She was definitely angry with herself, at her lack of control. That was a given. But she was also confused. She had never felt at once so inside and outside herself. Sure, the news about Tasha had been upsetting, but to have behaved so unprofessionally . . .
In the end she’d decided it best not to talk to anyone, friend or foe, and had turned her phone on to silent. Now, though, she found the buzzing just as stressful as any bleep or ringtone. She was about to turn it off altogether when she saw the caller ID. It was a text from Dougie. The guy who’d bought her a drink in the Riding House Café. Although they’d exchanged numbers she’d figured he was just being kind. Not for one second had she expected him to get in touch.
She opened the message. It was a photo of a jasmine flower. Its petals were white, its stamen like a fat green nipple. Underneath it was a caption and a flower emoji: Saw this and thought of you.
She smiled. The message was sweet, romantic even, but for some reason, probably the stamen, it felt loaded with innuendo. She had no idea how to respond so she returned the phone to her bag, poured herself another glass of wine, necked it and poured herself a third.
Not wanting to look at this reminder of her suspension any longer than she had to, she grabbed the box by both handles. She’d stuff it away, in the cupboard next to the boiler. But as she went to lift it from the table the flimsy cardboard lid fell to one side and onto the floor. She tutted, picked it up and was about to put it back when the envelopes at the top caught her eye. The padded one contained Cassie Scolari’s file, the one she’d been sent by Cassie’s friend; the other had arrived that morning as she was leaving. She opened it and emptied the contents onto the table.
Inside was a sheaf of A4: the phone logs she’d requested from Cassie’s boss at Ticketmaster. A cursory glance at the printouts revealed he’d made a mistake. As well as all Cassie’s incoming calls for the two months leading up to her disappearance, he had also sent a list of every outgoing call. She picked up the padded envelope, slid the contents of Cassie’s file onto the table and placed them alongside the logs. Cassie’s face stared out from one of the newspaper articles.
A click in the hall. A door opening. Sarah.
She emerged blinking into the living room, her pyjamas creased, her dressing-gown half on, half off. When she saw her mother her face crumpled, preparing to assume the scowl Jessamine had become so familiar with over the last few weeks. Then she registered the wine and the fact that Jessamine was standing there, drinking, still in her coat. The scowl collapsed. ‘Starting early?’
Jessamine raised her glass in a toast. ‘I’ve had a bit of a morning.’
Sarah hoicked her dressing-gown around herself and took a tentative step forward, reminding Jessamine of a game they used to play when Sarah was small: What Time Is It, Mr Wolf? ‘What happened?’
‘Last night . . .’ she faltered, ‘. . . I said some things I shouldn’t. On air.’ She didn’t want to go into the whys and wherefores with Sarah. That would prompt too many questions about what had caused her outburst, and the last thing Jessamine wanted to talk about was what had happened to Tasha. There were too many grim parallels with the fate of Sarah’s own birth mother.
Jessamine had not been made privy to the identity of her daughter’s biological parents – it had been a closed adoption – so their name and the town they had lived in had been deliberately withheld – but she did know the horrific sequence of events that had led to Sarah being placed in the care of the state. Sarah’s birth mother had been in an abusive relationship. She’d been planning to leave, to take herself and her daughter to a refuge, but somehow her husband had got wind of it. That night while thirteen-month-old Sarah was asleep upstairs in her cot, her father had subjected her mother to an especially vicious attack and left her unconscious on the living-room floor. As well as breaking three of her ribs, her wrist and her cheekbone, he had ruptured her spleen, causing massive internal bleeding. The next morning he came down to find her dead. Ellen, Sarah’s social worker, told her that, although they couldn’t make it stand up in court, the police believed he had sat down to a leisurely breakfast of cornflakes and coffee before he called 999. He’d been found guilty of manslaughter and sent to prison.
Sarah took another two steps forward. ‘You okay?’
One more step. She was almost in touching distance.
‘I will be.’
