‘I intended to get back in touch, but somehow Lena was always there.’
She spits out the name and a sense of hopelessness washes over me. That anger is forever simmering inside her. How are they ever going to reconcile?
‘Quite frankly, her still being here is weird, but I swallowed my pride tonight and tried to clear the air with her. I hoped we could agree to a truce, to tolerate one another for your sake. I want to be back in touch with you. Life’s too short.’ She flicks her hair back and I see the young Martha in the sad expression that momentarily crosses her face.
‘Is something wrong?’ I ask.
‘Why does something have to be wrong? I miss you, you idiot, that’s all.’ Her cheeks flush pink. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak to you for a while, and when Mum told me you were leaving the country, it seemed like fate.’
‘Speak to me about what? If you haven’t forgiven me, then nothing has changed.’
‘Of course I’ve forgiven you. Obviously I’ll never forget, but you were young, and I was young too and didn’t understand. You would never talk about what happened and I needed that, can’t you see? I was hurting so much, and despite everything, despite how I felt about you, I needed my sister. I missed you, but I couldn’t get near you because of Lena. You let her come between us, and she’s still here. I’ve fantasised about her disappearing so many times, about being a part of your life again. I knew she would never let that happen. But now, finally, you’re getting away from her. That’s why I’m here, why I can talk about what happened. I can only do it because you’re going, do you see?’
A sensation of warmth fills my body. Martha is voicing the words I’ve wanted to hear for so long. She forgives me.
‘That means so much, Martha,’ I tell her.
She leans forward to hear my voice, which is barely a whisper, and then we’re hugging, my senses overloaded with her familiarity and the smell of her skin, the fragrance of fresh rose petals.
I sit back, trying to hide the shudder that ricochets through me, Lena’s suspicions about Martha flitting into my mind, spoiling the moment. Could my sister have sent the roses? Is she the one behind all this?
‘I don’t want to talk about what happened,’ I say. ‘I don’t even remember much. I never have. I’ve had therapy and all sorts, but nothing will jog my memory. Maybe it’s blocked out for a reason and my mind is trying to keep me safe. That’s why I’m leaving. I want to put it all behind me. Ben doesn’t know anything about it and I don’t want him to know. I want to start over. Properly.’ I flash her a warning look.
‘That isn’t going to work, Ava. What happened is part of who you are. You have to deal with things, not run away from them. Don’t you think having Lena around all the time makes it even more difficult to forget? She’s a constant reminder of that time. Far better to be honest with Ben before you start your life together. Relationships are based on trust. You’re dooming it to failure otherwise.’ She moves over to sit next to me on the bed. ‘You know, I could see how ill you were at the time, no matter what you’d done and how much I hated you for it. You were traumatised. I wanted to help you. Despite everything, you’re my sister, you always will be. But Lena isn’t part of our family, no matter how hard she pretends.’
She’s got Lena all wrong. She’s always come down hard on her, doesn’t see the lovely side of her that I see. I open my mouth to defend my friend, but Martha carries on.
‘I was so pleased you were going to university, finally getting away from her, and then she was always there too. I couldn’t believe it. Stopping you from studying, never letting you forget your past. Couldn’t you see it?’ She smiles to herself. ‘Mind you, how could you? She even managed to bewitch our parents. What does Ben think of her?’
I sigh. ‘She hasn’t bewitched anybody. Mum and Dad are kind people, that’s all. Don’t forget they were devastated too and were trying to do a good thing amongst so much bad. As for Ben …’ I pat my hair, turning away from her, searching for the right words to explain another of Lena’s difficult relationships. ‘Obviously they’ve met loads of times, but at best I guess they tolerate each other. To be honest, they both want me all to themselves.’
‘See, she’s doing it again. It’s normal for your partner to want you to himself – within reason, of course – but friends are different.’
‘Maybe.’ I stretch my arms out. ‘It’s so complicated. All I want is an easy life.’
‘Hopefully this move will achieve that. Where is Ben anyway? You said he was supposed to be here.’
‘I know. I’m worried that something’s happened to him. That’s why I’m trying to find my phone.’
