‘So. Do you want to talk about it now?’
Mum’s pushed her plate aside and she’s cupping her chin in her hands, waiting.
I nod and clear my throat. Since Thursday, since that phone call from that bloody bastard Miles Cranford, I’ve been in hell. I decided almost as soon as I put the phone down not to tell anyone about Miles and his story, hoping against hope that it might not materialise, that some massive incident – a terrorist attack or a Royal death … anything – might come along to fill the pages of the newspapers, that my story might be postponed or even forgotten about altogether. Then I spent an hour berating myself about wishing for a terrorist attack or a Royal death and felt more dreadful than ever. I say I told nobody but I did call Anna Reid. I thought I already knew the answer to this, but I wanted to check, just in case – was there any way I could stop a newspaper running a story about me?
‘Sadly, no,’ she said. ‘It’s called freedom of the press. At least they’ve contacted you, given you the chance to comment, to state your case, even if you’ve declined. They’re very careful, Beth; they police themselves really, to a degree. They don’t want to be sued, so they’re generally very careful not to libel anyone. So as long as there aren’t any actual untruths in his story, well …’
‘Oh, Mum.’ I sigh and push my plate away too.
‘I know. I can only imagine what it was like to see yourself all over the newspaper,’ she says. ‘And I don’t even want to talk about those pictures; we’ve been there. I’m horrified they’ve ended up in the paper, just absolutely disgusted, and if I ever see that nasty little … that evil little …’
She narrows her eyes, looking furious, and I know she still thinks it was probably Robin, but I say nothing, for maybe it was Robin and maybe it wasn’t. I just don’t know anything anymore, and if I think about that too much on top of everything else today I might actually go mad.
‘The only thing I want to ask you about, darling, is … well, what was that bit about the incident at your school? A suicide?’
She casts her eyes around the room, as if looking for the newspaper, then looks at the recycling bin.
‘It implied you were involved, somehow?’ she says.
‘It was … well, it was a girl I knew – not a friend exactly. A girl called Lucy,’ I say.
I’m trying to remember the exact wording in the newspaper article. All it said was that I’d been linked to the suicide of a troubled pupil at a Bristol secondary school’, didn’t it? That no charges had been brought and that we’d moved away from the area?
Mum’s wrinkling her brow. The towel is still hanging over her shoulders and she pulls it off, draping it over the back of her seat.
‘Lucy? I don’t remember anyone called Lucy in your primary school class.’
‘No. We met for the first time at Fairbridge.’
I pause. For a moment, I’m teetering. To tell or not to tell?
What I should do now is tell her everything, for surely I’ll have to, one day? I think. She’s my mother, and now she knows that something happened, all she’s doing is showing concern. She’s not running from the room, she’s not shrinking away from me in disgust, and maybe I should have told her about this at the very beginning. Maybe I should have told Jacob too. Maybe I should have told everyone …
It’s part of my story, my history, part of me, I know that. And now half of me feels it’s been ridiculous – I’ve been ridiculous – to even think that I could keep this massive secret for my whole life, that nobody would ever find out. But then there’s the other half of me, the half that’s screaming: NO! DON’T TELL HER! WHAT CAN YOU POSSIBLY GAIN FROM TELLNG HER NOW, YOU IDIOT?
And, predictably, that half wins.
‘She was being bullied, or that’s what her parents thought,’ I say. ‘We were thirteen. And after she … after she died, there were diaries, or something, and they thought …’
My mouth is dry, my tongue thick and heavy. I reach for my mug and take a slug of the now-cold tea and grimace.
‘They thought I might have been involved. In the bullying, I mean, because I sat next to her in some lessons. The police investigated and there was no evidence, so that was it. But, well, I was really upset by it, you know? Everyone at school was; it was horrible. And so Dad decided it might be better to move me away. That’s it, really.’
Mum’s listening silently, her eyes boring into mine. I look back for a second or two longer then drop my gaze, shame sweeping over me.