Jessamine sat down at the table with her back to her daughter and took another sip of wine. Sarah gathered her dressing-gown close and took the final two steps forward so that she was now standing directly behind her mother. When they used to play the game, this was the point at which Jessamine turned and shouted, ‘Dinner-time!’ Sarah and her friends would scatter, shrieking with delight.
‘So, what, you’re out of a job?’
Jessamine stared at her glass. ‘The union is on it but, yes, for the time being I’m what you might call a free agent.’
At least she didn’t have to worry about money, not immediately anyway. They’d suspended her on full pay. If and when it came to the worst and she found herself unemployed, she had savings she could fall back on.
Sarah wrapped her arms around her mother and rested her cheek against her upper back. Jessamine met her embrace and pushed her face into Sarah’s dressing-gown sleeve.
‘It’ll be all right, Mum.’ Sarah hugged her tighter. ‘I’m sure.’
‘I had a call from Ellen yesterday,’ said Jessamine, making sure to keep her tone casual. ‘She said you’d asked to see your Child Placement Report.’ Sarah didn’t respond. ‘Is there something you’re worried about? Something you want to know?’ Again Sarah said nothing. Jessamine was about to try another tack when Munchie appeared from where she’d been sleeping behind the sofa and jumped up on the table. She landed with a thud, her paws skidding slightly on the smooth surface. Discovering the envelopes on the table she pushed the edge of her mouth against the nearest corner, marking it with her scent.
Sarah reached forward and picked up one of the news articles from Cassie’s file. ‘What happened to her?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘I don’t know. No one does.’
‘It’s not from one of your shows?’
‘It’s an open case. A member of the public sent it to me. Her friend is missing.’ Jessamine took another slug of wine. ‘She wanted me to help. Or perhaps I should say she wanted the show to help.’ Again she faltered, trying to decide whether or not to share the next piece of information. ‘Her friend had a violent partner.’ At this she felt Sarah tense. ‘She thinks he’s like one of the people we profile.’
Sarah stayed like that for a few seconds more, leaning over her mother while she read through the article. When she tried to straighten, Jessamine did not relinquish her grip. It had been so long since her daughter had cuddled her and longer still since she had allowed herself to be cuddled. She’d broach the subject of Sarah requesting her Child Placement Report again later, see if she couldn’t get to the bottom of it.
Sarah laughed. ‘Mum.’ She wriggled. ‘Enough. I need to shower.’
Jessamine gave Sarah’s forearm a final kiss and let her go. She sat there for a moment, happy with the brief truce that had just taken place and then she got up, took off her coat and went to hang it in the hall. She hadn’t been able to face breakfast, and an empty stomach plus wine had left her a little unsteady on her feet. Not that it mattered. She stopped by the bathroom door and listened to the rush of the shower. Sarah was humming her favourite song from the Michael Bublé Christmas album. Maybe they could have a movie afternoon on the sofa. It used to be one of their favourite things to do together – huddling under blankets and eating microwave popcorn.
Back in the kitchen Cassie Scolari’s face stared up from the press cutting on the table where Sarah had left it. Cassie had been in an abusive relationship. If she could find out what had had happened to Cassie, it might help assuage some of the guilt she felt at not having been able to protect Tasha,
to keep her alive.
She pushed the file to one side. For the time being, her radio show was on hold. She couldn’t help now, even if she wanted to. She poured herself the last of the wine.
2003
Rowena
I wait out of sight, across the road from Leo’s house, and hope all the things I’ve heard him say about his wife’s love of tennis are true. It’s hot and the three different buses I took to get here have left me sick and light-headed. I’m wearing an oversized black and white Adidas T-shirt I borrowed from Bianca in the next room to mine at the home and my purple velour trackie bottoms. I don’t look my best – before I left this morning Bianca told me I looked like a homeless person – but I’m comfortable and, besides, today isn’t about trying to look pretty.
I waft the T-shirt against my belly, trying to cool myself. I know Leo will be angry with me for coming to the cottage like this, but I had no choice. There isn’t any credit left on my pay-as-you-go and this can’t wait until the next time he decides to invite me to a party.
Twenty minutes later a black Range Rover appears at the mouth of the drive. A woman at the wheel. Leo’s wife. It has to be. She pulls out into the road, turns left and accelerates.
