The Orchid Girls

by Lesley Sanderson

  The implication of Molly’s words hits me and I take in a long breath. Trying to grab her bag was what started the fight, and…

  ‘Let me see it.’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘Later. I want to stay like this forever.’ She reaches to pull me towards her and I shift away.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Let me see the photograph, Molly.’

  ‘Is that what all this is about?’

  The fire hisses and a spark hits Molly’s leg but she doesn’t react.

  ‘You know if you sold it to the press you wouldn’t destroy me? It would be embarrassing, sure, but we’d survive. Richard knows about it, I told him.’

  Molly fiddles with the frayed edge of her jeans. ‘You still love him, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ I take a cigarette from the packet on the table, pulling smoke into my lungs to ease the tension. ‘That’s why contacting me was never a good idea, surely you can understand that now?’

  Molly drinks half a large glass of wine in one go.

  ‘But this would never have happened if I hadn’t.’

  ‘This?’

  ‘Us.’

  She doesn’t get it.

  ‘Sometimes you can’t always have what you want.’

  Molly finishes her drink, reaches for the bottle and her brown eyes flash. She swipes at her leg as another spark jumps from the fire, her mouth tight. As she pours more wine, she misses the glass. She wipes the drops from the table into a smear and licks her fingers, making her lips a deeper shade of red. I sip the wine; a little will be OK. The taste surprises me, a cherry burst to match Molly’s cherry mouth. When she runs her tongue around her lips, my stomach surges, and not with fear. I place the glass down, tempted to squeeze it until it shatters.

  ‘How did Michael die, exactly?’

  ‘He had a heart attack. It was very sudden.’

  ‘It must have been.’

  I take a long drag on my cigarette. ‘Michael blamed me for Mum’s death. The trial was too much for her. He and I never got on, you know that. I stayed away from him for years. I only visited him because it was my duty, but it’s probably for the best.’

  ‘I bet it suits you to have him out of the way.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘He was getting confused about that Emily kid.’

  ‘That didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Whatever. He can’t stop us now.’

  ‘What do you mean, us?’ I ask.

  Molly looks confused, then runs her tongue over her lips. That feeling down there. I hate her.

  ‘This.’ She puts her hand on my leg and my stomach muscles clench into a tight knot.

  ‘There is no us, Molly.’

  Daily Tribune

  1st September 2003

  ORCHID GIRLS SENSATIONALLY RELEASED

  Grace Cavendish and Molly Conway, otherwise known as ‘The Orchid Girls’, were today acquitted at Yeovil Crown Court as the case collapsed due to lack of evidence. The girls were charged with murder and conspiracy to commit murder. Judge Justice Robinson issued a statement saying there was ‘no evidence to support either charge’.

  Police believed the teens lured the gymnast Charlotte Greene to the cliffs on Sunday morning in order to kill her. An autopsy concluded that she had died from blunt force trauma and there was no evidence of sexual assault. Her body was swept up by the tide, which is why she was initially undiscovered.

  Judge Justice Robinson ruled accidental death, stating that ‘although there were signs that the girls had some kind of altercation, evidence suggested that Charlotte had sustained the head injury after falling and striking her face and head on the rocks’.

  Thirty-Five

  MOLLY

  Warmth from the fire encloses us. Grace is covered up now but I want to undress her again so that we can lie naked in front of the fire forever.

  ‘There is no us, Molly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She stares into her glass, which is still full, her mouth pulled tight into a grimace. Doesn’t she realise I’ll do anything for her? Some things never change. But I don’t want to share her and I will fight.

  The wine misses my glass and slops onto the table. Ellis’s face flashes into my mind and I push the image away. I can’t remember why she warned me to stay away from Grace. Grace touches her mouth to her glass, licks her lips. Why doesn’t she drink?

  ‘Show me the photograph.’

  It’s not the first time she’s asked. Firelight flickers on her beautiful face.

  ‘Why do you want to see it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The photo.’

  She touches my face, traces her finger along my lips. ‘To remember how we were. Please?’

