by Lesley Kara
staying here for the rest of the summer to help him out with the
refurbishment.’
He’s looking right at me now. ‘So what made you want to be
a set designer?’
Now this I don’t even have to think about. ‘I love painting on
a big scale,’ I tell him. ‘Climbing on scaffold towers and trans-
forming a plain old backdrop into a forest, or an ocean, or a
busy street. Mixing the colours and textures together, flicking
paint on to the canvas and getting my hands and clothes covered
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
in it too. Makes me feel like I’m part of the painting, actually
inside it – do you know what I mean?’
I haven’t talked about any of this for ages, haven’t even
thought about it, to be honest. But now that I am, it’s all com-
ing back to me. The passion I felt before it all went wrong.
Maybe if I hadn’t been hell bent on self- sabotage, I could have
been on my way to being a respected set designer by now, or at
least in regular work with good production companies.
Josh is nodding at me and smiling.
‘It gets your adrenalin pumping too. Especially when you’re
working so high up. You’ve got to know what you’re doing. And
there’s something really special about working in a theatre late
at night. The atmosphere, you know? Eerie and dark. Echoes
bouncing off the empty auditorium. Always a broken light
flickering somewhere in the darkness.’
I stop. He must think I’m mad, rattling on like this.
He leans back in his chair. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen some-
one so in love with what they do,’ he says. ‘Your face is completely transformed when you’re talking about it.’
I look down, embarrassed.
‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I might pick your painterly brain, if you
don’t mind.’
I give him a quizzical look.
‘There’s this weird little room in the middle of my dad’s house
that hardly gets any light. He’s thought about knocking it through
into the two adjoining rooms but there’s something about it he
likes, and I know what he means. It’s like a secret chamber.’
He pauses while Bob brings the buttie and teacake over and
we move our cups aside to make more space.
‘He’s got this idea of getting someone to paint a window on
one of the walls. You know, one of those realistic ones that
looks like it’s opening on to a beautiful garden, or something.’
‘A trompe l’œil.’
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‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A trompe l’œil. It’s French for “deceive the eye”. A painting that tricks you into seeing it as a three- dimensional solid form.
It’s all about illusionism and forced perspective.’
‘You see?’ Josh says. ‘You know about these things. Why don’t
you come and have a look, see what you think?’ He winks. One
casual movement of an eye and there’s a strange fluttering sen-
sation behind my breastbone. Between my thighs. I glance out
of the window.
‘Seriously, you don’t have to if you’re too busy, but it’d be
good to have your input, and Dad’s great. You’ll love him.’ He
blushes then. This six- foot- something blond Adonis actually blushes. ‘And it’d be really nice to see you again.’
I wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans under the table.
This is crazy. I’ve only known this guy five minutes and already
he wants me to meet his dad. I was with Simon for almost three
years and I never met a single one of his relatives. He’d lost
touch with them all by then. It’s hardly surprising, in the cir-
cumstances. I doubt Mum and I would still be talking if I hadn’t
agreed to rehab.
‘Okay, then.’ The words fly out before I can change my mind.
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5
Josh’s text comes through later that week.
‘Hi Astrid. Meet you outside the Old Schooner in Mistden?
2pm Wednesday?’
Shit! What have I done? I suppose I could tell him Mum’s
taken a turn for the worse and that I can’t leave her too long on
her own. Or I could do the easiest thing of all and ignore it. Not
turn up. Pretend none of this is happening.
And yet, if I close my eyes, I can already visualize the small,
dark room at the centre of his dad’s house. Its secret chamber.
Part of my brain is already imagining myself there, doing the
job for them. I can picture the bare plaster wall, smell the primer
I will prep it with.
I stick my head round the living- room door. Mum’s fallen
asleep on the settee and her mouth’s hanging open. She looks
like a corpse. I close the door softly, then go upstairs and pull
down the extending ladder that’s attached to the loft hatch.
My brushes must be up here somewhere, along with all my
other stuff – the boxes and bags and bin liners that contain
my worldly goods, or ‘a load of old rubbish’, as I heard Mum
call it the other day. She was speaking to one of her Quaker
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LESLEY K AR A
friends on the phone. I’m not the only one who goes to
meetings.