‘Well, Lena got a text from him when I arrived. I saw his name.’
‘A text? But she doesn’t have his number,’ I say.
‘I guess it could have been an email. Whatever it was, she’s in touch with him. What has she said about where he is?’
‘She said he arrived in London hours ago. She’s got me thinking he doesn’t want to be here.’
‘Don’t be silly, of course he wants to be here – he’s your fiancé. I really am thrilled for you, you know. I reckon Mum and Dad have given up hope of me ever getting married.’
‘Thanks. I can’t wait for you to see my ring.’ I twist the phantom ring on my finger, imagine it sparkling in the light. ‘Would you like to see it now? I’ve got it here.’
‘Let’s try and get hold of Ben first, set your mind at rest. What’s his number?’
‘I don’t know. It’s written down in my address book, which is at home. We could call Mum and ask her for it.’
‘They’ve gone out for dinner. They won’t be back for ages yet. I’ll text her. She might have his number on her; if not, she can check when she gets back. And I’ll help you look for your phone. But let’s get a drink first. I stuck the champagne back in the fridge after the distraction earlier. Someone’s probably guzzled it by now, but you never know, it might still be in there.’ She pulls her phone out and taps out a text. ‘As soon as I get his number, you can message him and ask him where he is and how long he’s going to be.’
I’m following my sister downstairs when she suddenly stops and I bump into her. The scent of her Chanel perfume is so familiar, I’m overwhelmed by a rush of emotion. It feels incredible that I haven’t seen her for so many years.
‘Who is that woman?’ she asks, indicating Kate, who is talking to someone by the front door.
‘She’s the partner of a guy from work.’
‘Friend of Lena’s?’
‘No, not as far as I know.’
‘Well they were looking pretty chummy earlier, chatting in a corner.’ Martha carries on downstairs. ‘She was looking at me as if she knew me, but that happens a lot.’
‘How does it feel being recognised?’ I ask.
She shrugs, but a smile plays around her mouth. ‘Oh, you get used to it. Eyes straight ahead and walk purposefully if you’re not in the mood for chit-chat; if you look like you’re in a hurry to get somewhere important, most people get the message pretty quickly.’ She laughs. ‘They get short shrift if they don’t.’
As we approach the living room, where Madonna’s ‘Holiday’ is playing at full blast, I take Martha’s arm, inhaling the rosy scent of her body lotion.
‘I have to ask you something. It might sound weird, but it’s important.’
‘OK,’ she says, her lips flickering into a smile. ‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘Have you sent me any roses?’
‘Today? Or ever?’ She shrugs her elegant shoulders. ‘Whichever it is, the answer is no. Should I have? Our relationship has been somewhat strained for the past few years, to put it mildly. Would a rose have helped?’
She raises an eyebrow and laughs, and I do too – she always could make me laugh with her unique brand of humour – but the thought of the dark roses soon wipes the smile from my face.
‘Far more likely to be from a secret admirer, wouldn’t you think? Ben, o
r Gaz.’ She rolls her eyes as she uses the pet name she assigned to Gareth, which he’s always hated. ‘Why am I not surprised he’s still hanging around? Have you asked him?’
‘These aren’t normal roses …’ An image of dark petals bruised like flesh stops me mid sentence. ‘They’re horrible – black, unnatural. Coloured deliberately. They carry some kind of message. I’ve been getting them in the post for years, but there’s never any indication who’s sending them. Gareth brought a rose with him when he arrived this evening. Lena was going to ask him if he was responsible for the others, but I haven’t had a chance to find out yet what he said.’
‘Well there you go. It sounds weird, just like Gareth. Although isn’t he more of a computer geek? I would have thought he’d be far more likely to harass someone online. Is it that important? Forget it, is my advice. Enjoy the party; it sounds like everyone else is.’
‘If Lena hasn’t got round to it, then I’ll ask him myself.’ My arm brushes against a jacket someone has left over the banister, and I yank my arm away, the soft corduroy reminding me of a black petal stroking my skin. I wish I’d never raised the subject. ‘I’ll catch you up in a minute,’ I say. I’m no longer in the mood for champagne.