I wait two more minutes, just to be sure, and then I come out from my hiding place, cross the road and make my way down the drive. I lift the lion-shaped door-knocker and rap it twice. Silence, and then, somewhere in the house, I hear footsteps. I take a breath. I’ve decided it’s probably best if I come straight out with it, that as soon as he hears the reason I’m here he’ll forgive my turning up unannounced.
But when the door opens I’m not faced with Leo but with a girl. About my age, she is wearing jodhpurs and a white polo shirt streaked with grass stains, a pink jumper tied around her shoulders. She is older and heavier than she is in any of the photographs I’ve seen but I recognise her immediately. Leo’s daughter.
She looks at me, confused, then peers behind where I stand, as though that will offer some explanation for my presence. ‘Yes?’
‘I think I have the wrong house.’ I start to back away.
Her eyes take in my T-shirt and fake Juicy Couture tracksuit bottoms. Something in her face changes. ‘Wait, are you from Redbridge Hollow?’
I have no idea what she’s talking about and am about to put her straight when she speaks again. ‘Look, I’m sorry about the damage to the fences. Pablo can get a bit tetchy when the cars race past on the road down there. I’ll pay for any damage caused.’
Pablo?
She mistakes my silence for anger. ‘It won’t happen again, I promise. It’s just if Mum and Dad find out I’ve been down there, I’m done for.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘I wouldn’t be allowed to ride any more and the rest of the school holidays would be an epically disastrous bore.’
I’m still none the wiser but I go along with her. If she thinks she knows who I am then she won’t ask any difficult questions.
‘I won’t tell them,’ I say. ‘Promise.’
I go to walk away but she stops me. ‘Do you want a cold drink? It’s such a hot day.’
The thought of trekking back to the bus-stop in this sunshine makes me feel sick. I look behind her, into the house. From the way she’s been talking it sounds like she’s alone. I decide to risk it. I’ll have a drink and a rest, then be on my way. I’ll come back and talk to Leo tomorrow. ‘Sounds lovely.’
‘Super.’ She claps her hands and I follow her into the house. ‘I made lemonade.’
I’ve never heard of anyone making lemonade before and am even more puzzled when, instead of the clear Sprite or 7Up I buy from the shop, she presents me with a cloudy glass of something pale green that isn’t even fizzy. I sip at it suspiciously but I soon discover that it’s delicious, and gulp it down.
The girl laughs and pours me another glass. ‘I’m Millie.’ She offers her hand.
‘Rowena.’ We shake.
‘I’ve got to say, I’m glad you came by. All my friends have gone to Walberswick or Perugia or wherever the hell else they’ve decamped for the summer.’ She dresses differently from any other girl I’ve met. It’s not just the jodhpurs. There’s something about the cut and colour of the material, the way she wears her hair in a messy high bun. She’s covered with grass stains but, still, she seems clean, special. ‘I’ve been going to the stables and riding Pablo every day but I’m already bored. Plus, the shooting season doesn’t start till August.’ I remember the picture of her with the gun and the dead rabbit. ‘We’re usually away but this year Daddy says we need to be here while he prepares his bid.’
Daddy.
The word wakes me up to the fact that I’m sitting at Leo’s kitchen table drinking lemonade with his daughter. I know I should go. That I’ve chanced my arm here long enough. But I realise I want to stay. I want to know more about her and her life with her father.
The table is piled with different things. Newspapers, bills, a box of wine. My eye catches an open DVD case. Bend It Like Beckham. ‘Have you seen it?’ She picks it up and wiggles it in the air. ‘Our dorm must have watched it a hundred times.’
I quote one of my favourite lines from the film and we both laugh. We fall into a brief silence, but then we look at each other again and once more burst out laughing.
Eventually our giggles fizzle to nothing and suddenly we’re shy, both of us unable to meet the other’s eye. The sound of a door slamming somewhere at the side of the cottage. I freeze. Is her mum back from tennis already?
And then there he is. Leo. Wearing shorts and a white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, he is carrying a basket of tomatoes, his fingernails caked with mud.