I’m lying, Mum. I did bully Lucy. It was my fault. She died because of me. And I’m sorry, so very, very sorry. I’ve been sorry every day of my life since and the burden of this dark, abhorrent secret has dragged me to the very depths of despair more times than I care to remember. And now I’m sorry again, sorry for lying. But I’ve lost so much. I can’t lose you again, and if you knew …
Inside, I’m howling the words, but I sit here, silent, waiting for her to react.
‘OK,’ she says simply.
I look up, puzzled.
Is that it?
She stands up, all efficiency again. She picks up my pastry plate, putting it on top of hers and adding the mugs before walking to the dishwasher.
‘Stupid little hack trying to cause trouble, making something out of nothing,’ she says, as she starts stacking the dishes in the machine. ‘You’ll probably want to explain that to the surgery? They’re bound to ask. Now, why don’t you go and have a nice bath? And don’t you worry about that.’
She’s turning on the tap to wash her hands now and gesturing towards the recycling bin with her head.
‘Tomorrow’s chip paper,’ she says.
Still feeling slightly stunned – is it going to be that easy to get away with this, to keep this secret? – I go upstairs, strip off, and (I’ve gone off baths, for some reason) get into the shower. I stand there for a long time, letting the powerful jets of hot water pummel my tense shoulders. As I’m drying myself my phone rings. It’s Jacob and I sigh. I put him on speaker as I slowly get dressed. He has, of course, heard about the Daily Star piece, and I stay silent, letting him yell, letting him tell me how appalled he is, how this is the final straw, how the entire school is going to know about it by the time the children go back after Easter, how Finley and Eloise are going to be a laughing stock, and my heart breaks all over again.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
But he’s still shouting, and now he’s demanding to know what the reference to the school suicide was about and why this is the first he’s heard of it. I tell him the same story I told Mum, but he’s still so angry, so livid. He wants more detail and I fall silent again.
I can’t do this, not now. Maybe not ever.
‘I can’t believe I was ever married to you, Beth. I don’t know you at all, do I?’ is his final scathing comment before he puts the phone down.
I call Anna again then, on the mobile number she kindly gave me. She’s at home, a baby crying in the background. I realise she’s a mum and for some reason this surprises me. I tell her about the article and she goes online and reads it, her child still wailing. I wonder if she’s a single mum like me, with nobody else there to help her juggle her job and her baby, but I don’t ask.
‘OK, I’ve had a quick read, and honestly, Beth, there’s not a lot we can do,’ she says. ‘Everything in it is factual, I assume? What’s this thing from your school days he’s talking about?’
I give her the same spiel and she tells me that the inclusion of that was a little unfair.
‘But it doesn’t appear to be libellous. Everything in the piece is true, right? It must be awful for you, seeing it in print like that, and if you run into any issues at work because of it, get back in touch with me. We can carry on trying to persuade the website to remove your video in the meantime, but that may be harder now, with all this publicity; it’s going to drive even more people to the site, I’m afraid, and they’re going to love that. My advice is just to try and forget about it and get on with your
life, Beth. People have short memories. And now I have to go; this little one’s acting like he hasn’t been fed in days. Speak soon, OK?’
I go back into the kitchen then and sit down next to Mum who’s writing a shopping list. She looks up, and slowly puts her pen down.
‘Beth?’
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘I just wanted to say … to say I’m sorry.’
She reaches over and takes both of my hands in hers. I look at her, puzzled.
‘I’m so very sorry that I wasn’t there,’ she continues. ‘When you were at secondary school, when your friend …’ She pauses, takes a breath, and now she has tears in her eyes. ‘When your friend died, and you had to go through all that. I’m so sorry.’
‘Oh, Mum, don’t. It’s …’
But she’s pulling me towards her, wrapping her arms around me. She’s crying properly now, great heaving sobs, and I realise I’m crying too. We sit there for a long time, until finally she moves away, wiping her eyes and smiling a watery smile.
