Something to Tell You

by Lucy Diamond

  Sitting in front of his laptop screen, Frankie blinked. She’d only read halfway down the page so far and wasn’t sure she wanted to continue, guessing that there was worse to come. ‘This is a joke, right?’ she asked weakly. It had to be a joke, she thought, seeking confirmation in his face. Craig’s columns were usually warm and funny observations about family life, the sort that left you feeling uplifted. Vindictive and spiteful attacks had never been a feature of his writing before.

  He seemed surprised at the question, though. ‘Er . . . no,’ he replied. ‘It’s not a joke.’

  ‘But you can’t . . . Surely you don’t want to have this in print,’ Frankie said uneasily, fearing as she spoke the words that oh yes, actually he did. ‘I mean, it’s all a bit . . . airing dirty laundry in public. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Craig said, sounding pleased.

  ‘And given that she’s already said how unhappy she is that you’re doing the column at all—’

  ‘Then my column is a clear and definitive two-fingers up to what she wants,’ Craig replied. ‘Yes. As intended.’

  Frankie sighed. ‘Craig, I don’t think there’s any need to be so combative about this,’ she began saying, just as Fergus pelted into the room clutching a plastic dinosaur in each hand. He grabbed the oven glove from the radiator, wrapped it around his neck like a scarf and ran out again. It was Monday morning and their first day without any childcare until September; give it fifteen minutes and he would be saying he was bored and had nothing to do. In the meantime, Frankie needed to talk her partner down from his hostile high-horse position. ‘I can’t see Vicki going along with this, either,’ she said, citing the name of his editor as back-up. ‘Or the readers. Please, Craig. Write something nice. Don’t use this as a means of stoking the fire.’

  Her phone started ringing, just as Fergus charged back into the room, still wearing the oven glove, then flopped down dramatically onto the floor and announced, ‘I’m bored.’

  ‘Dad will play with you,’ Frankie told him, seeing her agent’s name onscreen and feeling a pinprick of guilt that she wasn’t doing any work. ‘Hi, Constance,’ she said, leaving the room before anyone tried to stop her. If Constance was ringing up to check on how Frankie was progressing with the dragon sketches, she was just going to have to lie, she decided with a grimace. And then stay up all night to catch up on herself. ‘How are you? Good weekend?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, darling,’ said Constance. Constance was quite possibly the most glamorous person Frankie had ever met. She had silver-grey hair, cropped very close to her head, and liked to drape herself in jewel-coloured velvet pashminas and statement necklaces. If you didn’t notice her for her dress sense, you would know her for her loud cut-glass voice, and her habit of saying exactly what she thought, whether you wanted to hear it or not. ‘Now then, I’m ringing because I had rather a strange call on Friday afternoon,’ she went on in her usual theatrical style. ‘Probably some lunatic – we do get our fair share of them – but I thought I’d run it past you, all the same.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Frankie, going into her and Craig’s bedroom and closing the door. This sounded intriguing. She’d had one man ringing up before, very keen for Frankie to paint nude pictures of him (‘Tasteful, like!’ he’d said apparently, as if that made all the difference), and another woman who’d wanted Frankie to paint her lurcher, which turned out to be dead, and stuffed, with the creepiest I’m-watching-you glass eyes. ‘I’m bracing myself. Fire away.’

  ‘Well,’ said Constance, ‘like I said, to be taken with a pinch of salt. And probably ignored. But anyway I feel obliged to pass it on, because the woman did sound quite sincere. Her name is – wait a moment – Paula Brent, and she said to tell you she was Harry Mortimer’s daughter. And that she was your . . .’ Constance gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘Well, actually, darling, she was quite insistent that she was your sister, too.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Frankie, feeling shivers travelling up and down the length of her body. Harry Mortimer’s daughter. Your sister.

  ‘I know – I mean, rest assured, I did say to her: Frankie does not have a sister, but—’

  ‘No, wait, Constance; the thing is, I do,’ said Frankie, gathering herself and blinking several times. ‘Apparently I do.’

  ‘You do?’ For once, her garrulous agent sounded lost for words. ‘Goodness me. So when you say “Apparently”, you mean . . . ?’