  ‘It’s in my case. I’ll go and get it. I’m nipping to the loo as well, won’t be long.’ I lean and kiss her neck and she flinches, I’m sure of it.

  ‘Just a bit cold,’ she says.

  Liar.

  Getting the photograph is an excuse for me to look in the cellar. My hand’s shaking as I reach for it. We look so vulnerable with our thin, bare shoulders and shy smiles. I hate what happened after it was taken – the terrible outcome that this photo caused. Is it really too late for us? My bare feet make no sound as I creep down the stairs. The chill of the cellar wraps itself around me and I dim the flashlight on my phone while I check whether the photos from the camera are ready. My breath catches in my throat as I unclip the pictures one by one. I mustn’t take too long; I don’t want Grace coming down here. The images show the three of us together, then grass, a rock, shots of the ground at different angles. That must be when Grace had the camera. Then something else.

  I stumble back against the wall when I realise what I’m looking at. My arm on Charlotte’s head. Grace captured the fight. I knew she had, but I’m unprepared for the effect seeing it has on me. But it’s the last photo that makes the contents of my stomach rise up. At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at, and my mind rewinds the scene. It must have been after the fight, when I was unconscious and Grace went to look for Charlotte. For a moment I’m back there, lying on the hard ground, wind whipping my hair around my face, wondering where Grace and Charlotte have gone.

  I open my eyes to the grey Dorset sky, the loud rush of the sea. Tree branches rustle and the bushes whisper words to me, ‘Charlotte, Charlotte’. What’s happened? Blood beads on my skin where thorny bushes snagged at my legs on the long climb up from the beach. There’s no sign of either of them. Images tumble into my head, a fight, the camera clicking, a girl broken on the rocks. Sweat pools on my back, clammy fingers knead at my chest. I clutch at the grass, grab a fistful and hoist myself up, the sound of the sea crashing onto the rocks below. The wind flings my hair into my eyes, my mouth. I move one strand away and another takes its place. I spit it away, eyes smarting. I won’t cry, despite the lump at the back of my throat that makes it hard to swallow, the ball of fear that gets bigger as I remember what I’ve done. I didn’t mean to push her so hard – it just burst out of me, the anger, electrified my arms, and I flew at her before I knew what I was about to do. Did panic make me pass out, or did I hit my head?

  ‘Get back.’

  She’s clambering up towards me, hair blowing out in the wind like sea spray against the grey sky. All I can see is her dark T-shirt; her body blocks me from seeing what’s down below.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, ‘we have to go.’

  ‘Have you called an ambulance?’

  ‘No need, she’s OK. She’s gone home. She had a nasty knock on the head, that’s all. She’ll be confused, she won’t remember.’

  I just about make it to the sink. Charlotte’s face in the photos flashes in my mind, her expression changing from defiance to terror in a sequence of snapshots. She did that, Grace. Taunting her. Charlotte lies broken on the rocks. Glassy eyes and blood. Tears run down my face as I stare down into the red vomit because I know the truth. I know what Grace is capable of.
And she’s waiting for me upstairs.

  The photos hang like damp clothes on a line and are still wet to the touch. Forcing myself to look at them I select one, suppressing the urge to vomit again as I choose the photo showing Charlotte’s smashed head. I unclip it from the line, my hands jittery, out of control. I need a drink to calm me down. On the way back I grab another bottle from the kitchen. It’s the last one. Will it be enough? Panic overcomes me and I grab hold of the counter to steady myself, just about keeping hold of the wine. My stomach swoops. I put the photo I’ve retrieved from the darkroom into an empty kitchen cupboard, face up to keep it dry. Just in case.

  Grace doesn’t see; she’s typing a text on her phone, blonde hair tickling her fingers. I stand in the doorway, watching her.

  ‘Who are you texting?’

  She’s fully dressed now.

  ‘Richard.’ Her fingers move fast. ‘Have you spoken to the journalist?’

  Why won’t she believe me?