I flick the switch and a dingy yellow light creeps into the
darkness. It takes me a while to find them. They’re in an old
suitcase under a pile of winter clothes. I draw out the stained
canvas roll and bring it towards my face, breathing in the long-
forgotten smell of turps and linseed. Just the possibility of
painting again makes me want to weep, but I wall in the emo-
tion, seal it up tight. I’m about to pull the lid down on the case
when something shiny and gold catches my attention. I peel
back the jumper that’s half covering it and gasp. It’s one of
Simon’s old juggling balls. How the hell did that get here?
I pick it up and squeeze it into my palm, the beat of my heart
loud, insistent. Simon was teaching himself to juggle when we
first got together. He wanted to be an actor. He thought the
more skills he could develop, the more roles he could play. The
trouble was, he kept missing out. No matter how many audi-
tions he went for, he never got the parts he wanted. Alcohol
took the pain of rejection away.
I see him now, in my mind’s eye, dropping the juggling balls
and swearing. I’d pluck them off the floor and throw them
back to him, and they’d be all warm and sticky in my hands.
I’d say, ‘Go on, then, show us what you can do with your golden
balls,’ and he’d give me that crooked little smile and start undo-
ing his flies as a joke.
Did he have them with him that last time? He must have
done. How else to explain one of them being here?
I stuff the ball back in the case then take it out again and
edge backwards, my
right foot dancing in the emptiness behind
me, searching out the top step of the ladder. I turn the light off
and climb down, watch the ladder retract into the dark black
square in the ceiling.
Back in my bedroom, I put the ball on my bedside cabinet.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
In the early days, before it all went wrong, just seeing some-
thing of his would make me glow inside. Now, my pulse races
for entirely different reasons. Why on earth didn’t I leave it in
the loft? The last thing I need is reminding.
I unfurl the roll of brushes on to my bed. There’s no way Josh’s
dad will ask me to do that painting. And even if he does, I won’t
agree. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. It’s happening
again. The sudden swell inside me. The suffocating need to
drink. My eyes flick to the travel clock perched on the window-
sill, not that I need to check what my body knows with every
fibre of its being. Four o’clock in the afternoon. The time I used
to start drinking, or if, by some miracle, I was employed, the
time I used to start planning for it in my head. Imagining the
satisfying twist of the cap as the seal cracked, the glorious glug-
ging sound as I poured it out. That first long- awaited mouthful.
The muscles in my stomach flutter. My scalp itches. I scratch
it, or try to. Work my nails into the exposed areas between the
braids. What the hell am I going to do? Is this what it’s going to
be like for the rest of my life?
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m ripping the beads off the
ends of my braids. It’s a long, fiddly procedure, unravelling
every last one, detangling the clumpy bits at the roots, washing
my hair over the bath and combing conditioner all the way to
the ends. But it’s something to do. Something to fill the end-
lessly dry void. Besides, it feels good, dragging the teeth of the
comb from my forehead to the crown of my head and down
over the back of my neck. Over and over again, till my arm
aches and my scalp tingles. Till the wave of longing finally
breaks.
Mum widens her eyes when she sees my hair. ‘I was wondering
when you’d get rid of those awful things. You look so much
better without them,’ she adds.
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She’s scrubbing new potatoes at the sink with a nail brush.
‘Pam said she saw you coming out of the Fisherman’s Shack,’
she says, not looking round.
Pam is her bridge partner and fellow Quaker.
‘She said you were with a young man.’
I sigh. It’s no wonder I feel like I’m being watched.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t organized the whole town to keep
an eye out for me.’
The potato Mum’s been scrubbing shoots out of her hand
and plops into the washing- up bowl. She lifts it out and rinses
it under the tap. ‘You know what they said in rehab, about not
getting involved with anyone else. No major life changes.’
‘I had a coffee and a toasted teacake with him. We’re not get-
ting married.’
Now it’s Mum’s turn to sigh. ‘Just so long as you know what
you’re doing.’
If only I could confide in her that I have absolutely no idea
what I’m doing, that each new day without drinking is uncharted
territory, that I feel like a tiny boat, buffeted by waves. A boat
that could sink at any minute. But we’ve left it a bit late for heart-to- hearts. The pattern of our relationship is already fixed, and it’s prickly. Combative.
She runs cold water into a colander of lettuce and shakes it
over the sink. ‘Omelette, new potatoes and salad for supper.
Is that okay for you?’
‘Lovely, thanks.’
She gives me a quick, tight smile. It’s a truce, of sorts.
