by Lesley Kara
dead. Maybe if I’d been to his funeral, I’d have had some form
of closure, if there is such a thing. But I was so ill, so out of it. I don’t even know if he was buried or cremated, or where his
remains are. Why don’t I know these things? Why didn’t I try
harder to find out? I should have said goodbye. It’s the least I
could have done.
I think about earlier, making love with Josh as if none of this
had ever happened, and guilt presses down on me once more.
But I can’t help the way I feel, can I? It’s chemistry, pure and
simple. The need for love and intimacy, for sex. It’s what makes
us human. It doesn’t mean I don’t still love Simon. The mem-
ory of him.
I take hold of the envelope and go over to the wardrobe, stand
on the tips of my toes and give it a firm push so that it slides
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
towards the back, out of reach. The arm of my coat is dangling
over the edge where I threw it earlier, so I push that back too.
I could have taken the photo out and had another look. I
could have pulled the coat down and helped myself to a £20
note, then got dressed again and slipped out of the house when
Mum wasn’t looking and bought some gin or vodka, some-
thing I could pour into my water glass to get me through the
night. I wanted to. I still do. But I didn’t. I don’t. I sit on the bed again and focus on my breathing till the tightness in my chest
recedes. I won’t be intimidated like this.
The next morning, after I’ve washed my face and got dressed – I
can’t face any breakfast – I reach up to the top of my wardrobe
and grope along the edge till I grab a handful of coat and pull
it towards me. The dreaded brown envelope comes down with
it, but I put it up again, flicking it away from the edge. I hear it fluttering down the space between the back of the wardrobe
and the wall. I exhale. I won’t be able to reach it now, not with-
out dragging the heavy wardrobe out. Just as well.
I put the coat on. The sooner I order those painting materials
and get shot of this money, the better.
‘You won’t need that coat today,’ Mum says when I go down-
stairs. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous out there. They said on the news
that a heatwave’s on its way.’
‘Really?’ I think of the last thing Josh said, about taking me
somewhere I could swim naked. Maybe that’ll happen sooner
than I imagined.
‘I’ve got a swimming costume somewhere I don’t use any
more,’ Mum says. ‘You can have it if you like. Unless you’ve
already got one.’
‘I doubt it. I can’t remember the last time I went swimming.’
Actually, I can. It was that holiday in Spain. I had a tiny red
bikini that looked great with my tan. Simon had finally learned
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to juggle by then. I remember the crowd that gathered round to
watch, the teenage girls fluttering their eyelashes at him and
giving me envious, sidelong glances. He was so happy then, so
alive. It seems like a lifetime ago. I miss him so much.
‘Shall I hunt it out for you?’ Mum says.
I shake my head. The thought of Josh seeing me in one of
Mum’s old cozzies is too embarrassing to contemplate. Does
she seriously think I’d even consider wearing anything of hers?
I hang my coat on one of the hooks in the porch and transfer
the contents of my pockets into my rucksack. ‘You couldn’t
lend me some money till my benefit comes through, could
you? I don’t know what’s happened to all my summer clothes.’
I hate asking her for more money; she’s already spent most of
her savings on putting me through rehab, but if I have to wear
these old jeans for much longer, they’ll be falling apart. Her
eyebrows dip.
‘Forget it. I’ll make do with what I’ve got.’
‘No, you’re right,’ she says. ‘You do need some more clothes.
I could come with you if you like?’
‘You can’t keep treating me like a child, Mum. I’m not going
to buy any alcohol, okay? Just give me twenty- five quid, if you
can afford it. I’ll pick up a few bits and pieces at one of the charity shops. But if you’d rather not, that’s fine. I understand.’
I have a sudden urge to show her the £150, to thrust it under
her nose and say, See? This is what Josh’s dad has given me to buy paint. Don’t you think I’d have spent some of it in the offie by now if I couldn’t be trusted? but of course I don’t. Because she’s right. I came so close yesterday. So close.
She goes to where her handbag is hanging over the end of
the banister and takes out her purse. It’s small with a silver
clasp. I swallow hard. It reminds me of another purse. Another
time. Opening it up and scooping the notes out with shaky
fingers. Blood on my sleeve.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
The jagged images swim before my eyes like reflections in
broken glass. No, don’t go there. Shut it down. Shut it down
fast.
‘I’ll bring you the receipts,’ I say, but she shakes her head and
hands me four £10 notes.
‘You can pay me back a tenner a week when your dole money
comes through.’