‘Daddy,’ says Millie, brightly, ‘this is Rowena.’ Still worried about the thing with Pablo and the fences, she falters, not sure how to explain my being here.
‘I was just passing when I started to feel unwell,’ I say, jumping to her rescue. ‘I knocked at the door and asked for a glass of water.’ Millie smiles at me gratefully.
Until the mention of my name Leo had been more focused on his tomatoes than on either of us, but now he looks up. At first he’s confused. That soon changes to anger. He dumps the tomatoes in the sink.
‘I should be going.’ I get to my feet. ‘Thanks for the lemonade.’
‘Can’t you stay a little while?’ Millie looks to her father and pouts. ‘I’ve been so bored.’ She turns back to me. ‘We could go swimming?’
‘I’ll see you out,’ says Leo already guiding me away from the kitchen.
He waits until we’re out of sight, halfway up the drive, before he says another word. ‘What are you doing here?’ He locks his hand tight around my upper arm. ‘Talking to my daughter. Sitting at my table.’
He is shaking with rage and also, I think, a little bit frightened. My being here has rattled him.
My arm is starting to hurt so I try to twist away, out of his grasp. But the movement only makes him squeeze harder. I say the one thing that will make him let me go, the thing I came here to tell him.
‘I’m pregnant.’
It works. He lets go and I rub at my bicep.
He looks at my stomach. ‘You said you were on the the Pill.’
‘I am. I was.’ I cross my arms over my belly. ‘Sometimes I get my days mixed up.’
When I told Queenie and Erin that my period was late they took me to the chemist’s to buy a test. They sat with me while I peed on a stick and they said I should tell Leo. They said that whenever it had happened to other girls it had been up to their bloke to sort it out.
He runs his hands through his blond curls. He smells of grass and the earth. ‘I’ll get you an appointment. Until then you talk to no one.’
I nod.
‘And never come back to my house. No matter what.’ His eyes flash. ‘Or I’ll throw you back to Sunny and his mates. Understand?’
I try not to cry.
‘Go.’
I do as he says and have almost reached the end of the drive when I hear someone
behind me on the tarmac. Thinking it’s Leo, back to see me off, I speed up and turn onto the road towards the bus-stop.
‘Wait, Rowena.’
Millie.
She runs to catch up with me.
‘Look, we don’t really know each other but this summer is going to be so boring and you seem fun and, well,’ she gestures up the road, ‘you live so nearby.’ She retrieves a purple Nokia 8210 from the back of her jodhpurs. ‘We should hang out.’
I look to the drive, checking for Leo.
‘I don’t know.’ I try to think of an excuse, something polite but effective.
A car appears in the distance and we press ourselves into the prickly hedge to let it pass.
‘Oh, come on, silly,’ she says, once the car has gone. She opens her contacts, ready. ‘What’s your number?’
I’m terrified Leo is going to come out and catch us. Giving her my details seems like the quickest way to get rid of her. I tell her my number and warn her I have no credit. She promises to be in touch. I say goodbye and begin the long walk to the bus-stop. I haven’t gone far when my phone beeps.
‘Hi.’
Millie.
She’s sent me another quote from the film.
I stand and flex the part of my arm where Leo gripped me, and even though the bruise is already starting to form, I hear myself laugh. The sound carries through the warm country air, light and clear.
Jessamine
Jessamine woke up in bed, fully clothed. For a brief, blissful moment she was confused. How and why had she got there? Then she remembered. Her suspension. Once more awash with shame and embarrassment, she hid her face in the pillow.
Outside the winter sun was fading. Inside, Munchie was curled asleep on her abdomen, a warm pressure that would have been pleasurable if it weren’t for the fact that she had a sudden need to go to the toilet. She pushed herself up to sitting and winced. Her head felt as if it was being squeezed and her mouth was dry. She needed the bathroom, water and paracetamol in that order. Gingerly, she moved her legs to the side of the mattress. Munchie huff-miaowed in protest, then quickly took up a position near her pillow, basking in the residual heat.
The Dangerous Kind Page 13