by Lesley Kara
My gut recoils as if I’ve been punched.
‘The car mounted the pavement and ploughed straight into her. She never stood a chance.’
He balls his fists on his knees. His upper lip distorts in a sneer. ‘The guy who did it was released last year. Only served eight years of his twelve-year sentence.’
‘Oh, Josh, I’m so—’
‘Don’t. Please don’t say anything else. Astrid, you’ve got to understand that I’m finding all this a little hard to deal with right now. I need time to process what you’ve told me. I’ll ring you.’
And with that, he gets up and walks away.
36
I sit on my hands and rock till he’s out of sight, the urge to run after him even more powerful and all-consuming than the urge to drink. But I won’t give in to either of them. I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket and speed-dial Helen’s number.
My voice is thick with tears. ‘I’ve told Josh everything. He hates me.’
‘Give him time, Astrid. Give him time. It’s a lot for him to take in.’
‘His mum was killed by a drunk driver.’
Helen’s silence says it all. ‘Where are you?’ she says at last.
My mouth seems to have stopped working. I can’t answer her.
‘Where are you?’ she repeats.
‘At the beach.’
‘I’ll meet you on the greensward.’
I’m crying so hard that I don’t even see her at first.
‘Oh, Astrid,’ she says, linking her arm into mine and guiding me across the grass and towards the pavement. ‘I’m so sorry he took it badly, but you’ve done the right thing. You know you have.’
I stare at my feet as we navigate the parked cars. Sockless in their sandy plimsolls, still damp from the wet sand, it’s like being a little girl again, hanging on to Mum’s arm while we cross the road.
‘Do you want to come back to mine and talk?’
‘I don’t think I can talk. Not yet. I just want to crawl into bed and never wake up.’
Helen stops in her tracks. She looks horrified. ‘You don’t mean that, Astrid. Tell me you don’t mean that.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ I say.
But I do. I do mean that. Right now, the thought of falling asleep and not waking up again sounds like the perfect solution. I might have done the right thing, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.
‘You’ll feel better about things in the morning,’ Helen says. ‘I’m sure you will. And so will Josh. He’ll probably have phoned you by then. You’ll see. It was just a shock for him, that’s all.’
But he doesn’t phone. Minutes bleed into hours. Hours into days. For long swathes of time I stay in bed, dimly aware of Mum coming in at intervals with mugs of green tea and crackers with cheese. Chicken soup that cools in the bowl then disappears.
If I consume any of these offerings, I don’t remember how they taste. My bladder swells uncomfortably. Ignoring it for as long as possible becomes a form of self-punishment. When I get back to my bed, the duvet and pillow have been plumped, the bottom sheet smoothed out. A cup of green tea is on the bedside cabinet, a chocolate biscuit on the saucer. The window has been opened and a sweet draught of fresh air billows the curtains.
Mum’s willing me to get better, I know she is. But it’s like I’m dead inside. I’m not even scared any more, just numbed by everything that’s happened. Nobody can hurt me any more than I’ve already hurt myself.
I check my phone. A whole string of messages, but they’re all from Helen: ‘Astrid, I’m worried about you. Phone me. Please.’ ‘Why don’t you come over? I’ve made a lovely curry.’
I toss the phone on to the floor. There’s only one name I want to see flash up on my screen right now and that’s Josh.
When the noise of my thoughts won’t let up, I paint continuously in my head. Not the picture I’ve been working on at the Carters’ house but something wild and abstract. Mad brush strokes and garish colours merge into dreams of tequila. Me and Simon necking shots till we slither to the floor in a tangle of sweaty limbs and sour breath. Josh watching me, contemptuously, from a corner of the room.
All the years I’ve wasted. All the chances I’ve squandered in the past. I’m not surprised someone’s sending me hate mail. I hate myself too. I’ve hurt people. Dragged Simon back down when he was doing so well. Attacked an innocent young woman on the street. A mother with a child. I don’t deserve to live. Maybe that girl, whoever she is, is right. Maybe I am better off dead.
