She starts the maths exercise the tutor wants ready for the next seminar. An hour in, she reaches for a textbook from her shelf and sees Riku’s beanbag. May as well see if he is in now.
His door is ajar but not properly closed. She knocks and calls hello. He must have popped out to make a drink; she heard noises in the kitchen as she went past. When she nudges the door, it opens halfway so she tosses the beanbag onto the floor and turns away. But before she’s reached her room, she feels unkind for not returning it more graciously. She goes back, intending to leave it on his desk with a note. He must have some Post-its, but the only things on the desk are a roll of address labels and a sketchpad. He might not like it if she messes up a label, but surely he can spare a page out of the pad.
She picks it up and opens it. Reels away as if her fingers are on fire. There’s a head-and-shoulders sketch. The detail and accuracy are breath-taking. Sweetheart mouth; large, dewy eyes; short, soft hair framing the wholesome face. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t so sick.
Amber.
Chapter 52
Tuesday 11 October
Tegan
Despite having no lectures, Tegan’s up early and parked in the High Street. A cash and carry behind the Co-op has signed an order for her jackets and she’s composing an email to her supplier on her laptop. If this keeps up, she’ll have to find a bigger factory. Shame really because her current supplier took on her product when no one else would and it’s going to mean dumping them just when their belief is paying off.
Never visit a cash and carry before 8.30 a.m. – she’s learnt that this morning. It was like Sainsbury’s on Christmas Eve, except with flatbed loaders instead of shopping trolleys. Every convenience store owner within a ten-mile radius was stocking up. She had to stay in her car until the rush died down. She’s returned to it now, pushing her luck on a double yellow line.
At least her other reason for an early start has worked out. No sign of a black Mercedes. But is that what it’s going to take: sneaking out under cover of darkness to stand any chance of not being followed? She presses her eyes closed and grips the steering wheel. Is this her life? Forever? Her father’s heavy following not only her but her friends too? What happens when she meets someone – a boyfriend? Will Marlon stalk him? Or, if her father decrees it, worse? She shudders and folds her arms.
Her phone rings and she jumps in her seat. Is it him? But when she checks the screen, the caller is Phoenix. Not again. Tegan kills it, not ready to hear a plea for a truce with Imo. Phoenix follows up with a text: Phone me urgent. A bombardment of texts from Phoenix, all like this one, started last night. Why does she care all of a sudden?
A red-faced woman jog-walks up the road, heaving a boy of about six after her. Late for school.
A different man used to follow them when Tegan’s mother took her to primary school. Did he have to run to keep up with them sometimes? A skinny guy with a craggy, pitted face. Tegan was never scared; she thought every family had a man looking out for them, especially families where the father worked overseas. It was one of the first things she asked her new friends when she started at boarding school. “Has your guy come with you?” No one got what she meant and pretty soon the idea of a man following her faded out of her mind, replaced by hockey club and fencing lessons.
The craggy man came back when she went home during the holidays and that’s just the way it was. How old was she when it dawned that they weren’t like other families? Around twelve, she thinks, when Mum stopped the charade of Dad working overseas. Tegan was a daddy’s girl in those days, checking the dormitory pigeon holes three times a day for a postcard or a letter. There was only ever one mail a week from him but it didn’t stop her checking. In hindsight she’s not even sure they were from him; the postmark didn’t add up with what she later found out.
The craggy man – she never did know his name – collected her one half term and drove her home. When she got there, she saw that her mother had been crying again. She told Tegan that her father was leaving them. Had asked for a divorce. Tegan rounded on her, adding mental blows to the physical ones that marked her mother’s throat, and yelled that it was the lousy wife he was leaving, not his daughter. But for once her mother fought back and spat out the truth about his extended “overseas” work: three years in Swansea Prison. And now he was free and tucked up in his tacky country manor with a woman he’d met on the internet.
Two blokes in a grubby white van crawl past, appraising the convertible. When the passenger notices Tegan, he winds down his window and licks his lips. She wields a V-sign and screams a “Fuck off” with more venom than the guy deserves.