After supper, I open my copy of Alcoholics Anonymous. I’ve read the same paragraph three times and it still doesn’t make any
sense. It’s no surprise that it’s known as ‘the Big Book’. It’s dated and repetitive and I seem to have been reading it for ever but,
right now, it’s the closest I’ve got to a lifeline.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
No wonder I can’t concentrate. Mum’s pushing a carpet
sweeper over the rug and the squeaky noise is doing my head
in. It’s so like her to still be using a carpet sweeper.
‘Someone at my bridge club is starting up a beginners’ class
at the community hall,’ she says, as if the thought has just that
second popped into her head, as if she hasn’t been planning on
saying it to me all day. ‘It starts tomorrow. I wondered whether
you might be interested.’
‘Not sure bridge is really my thing, Mum.’
Mum’s stopped pushing the sweeper now. ‘It’s a fascinating
game when you get the hang of it. And there’s so much to learn,
it might be good for you.’
This is what she’s like. She won’t let things go.
‘Seriously, Mum, I don’t want to. I might start swimming or
something.’
The thought of plunging into cold seawater with Josh has been
exercising my mind ever since we said goodbye and swapped
phone numbers. I want to feel cleansed and invigorated. I want to
learn about the tides. I want to learn what the hell a sea squirt is.
‘I’m going to see Josh’s dad’s house next week.’
She gives me a sharp look. ‘Who’s Josh?’
‘That guy I had coffee with. His dad wants some advice about
a trompe l’œil.’
A strange look comes into Mum’s eyes. ‘I saw an amazing
one of those in Quebec once,’ she says. ‘It was on the side of a
house and it looked like the wall had been ripped off and you
could see inside all the rooms.’
I stare at her. It sounds like she’s talking about the Fresque du
Petit- Champlain. I remember it from one of the lectures at uni.
‘When were you in Quebec?’
There’s a long pause. ‘After your dad died.’
Dad. It’s the first time either of us has mentioned him in
ages. The words hang in the air like an accusation. No matter
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how many times I tell myself that he had a heart condition and
would have died anyway, I’ll never stop torturing myself about
the stress my drinking gave him. It might not have caused his
heart attack, but it didn’t help. I know that’s what Mum thinks
too. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in the things she doesn’t say.
‘How come you never told me you’d been to Quebec?’
‘I did.’
‘You didn’t. I would have remembered.’
‘You think?’
I look down at my book, cheeks burning. Good point, Mother.
I’ve missed too many things in my cobweb of a life. Black holes
in my memory I’ll never be able
to fill, no matter how hard I try.
Not that I want to fill them all. Some things are best forgotten.
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6
The hair salon is warm and smells of hairspray. I made the
appointment a few days ago. They’re offering discounts if you
don’t mind letting a trainee loose on your head, and I don’t.
People who have to ask their mothers for pocket money can’t
afford to be too fussy about these things.
With each snip of the scissors, the curve of my skull is slowly
revealed. My cheekbones look sharper. I feel lighter and freer
than before, as if the weight of my past has also been shed. If
only that were true. If only we could cut out the bits of our life
we don’t like. The bits that fill us with dread and self- loathing.
If only we could excise them like warts or lumps and wait for
the scar tissue to seal the wound.
I brush away the slivers of hair that sit on my gown- covered
lap like pale wood shavings and try to steer my mind away
from its usual course, the one it always takes when I start
thinking like this. I read Josh’s message for what must be the
twentieth time. Wednesday has come around a lot sooner than
I expected, and I still haven’t decided if I’ll go. It says to meet
him outside the Old Schooner. Although there’s still a chance he might suggest we pop in for a beer before we go to his dad’s,
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so I need to have some excuses at the ready. Just in case I end
up going.
Here’s what I’ll say: I’m not that thirsty, to be honest. Or, Actu‑
ally, I’m trying not to drink during the week. No, not that, because then he might ask me at the weekend. What about I’ve gone right
off pubs lately, or The Old Schooner’s a bit of a dive, isn’t it? or I’m not really a pub person.
The one thing I know for certain I won’t say is: The thing is, Josh, I’m a recovering alcoholic, so if you don’t mind, I’d rather we didn’t.
Why can’t I just say that? Why is it so damn hard?
‘Wow!’ Josh says. ‘You look fantastic. I nearly didn’t recog-
nize you.’
He pecks me on the cheek, then falls in beside me. After all
that worrying, he doesn’t even mention the pub. It feels odd,
having to match my pace to someone else’s. It’s as much as I