Mum tries, in vain, to persuade me to see the doctor.
‘We don’t want you falling into depression,’ she says, and I picture myself teetering on the edge of a vast black chasm. Will I fall, or will I jump? What’s the difference, in the end?
My eyes snap open. It’s the middle of the night and there’s been none of that hazy period between sleep and wakefulness. I reach for my phone, but he still hasn’t texted. It’s been over a week now.
There’s another message from Helen.
‘I take it there’s been no word from him yet. He’s not worthy of you, Astrid. xx’
She’s wrong about that. I’m not worthy of him, but he could at least contact me, say that to my face instead of ignoring me for days on end.
The only positive I cling to is that he must be serious about me if his reaction is this bad. If I’m just another summer conquest, surely he wouldn’t care so much. But when I said all that stuff about him being with someone else in the beach hut, he didn’t deny it. If it wasn’t true, why didn’t he say so?
Oh God, I hate this! When did I become so needy? Since I stopped drinking, that’s when. Why the fuck did I throw that vodka away?
I get up and go downstairs, trying to step lightly so that the stairs don’t creak and wake Mum. But when I reach the hall, I see a strip of light at the bottom of the living-room door. She’s never up this late.
Her head shoots up from the notebook she’s been writing in.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Just making a list, dear, that’s all. It helps sometimes, when I can’t sleep.’
‘Why can’t you sleep?’
She gives me a funny look. She’s worrying about me; of course she is. I sit down beside her and she closes her notebook, but not before I’ve seen the words: ‘Try not to react to everything she says.’
For the first time, I realize something profound. That mixed in with all her anger and hurt at my behaviour is frustration at her own behaviour, her failure to be a different parent, one who might somehow have prevented my lapse into darkness or, at the very least, dealt with it in a more effective way.
‘You look different,’ she says. ‘A little brighter.’
‘Yeah. I decided not to fall.’ She looks puzzled. ‘Into depression.’
‘I’m very proud of you, Astrid. For telling Josh the truth and …’ She presses her lips together. ‘And for not drinking. It must be so difficult.’
‘It’s like a fight that never ends.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I mean, I don’t know, but I can imagine. I … I read things. Articles. Websites.’ She points to a copy of the Big Book on the coffee table. ‘And that, of course. I should have read it before.’ She sighs. ‘When you first started drinking too much, I thought it was just a phase you were going through. There I was, seeking solace from the Quakers, when all the time I should have been getting you professional help.’
‘But … but I thought you only became a Quaker after Dad died.’
Mum does a sad little smile. ‘No, Astrid. I started going to meetings when you were seventeen. It was the only way I knew how to cope.’
The lump in my throat swells. I can’t believe I didn’t know that. Can’t believe I’ve been so blind to her suffering all these years.
‘Has he been in touch yet?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Well, then, he’s not worth bothering over, is he?’
Everything’s always so black and whi
te for Mum, so obvious and clear cut. And yet she does have a point. If Josh can’t bring himself to forgive me, if he can’t cope with who I really am, then maybe he’s not the man I thought he was.
‘I’m meant to be going away this weekend,’ Mum says. ‘To a Quaker retreat in Cambridge. But I’ve decided not to go.’
‘Not because of me, I hope.’
‘I don’t want to leave you on your own.’
‘I’m not going to drink, Mum. I’ll be fine, I promise. I’m feeling better now.’
But even as I say the words I know that I don’t want her to go. I don’t want to be alone. Not any more.
37
My appointment at the job centre is this afternoon. If it weren’t for Mum reminding me, I’d have forgotten all about it. It’s a half-hour bus drive away and it’s the first time I’ve travelled beyond Flinstead and Mistden since I arrived here after rehab. It’s also the first time I’ve left the house since telling Josh. The first time I’ve been out on my own since disposing of that vodka.