  ‘I’ve only recently found out. Quite a surprise,’ Frankie said wryly. ‘But she phoned – oh, I’m so pleased to hear that. Did she leave a number or anything?’

  ‘Yes, she did, I wrote it down. Gosh, I’m glad I didn’t just throw this away now,’ Constance exclaimed. ‘I nearly did, to be honest, because I thought it was one of those silly prank things . . . Where did I put it? Ah yes. Have you got a pen?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frankie, grabbing an eyeliner from her dressing table and an old envelope that she’d been using as a bookmark. ‘I’m ready.’

  She could feel herself filling with delighted anticipation as she took down the number. With all the palaver around the unexpected appearance of Julia lately, Frankie had been feeling somewhat pessimistic about her dad and the disastrous episode up in York. She’d written the whole thing off, pretty much, as a mistake, a turn she shouldn’t have taken, and it had faded to the back of her mind. And yet here was a woman called Paula – her actual half-sister – who had somehow tracked her down to Constance, and wanted to get in touch. Did that mean that Harry, her dad, felt the same way? Was this an olive branch from the Mortimers, the start of something new?

  She tried to keep her feelings in check. There was a chance, of course, that this Paula was ringing to warn her off, to say: stay away from my dad, you’re not welcome in our family. But if that was the case, would she really be ringing Constance and introducing herself as Frankie’s sister? No. Surely not.

  ‘Zero . . . four . . .’ said Constance, coming to the end of the number.

  There was a lump in Frankie’s throat as she finished writing; she felt happy and excited, dazed even. ‘Thank you!’ she said, staring at the numbers on the paper and underlining the name Paula with a flourish. The start of a whole new conversation. You always wanted a brother or a sister, didn’t you? she heard her mum say in her head. Oh, and she had. She had! ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Constance replied. ‘I must say, I’m quite intrigued. You’ll have to tell me all about it next time we meet up. But in the meantime . . . How are those dragons?’

  Gah. Frankie should have known that, even with sisterly revelations and bombshells, Constance wouldn’t let her get away without checking in on her work. ‘Um . . .’ she said. ‘The dragons are coming together. I’ll have something to show you before long.’ Just as soon as I’ve worked out what to say to my new sister, she thought, hanging up and beaming at her reflection.

  ‘Talk to you soon, Paula,’ she said into the quiet air, trying to tamp down the excitement sparking up inside her. Because it might all come to nothing, she reminded herself sternly. It might be a closed door, rather than an open one. But then again, it might be wonderful. A really lovely new connection to be made. ‘Here’s hoping,’ she murmured, crossing her fingers as she went to tell Craig.

  Up in Harrogate, Alison was in the spotless kitchen of a new client, snipping the ends off her wet hair, the blades of her scissors flashing in the sunshine. It was a warm bright day outside and her client – Molly – had made her a really delicious coffee with properly frothed milk, but even so, Alison felt distracted and ill at ease. She hadn’t spoken to Robyn since her daughter’s little outburst on Saturday morning, keeping herself busy instead, first with her bridal-hair appointment immediately afterwards, and then knuckling down to a thorough cleaning session at home later in the afternoon. That evening, she’d sat on the sofa for five straight hours, catching up on all the programmes she’d missed while staying at her daughter’s, but annoyingly it had been difficult t
o concentrate. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself thinking about the look on Robyn’s face as she’d spat all those cruel words out, tearing into Alison as if she felt nothing but disdain for her.

  Says you, who’s never dared do anything, she had sneered, pointing an angry finger. Her face had actually twisted, distorted with contempt. Says you, who never goes out, who doesn’t have a life, who’s too scared to seek out any kind of relationship. Don’t preach at me, when you’re too cowardly to do anything new!

  The sentences had cut Alison to the quick, had dug into her like barbs that were impossible to remove. Her own daughter calling her a coward, jeering at her as if she was nothing. It had hurt. Really hurt. When she did have a full and busy life, with work and her telly-lover Internet friends. When she had been going out recently as well, thank you very much, on her two terrible dates! So what did Robyn know about anything?