The hallway looks untidy, and I move the jacket and hang it on the coat rack out of sight. Someone has left an empty glass on the table, and a copy of the local paper, which nobody ever reads, has been put through the letter box. I pick it up, but as I go to add it to the pile of post set aside for recycling, I’m consumed by the feeling that something isn’t quite right, and I take a closer look.
A face stares out from under the lurid headline; the photo of the serious-looking girl with her pixie cut is as familiar to me as my own school photo hanging in the living room, in which I grin through a gap in my teeth at whoever comes to visit. That photo is annoying, but this one ignites a flame of fear inside me. What does it mean? Why now?
It takes me a moment to realise exactly what I’m looking at. It’s only when I take in the headline – CEDAR HIGH SCHOOL TEENAGE HERO, see page 5 – that I seek out the date of the newspaper, my pulse racing as I know what I will find. Thursday 21 February 2005. I meet the serious eyes of the girl I used to know and feel a bolt of sadness.
A draught blows through the gap under the front door and the hairs on my arms stand upright. Questions come thick and fast like raindrops: who put this through the door? Why do they want to remind me of what happened thirteen years ago? I scan the paper as if the answers can be found hidden between the lines on the front pages. This is no copy; it’s an original. Somebody has kept this article for a reason.
An unexpected burst of noise from the doorbell makes my heart hammer hard against my ribs. I shove the newspaper to the bottom of the recycling box and smooth my hair from my sweaty forehead, my hands fumbling with the catch of the door as I pull it open. Go away, I want to say to whoever is standing there; please leave to the throng of people in the living room. I want to see every last person depart, then bolt the door behind them, shutting them all out. But I don’t. Instead I pin a smile on my mouth, the same false, shaky smile I have been wearing for all these years. I stand firm against the blast of cold air that rushes at me and pretend to welcome yet another guest who may be wishing to do me harm.
Twenty-Five
Lena
The smoke from outside is bugging me, so I close the window, so hard it vibrates. She’s getting married. The words spin around my mind. After a while, I hear voices out on the landing, Martha’s distinctive too-loud voice and a quieter one. Ava. A door closes. I bash my fist into the wall. Martha isn’t supposed to be here. Her Chanel perfume lingers in my room, expensive, sickly. I feel violated. This is my home, my life, my mess. Was my home, I remind myself. As of tomorrow, I’m officially homeless. Homeless in London means people huddling in doorways, shivering under thick jackets and woolly hats, eyes wary behind cigarettes. Homeless can’t be me. Sofa surfing, they call it. I regret not taking one of the flats I’ve been to see, but none of them lived up to this place, to the memories Ava and I share. I don’t want to think about the new memories she’s about to make, without me, and with Ben. I check my phone, but there’s nothing from him. He’s my last chance.
I clear a space on the floor and sit down, wincing as something digs into my hand. A piece of glass from the mirror, a nasty edge piercing my flesh. Next to it lies my framed article. I pick it up and hold it tight against my chest. Not being the most careful of people, I’m surprised I haven’t broken it before now; it must be at least twelve years old.
Back then, Sue encouraged me to be proud of myself, to shout about my accomplishments. Having a mother who walked out when I was so young and a father who showed no interest in me didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. Sue was a proper mother to her daughters. And later, once she got past her initial suspicion, a mother figure to me. She and David instilled self-belief in their girls, convincing them that they could take on the world. They grew up so differently to me. All I have of my mother is a photograph. A few not so great memories. A different dad might have kept her memory alive for me, but not our father; he never mentioned her again after she left, and sold everything we had to feed his drinking habit. She had good reason to leave, I imagine.
Blood bubbles on my hand and I grab a wad of tissue from the dressing table and hold it over the cut. With my right hand I remove the cracked glass from the frame and take out the newspaper article. The paper is brittle and yellow; it’s the only copy I have. I’m sure I could find it online, but it wouldn’t be the same. I held this piece of paper in my hand when my life changed. It’s symbolic. I almost know the words by heart.