I rang the number on that flyer the other day. P. Hollingford & Sons doesn’t even exist. My stalker actually went to the trouble of creating a fictional funeral directors’, just to freak me out. But there’ve been no more brown envelopes while I’ve been stewing in my bed. No more sinister packages. Perhaps she’s lost interest by now. Probably thinks she’s succeeded in driving me insane.
Even so, when the bus finally arrives, I go right to the back and press my shoulders into the seat. I read a story once about a woman who was almost strangled by someone in the seat behind her. A complete stranger. He even used her own scarf to do it. Maybe that girl has mental health problems too. Well, she must have. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I keep returning to my original theory, that this is someone Simon met through AA, and nothing to do with the mugging. He should have chosen his confidante a little more carefully. If he weren’t already dead, I’d want to kill him for blabbing. Tears spring to my eyes. If only he were still alive and I could give him a piece of my mind.
Half an hour later, I’m in the larger, brasher seaside town a little further along the coast from Flinstead. Funfairs and bingo halls and takeaways. Everything Flinstead is not. I’m early for my appointment so I kill time by strolling down the high street. It’s good for me to be in a new environment, seeing people going about their business. I can’t wallow in bed for ever, feeling sorry for myself, and I can’t allow myself to be scared.
I’m just about to go into WHSmith to have a look at the paperbacks – I decided this morning that I really need to start reading again, to lose myself in a good book – when I spot a familiar figure disappearing through the doors of M&S. Tall. Messy hair. Red shoes. It’s Helen.
I check my watch. The job centre’s only round the corner, and I’ve still got a bit of time. I’ll go and say a quick hello, let her know I’m up and about again. All those texts of hers I’ve ignored – I need to thank her for being so supportive in my hour of need.
I cross the road and make my way through the glass doors into the women’s clothing section, but I can’t see her anywhere, which means she’s probably walked through to the food hall. Knowing Helen, she’s stocking up on chocolates and cakes. That goodie cupboard of hers was looking a little depleted last time I went round.
I never know where anything is in M&S, so I wander up and down the different aisles, looking for her. She must be here somewhere. And then I see her. Standing in front of the red-wine section. Oh no. I hang back, transfixed, as she reaches for a bottle and examines the label, puts it into her basket. Then she puts another one in, and another.
After everything she’s said about staying sober, all that step-work we’ve done. How could she do this? I should have responded to her texts. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own misery I didn’t stop to think that maybe she needed help too, that all those messages of support were actually cries for help. She wanted to talk. Not just for my sake, but for hers too. Helping me would have helped her.
I watch, appalled, as she puts yet another bottle in her basket and makes her way to the tills. Maybe if I had more time I’d approach her, persuade her to put them back on the shelf. Who knows how she’ll end up if I don’t? But my appointment’s in less than five minutes and I can’t afford to miss it. I just can’t. You can lose your money for turning up late. I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot, and how do I know she hasn’t been drinking this whole time in secret? She won’t thank me for barging up to her in a public place and confronting her. I know I wouldn’t, if the tables were turned.
I hurry out of the shop and back up the high street towards the job centre, wrestling with my guilt at not being selfless enough to miss my long-awaited appointment and help her.
The fact is, I’ve only got the strength to help one person now, and that’s me. Rosie’s right. I’ve made friends with the wrong person.
38
It’s Friday, and Mum is about to leave for her retreat. It’s the first time since I’ve been here that she’s trusted me to be on my own overnight and, though neither of us has actually said as much, we both know it’s a big deal.
She hugs me, perhaps for a second or two more than usual, or maybe it’s me who takes longer to release her, and our lips graze each other’s cheeks. Then I watch her walking down the path to the street, a small, sprightly figure in her navy raincoat, belted far too tight round her waist, the wheels of her overnight case bumping and rattling over the uneven concrete.