  I sit on the sofa this time, looking down at her. I pour myself a glass of wine, drinking greedily.

  ‘I’m tempted. It would be easy money. Unlike you, I could do with it.’

  Anger flickers in Grace’s eyes like the flames in the fire. ‘It’s taken me years to drag myself from that shithole I was born into. And you think I’m just going to let you destroy that? Have you told the journalist anything? We need to know what we’re dealing with.’ She means her and her husband when she says ‘we’. Not us. She’s been playing me all along. But I won’t let her know I’ve sussed out what an evil bitch she is.

  ‘I haven’t told him anything.’

  ‘Good, because I have. He’s here in Dorset. He tracked me to my hotel. I’ve denied being one of The Orchid Girls, and you have to do the same. But just in case you’re thinking of talking, I’ve put him straight about you following me around, making up stories.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I know what you were going to do with the photograph. It was your plan all along, to get me into bed and then expose me, blackmail me and ruin me.’

  How could she think that? ‘Grace, no. I love you. The photo’s precious to me, can’t you understand? It’s the only reminder I have of that time.’

  She has a strange expression on her face.

  ‘Show me.’

  I pull the photo out of my back right pocket, holding the corners tight as she looks over my shoulder. I look at Grace’s pale arms slung around my neck, our young, naked bodies, remembering how it felt to have her long blonde hair tickling my shoulder, the perpetual high I was on: the high I’ve been searching for ever since. I remember looking into her marble eyes for clues of what she would do. The glint of steel I’d never had cause to fear before. I swallow hard to keep the nausea at bay; mustn’t let her suspect what I now know.

  ‘This is all I had to show how close we were, all I’ve ever had, until now. It was the only one remaining of both of us.’

  ‘Let me have it.’ She goes to snatch it.

  I shove it back into my pocket. ‘It doesn’t matter now. I know what you did.’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Why did you dislike her so much, Charlotte?’

  ‘Where do I start? She was trying to turn Jason against me.’

  ‘But you weren’t interested in him.’

  ‘I didn’t want him to know that, did I? She guessed about us, I saw her watching us with those Bambi eyes, a sneer on her face. She’d have done anything to get Jason. And she was a bully. You told me what she and Belinda did to you at school. I wasn’t going to let her get away with that.’

  ‘So you did it for me? You must have loved me then?’ Despite everything, I have to know. I drain my glass, but my throat still burns with fear.

  She shrugs. ‘It wasn’t just that. She was threatening to tell Michael.’

  ‘You knew that? How could you not tell me? That’s not possible unless she told you when you—’ I clap my shaking hand to my mouth.

  ‘You’ve found the camera. So you know.’ Grace stands up, the realisation hitting her. Now she’s looking down at me.

  ‘You killed her.’ My voice is tiny. ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why. She knew about us. She was in the way, a threat to everything, just like Michael.’

  ‘Did you kill him too?’

  She shrugs. ‘I kicked his inhaler under the bed, let them think it was an accident. He was becoming inconvenient. I’d put up with him long enough.’

  My throat is so tight I can barely swallow. ‘Christ, I need another drink.’ I reach for the bottle and Grace snatches it away. The room sways. My heart is thumping at the news that she killed Michael; how cold she is, how matter-of-fact. Is this really the Grace I’ve been searching for all my life? My Gracie?

  ‘Look at you. You can’t stop. What if I pour this down the sink?’ She grabs the bottle and holds it out of reach.

  ‘Give it here.’

  ‘There. I’ve proved my point.’ She moves away from the fire, her back to the kitchen. ‘Here’s the deal. You give me the photos from the camera and you can have the wine back.’

  My mouth is dry with fear. My churning need for alcohol can’t be stopped, and she knows it. My feet trip as I pull myself to my feet, stumbling against the wall. There has to be something I can do. A drink will help me think.

  ‘Give it to me, Grace. I need it, you don’t understand.’

  She thinks I’ve got them on me. I’ll keep her guessing.

  ‘Look at you! You’re pathetic. Hand them over.’

