When I worked the weddings held at Chatsworth House, or at charity banquets in private residences the size of my mother’s entire council estate, I’d see polished women in ballgowns that draped elegantly around their bodies, their hair artfully arranged, wearing make-up that made their skin glow. They’d been dipped in jewels, wore shoes that cost three months of rent money and cosied up to men in tuxedos.
And there I was, watching from the sidelines, going home to a flat that smelled like grease, with old wallpaper peeling slowly down the damp walls. I lived in silence because I couldn’t afford a television. I wanted another life because I’d decided that I deserved it. And when Charles came along, I seized the opportunity for a better life. I prised it out of another woman’s hands, someone less deserving. Perhaps someone else would feel guilty about that, but I don’t.
I was young, ambitious and ruthless. Alicia might have everyone else fooled, but she doesn’t realise what I’ve done to get myself the life I live. She has no idea who I am and how much I understand who she is. Can I imagine her killing my daughter? Yes. Can I picture her standing over Grace’s shoulder, forcing her to write that phoney suicide note? Yes. What I don’t know is… why? Would a teenage girl murder another teenage girl over a boy? The very idea of it is preposterous to me. But as Angela is often telling me, I’m different from everyone else, so perhaps I will never understand.
I’ll never know the passionate, all-consuming lust of a teenager. The feelings that made Romeo drink the poison, or that spotty kid in the eighties’ film hold a boom box up to a window. It’s hard for me to understand, but the truth is, Alicia could easily have killed my daughter over a boy, because people have killed for less all throughout history. Someone was stabbed in London over a perceived slight in a chicken restaurant two weeks ago. Wars are started over money. There are people like me all over the world, killing without conscience, and maybe Alicia is one of them. But I can’t know for certain. There isn’t enough evidence.
When I tap the keypad on Grace’s laptop, my daughter comes to life again. She and Alicia are filming themselves walking the dogs through the fields behind the house, swinging their arms, short skirts flapping in the wind. Alicia keeps pretending to throw the ball and Georgie falls for it every time. When Alicia cackles in amusement, I find myself wanting to hurt her, and my hands clench tightly.
But I’ve seen these recordings already. I click back into Grace’s channel, scrolling through the hundred-odd videos uploaded to the site. She must have been making these almost every day, and yet I had no idea she’d amassed this kind of following.
I’ve seen all the clips of her with friends, but I haven’t watched many of Grace alone. I skip through a few violin tutorials until I find a video of her talking directly to the camera. Perhaps I can get a better idea of Grace’s mindset before she died.
This is a different version of Grace. Her hair is a lighter shade of blonde, meaning that it was recorded recently. I check the upload date and discover that the video is from around five weeks before Grace died. She isn’t wearing make-up, which is rare for her. Watching the tutorial videos, I was taken aback by how much foundation was caked onto her already perfect young skin. But in this one she’s natural, and the lighting is dim, as though Grace has recorded it at night with the lights off. Everything is tinged blue and there are dark shadows in the corners of the screen. Is she using the light from her laptop screen? Or the flashlight on her phone perhaps? Whatever it is, it reminds me of what I saw that day in the hospital, and the image of her blue fingernails leaps unbidden into my mind.
I click play.
‘Hey, everyone. This isn’t the kind of video I usually make, but I guess I wanted to chat.’ Her face contorts. She quickly brushes away a tear before conquering her emotions and smiling again. She’s wearing a grey hoody and pyjama bottoms, and she pulls the hoody closer to her throat. ‘Everyone thinks I’m lucky. I live in this big house and I have parents who give me everything I need. But sometimes I feel alone, you know? I guess I’m pretty down right now.’ She pauses, glances away from the camera and then turns back. ‘Who else feels like that sometimes? Or even right now? I’m here for you. DM me. Us losers need to stick together, right?’ She laughs, but it sounds high-pitched, forced. ‘No one should suffer alone.’ Then she gives another forced smile. ‘I’m kind of lost right now, I guess. But I love you all.’ She blows a kiss to the viewers and the video stops.
