by Lesley Kara
It’s the first time I’ve needed my coat in ages, and after the gorgeous weather we’ve been having it seems like an omen. What if it’s that girl who brought the T-shirt in? She had Simon’s photo, after all.
I look both ways before setting off in the direction of the shops. Who knows how many times she’s been waiting for me to come out of the house? Waiting and watching. Following my every movement. I won’t be stalked like prey any longer. I won’t be drawn into her mind games. If that’s what they are. The picture with the bloodied hands was one thing. Thinly veiled death threats and tricking my mother are quite another.
And now that I’ve made the decision to actively look for her, I feel a bit braver. More in control. I’m the stalker now.
Flinstead Road is quiet. It’s too early and miserable for visitors, and even the hardy pensioners, who like to get their shopping done before everyone else, are fewer in number this morning. The Oxfam shop isn’t open yet, so I wander up and down to kill time. I haven’t quite worked out what I’ll say when I do go in, but I’ll wing it when I’m there. That’s if he’s even working today.
I make a point of crossing the road every so often so I can glance in both directions without looking shifty. But I’m sure I still do. Who zigzags down a street for no apparent reason at five to nine on a weekday morning? I should have brought a shopping bag – that would have stopped me feeling so self-conscious.
A girl wearing jeans and a hoodie gets out of a car up ahead and I freeze. She’s not wearing a puffa jacket, but she’s exactly the right shape and size. Mum said she was small and slight with dark hair, which certainly fits the description of the girl I nearly tripped over that time. The girl I keep seeing.
I quicken my pace. I’ve never been close enough to study her face in any detail. Apart from the time I nearly fell over her, but then I was so fixated on thinking I’d just seen Simon’s ghost that I didn’t register it in any detail. I’d be a useless witness. Still, I might as well check her out, just in case.
She hesitates outside the newsagent’s and, since I’m gaining on her, I slow down. Then she picks up speed again and I’m off. I’m so busy keeping her in my sight that I almost walk straight into one of those damn mobility scooters. But even though I only took my eyes off her for the few seconds that it took my feet to disentangle themselves from the front wheel, she has somehow managed to disappear. I hurry towards the spot where I last saw her, outside the bakery. As I draw level with the window display of cakes and scones, I move nearer the kerb and glance swiftly inside as I pass. She’s there, in the queue.
My heart thumps, and for a moment I just stand there, staring at her, unsure of my next move. It could be her. If only I could see her hair. As she approaches the counter, she pulls her hood down to reveal a short blonde bob. Deflated, I carry on walking. What the hell am I doing? Following random strangers doing nothing more villainous than buying a loaf of bread.
I retrace my steps towards the Oxfam shop, which is now open. But when I go inside the only assistant in sight is Rosie, reaching for a little china plate that a woman is pointing to. I turn to leave before she sees me, but it’s the woman she’s serving who calls out.
‘Hello, Astrid. How are you?’
I stare at her, trying to work out who she is and how she knows my name. Then it dawns on me. It’s Mum’s friend Pam. The one who couldn’t wait to phone her and tell her she saw me going into the pub. She’s the last person I want to speak to but, if I don’t, she’ll probably tell Mum I was acting weird and I’ll have to face an inquisition all over again.
‘I’m fine.’ No thanks to you, I’d like to add.
‘You wouldn’t do me a favour while you’re here, would you? I’ve just seen a lovely jacket I think my Christine would love. You’re almost exactly her size. Will you try it on for me so I can see what it looks like?’
She hands me a soft leather jacket that’s been folded over her arm and holds my coat while I slip it on. Then she takes a step back to get a better look. Rosie’s eyes are on me too. I sense them raking me from top to bottom. I turn round so Pam can see what it looks like from the back and eventually she’s satisfied that, yes, Christine will love it.
I’d love it too. It’s got that lovely lived-in feel to it and it fits perfectly. But it’s £18 and, though that’s ridiculously cheap for a leather jacket, even a second-hand one, it’s £18 more than I’ve got or am likely to have any time soon.