Lena Baker, 16, from Cedar High School was today hailed a hero by friends and neighbours as her quick thinking saved the life of her friend.
Fifteen-year-old Ava Thomas had been drinking at a party and left in a distressed state, running into the path of a car. The car, driven by fellow Cedar pupil Teresa Davies, appeared to swerve in a failed attempt to avoid her and hit a tree, the impact turning the car on its side. Seventeen-year-old Teresa was killed instantly. Joyce Parrott, 62, a neighbour, who witnessed the scene from her front room, gave her version of events. ‘I was about to draw the curtains when I heard a screech and a thump and saw the wrecked car outside. I rushed out to help and saw a girl attempting to resuscitate another young girl who was lying in the road. She looked in a bad way. I called an ambulance and then waited with the girl, who told me her name was Lena. The ambulance arrived very quickly and the paramedics took over. Lena was taken away to be checked over, but all she was concerned about was her friend. She saved her life without a doubt. Such a brave girl.’
Police are asking anyone who was in the area or had been at the party in Carisbrooke Close to come forward to help them with enquiries. Lena, who is now recovering at home, said, ‘I did what anyone else would have done. Ava is my best friend and I was terrified of losing her.’
The head of Cedar High expressed his condolences to the Davies family and said, ‘The whole community is devastated at the loss of one of our sixth-formers. Teresa was an outstanding student who achieved nine A-star grades at GCSE and was expected to take up a place at Cambridge next year to study English. That evening she was celebrating passing her driving test, and had her whole future in front of her. A memorial service will be taking place sometime later in the year.’
Fellow student Ava Thomas is in a critical condition in hospital and her parents were too upset to comment. Robert Johnson, Ava’s uncle, asked that the family be left alone at this time as they wait for Ava to recover. ‘She’s a lovely girl and we’re all devastated and praying for her recovery. We owe a lot to the bravery of her friend.’
The scene is alive in my mind – the screeching of the tyres and the blood mixing with gravel on the road; the warmth of Mrs Parrott’s hand on my back as she encouraged me to keep up the compression on Ava’s chest. Without me, Ava would have ended up dead, just like Tess. Why can’t Mar
tha see that? She could have lost her sister as well as her best friend, but she’s never even acknowledged that fact. I pick up a piece of glass and hold my index finger against it, enjoying the pain. I bet Martha’s never suffered like this, with her swanky showbiz life, never experienced pain likes it’s a piece of broken glass jabbing into your heart. It’s how I feel about Ava going.
A shrill sound breaks through my self-pity. It’s the doorbell, a long, insistent ring like earlier. I scramble to my feet, unable to stand the sight of this mess any longer. It reminds me of my room when I was a kid. A crumpled bed surrounded by piles of clothes, clean mixed in with dirty, no room for anything else. But at least I could lock the door from the inside back then, the only way to keep myself safe from my father and his violent moods.
The staircase is free of guests, and I run down fast, anxious now to rejoin the party. Ava is standing in the hallway holding an empty glass, staring at a pile of junk mail. Martha is nowhere to be seen. It would be too much to hope that she’s left already.
Ava jumps when she notices me. The news of the engagement hovers between us, an unwelcome presence. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
A peal of laughter bursts from the lounge as a man comes out and charges up the stairs.
‘No time to chat,’ he says. ‘I’m a bit desperate.’
Ava seems oblivious to what is going on.
‘Why are you staring at the post instead of in there enjoying yourself?’ I say. ‘Has Martha upset you?’ I won’t let Martha spoil this evening for either of us.
‘No,’ she says. ‘But I need my phone. I’m worried about Ben.’
‘He’ll be here.’
‘You keep saying that, but will he?’
‘I’m sure he will. We have to think positive. Come on.’ I take her arm. ‘Let’s go and join your friends.’
She shakes my hand off. ‘It’s not really Ben I’m worrying about; more the fact that my phone has disappeared. And the roses, of course. Have you spoken to Gareth?’
The Leaving Party: An absolutely gripping and addictive psychological thriller Page 12