‘Gosh, what are we like? Emotional wrecks, both of us,’ she says, and I smile too. It amazes me that I can still smile when I know there’s still so much to come; when I know with absolute certainty that the aftermath of this day is going to be bloody. And sure enough, I’ve just gone upstairs to wash my face when my phone buzzes with a text.
It’s Jacob, who clearly can’t even bring himself to speak to me now.
Please don’t attempt to call the children this weekend. Both know about the newspaper article. Eloise distraught. They don’t want to see or talk to you. I’ll be in touch.
I read it, read it again, and suddenly my knees give way and I’m on the floor, a strange ringing in my ears.
And so it begins, I think. And so it begins.
Chapter 33
The past two weeks have been a blur. I feel, in many ways, that my life is actually over. Do the newspapers, the reporters who write these stories, ever think about the consequences for those they write about, I wonder? Or is it just, ‘well done, great story, pat on the back, on to the next’?
For me, everything has just … stopped. Seeing my children, going to work, being with my friends, it’s all on pause, indefinitely. I’ve barely left the house in a fortnight, and the thought of doing so gives me palpitations, as if I’ve suddenly developed agoraphobia. Even though I didn’t film those videos, didn’t send them to the porn site, didn’t tip off the newspapers, I’m full of self-loathing, full of shame. And yet weirdly, at the same time, I still feel I’ve finally got what I deserve. I’m finally being punished in the most awful, public way for what I did to Lucy Allen all those years ago. I deserve this.
Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to cope with, of course, but the crying has stopped now. Instead, it’s as if my mind has closed a door, the door to the room where all the questions are, the room where I’ve been wandering in circles, trying to work out who’s behind this, who’s done this to me. It’s almost as if I don’t care anymore, and all that matters now is getting through each day and hoping that one day soon my life can restart. That one day Jacob will let the children come home, and the surgery will let me go back to work, and I can fade into the background again, and be a normal, working mother. That people will forget the sight of my naked body in the newspapers and the insinuations about my dark past.
The drinking needs to stop, though. Before, it was once a week maybe – with the girls in the kitchen or on the occasional night out, now and again a little too much and a hangover to pay for it. But now, despite Gabby’s warnings, it’s every night, and most days too, if I’m honest. Opening a bottle, taking that first sip of chilled white wine or warming red, I feel it hit my bloodstream and start to make my head swim; it softens the edges of my pain, calms me, numbs me. And numb is good right now. I don’t want to think about it – any of it. I don’t want to know which of the people I love has betrayed me.
For the first few days after that awful Saturday I forced myself to deal with the fallout. On the Sunday, I went to see Dad. He knew, of course. Holly Tree has all the papers delivered every day, broadsheets and tabloids all sitting on a polished side table in the lounge alongside an eclectic selection of magazines – Country Living, Angling Times, Woman’s Weekly. He knew, but there was no anger, no judgement. Instead, he just looked sad, and even though he’s the only person who really knows what happened back then with Lucy, the only person I could conceivably have a proper conversation with about it now, I just couldn’t bring myself to burden him with my fears, with my certainty that this has all happened because of what I did to her.
‘I didn’t take those pictures, Dad,’ I said. ‘Someone hid a camera in my room; someone did it for a joke. And then somehow the newspaper reporter saw them and decided it would make a good story, and … well … It was a really stupid, really bad joke that got out of hand, and I’m trying to find out who’s responsible. But I’m so sorry about it all, and so sorry you had to see it.’
He shook his head.
‘S’lucky I’m half-blind. Couldn’t shee them prop’ly anyway. Billy read the article to me though. He shed you looked crackin’.’
He raised a thumb, clearly attempting to lighten the mood. I tried to laugh, but inside I was shrivelling with embarrassment.
These old men ogling me, talking about me, looking at me now from across the room … I see lecherous expressions on some faces and curled-lip disapproval on others. This is horrible …
‘Bloody shtupid joke. Some friend,’ he said.
‘I know, Dad. I know.’
He paused, then squinted at me, one eye red and watery.
‘He knew, then, that reporter. ’Bout Lucy,’ he said. ‘Wonder how? At leasht he didn’t say much, eh?’