When I step outside again, a sea fret has rolled in and cloaked the street in a cold, grey haze. What few shoppers there were have disappeared and the whole place has an eerie, haunted feel to it. Like a scene from a horror movie.
What goes around comes around. It’s time to pay for what you’ve done. The words echo in my mind like an ominous voiceover. Except this isn’t a movie. This is really happening. I pull my collar up and hurry home.
32
I’ve done what Josh suggested in his text message and come to Mistden to get on with the painting, or try to. Mum will only get suspicious if I start hanging around the cottage keeping tabs on her. But when Richard Carter opens the door to me I wish I’d stayed at home. Gone is the relaxed, amiable grin he usually greets me with. It’s ever since that phone call I overheard in the garden, I’m sure it is. Something about him has changed.
He steps aside to let me in.
‘I really appreciate all your efforts yesterday with the beach hut, Astrid,’ he says. There’s an awkward formality about him. His words sound all clipped. He follows me to the easel. ‘Charlie tells me you minded the shop for him.’
‘Yes, it was fun. I … I really enjoyed it.’
He meets my eyes at last. ‘Actually, I think he might be looking for someone part-time. I’ll have a word with him, if you like. Although I expect you’re itching to get back to your life in London.’
My life in London. It sounds so cool. So glamorous. And yet, is it my imagination or did he emphasize that phrase in a weird way, almost as if he knows it was anything but? I think of my last squat. The stained mattress on the floor. The pungent smell of mould and mouse.
‘As soon as your mother’s better, of course,’ he says, giving me a strange little smile.
I busy myself squeezing more paint on to my palette so that he can’t see my red face. I don’t have to respond. I can’t, anyway. What would I say that wouldn’t stick in my throat? If he knows I’ve been lying to his son – lying to both of them – surely it’s only a matter of time before he says something to Josh. That’s if he hasn’t already. Why the hell haven’t I been honest with them? They’re decent people. They’d have understood, I know they would. But now, after four whole weeks … how will they trust me?
I force myself to look at him. ‘I was between jobs anyway.’
‘Just like Josh,’ Richard says. ‘I’ll miss him when he goes back to London and starts work again.’
The words ‘so will I’ are on the tip of my tongue. Because if I’m right and Richard has somehow found out about my past, who knows if Josh will stay in contact? I unwind the clingfilm from my brushes, aware of Richard still hovering in the doorway.
‘It’s been very difficult for Josh, losing his mother, as I’m sure you’ll understand.’
His words seem weighted. Weighted with something he’s not saying. ‘It’s taken us a while to get used to it being just the two of us. I … I wouldn’t want him to be hurt again.’
My heart sinks. He does know something. He must do, or why would he be saying that? Who was he talking to on the phone the other day? Who’s told him about me?
The doorbell goes. ‘That must be Jez,’ Richard says, but still he doesn’t move from the doorway. There’s something else he wants to say – it’s written all over his face.
‘One of my yacht-club buddies,’ he explains. ‘He’s been helping me with a few legal bits and pieces. You never know when you’ll need a good lawyer, and Jez is as honest as they come.’
The word ‘honest’ reverberates in my he
ad. Was that some kind of coded message?
At last he leaves the room, and I roll my shoulders back to ease the tension in my neck. I could cry. I’ve grown so attached to this new version of myself. The helpful, responsible girlfriend. The selfless daughter. What started as a veneer is now seeping into my flesh and bones. I don’t want it to end, any of it.
After all those years of kidding myself I needed excitement and danger, the edgy glamour of a big city, it’s been a revelation to discover that a gentle, ordinary existence with kind, generous souls like Josh and his dad and the daily routine of my painting is just what I need. And now I’ve gone and ruined everything by not coming clean with them sooner.
I recognize the voice in the hallway instantly, and freeze. But before I have a chance to dive into the downstairs loo, Richard is leading him into the room.
‘Jez, meet Astrid, my son’s new girlfriend. She’s a very talented artist, as you can see. She’s painting us a trompe l’œil.’