My head swims with the sound of her voice, sending me spiralling back to my memories of her before she died. What did we do the day she made this video? I check the time stamp again. Charles was in London overnight. I’d gone out to meet Jenny and we’d had cocktails in Bakewell. Now I come to think about it, Grace had pulled me into her arms for a hug as I’d been leaving the house, but I’d put that down to her usual neediness. She’d told me to have a good night and not to come home early. She’d smiled as the door closed and waved to me through the window like nothing was wrong.
Why didn’t you talk to me, Grace?
I click on the next video, dated a week later. It isn’t the final video she made – a few violin tutorials followed – but it is the last one she made where she was alone, talking to the camera.
‘Hey, everyone. I wanted to check in because my last vid was a bit depressing. Sorry, guys! Bad day. I feel a lot better right now, and I have someone to thank for that. Seriously, your friendship is what’s keeping me going right now. These last few months of us hanging out have been amazing. You’re awesome AF and I love you.’
I play it a second time. These last few months of us hanging out… She can’t be referring to Alicia or Sasha, because Grace was friends with them for years before she died. Her phrasing makes it sound as though this was a new friend. Did someone else come into Grace’s life? Someone I didn’t know about? I click play again.
‘And, my dad has been surprisingly cool. Who knew dads could be cool? Over the last couple of weeks we’ve become super close, you know? I think you guys should chat to your dads more often, because they might surprise you. Anyway, see ya, love ya.’ She smiles and blows a kiss, and the video ends.
What the hell was that about? Grace and Charles never seemed particularly close to me. They were dad and daughter and they loved each other, but I can’t imagine Grace sitting down to chat with Charles about her problems, sharing her secrets about boyfriends or complaining about period cramps. Wasn’t listening to that my job?
What did Grace and Charles talk about when I wasn’t there? And who was this new friend? Maybe even a boyfriend? Could he be the father of Grace’s child?
* * *
He buttons the white shirt over the pink expanse of his chest. Watching my husband, my head swims with dark thoughts. My mother injected poison into my mind. Do you remember how young you were when you met him? But I’d been twenty-one when I met Charles, who was then thirty-eight. My mother made him out to be some sort of cradle-snatcher, but that’s not true.
But what is true is that my relationship with Charles has been, at certain times, quite unusual.
He wasn’t married when we met, but he was in a relationship – with a woman who had been pre-approved by the great Emily Cavanaugh. A woman I barely remember when I try to picture her in my mind. She was in her thirties, well bred, connected, handsome in a somewhat horsey way.
It was a private function at a rich entrepreneur’s house located in the isolated depths of the countryside between Buxton and Edale. Since I had no car, one of the other girls had given me a lift, and we spent the night serving canapés and champagne while ignoring the wandering eyes and hands of the men. Charles wasn’t handsy, but he did watch me as I made my way around the rooms with my silver platter. I watched him too. He was the quietest of the bunch, joined at the hip with a very loud woman. She kept patting his arm, interrupting him, laughing at her own jokes.
Working my way around the room, I would hear her cackle as she blurted out another bawdy punchline: And that was the moment the min
ister realised his hand was on my backside.
I remember rolling my eyes at her obnoxious laugh – and Charles caught me in the act. He’d grinned at me and rolled his eyes right back.
I hadn’t gone home with him that night, but I had left with his number, and that was when I decided on a plan.
‘This fucking thing,’ he explodes, pulling me back to the present.
‘What is it, darling?’ I ask lazily.
‘The tie. Can’t you see?’
I pad over to him, still in my nightdress, and gently move his hands away from the offending article, slowly looping the material in on itself. There are rumours, my mother had said. But about what? I still don’t know if she meant about Grace, or about affairs, or about our sex life.
‘There.’
He caresses the side of my face, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He’s gentle. How could I imagine him hurting our daughter? My thoughts drift back to Grace’s video, about how close they were. What did that mean?
‘You’re not dressed yet,’ he says. ‘We need to be at the memorial in an hour.’
‘I know, I’m going to get ready now.’
He nods. ‘This is the last time.’ He slips a jacket over his shirt. ‘I can’t keep mourning her like this. I can’t do it.’
