The Orchid Girls

by Lesley Sanderson

  I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about what to do next. I don’t want to see Caroline. Molly’s threats return and I groan aloud at the way she’s making me feel. She mentioned she was staying at her uncle’s cottage. Best to talk to her there. Or will her uncle be around? I decide that some alcohol will help sweet-talk Molly. But there’s no need to hurry. I’m not ready to be cooped up in my hotel room yet. The lure of the sea is too strong. It’s so long since I’ve been back here and I never get to be by the ocean any more. The sea was blue and beautiful on our honeymoon, the sand golden and soft, but it wasn’t the same as the rugged English coast, the blistering sound of the waves a permanent backdrop. Decided, I park the car and set off towards the beach. There are traces left from holidaymakers who’ve spent the day here, juice cartons and crisp packets spilling out of the bins. I take my shoes off and roll up my black chinos, wandering across the sand away from the cliffs, which tower menacingly above me. Pebbles stick between my toes and I slide on a clump of seaweed. As the waves lap at the shore, I inhale the salty air and I’m transported back. A memory hits me, sitting with Molly on the beach one night as darkness folded around us. My arm around her shoulders, her breath on my cheek. A feeling of belonging. But that was before.

  It’s early evening when I get back to the hotel and I order a salad from room service. While I’m waiting for the food to arrive, I go online to check my emails. As I wait for them to load, I’m filled with nervous energy. My eyes are drawn to one from Alex Foster. I thought I was safe here but he’s everywhere I turn. I put the tray of food on the table, my appetite draining away, and open the email.

  Dear Grace,

  I’m a journalist specialising in crime. If you’ve been following my blog then you’ll know I’ve been looking at a series of cases that interest me, stories which throw up unanswered questions. My enquiries suggest to me that you’re one of the so-called Orchid Girls, involved in the final hours of Charlotte Greene.

  I’ve spoken to Molly Conway and she’s agreed to a financial deal in return for everything she knows. I’m in Dorset and planning to interview her. If you want to put forward your side of the story, then get in touch before Saturday, when I’m planning to meet her.

  Cheers!

  Alex

  I can’t believe it. I stand in front of the window, petrified, gazing out at the dark street below. A lone seagull cries into the night, a loud, gut-wrenching wail. I clutch my arms around my body, digging my fingernails into my arms until it hurts. This journalist isn’t going to give up. Is he telling the truth? Has Molly agreed to talk to him? She could do with the money. A flash of anger makes me gasp aloud. It’s her fault for drawing out these feelings again after I’ve managed to suppress them for years. For years, I managed to forget this part of me. How can I gain control of it again? I think about the lust Molly has in her eyes, and I make a split-second decision. I have to get it out of my system. It’s the only way.

  Thirty-One

  MOLLY

  It’s dark and cold and I don’t know where I am. I stare at the wall in front of me where the wooden blind blows backwards and forwards as the window doesn’t close properly. The cottage. Fixing that blind is another job to add to my list. At least I haven’t drunk, despite the way talking to Grace has stirred me up inside. When will I see her again? There’s a craving in my stomach but coffee will have to squash it and I’ll try a slice of bread, see if it will stay down. While the ancient kettle is boiling on the stove and bread heats up in the rusty toaster, I make a list of stuff I want to do today. A bit more work on Mum’s living room. If I can get rid of all those newspapers, that will be a start. It’s a relief Ellis is coming. Hope it’s soon. Otherwise I’ll crack, have a drink. If she’s staying with me I’ll be able to keep an eye on her; that way I’ll know if she’s really on my side. Then I’ll try and speak to Grace again.

  Mum has already left for work when I arrive. The space I created on the floor is still there and after half an hour hauling newspapers back and forth from the garage, a whole wall is clear. I’m admiring my work when a text pings through. It’s Grace.

  Don’t forget what we talked about. Get rid of it.