I lean forward and kiss her on the cheek, humiliated, resent-
ful and grateful all at the same time.
How has it come to this?
Even though it’s broad daylight, I’m still anxious when I leave
the cottage, my senses primed for anything or anyone out of
the ordinary. But the fine weather has brought an influx of visi-
tors and after a while I relax. Nothing’s going to happen to me
with all these people around.
An old- fashioned bell pings as I push open the door of the
art shop. A seductive smorgasbord of familiar smells greets my
nostrils: paint thinner and varnish, mint and lanolin from
the bars of artist’s soap, the clay- like aroma of crayons and the
deliciously pulpy scent of new paper and freshly stretched can-
vas. It reminds me of being in the studios and workshops at
university, of building sets in empty theatres. It makes me want
to cry.
At first glance the shop looks thrown together, a higgledy-
piggledy profusion of tubs and tubes and tins and brushes, all
jostling for space on the shelves and display units. But as my
eyes adjust to the gloomy interior, I know just by looking at the
balding, brown- overalled man at the counter that he will be
able to put his hands on anything I might ask for within a mat-
ter of seconds.
He raises his eyes above his half- moon spectacles and says
good morning. He doesn’t ask if there’s anything in particular
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I’m looking for, or whether he can help me in any way, and for
> that I’m grateful. I know exactly what I need because I spent
hours thinking it through last night and making a long, detailed
list. I also worked out a fee for the job – it’s probably way less than it should be, but it’s still a damn sight more than I’ll have
earned in a long while. It was the only thing I could think of
doing to calm me down after my scary walk home. The only
thing other than drinking. But first I want to browse. I want to
walk slowly up and down the aisles and feast my eyes on the
glut of supplies.
I want to feel the smooth handles of the brushes and test the
bounce of the bristles on the backs of my hands. I want to reac-
quaint myself with the poetry of their names: the fans and the
flats and the riggers, the lily- bristle mottlers, the brights and
the filberts. I want to slide my eyes over the oils: linseed, poppy, safflower and walnut; oil of spike and copaiba balsam. Larch
Venice turpentine. Dragon’s blood.
I could stay here for ever, soaking it all up, running my fin-
gers along the shelves, gazing at the sponges and palette knives
as if my life depends on memorizing each and every item. It’s
like a portal into my old life. If only I could step back in and do
things differently this time.
An hour later, after I’ve agreed to collect my purchases later
today and with just a handful of change out of the £150 in one
pocket, and the £40 Mum’s given me in the other, I head for
the charity shops on Flinstead Road.
No longer under the spell of the art shop, the old tension
returns and I can’t help checking out every face I pass. Maybe
one of them belongs to the person who sent me that photo. So
when someone taps me on the shoulder as I’m waiting to cross
the road, I flinch so hard I almost twist my neck.
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16
‘Astrid, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
It’s Rosie. So much for not acknowledging each other in
public.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m a bundle of nerves today.’
‘Let me buy you a coffee, then,’ she says, already pulling her
purse from her bag. ‘It’s the least I can do for scaring you half
to death.’
My heart sinks. ‘That’s really kind of you, but . . .’ I glance
across the street for inspiration and see the steamed- up win-
dows of the Fisherman’s Shack. ‘It’s just that’ – I tilt my head
towards it – ‘I’m meant to be meeting a friend over there.’
Rosie lifts her chin. A faint tinge of pink colours her neck.
She knows I’m lying. ‘Oh, okay, no problem. I’ll see you around,
then.’
‘Yes.’
She goes to walk away, then stops and turns back. ‘I don’t
suppose I could wait in there with you, just until your friend
arrives? My shift doesn’t start for another half an hour.’
For fuck’s sake. She’s not going to give up. I rack my brain for
a good enough reason to say no, but nothing comes. Just as I’ve
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resigned myself to saying yes, a miracle appears in the form
of Helen, walking briskly along the pavement, eyes looking
straight ahead. She hasn’t seen us yet.
‘Hi, Helen,’ I call out to her, hoping she’ll pick up on the
look of desperation in my eyes, the silent beam of communica-
tion I’m projecting on to her. ‘I was beginning to think you’d
forgotten about our coffee.’
For a split second she looks confused, but she doesn’t let me
down. ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten. I was just popping into the newsagent’s for a paper first. Oh, hello, Rosie.’
Rosie gives her a tight smile.