Jeremy from AA looks directly into my eyes. My chest constricts. It must have been him. He must have said something to Richard. He’s betrayed my confidence. Broken the AA code. How could he?
He extends his well-manicured hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, Astrid.’
‘M … me too. Delighted to meet you too, I mean.’
Jeremy’s right eye twitches in what might be a wink. It’s some kind of reassurance, I think. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong and he hasn’t given me away. Isn’t going to. Maybe Richard doesn’t even know that ‘Jez’ is an alcoholic and I’m just imagining a change in his behaviour, in which case I’m safe.
But for how long?
Jeremy steps closer to my picture and leans in towards it, hands clasped behind his back. ‘It’s the shadows that make it seem so real, isn’t it?’ he says, scratching his chin.
My heart beats in the back of my throat as he takes a step back and tilts his head to one side. ‘The clever art of deception, eh?’
‘Are you having fun with your family?’
There’s a slight pause on the other end of the line. Oh God, I wasn’t wrong. Josh knows.
‘Yeah, it’s been great catching up with all my cousins. You’re going to meet them soon.’
My shoulders sag with relief. I’m being paranoid, as usual. It’s okay. There’s still time to make things right. Josh’s voice sounds all crackly and faraway. I walk into the kitchen and out through the back door. There’s a better signal outside.
‘Really?’ I make my way to the end of the garden, out of earshot of Richard and Jeremy, who are in the living room, heads together over some papers and with the French window wide open.
‘Yeah, it’s Dad’s sixtieth in a couple of weeks. He thinks we should have a party, a sort of birthday-cum-housewarming do. We talked about it on the journey up here. It’s a bit last-minute, but that’s how he is. He’s going to send an email invite round to everyone this evening.’
Visions of this beautiful, empty house filled with people crowd into my mind. Noise and laughter echoing off the walls and floorboards. The popping of corks and the flowing of champagne. The chink of glasses. It’ll be like being in the Flinstead Arms all over again. I feel weak just thinking about it.
‘Sounds great.’
‘You can be our artist-in-residence,’ Josh says. ‘I can’t wait to show you off. Oh, and Dad says to invite your mum as well, if she’s feeling up to it.’
The thought of Mum, here in this house, fills me with dread. I doubt if Richard or Josh would say anything to her about her ‘depression’. Most people shy away from that topic, especially in social gatherings, but what if they did? Mum would be absolutely furious that I’d lied about her. It’d set us right back to how we were when I first came out of rehab. And even if that doesn’t happen, she might let something slip about my past, answer a question a little too truthfully. She never lies about anything. Ever. It’s not the Quaker way.
‘I’ll ask her tonight,’ I say, knowing full well I won’t.
Jeremy’s words come back to me. The clever art of deception. Maybe he was just talking about the trompe l’œil.
Even if he was, this can’t go on. I can’t lie to them for ever.
33
Five minutes after I’ve said goodbye to Richard and Jeremy and set off for home it starts pissing down. A soaking deluge that drenches me within seconds. The rain sweeps the pavement and plasters my hair to my head. By the time I’ve reached the end of the lane and turned left on to the main road, the potholes are brimming and cars splash through them, sending great arcs of water into the air. But there’s nowhere to take cover until the bus shelter at the top of the road, so I have no choice but to trudge on through it.
I don’t take much notice of the car at first. I assume it’s just slowing to avoid the ever-expanding puddle at the side of the road, but then I realize that it’s coasting along beside me. Instinctively, I move away from the kerb, my fear returning.
I slide my eyes to the right. It’s still there, hugging the kerb. When the window on the passenger side slides down I break into a run. I don’t know anybody round here with a car except Richard, and this isn’t a Mercedes.
Somebody calls my name – a man – but I don’t stop running. The second time they say it, the voice sounds familiar and I force myself to slow down and look properly. Jeremy’s face peers at me through the lashing rain and I feel like a fool. He’s beckoning me to get in and, though sitting in a car with Jeremy is one of the last things I want to be doing, my clothes are now sticking to me uncomfortably and I can hardly say I’d rather walk. Not in this weather and not when I’m still a good twenty minutes from home. Besides, I don’t really want to be on the street for any longer than necessary, not with the threat of that death notice hanging over me.