  All she’s interested in is the photo and the camera. That hurts. Then it gets me thinking. I’m not getting rid of the photo, no way. It’s too precious to me. And I have to know what’s on the film in the camera – if it survived. Aside from our photograph, it’s the only link left to that time and I’d be stupid not to look. Grace’s insistence that we don’t talk to the journalist is bugging me. Why wouldn’t she want my name cleared?

  I don’t bother to reply. Instead I stomp out into the garden, desperate for fresh air. I find it hard to breathe as anger builds inside me. Is she really into me? Or is she only interested in the camera? Why, though? Why does it matter to her whether it still exists? An image of her soft mouth pops into my head and my lips tingle. I hate myself for thinking bad thoughts about Grace. I know what Ellis would say, but what does she know about any of this? That’s the trouble. I can’t talk to anyone. But there is something I have to do.

  The shed door is stiff and I hurt my shoulder pushing against it. When it opens a fraction I see there’s something blocking it. The door suddenly falls open and bashes against a pile of boxes which teeter and threaten to crash down on my head. I throw my arm up to stop them and inhale the damp, earthy smell. The shovel is in the corner, covered in thick cobwebs which make me sneeze as I pull it out. My heart is already pumping from the effort and it beats harder as I walk over to the tree in front of the shed. I slow my pace as I realise what I have to do.

  The garden shovel is rusty and heavy. The faint noise of traffic can be heard, but otherwise there’s no sign of anyone around. The gardens on either side of the house are still, unoccupied, the houses dark and silent. A black T-shirt on the washing line next door whips about in the wind, flapping like a crow. I hesitate, gathering courage to face what lies under the earth. Memories of burying the camera are vivid; I was frantic to do as Grace said and keep myself safe. I bend down over the earth, see worms wriggling in the dark soil. I hesitate again and then push down so hard on the shovel that pain rips through my shoulder. It takes me a while to find it and sweat pools under my arms; my breathing is fast. At last the shovel clangs as it strikes something metal and I get down on my hands and knees, clawing the soil away from the box. The plastic bag I stored it in has rotted away, pieces visible amidst the mud, and the box is rusty but intact.

  For a while I hold it in my lap and stare at it. I sit for so long my knees get sore. The box makes a scraping noise when I open it. The dark brown case of the camera has a leathery smell which reminds me of Uncle Bill. I hang it around my neck, like Grace wore it that last time. A rustling from a nearby bush makes me scramble to my feet.

  Another text comes through. I’m frantic to know what’s on the camera, but I’ll have to be patient.

  I dump the camera on the kitchen table and clean up before I check my phone. It isn’t Grace, but a message from the journalist. Just what I need.

  Enjoying your holiday in Dorset, are you, Molly? If you’re not coming back to London, I could come to you. Let’s negotiate fees.

  Pacing around the kitchen doesn’t get rid of the anger that’s raging inside of me. I need a drink for that. Should I stop Ellis from coming, give in to the urge? But I want to see her; talking to her calms me down, and having her here would make it easier to work out what to do. Maybe I should tell her the truth?

  Whatever I decide to do about Ellis, I’ll head down to the cottage and see if I can develop the film from the camera. That’s my plan. Before I leave the house I slide the photo out from under the carpet where I’d hidden it. The photo that Charlotte had, the one that started all this.

  We’re both naked, the angle slanted.

  ‘Hold the camera up high, aim the shutter at us.’

  We giggle. With my left arm I pull Grace towards me, and my right arm stretches up with the
camera. Grace’s hand is on my breast.

  ‘Look sexy,’ she says, and we’re both still as the flash goes off, then burst into giggles.

  I kiss the image, putting it in my rucksack. I want to keep it close to me, a memory of how we were. How we will be again.

  I take a shower to wash the soil from my hands and body in the hope it will make me feel better, but the water is freezing and I can’t work out how to make it hotter. My mood darkens as daylight slips away. I try my hardest to stop the descent. I remind myself that I didn’t drink last night, despite everything. Speaking to Ellis helped. As if she can read my mind, my phone starts ringing, and I run downstairs to where I left it, making it just in time.