‘Rosie was going to join us, but I’ve just remembered you
wanted to go for a walk first, didn’t you, Helen?’ I smile brightly, hoping Rosie won’t be pushy enough to tag along for that too.
‘Maybe another time, eh?’
Rosie nods, defeated. ‘Of course.’
I wait till she’s walked far enough away not to hear us. ‘Sorry
about that, but I really couldn’t face it.’
‘I do fancy a bit of a walk, as it happens,’ Helen says. ‘But I
need to eat first.’
I twist my head over my shoulder. Rosie is nowhere in sight,
but I’ve the weirdest sensation that she’s watching us from
somewhere. Then I spot the man with bad acne coming out of
the chemist’s. This is ridiculous. I can’t seem to go five minutes
without seeing someone from AA. Who’d have thought there’d
be so many of us in this sleepy little town? Although I guess
not everyone in the group actually lives here. There are lots of
small villages and hamlets in the surrounding countryside
with even less going on than Flinstead. That’s enough to drive
a person to drink in itself.
I steer Helen across the road before he catches sight of us.
Not that he’d come over even if he did. He always keeps him-
self to himself in meetings.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
‘Come on, let’s go and get an egg- and- bacon buttie.’
Now that we’re sitting opposite each other, steam rising from
our mugs of coffee, a couple of crumbs and the odd twist of
unwanted bacon rind the only thing left on our plates, I notice
the deep furrow between Helen’s eyebrows and the prominent
vein over her left temple. She’s tried to cover it with foundation
but hasn’t blended it in properly at the hairline. And her lip-
stick’s the wrong colour for her face. It’s too red and is starting
to feather into the fine lines on her upper lip.
I stab the crumbs on my plate with my forefinger and suck
them off. We’re two people whose paths would probably never
have crossed were it not for AA, but now that they have I’m
kind of glad. I do need a friend right now. Someone who knows
what I’m struggling with. Someone I can confide in without
fear of being judged or misunderstood.
Simon’s face creeps into my head. The healthy, handsome
face captured in that photo. Which means it isn’t long till the
other picture – the one of the hand dripping with blood – floats across it like the grisly title sequence of a crime drama. What
chance do I have of making something good happen with Josh
when my past keeps rearing up to remind me of all my flaws,
all my failures?
And what if that picture is just the beginning? What if there’s
more to come?
‘Astrid? What’s wrong?’
I jerk my head up and stare at Helen’s concerned face. ‘Some-
one’s trying to frighten me,’ I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
Because now that I’ve said those words, now that I’ve admitted
it aloud, in the presence of another person, the threat has
become more solid, more real. Someone is trying to frighten me. It’s not just in my head any more. And now that the words
have escaped, it’s inevitable that the rest will follow. A dam has
been breached.
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Helen leans forward and touches my forearm. ‘What do you
mean, trying to frighten you? Who is?’
I look around at the other people in the café. One old man
hunched over a mug of tea and the Sun. Two men in high-
visibility jackets silently stuffing butties into their mouths, and
Bob in his grease- splattered apron, wiping down the counter
with a stained dishcloth. It’s hardly crowded, and we’re tucked
away in the corner by the window. Nobody would hear me if I
spoke in a low voice but, even so, I’m self- conscious, wary.
‘I can’t do this. Not here.’
Helen nods. ‘Let’s finish our coffees and go for a walk,
shall we?’
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17
We walk along the tops of the cliffs, the sea a deep summer
blue that sparkles in the sun to our right. After about five min-
utes I have to take my jumper off and tie it round my waist by
the sleeves. Helen folds her raincoat over her left arm. Ever
since leaving the café we’ve been chatting about inconsequen-
tial things: the unseasonably warm weather, the Thames barge
on the horizon and the way, on days like this, if you filter out
the Englishness of the buildings and streets to our left, the
North Sea looks almost Mediterranean.
But hovering below and between and on the edges of our
words is the thing I’m not talking about. The reason we’re now
wending our way down the cliff path towards the wide expanse
of sand where I can speak freely, with only the swooping gulls
to eavesdrop.
At last, when we’ve settled into a comfortable pace across the
flat sand, I tell Helen about the photo and the picture. The
words spew out of me. A tide of broken sentences, ragged with
emotion. God knows how she’ll make sense of it. It’s like some-
one’s dropped a manuscript on the floor and I’m picking all the
pages up and trying to put them back together, but they aren’t
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numbered and I can’t organize the story into any kind of coher-
ent order.
So many scenes and images, so many memories. It all feels