When her mother first told her, she still loved her daddy, hating the justice system nearly as much as she loathed his Thai bride. The charge against him, whatever it was, must have been jumped up. And her dad confirmed it when he came back into her life after he left her mother. The craggy man started driving Dad to her school on weekend visits. They picked up where they’d left off before he went to prison. She was thrilled to see him and he brought her little gifts: jackets, shoes, jewellery.
It was during an ICT lesson that everyone got the idea to do internet searches of their parents. It was a wealthy school populated by families of overachievers: a novelist, an opera singer, actor, TV scriptwriter, rugby coach. As the actor’s daughter squealed delightedly about his ten thousand search hits, Tegan typed in her father’s name and felt sick to her stomach. Hand trembling, she closed the page. How could she not have known?
She didn’t have a smartphone in those days and had to wait until the holidays to search the internet alone. Sneaking a chance to use her mother’s computer, she opened a nauseating Pandora’s Box. Every search hit referred to her father’s drugs network across South Wales, hinting that clever lawyers, bought with his dirty money, had got him a reduced charge. Tegan’s whole world shifted out of kilter.
In her rear-view mirror, a traffic warden in a grey uniform walks towards her, about six cars behind. His progress is slow as he photographs each vehicle and types into his tablet. Tegan knows she’ll have to drive off before the man reaches her.
Her dad still makes gestures. Nothing for months, then the car, an iPhone. She thinks of the postcard Kanya sent from Montreux. He reeled her in like he did Tegan’s mother. The charm, the gifts, the soul-bearing seduction. Tegan once asked her mother if he still had her followed. She shook her head. “I’m off the payroll, thanks to wife number two.” How much longer will her father bother to have Tegan tailed now that he has Dylan? Heir to the empire. Her poor, perfect, little brother.
She puts her forehead on the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking with sobs. A text comes through and she reads it, glad of something else to think about. Phoenix again: Need to speak to you both urgently. Meet at flat after my lecture?
You both means she’s texted Imo too. Tegan’s tears dry. The pair of them can shove it. She’s not making up with Imo any time soon and if Phoenix was a true friend she’d understand. She reaches for her laptop and opens her fake Facebook profile to delete it and be done with Imo and her Amber hunt.
The cursor hovers over Delete My Account, but she sees a photo of Dylan. More tears threaten. A look of wonder on his face as he sits on the unicycle. And he’s leaning his weight on her, his stubby hand resting on her forearm. He trusts her, his sister, not to let him fall. In another photo, he’s smiling into the camera. The picture was taken on Imo’s phone. Imo makes people smile, gets people to do things. Tegan knows she shares the same skill of manipulation, but hers is planned, grafted, whereas Imo doesn’t even have to try. People want to please Imo. Her fists clench; that’s how she ended up visiting Kanya and taking Dylan, all to placate Imo.
It’s also because of her that she has these photographs, these memories. Without Imo, she wouldn’t have got to know Dylan. And Kanya. The Thai bride turned out not to be so bad.
Her fingers open and she cancels the deletion request. She clicks on Change Password. She won’
t be friends with Imo but she’ll give the girl access to the fake profile so she can stalk the Parents’ Group woman to her heart’s content. Tegan doesn’t have to get involved.
Old password: JonParryBastard666
New password: DylanParryPrince111
***
Twenty minutes wasted, parking at the hall of residence and knocking pointlessly on the girl’s door, then another twenty finding somewhere to park and ending up back at the geography tower. She finally locates Imo, worrying over an assignment in the library.
“My lecturer hates me,” Imo whispers. “Look how much she’s scribbled.” She thrusts the page at Tegan.
No awkward silence then. When Tegan searched the library, she half hoped she wouldn’t find her. Who would apologize first? Tegan didn’t intend it to be her, but it seems that Imo’s wrapped herself in another drama and forgotten their argument.
Tegan lifts the feedback sheet to see the grade on top of the paper. “You daft mare, you got seventy-two percent. She’s put all these development points because she knows you can take it.” She pushes the work back to Imo, remembering how she told the girl to get out of her self-obsessed mope. Is it worth telling her again?