  ‘Ellis?’

  ‘How’s it going? Did you get through yesterday evening OK?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I should’ve let you know. Part of me wants to hibernate, shut you out, but I’m trying to fight it.’

  ‘You mustn’t give in to it. That’s the voice telling you to drink, whispering away in the background.’

  ‘All the time.’ My voice is a whisper too.

  ‘Molly, the journalist you told me about, Alex Foster, I looked him up.’

  Her words are like a thump to the stomach.

  ‘I’ve read all his case files, did some digging… Molly, is the Orchid Girls case something to do with you? One of the girls has the same name as you. And there’s that tattoo on your wrist. I couldn’t help noticing.’

  It’s a relief to hear her say it. I sink into the sofa, clenching my hand around the phone so hard that my veins stick out, ugly and blue.

  ‘If it’s so easy for you to work out, what chance do we have against him? He left me a message saying he knows I’m in Dorset, that he might come down here.’

  ‘No wonder you’re having such a hard time. Going through this can’t be easy.’ Ellis pauses, as if she’s working out what to say next. ‘Is Grace the other Orchid Girl?’

  There’s no point denying it. This secret is like a volcano, with tremors underground, threatening to erupt. ‘Yes, she is.’

  We’re both silent while she works out what this means.

  ‘Christ, Molly, this is huge.’

  ‘And you wonder why I drink?’

  ‘How is Grace taking it? She must be terrified it’s all going to come out. Does her husband know?’

  I laugh out loud. ‘Hardly. She’s furious I’ve intruded into her perfect life. That photo of us in Chez Elle caused a right stir. And now the journalist is digging, I don’t know what she’s going to do. But we were so close when we were younger. I know she still has feelings for me. And the other night, when I went round there and she kissed me. For a moment I thought—’

  ‘No way, Molly. You have to stay away from her. This situation could explode. Besides, it’s not a good idea to start a relationship so early in recovery. Not for the first year is what’s suggested. You need to be careful, she might just be using you.’

  I hate her talking about Grace like that. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘No, you’re right. It must have been a terrible time for you, with what happened to your friend. Do you want to talk about it?’

  Friend? If only you knew.

  ‘I can’t.’ I wish I could.

  ‘Well, I’m here for you when you want to talk. And you’ve made my mind up for me. I’m coming down earlier, the day after next. If you’d still like me to?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’ I’m not sure I can do this alone.

  That evening I cook some pasta and heat up a tomato sauce from a jar, eating at the table and wondering what to do now that Ellis knows who I am. Can I trust her to keep it to herself? I’m being paranoid – all she’s done is help me, but I don’t really know her. Grace hasn’t been in touch. We need to unite, fight this journalist together. All I want is the truth. And Grace is the only other person who was there. Grace holds the answer to everything.

  I wash up my plate and make some coffee, settling down with my laptop. I’ll develop the film in the morning. One more day can’t hurt. I want to read Alex Foster’s page as if I’m Ellis, try and see the story from her point of view. But as soon as I start to read cramps seize my stomach, feeding my anxiety. I close the page and google Ellis instead, see what I can find out about her. Most of the pages that come up are links to her craft business. Her Instagram page, where she has thousands of followers, is full of how-to videos on crochet and knitting techniques. I wonder who takes her photos and videos, or whether she does everything herself. Her Facebook page isn’t private, and I look through her profile photos. In the most recent image she’s with a woman, arm slung effortlessly around her shoulders. She looks happy and I wonder who the lady is. I zoom in on Ellis. Her hair is bleached whiter and her eyes are alive, she’s laughing. Looking at her, so carefree and happy, I realise she’s an attractive woman.

  As I’m preparing for bed I pick up my phone. When I see a new message, it reawakens the tension that had eased and my throat feels dry. Another text from Alex Foster lights up the screen.

  I’m in Dorset now, Molly. Wouldn’t you rather tell me your side of the story before I speak to Grace? There’s big cash involved.