  I put my hand over my back pocket. Her eyes are narrow as she watches me and I shout as I lurch forward, but she’s too quick, she lifts the bottle high. Before I know it, it smashes into the side of my head, hurting me more than Charlotte ever did.

  Grace is lying on top of me, hands groping around behind me. But this time there is no desire, and despite the sickness in my stomach, my thumping head, the loud noise that rings in my ears, what hits me the most is that she doesn’t want me. She never has. All she wants is the photographs. She doesn’t want anyone to know what she did; how she murdered a teenage girl. She doesn’t care that I spent my whole life thinking I killed her, plagued with guilt. All she cares about is not wanting her perfect world to be torn apart. That was her plan all along. She wants to carry on with her charmed life as Lady Mayoress. I have to stop her.

  ‘Without this, you’ll have nothing. No proof I was even here. Who do you think people will believe, a media star whose husband is the Mayor of London, or a drunken waste of space?’

  My mouth is open as I struggle for breath. She’s holding me down with one hand as she tries to slide her hand behind my back. I squeeze down hard on the floor, trying to stop her. I have to get her to speak – this is the only way she’ll ever tell me the truth.

  ‘How did Charlotte die? What did you do to her? You told me she was alright.’ My voice is loud, hysterical. ‘I saw the photo, Grace. Her head, what did you do to her? I didn’t do that. How could you let me think it was my fault? I thought you loved me.’

  Her eyes blaze. ‘You should never have made me feel like that. It’s not who I am. Being with a man, it’s natural for me. Not this.’

  ‘Liar. Why can’t you accept what we have together? You weren’t faking that. This is Michael’s doing, isn’t it? He’s made you ashamed to be who you are. He’s gone now. Thanks to you. And it’s the twenty-first century, Grace. Society isn’t how it was back then. Gay people even get married now.’

  Her face screws up in repulsion. ‘Never. It’s not the life I want.’

  ‘Tell me you don’t love me.’

  ‘I love Richard.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. Say it.’

  Her lips are pressed firmly together. I pull the photograph of us from my pocket. ‘Look at this, don’t you remember?’

  Grace snatches it out of my hand, rips it in half, dropping it into the fire. I watch it blacken and curl, disintegrating as what I thoug
ht we had is falling into bits around me.

  ‘You bitch.’ Sparks spit out onto the carpet.

  She slaps me hard across the face. My eye stings. ‘Have you forgotten what happened to the last girl who threatened me with a photograph?’

  Her fist comes towards me, blackness swirls. Have I lost consciousness? It can only have been for a second because Grace is still talking.

  ‘Stupid bitch brought it on herself. Threatening to tell people about us! Hand them over.’

  She hits me again and I curl up in pain. She grabs my rucksack and I kick out at her. For a second she stares down at me, breath ragged, then reaches into her jeans pocket.

  The knife glints in the glow from the fire. Silence fills the cottage, followed by the sound of a crash. She raises her arm.

  Grace’s Diary

  Thursday 15th August 2002

  Molly’s on the ground, passed out. Charlotte stumbled and I pushed her away, hard, so that she fell over the edge. I checked Molly was OK, then went after Charlotte. I scraped my legs against the rocks as I slid down after her.

  Blood trickled from a wound in Charlotte’s head and her leg was sticking out at an angle. I leant down over her, so close I could feel her breath.

  She spat words at me, threatened to show the photo to my dad. Saliva landed on my cheek. Big mistake. I put my hand to the wet patch, rage throbbing. I moved to stand over her, Molly’s camera bouncing against my chest. My foot on hers, keeping her down, where she belongs.

  ‘So you’re going to tell my dad, are you? Why would he believe a little tart like you? He hates girls like you. It’s pathetic the way you follow Jason around with your tongue hanging out. He’s not interested in you. You’re just a stupid little virgin.’

  ‘So are you.’

  She tries to drag herself up onto her elbow and I shove her back down with my foot. She gasps, but she’s still got that defiant look in her eyes.