“I’m … sorry about Dylan,” Imo says, peering out of her hood. “I shouldn’t have cornered you into taking him. And you’re right, I need to grow up.” She looks at her assignment. “I guess I’m not doing too well so far. Can we be friends?”
Tegan has an urge to hug her and offer her own apology, but remembers that’s not the way she rolls. She writes her new Facebook password on Imo’s feedback sheet. “Knock yourself out.”
Before she can explain, the bearded librarian comes over to tell them to be quiet. “You can chat in the foyer, girls.”
As he moves away, Tegan wonders fleetingly if she has another stalker. Whenever she’s in the library, he finds an excuse to sidle over. Perv.
“Amber would have something to say about him calling us girls,” Imo whispers.
Bloody Amber again. Tegan explains what the password is for, and, with that, she’s done. Her involvement with Amber is over. The Parents’ Facebook page is open on Imo’s screen and should keep her amused for hours so Tegan stays where she is and sets up her laptop to update her order spreadsheets. Her phone vibrates. Another text from Phoenix: Where are you?
Imo also checks a message on her phone and returns to browsing Jane Brown’s profile page. After a few minutes she grips Tegan’s arm. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Tegan glances at the images on Jane Brown’s profile as Imo clicks through. Several with her little kid: eating spaghetti; standing in front of the Eiffel Tower; on a donkey at a beach.
“How am I going to find her now you’re not going back to the Parents’ Group?” Imo asks. “We can’t get her uni address from this, can we?”
Don’t start that, lady. Tegan wants to leave before she gets asked to hack again, but Imo’s digging her fingers into her arm.
“Why don’t you try the uni crèche?” she says. “A woman at the barbecue told me it’s behind the Abbi bar.” She silently thanks pregnant Sian. “The mums meet there for coffee.” She checks the time on her phone. “Some might be there now.”
But Imo grips tighter. “Will you come with me?” She looks straight at her. “I won’t ask you for anything else, I promise.”
Tegan stares back. Never believe a promise. Life’s taught her that – I’ll never hit your mum again no matter how she winds me up – so why is she hesitating? Damn this girl with her watery eyes that manage to be naïve and persistent at the same time. She’ll do this last thing for her and then she’s done.
“Let’s go.”
She presents her middle finger to the librarian’s back on the way out.
Chapter 53
Imogen
Not more walking, please. Imo’s whole body sighs when they reach Tegan’s car and find that a uni maintenance van has boxed it in.
“Bollocks.” Tegan kicks one of the van’s tyres. “We’ll have to walk, but that van better be gone when I get back.”
Imo wonders what she’ll do if the driver doesn’t move. Call her friend Marlon? He must be good at removing unwanted items. Imo feels a chill and stops to fold out the jacket she bought from Tegan. It’s the first time she’s worn it and it smells like new plastic.
“We could call Student Services,” she suggests. “They might be able to contact the driver.”
“No chance. I’m in a disabled space and Student Services already put a warning notice on my windscreen last week.” She kicks the tyre again.
A piece of paper under Tegan’s wiper catches the breeze. “Looks like you’ve got another. Sorry,” Imo says.
Tegan storms to the front and grabs the note, but her attention is on the bonnet. “What the absolute fuck? Some bastard’s keyed it.”
Below the windscreen, there’s a cross about three inches long gouged into the dark blue paintwork. The paper is not a parking ticket. It contains one word: Don’t.
“Who … who would do this?” Shuddering, Imo takes the note. Handwritten, block capitals neatly spaced. She hands it back and sees Tegan’s hands are trembling as much as hers.
“We should call the police,” Imo suggests. “They’ll arrest Marlon.”
Moving her finger across the scratch, Tegan seems to contemplate the idea but then dismisses it. “He wouldn’t dare. And it’s not his style; he’d go for kneecaps.”
Imo winces. What the hell are Tegan’s father and his henchman mixed up in? “Who do you think did it then? And why?”