  Oh, there had been apologetic messages ever since, on Alison’s voicemail, and texts too, telling her that she hadn’t meant it, she was so sorry. Fed up with the incessant beeping of her phone, Alison had eventually texted back with a brief: It’s okay, don’t worry about it – but it was not okay, whatever she might say, and they both knew it. A line had been crossed. A slap had been dealt. And however much Robyn might wish she could take the words back, they were out there now, and there could be no unsaying of them.

  The worst thing was, Alison recognized herself in her daughter’s ugly description. However much she disliked the idea of being a coward, she knew, deep down, that Robyn had a point. And this recognition had remained lodged in her head the entire weekend, buzzing around her thoughts like a demented bluebottle, even when she tried to distract herself by sorting out the shed or immersing herself in a good film. My daughter thinks I’m a coward, she kept thinking miserably. And I am.

  But anyway. It was a new day now, a new week, and here she was, cutting the hair of Molly, who was in her late fifties at a guess and who seemed very pleasant, wearing a navy blouse with a seagull print, and who had gleaming chequered lino in her kitchen and a posh coffee machine. The last thing Alison wanted was to spread her dark mood around and infect another person, especially a new client whom she was supposed to be impressing. Had she even spoken in the last five minutes? No. Gloom had swallowed her up for too long now, and she needed to bring out her inner perky.

  ‘Got anything nice on this week?’ she asked chattily, pulling strands down on either side of the woman’s face to check she had matched the lengths correctly. Perhaps the left was just a fraction shorter than the right, she decided, straightening up.

  ‘Well . . .’ Alison saw Molly’s expression change. ‘Actually this week is always a bit of a strange one for me,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Which is partly why I decided to get a haircut, you know, to give myself a bit of a lift. It’s the anniversary of my son’s death, so . . .’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ Alison said, sympathy flaring inside her. Her fingers hovered uselessly behind the woman’s head; she didn’t know whether to resume snipping or not. ‘I’m so sorry. How awful.’

  ‘It was eight years ago now,’ Molly said, her voice flat. ‘Meningitis; he was only twenty-six. The nicest kid you can imagine. Just started a new job as a chef over in Leeds, and he had everything going for him – lovely girlfriend, smashing little flat.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Alison wretchedly, measuring a length of Molly’s hair between her fingers. Snip, snip, snip. ‘The world can be so cruel sometimes.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ said Molly, as soft tufts of hair fell to the floor around her. ‘The thing is, I know I’ll be fine again next week – well, as fine as you ever can be, that is. I’ve dealt with the grief, I’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s gone. It’s just this one week of the year, it always gets to me. Makes me feel fragile.’ She gave a rueful-sounding sigh. ‘Sorry, love. You don’t want to hear me feeling sorry for myself, do you? I bet you’re wishing you’d never asked me now!’

  ‘No, you’re fine, no need to apologize,’ Alison told her. There was a lump in her throat suddenly – a pang of sympathy for the woman, and the resonance that came from having suffered a similar loss. Her instinct was to steer the subject round to more cheerful subjects, to move away from bereavement and its lingering effects, but in her head Robyn was still glaring and pointing that finger, calling her a coward. So instead she found herself blurting out, ‘And I know exactly what you mean.’ She swallowed, feeling the colour rise to her cheeks, as the words came tripping off her tongue. ‘I always have a wobble myself at the beginning of March – that was when my husband died. Even longer ago than your son, but it still brings everything back. I’ll turn the page on my calendar and there it is, that ache of grief again.’

  ‘It’s tough, losing someone,’ Molly agreed. ‘Even though we all know nothing lasts forever, it still doesn’t make it any easier.’ She paused as Alison came round to measure her hair once more, a strand in each hand, looking left and right to gauge the lengths. ‘Had he been ill for a long time, your husband, or was it a sudden thing? Not that either way is any better, mind.’