‘We’ll get through today together,’ I say blandly.
His head hangs low. ‘Look after me, Kat. Won’t you?’
‘That’s what wives do, isn’t it?’
His eyes search mine, as though seeking more from me. He knows that’s all he’ll get, and I’m sure it’s not enough. The realisation hits me and I don’t know what to do with it. Now that Grace is gone, there’s nothing holding our marriage together.
Seventeen
The April weather breaks on our way there. The sky, which had been an inky indigo and spotted with dark clouds as we’d eaten a rushed breakfast, transforms to black within thirty minutes, and now the rain is gushing down. Charles uses his suit jacket as a shield; I grab the spare umbrella from inside the glovebox. And then I pause. Charles’s leather Filofax is in there. I watch him as he runs towards the school building; see him half turn and beckon me to him. Quickly, I slip the organiser into my tote bag and follow him.
The Filofax is an item Charles is never without. Though he does keep electronic copies of his whereabouts, and has a secretary to help organise his appointments, he still prefers to write down everything. He says it helps him remember without having to check. Things aren’t real to him unless they are on a hard, tangible surface. Anything inside a computer is inconsequential. Perhaps that’s why he always dismissed Grace’s vlogging as nothing to worry about.
I shake the umbrella dry and fold it back up as we reach the entrance. It’s now that I remember the one time I broached the vlogging issue with him. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’ I’d asked. ‘What if she’s groomed by a weirdo or a paedophile?’ In the end, we’d both decided to let her do her own thing, so I can’t blame Charles – I was complicit too. We’d both thought that our child was different to anyone else’s child. Grace would never fall for any of that; she was too intelligent. We’d brought her up right. We were so sure that she would tell us if she felt uncomfortable. We’d both thought that Grace was the exception to the rule, the sensible teenager who would always come to us first. We shared that delusion together, and it might be the thing that will push us apart.
Charles comes to my side as we step into the entrance to meet the head teacher. Automatically, we put on smiles, albeit half-hearted ones, and show a united front. No one knows that I’m already considering us drifting apart from each other.
‘Thank you again for coming, Mr Cavanaugh, Mrs Cavanaugh.’
The woman shaking my husband’s hand is as tall as a man, broad-shouldered and wearing heavy make-up. This is Rita Bianchi, the dark-haired, very attractive headmistress. I remember her from the one school-board meeting I attended.
‘I know I expressed my sympathies at Grace’s funeral, but I need to say it again. She was a bright, beautiful, lovely young woman, and we miss her very much at Lady Margaret’s.’
‘Thank you for saying that, Rita, it’s very kind of you.’ Charles has evidently forgotten how to let go of her hand, shaking the thing up and down until she finally extracts her fingers from his. His cheeks flush when he realises his faux pas. Playing the good wife, I place a hand on his arm to calm him down.
The funny thing is, I don’t remember Rita at the funeral at all, which goes to show how dazed I’d been. That can’t happen today. I need to stay sharp.
She moves on to me, grasping both my hands, smothering them with her great paws. ‘I can’t even imagine, Kat.’
I simply nod, because it’s easier.
‘The kids are on their way to the hall,’ she says. ‘They wanted to bring some candles to burn in her memory, but that got a bit out of hand. Instead, I thought you could light a ceremonial candle for everyone.’
‘Did you get the photograph I sent?’ I ask.
‘I did. What a gorgeous photo. We’ve got it printed out and everything is set up and ready. And yellow tulips? Is that what you said?’
‘That’s right. Grace loved yellow. She loved all colours, actually.’
Rita smiles broadly. ‘She took GCSE art, didn’t she? I think I remember a project involving colourful flowers.’ Her eyes suddenly fill with tears and she redirects her head sharply away from me. ‘If you would follow me into the hall. Alicia’s here, too. Alicia!’
We walk into the main hall, where Alicia is sitting with her legs dangling over the edge of the stage. With a phone in one hand and a can of coke in the other, she’s innocence and youth personified. We make our way up the steps and onto the stage. Alicia climbs to her feet, slipping her phone into the pocket of her loose trousers. She’s wearing a tight, high-neck, possibly cashmere jumper, and her loose-fitting trousers are nipped in at the waist with a chunky belt. Her silver hair is pulled back into a sweet chignon at the nape of her neck, and she’s even pared back her make-up to a more natural look.
