mine and I tasted raspberries and wine and she pushed my mouth open with hers. It felt so right.
With my head swimming with wine and memories, I quickly put a stopper in the bottle.
As I pull onto the motorway, all I can think about is the fact that Molly is back in Bill’s cottage and all the memories we have there.
This is the furthest I’ve driven in a while; an endless stream of traffic crawls along, every lane of the motorway full. The air conditioning surrounds me with cold air, but inside adrenaline pumps around me. Now I have decided on this path I want to be there, back where this all began, but cars clog the motorway and the smell of petrol fills my lungs as I wait in a line of slow-moving vehicles.
By the time I arrive the town is shutting down for the night, shopkeepers pulling at shutters, lamp posts lit, people scurrying home from work. The tide is in and the wind is whipping up the waves, sending them thrashing against the shore. My eyes are drawn to the cliffs as I wait at the traffic lights in town, and a hoot from an impatient driver behind alerts me to the fact that they have changed to green.
The hotel is off the main road – it’s new, anonymous and exactly what I need. I’ve deliberately chosen a nondescript place away from the centre of town and anyone who might recognise me. I wrap a scarf around my head and put my dark glasses on. Check-in is fast, I transform into ‘Maria Browning’ as I sign in and accept a room at the back of the hotel. There’s a kettle and a coffee machine, plus a small television fixed to the wall. I leave my overnight bag in the tiny wardrobe.
Richard’s voice sounds strained when I call him.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m still at Michael’s, it’s taking longer than I thought. I’d rather get it all done without Angela being in the way.’
‘But there’s hardly anything in that house. He didn’t own much.’
I let out a long sigh. ‘There are a lot of papers to go through. I don’t think he’s thrown away a bill in years. I want to be thorough. I think I’ll spend the night here. It’s something I need to do. It will help me come to terms with his death.’
‘We’ll need to register the death, and Angela said something about a police report.’
Just hearing the word ‘police’ makes my throat seize up, picturing that small, stifling room, so many visits there I’d lost count, the policewoman being nice, the policeman not so much. I tune into what Richard’s saying.
‘My solicitor is dealing with it. That should be the end of it.’
‘I hope you’re right. Let’s talk about it when I’m back.’
He grunts, not sounding convinced. ‘Have you heard from that woman today?’
The way he says ‘that woman’ sends a chill through me. ‘No, I think she’s got the message. I threatened to set your lawyer on her.’
‘OK. Oh, before I forget, you didn’t text me your new mobile number.’
‘I didn’t get time. I’ll get one tomorrow, I promise.’ I try to make light of it. ‘I need a PA, don’t I?’
‘Well, that could be an option if you keep the business going the right way. But it will mean lots of hard work. If you still want it to work out, of course.’
‘How can you say that? I want it as much as ever. Nothing’s changed, Richard.’
Everything’s changed.
‘Let’s hope not. I hope staying there helps. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He hangs up. I switch off the light and attempt to get to sleep. The wind crashes around outside, battering a sign back and forth against the wall of the building. After what feels like hours, I finally drop off.
In the morning I hear voices from the greengrocer’s below, so I go down and buy enough fruit to make a salad for breakfast. The coffee machine chugs a decent smell into the room and I check the map to remind myself of the route to Caroline’s.
Sitting down in the driver’s seat, I switch the car radio on in the hope that the chatter will still my thoughts.
I park in the shade of some trees away from Molly’s old house, w
atching a postman working his way down the street towards me, whistling. He glances in at me and I adjust the large sunglasses I’m wearing. The door of the house opens and Aunt Caroline emerges carrying two bin liners full of rubbish. She’s mostly unchanged, just a bit older, maybe a bit heavier. The postman stops at her front gate, they talk for a moment and she goes inside. It’s been so long I doubt she’d recognise me, but I don’t want her to see me anyway. I’ll sit it out in the car for a bit, waiting for her to go out. I turn the air conditioning off and make myself comfortable.
As I sit down, settling in, the terrible night I had catches up with me. After what seems like just a flicker of a second after closing my eyes, I wake to darkness outside. I’ve slept for hours, and lights are now on in the house. My phone is flashing with a voicemail. It’s Richard.
‘Grace, what’s going on? The police are about to call you. They went round to Michael’s and you weren’t there. Where the hell are you?’ The message continues. ‘Call me.’
I have to get out of the car. I make for the end of the street, waiting until I’m round the corner and lean over at the waist, gasping. What do the police want? Have they found out? Has Alex Foster been interfering? Or has Molly lost it? Inhaling deep, deep breaths clears my head. It will be to do with Michael, just routine. I did nothing wrong. But I’m panicked to my core.
Back in the car it’s hard to stay still, my legs cramped from sitting in the same spot for so long. But suddenly I see Molly coming along the street. The street light catches the red sheen of her hair and a burst of desire hits me. I hunch down in the seat, not ready for her to see me yet, but she’s hurrying, as if she’s running away from something. She disappears inside the house.
The Orchid Girls Page 27