I have a sudden urge to run after her and tell her not to go. But Mum deserves a break, doesn’t she? A break from me. I wouldn’t mind one of those too.
The decision makes itself. I’m going to the house in Mistden, to see if I can speak to Josh. The very least he can do is tell me to my face that we’re over.
Dusk is coming on and the birds are gathering in the trees, tuning up for their evening chorus. I close the front door behind me and set off in the direction of Mistden. It’s a warm June night and there are lots of people about, visitors and locals, enjoying the fine weather. If ever there was a time for new beginnings, a time for forgiveness, it’s now, but after my self-imposed confinement I feel like an alien, displaced in a foreign land. Too raw and vulnerable to let the warmth in.
I go through my options as I walk. If Josh isn’t there, then I’ll speak to his dad. If Richard won’t talk to me about Josh, then surely he’ll talk to me about the painting. After all, he commissioned me to work on the project, didn’t he? He’ll have to pay me for my time, for the work I’ve already put in. He might be angry with me about lying, but instinct tells me he’s a fair-minded man. A good man.
I think of my unfinished painting on the wall, the paints and brushes and all the other paraphernalia lying there waiting for me. A still life of abandoned art materials. I could finish the job, couldn’t I? It’ll be awkward, for all of us, but once I’m shut away in that room, immersed in the moment, I know I can do it. And when Josh sees how committed I am, when he sees the finished piece, he’ll forgive me – they both will – and we can go back to how we were. We can start all over again, only this time there’ll be no more lies.
By the time I reach the turn-off to the Carters’ house, night has fallen. The quiet country lane is unusually full of parked cars tonight. I’m halfway along when I realize why, but still a part of me clings to the hope that I’ve got it wrong, that all these people are, in fact, visiting someone else.
The hope gutters and snuffs out like a spent candle as I approach the familiar curved driveway. Music, light and laughter spill out into the surrounding darkness. Richard’s sixtieth birthday-cum-housewarming party is in full swing, and I haven’t been invited. What with everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten all about it. I’ve never felt so lonely.
I shrink back into the shadows of the large shrubs and watch the bodies move about inside. Then I grow braver and step a little closer to the house. Nobody can see me out here. The windows at night will be mirrors. It’s lik
e watching actors on a brightly lit stage. Revellers in a party scene, oblivious to all but their own chatter and laughter.
Most of the noise is coming from the back of the house so I presume the French windows must be open and people are taking the party into the garden. I have an overwhelming urge to look, to seek out Josh and Richard in the throng, even though I know I shouldn’t. I should turn round and go straight home before one of them sees me and it’s too late. I couldn’t bear to be spotted like this, to see the awkwardness and embarrassment in their eyes. The uninvited guest, spying on them from the bushes.
I move stealthily up the driveway and round the side of the house by the garage. If I stay close to the boundary hedge and don’t venture too far, I’ll be all but invisible. Why am I doing this? It’s absurd. An act of pure masochism. And what am I hoping to see? A forlorn and lonely Josh, sprawled on a deckchair, nursing a beer and resisting all attempts to join in the merriment? Maybe it would be better if I saw him laughing and having fun, chatting up a pretty girl. Leading her into the shadows at the end of the garden. At least then I’ll know where I stand.
The garden looks magical, meltingly beautiful, as if it’s hosting an open-air production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. All twinkling fairy lights and candles in Mason jars hanging from trees. There are people sitting on wicker chairs with cushions, or milling about with drinks and cigarettes. There are even a couple of sofas on the lawn. A glamorous black woman is sinking into one of them now, stretching out her long legs and tapping away on her phone while Nina Simone sings ‘My Baby Just Cares for Me’. A couple in their forties are standing close together, swaying gently in time to the music right in front of her.
I hear Richard’s voice before I see him. The deep baritone boom of it, resounding in the still, balmy night. He’s exactly as I imagined he would be in this kind of milieu. The charming, magnanimous host. The life and soul. Then I see Josh.