‘Alicia!’ I hurry forwards to pull her into a tight hug, but my arm bumps awkwardly against her shoulder, almost knocking her over. I reach down to steady her, placing my hand on her hip. ‘Oh, good lord, I’m so sorry.’ Once she’s regained her balance, I pull her into a gentler hug, holding her slim body tightly. ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak at the memorial. I… we’ – I gesture to Charles – ‘appreciate everything you’ve done for us since Grace passed away.’ While I’m talking, I quickly slip my hand into my bag.
‘It’s okay,’ she says, her eyebrows knitted together. ‘You know how much I loved Grace.’
‘I do,’ I reply.
‘Oh look, the students are coming in,’ Rita says cheerfully. I narrow my eyes at her, perturbed by her tone at such a sombre event.
They come in holding small posies of wildflowers. Some talk noisily, until they see us on the stage and immediately stop. Their voices incrementally hush as more kids filter in, filling the space below us. Many of the girls clutch each other by the hands for moral support. And as they arrive, I hone in on the ones who are weeping or sniffing, in an attempt to ascertain who could be Grace’s new friend. Could it be the tearful girl leaning on her boyfriend’s shoulder? Or the quiet girl at the back, dabbing her eyes with a tissue?
There’s no way to know, because these children are going through mass hysteria caused by loose lips and gossip. They have whipped each other up into a frenzy, because Grace’s death is the most interesting thing that’s happened to them in a long time – perhaps ever.
But despite the drama of it all, it’s humbling to see a group of young people coming together to pay their respects to a peer. The students form an orderly queue in order to place their posies of flowers next to a blown-up picture of Grace. Some even speak a few words to her image. One girl, around thirteen years old, comes up to the stage to hand me a flower. I stare at it while Rita makes her first announcement. Teen
agers can be bad. They can do cruel things without remorse on a daily basis. They can bully and intimidate each other on a level that makes grown men and women wince. Malicious gossip spreads through a school like wildfire. And, yet, they can be gracious and kind and… good.
If only you could see this, Grace, I think. But in reality, she’d probably hate this attention. Thinking of it almost makes me chuckle, and I check myself moments before laughing at an inappropriate interval in Rita’s very sad speech. There are a few sniffs in the crowd, and then Alicia takes the microphone to relay her ‘sisters’ story again.
While she talks, I purposefully look away. Alicia doesn’t know what I stole from her – yet. I don’t want her to see my expression, for her to see that I know she’s full of bullshit. I don’t want her suspicions raised.
There’s applause for Alicia’s speech, and she stands there, drinking it in, wiping fake tears from her eyes, brushing her cheeks with a light touch. She has this performance perfected now. She’s a pro at delivering a good eulogy. Jenny should hire her out for events. This time I do let out a tiny laugh, and Charles shoots a gloomy frown in my direction. He shakes his head once, and then steps over to the microphone as Alicia is finishing up.
‘Some of you might know me as Grace’s dad,’ he says, his voice even and clear. ‘My wife’ – he glances back to me, his expression still cold – ‘and I want to thank you all for being here today. We loved Grace’ – his voice cracks – ‘very much indeed. She was… she was everything to us. We won’t be the same without her.’ He pauses, letting his head drop. I’m about to approach when he manages to pull himself together and begin speaking again. ‘I can’t imagine life without her. She was the one good thing…’ His shoulders begin to sag, his arms drop to his sides and he sniffs loudly into the microphone. This time I do intervene, walking calmly over and placing a hand on his back. ‘I loved her more than… And now she’s gone… Gone.’ While his high-pitched, broken voice continues on, I try to pull him gently away from the microphone. Below the stage the pale faces gape, horrified by this adult losing his composure before their eyes. This is the kind of thing that horrifies the young – discovering that adults are flawed. That we’re breakable.
Only Daughter: An gripping and emotional psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 11