  ‘He . . .’ Alison felt herself closing up as she always did whenever the subject of Rich was raised. In all these years she’d hardly spoken about him, let alone confided in anyone what, exactly, had happened in his last moments. Not a single other person in Yorkshire knew the facts surrounding his death, because she’d been so paranoid about Robyn ever finding out. ‘Um,’ she said, resuming snipping, ‘it was sudden. Very sudden. He—’

  She broke off in anguish and Molly reached a hand round and patted her arm soothingly. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Forget I asked.’

  Normally, of course, this was where Alison would accept the escape route with gratitude, where she would lapse into silence with perhaps a mumbled ‘I don’t really like talking about it’ as her defence card. Nobody ever questioned that statement, they withdrew immediately and the subject would be tactfully changed. But today for some reason – perhaps due to Molly’s calm, kind presence, or perhaps Robyn’s words still smarting beneath the surface – Alison felt a shift inside her, an unlocking sensation. And then she was stunned to hear her own voice saying, ‘Actually, it was suicide. Completely out of the blue. I’ve never really got over it.’

  ‘Oh, Alison,’ said Molly, a hand flying up to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. That must have been terrible.’

  ‘It was, it really was. I found him one morning and—’ She broke off because she had remembered, belatedly, that it was Alison’s rather gossipy client, Tina, who’d given Molly Alison’s number in the first place; they were friends, and if Tina got to hear about Alison’s misfortunes, it would be all over town within seconds. ‘Listen, please don’t tell anyone,’ she begged fearfully. ‘My own daughter doesn’t even know how her dad died. I would hate for word to get around.’

  ‘Goodness, of course I won’t tell anyone,’ Molly said. ‘You can trust me, I promise.’

  ‘Nobody here knows – I’ve never talked about it before. I don’t know why I’ve started pouring my heart out to you, when we’ve only just met.’ Alison’s hands shook on the scissors and she had to take a deep breath and a mouthful of coffee to compose herself. ‘Sorry,’ she said, embarrassed. What must this woman think of her?

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ Molly assured her again. ‘These things can take a while to work themselves to the surface. I didn’t cry for two weeks after my Scott died; I was completely numb. Then this woman knocked on the door, delivering some flowers, and I found myself breaking down on her. Poor thing, she looked terrified, having this random lunatic sobbing on the front doorstep. Made me feel a lot better, but I doubt it was mutual.’

  ‘Can you tip your head forward for me?’ Alison said just then, and Molly bent at the neck obligingly. ‘Maybe I should have got it out of my system at the time, but . . . Well, I was trying to pick up the pieces and protect my daughter, and keeping going s
eemed like the best way to cope.’

  ‘Whatever gets you through,’ agreed Molly. ‘Still, it’s good if you’re feeling able to talk about what happened now, even if it’s just to me. I could give you the number of the counsellor I went to see, if you want. I found that really helped – just getting everything off my chest to a stranger, who sat there and listened, who didn’t judge me or tell me to pull myself together. Honestly, it was very cathartic.’

  Alison had been rather dubious about counselling in the past; she’d grown up as part of a generation where you toughed things out and got on with life, rather than indulging in anything more emotional. It was on the tip of her tongue to say: no, thank you, she would be fine, she didn’t need help. But was she fine? she thought despondently in the next moment. Because maybe it would do her good to release the whole terrible story out into somebody’s quiet consulting room. To say it out loud, at last, to unburden the details from where they’d lain like a heavy, damp blanket on her for so many years. Even better, to have someone say, ‘It wasn’t your fault’ in reply, which was really all she had ever wanted to hear.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said after a moment. Maybe this was the universe telling her that her old coping mechanisms were no longer fit for purpose, she thought to herself; a sign that she should stop being such a coward, as Robyn had accused her. Maybe this wise new client of hers was offering a means of conquering those old demons and getting her life back in order. ‘Sounds good to me,’ she heard herself saying, as she snipped a neat line against Molly’s pale neck. ‘I’ll give that a try.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Knock, knock, you’ve got visitors,’ Paula said, pulling back the floor-length curtain and slipping through to Bunny’s bedside. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘We’ve brought you some magazines and chocolate,’ Robyn added, following her in and setting the carrier bag down carefully at the end of the bed. She was trying not to wince at the sight of her sister-in-law’s bashed-up face, but it was not a pretty sight.