“The why is obvious.” Tegan screws up the note and lobs it into the bushes. “Someone wants to scare the shit out of me.” She straightens to her full five feet three. “But they’ll have to try harder. Come on. We’ve got yummy mummies to stalk.” She sets off, her face grim.
Silent as they walk, although Imo’s sure Tegan must hear the fearful rattle in her breathing. A tough bird like Tegan might be able to brush off a threat but Imo can’t. If they ignore this, what will happen next? When a few spots of rain dash a darker blue into the shoulders of Tegan’s blouse, she opens an umbrella without breaking stride. Is everything water off a duck’s back to her?
“Aren’t you cold?” Imo asks.
Tegan glances at Imo’s jacket. “Not that cold.”
Forgetting the threat for a moment, Imo feels a fool, duped into buying a raincoat that even the designer won’t be seen dead in. Her phone rings. Phoenix again. How many times is that? She kills the call, cringing at the memory of telling her about Sophia. Phoenix follows through with another text. Phone me urgently. Imo puts the phone in her pocket and speeds up as the rain intensifies.
Tegan leads the way into the Abbi bar, a large, open-plan space on the ground floor of the student union building. Surprisingly busy for 11.30 a.m. although, rather than necking pints, most students sit hunched over screens with coffee cups at their sides.
Tegan folds her umbrella and scans the room. “It doesn’t look like the mummies are meeting for coffee today. Let me check with the bar.”
She finds out that the first crèche session finishes at twelve and the next one starts half an hour later. “According to the bar woman, parents drop their kids off at the back entrance to the crèche on the far side of the garden. If we sit by the window, we’ll see your woman arrive.”
Imo bristles. Tegan makes it sound like she’s obsessed with Jane Brown. Maybe she is. “There aren’t any spare seats. Should we come back some other time?”
But Tegan marches up to a boy in an easy chair by a big window that looks out onto the garden. He has his feet on the chair opposite, laptop on his knee and textbooks spread across the seat next to him.
“Are these taken?”
He pulls out his earphones, frowning.
Tegan moves closer. “Actually, we’d prefer to sit on this side.”
For a moment he stares at her, but, apparently realizing he’s out-glared, moves himself and his
textbooks to the opposite pair of seats.
They don’t have to wait long before mums and dads gather under an awning in the garden. Most look like typical students, but the empty buggies, pastel-pink lunchboxes and kiddies’ raincoats give away their parental status. It’s hard to get a clear look at anyone under their anorak hoods and umbrellas, but no one resembling Jane Brown stands out in the crowd. At 11.55 a.m. they go through the crèche entrance and trickle out again five minutes later. Their children are now with them, some in newly supplied raincoats, others in buggies with the rain covers over and eating from their lunchboxes. By ten past, they’ve all gone, except for one woman holding a baby inside her coat. She moves under the canopy. When she tips back her hood, Imo thinks she’s met her before but can’t place her.
The woman with the baby paces, speaking into her mobile, unsmiling. She ends the call, stuffs the phone in her pocket and starts out across the pub garden. A man hurries towards her. It’s Sean Hennessy – coatless, soaking wet. He throws his arms up towards the woman in what appears to be a gesture of apology, but she barges past him. Instead of exiting the garden by the gate that the other parents used, she carries the baby through the bar.
“Bloody hell,” Imo gasps as the woman hurries past their seats. It’s Lauren, minus her Gothic eyeliner and crow cape. Face red and tearstained. Imo’s world shifts again. How can Lauren be a mother when she seems like a bigger kid than Imo? Someone else play-acting. Does no one tell the truth any more? Did Lauren forget to mention over coffee and cookies she had a child? Maybe she just didn’t trust Imo enough. Then Imo remembers how she thought she saw her with Amber at the start of term, but at the audition Lauren denied knowing her. Another lie. What else is Lauren hiding?
Hennessey remains outside in the pouring rain. He moves to a picnic bench under the awning and sits with his head in his hands.
The Roommates Page 18