Reluctantly, I open the door and slide in.
‘We can’t have you walking home in this,’ he says in his posh, affable voice. He waits while I put my seatbelt on. Except I can’t pull it out far enough to reach the buckle – it keeps stopping.
After a minute or so of trying and failing, Jeremy says, ‘May I?’ and leans across to help. I wish he wouldn’t.
There’s an embarrassing moment when his upper body swivels in front of me so that his head is perilously close to my neck, like a clumsy lunge after a first date. He grasps the metal tongue and draws it out.
‘It’s a little temperamental, this one,’ he says. His breath smells of garlic and I try not to breathe so I don’t have to smell it. ‘You have to draw it out slowly or the retractor mechanism locks.’
At last, he clicks it into the buckle and he’s back on his own side again. I breathe out in relief.
The indicator ticks as he waits for a break in the traffic and I wonder whether he’s going to say anything about what happened earlier. Pretending not to know each other in front of Richard. I hope he doesn’t. Because I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to be home and get out of these wet things.
‘Which street do you live on?’ he asks as we join the flow of traffic.
The windscreen wipers swish backwards and forwards but, even on full speed, it’s difficult to see through the torrential rain.
‘Just drop me off at the top of Warwick Road,’ I tell him.
‘No, no, I’ll drive you all the way home.’
‘That is home,’ I lie. Even if I have to walk up someone else’s driveway till he’s gone, I will. I know I’m being overcautious. But that’s what being stalked does to you. It makes you suspicious of just about everybody.
When we reach Warwick Road and I’m about to open the car door, Jeremy places his hand on my forearm. Just briefly, enough to make me pause. Oh no, he’s chosen now to start talking.
‘There’s a Buddhist quote I’d like to share with you, Astrid.’
Bloody hell. This is all I need.
He looks at me from under his steel-grey eyebrows, like a headmaster admonishing a wayward pupil.
‘Three things cannot be long hidden: the su
n, the moon and the truth.’
My fingers fumble to unclick the seatbelt, the word ‘truth’ running through me like an electric shock. As the belt unclicks and recoils, it’s as much as I can do to mumble my thanks for the lift, open the passenger door and climb out. He takes ages to drive off and I know he’s waiting on purpose because he knows I don’t live in this large Georgian house with the immaculate flower beds and the Mazda convertible parked up on the driveway. But I walk all the way to the front porch anyway, pulling my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans as if to make a call.
Eventually, he puts me out of my misery and drives away. The rain has eased off a little now and I slip my phone into my coat pocket, retrace my steps to the pavement and continue down Warwick Road towards Mum’s cottage in a state of heightened awareness till I’m safely behind the front door. I stand for a few seconds in the dark hall until my breathing returns to normal. He was only making a point about coming clean with Josh and Richard. He doesn’t know anything else. Of course he doesn’t.
*
Mum takes one look at me and laughs. ‘I was wondering whether you’d get caught in the downpour. Come on, get out of those wet things and I’ll hang them up to dry. You look like a drowned rat.’
She bustles off to unfold the clothes horse she keeps in the back room while I shrug off my coat and slip my hand in the pocket to retrieve my phone. But it’s the wrong pocket. My fingers close over something else. Something I don’t immediately recognize. Curious, I pull it out. It’s a little package secured with an elastic band. My heart skips a beat because I think I know what’s inside. With trembling fingers I ease the band off and unfurl the piece of paper it’s wrapped in. My throat closes.
It’s a miniature bottle of vodka.
With blood pounding in my ears, I race upstairs to my room. If Mum sees this, I’m done for. I drop the paper on the floor and stare at the bottle nestled in the palm of my hand. It’s cold and smooth against my skin. Absolut Blue Vodka, 50ml, 40% ABV. How the hell did this get in my pocket? Someone must have put it there. But that’s impossible. I’d have felt it, wouldn’t I?