He wiped a hand across his face, closing his eyes for a few seconds, and I knew that this had taken him back there, back to those bleak days. My stomach lurched with guilt and sorrow.
‘Yes, at least he didn’t say much. It’ll be OK, Dad. Don’t worry. I’m so sorry you had to see it, and it’s been awful, but it’ll pass. I’m handling it. And the kids are still at Jacob’s by the way. But I’m sure he’ll bring them in to see you soon. Hey, did you listen to The Archers this morning? Jolene’s on the warpath, isn’t she?’
I changed the subject and we chatted about our favourite radio soap-opera for a while. It seemed to distract Dad as his face brightened. I couldn’t bear it for long though, and I made my excuses and left shortly after that, feeling wretched, sick at the thought of how much more of this there was to come. I’d already had the call from Gabby at work, her tone uncharacteristically sharp, her disappointment and frustration evident.
‘We’d really hoped, as we hadn’t heard anything else from that reporter, that this wouldn’t happen, Beth. It’s not good, not good at all. Obviously it’s dreadful for you, but for the surgery too, our reputation … and what’s this about a suicide back in your school days?’
I told her the same vague story I’d told Mum and Jacob and she’d rung off muttering that she’d be in touch, though her unhappiness had been clear. Ruth had waited until the Monday evening to call me, to express the same shock, to ask the same questions. I was getting good at answering them by now.
‘Is Deborah OK? I haven’t heard from her at all since I was … well, since I’ve been off,’ I said, and there was a long pause on the line – so long I thought we might have been cut off.
‘Ruth? Are you there?’
‘Yes … erm, she’s on holiday,’ she said. ‘Had some days to use up. Think she’s gone to the Lake District. It was all a bit last minute.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
They do have phones in the Lake District, I wanted to say, but I left it.
‘Nadia was asking for you though,’ Ruth said hurriedly. ‘I popped over to take her some tea this morning and, well, she’d actually seen the Daily Star. Sorry, love. Apparently it was lying around in the hostel. Think she got the shock of her life, but she was asking if you we
re OK. She seemed really concerned. She likes you, I think.’
‘I like her too,’ I said. ‘Oh, bloody hell, what must she think of me now?’
I pictured Nadia, chapped fingers in her tatty gloves, thumbing through the paper and seeing me like that. I shuddered.
Another person I’ll never be able to face again. She must be appalled.
Mum, who had continued to be amazing, taking care of me, trying to keep my spirits up, went to her yoga class on the Tuesday morning and, realising after she’d gone that we were out of milk, I’d ventured out to the shop. I pulled on a baseball cap and slouchy sweatshirt, not making eye contact with anyone. I was almost home, feeling weak with relief that I’d got away with it, when suddenly there were Brenda and Barbara walking towards me, just feet away.
I glanced from one to the other and they stopped dead, but I kept walking.
‘Beth! Beth, we—’
Brenda was holding out a hand as if to stop me in my tracks, but I lowered my head, unexpected tears pricking my eyes. I barrelled past them, desperate to get home. I couldn’t, just couldn’t, not that day. Maybe not ever. Those two, Deborah, Robin … my suspicions still bounce around in my head, but I don’t even care anymore. I just want to move on.
Since then, I’ve hardly been out, hardly spoken to a soul, other than my mother. My phone has buzzed repeatedly with messages from friends and acquaintances, and I’ve ignored them all. I can’t face anyone. Jacob texts me brief updates about the children, and I’ve spoken to Finley on the phone, once or twice – short, awkward conversations that break my heart. My little boy sounds confused: he tells me he loves me but when I whisper, ‘Do you want to come home? Tell Daddy, if you do,’ he responds that no, he likes it here, and that Crystal might be getting a dog, a white cockapoo, and how exciting that would be. His ankle is much better, apparently, and he’ll soon be playing football again; he’s happy about that too. Eloise still won’t speak to me at all though, and every day that she refuses to do so makes me shrink a little more into myself, into my misery. Into the bottle.
The Happy Family Page 23