  I throw my phone down.

  I’ve already done a full check of the cottage but I go around again, pulling at the handle of every door, testing each window to make sure it is locked. I draw all the curtains so no light escapes. Despite the lamp that illuminates the darkroom, I feel the cold air sucking me in as I go down the stairs to the basement, placing my feet carefully on the uneven steps.

  A scratching sound makes me freeze. I tell myself it’s most likely a mouse and that it’s stupid to be so on edge. Back in the kitchen I pick up the camera, turn the lights off and the moon casts a pale yellow glow into the room. I switch my phone to silent but leave it with the camera close by the bed, so the torch is within reach in case I need it in the night. Alex Foster and his story are closing in on me, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it all together. Time is running out.

  Thirty-Two

  GRACE

  The hotel bar looks inviting, and I’m in no hurry to get back to my room. A solitary drinker sits on a high stool and a couple dressed in walking gear are reading books, pints on the table. A scarf covers my hair and I’m casually dressed in skinny jeans and sweatshirt.

  ‘A dry white wine, please,’ I say to the barman, and take my drink over to a table in the corner. Despite promising myself not to look at social media, I can’t resist checking my phone.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Oh God, it’s not a fan, is it? The man has walked over from the bar. He’s in his thirties, with cropped hair, dark like Richard. He looks familiar. His eyes flicker as he takes me in. I suddenly realise where I’ve seen him before, but it’s too late to get away. It’s Alex Foster.

  My feet are rooted to the floor.

  ‘Alex Foster,’ he holds out his hand. ‘We haven’t met before.’

  I ignore his hand. Thank God I had that tattoo removed. ‘I know who you are. Please leave me alone.’

  Alex pulls out the chair opposite me and blocks the barman from view. I feel trapped in the corner and my throat is dry. I sip my drink, wishing I’d ordered my usual sparkling water, trying to look at ease. He’s good-looking and his shirt and chinos look well cut. No wedding ring, expensive gold watch. Clearly successful.

  ‘Have you been following me?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘This is harassment.’

  ‘You’ve gone very quiet since that photo appeared in the papers.’

  ‘I’ve had a family bereavement. It’s a difficult time and I want to be alone. Please respect that.’

  ‘As I said, I’m working. But it’s interesting that you and your friend Molly are both here in Dorset.’

  Her name hangs between us and his brown eyes meet mine. I hold his gaze, determined not to let him see my fear.

  ‘I wouldn’t call her a friend. She comes to most of
my events. I had no idea she was here.’

  ‘That’s not where you first met her, though, is it?’

  I pick up my wine glass, twisting it around in my hands.

  ‘I know who you are, Grace.’

  ‘So do lots of people.’ I pick up my phone. ‘Excuse me, I have things to do.’ I’m not going to be fooled. He’s trying to catch me out, but I won’t let him.

  He doesn’t move.

  ‘I know who you really are.’

  My legs begin to shake. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  He still doesn’t move. I get to my feet, stumbling and grabbing the back of the chair to steady myself.

  ‘I want to talk about The Orchid Girls.’

  Heat rushes to my cheeks and my collar is strangling me. ‘Leave me alone. This is harassment.’

  ‘Why are you really here in Dorset, Grace? You must have known your friend Molly’s down here too. She’s agreed to speak to me.’ He stresses the word ‘friend’ and my pulse quickens.

  I hold myself still, composing my face.

  ‘If you’ve got nothing to hide, there’s no need to worry. It could work to your advantage. It’s happened before. Remember that Australian case, woman turned out to be Juliet Hulme, imprisoned for murder. She’s a writer, a different person now. It’s what she does with her life today that counts. The same could apply to you. It wouldn’t necessarily mean the end for you.’

  I pick up my bag, clutching it to me. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m tired, it’s been a long day. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. Please leave me alone.’

  I walk fast across the room, hearing him calling as I go.

  ‘I’ll soon find out when I speak to Molly. I think you’ll find the money I’m offering makes a huge difference.’