Who Did You Tell (ARC)

by Lesley Kara

  carpet fluff and that I’d imagined the whole thing, but of

  course, there it was. It was pretty faint, but I could just about

  make out that it said ‘London, EC2’.

  At first I was relieved it wasn’t local, but then I realized that

  doesn’t mean a thing. If you wanted to remain anonymous –

  and clearly, they do – you’d travel somewhere else to send it,

  wouldn’t you? EC2 is a central London postcode. It’d be easy to

  travel into town and pop something in the post there. Where it was posted is irrelevant. What’s more worrying is that whoever

  sent it knows where I live.

  I hope to God Helen is right and that the person behind this

  is a coward at heart. Someone who gets pleasure from upset-

  ting people from a distance. Why are there so many haters in

  the world?

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  LESLEY K AR A

  A sudden burst of clapping brings me back to the moment.

  Acne Man must have finished. Should I go next and bring the

  pub thing up? What’s the point of dragging myself here if I

  don’t? And who knows, it might make me feel better, saying it

  aloud. After all, telling Helen about Simon and my twisted pen

  pal helped a bit. None of it’s gone away, of course, but it’s true

  what they say: a problem shared is a problem halved. Well,

  maybe not halved exactly, but certainly reduced. Confession is

  good for the soul.

  At last the clapping dies down and silence settles upon us

  like a welcome breeze on a hot day. I know that if I don’t speak

  now, someone else will pick up the baton and run with it and

  I’ll have missed my chance.

  ‘I went into the Flinstead Arms last week,’ I hear myself say-

  ing. The atmosphere in the room shifts up a gear.

  ‘I couldn’t think of an excuse not to and I thought I’d be fine.’

  The woman with protruding eyes leans forward slightly, as if

  she doesn’t want to miss a single thing. As if my words are drops

  of neat vodka.

  ‘I nearly ordered half a pint of beer.’

  Acne Man taps his right foot on the floor and stares at my

  knees. He’s already knocked it back in his head and is ordering

  another – a pint this time. Helen smiles at me with her eyes,

  but she’s twisting her fingers in her lap and making the knuck-

  les click.

  Only Rosie and Jeremy seem unfazed. It’s as if they’ve been

  expecting it, just waiting for me to slip up so they can brandish

  the Big Book in front of me and say, We told you so – now will you listen to us and do this thing properly?

  But I’m glad I’ve told them. I’m glad it’s out in the open, even

  if it is only within these four walls. I just wish I could be as

  honest with Josh.

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  She’s not beautiful. Not by a long chalk, but there’s something rather sensual about her mouth. And then there are those long, slender legs.

  Those pert little tits. I can just about see what he saw in her.

  Why do I do this to myself? Why do I keep imagining them

  together? It’s unhealthy. Masochistic.

  Every day I tell myself I’m going to stop. But here I am again.

  Watching. Waiting. Biding my time till the moment is right. Till the perfect opportunity presents itself.

  Revenge. The anticipation of it. The playing it out in my mind.

  It’s almost like . . . an addiction.

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  22

  ‘Where do you want this set up?’ Josh says. ‘I’m guessing the

  living room has the best light.’

  He’s been up into the attic and brought down the old easel

  that used to belong to his mother.

  ‘It’s probably best if I paint it in situ. I need to get the colours right.’

  Finalizing the sketches and meeting Josh for walks along the

  beach that invariably end up with more sex in the beach hut

  have been the only things keeping me focused these last few

  days. But now that I’m finally ready to start on the preliminary

  painting, my nerves are in shatters. It’s been ages since I’ve

  done this type of work. Would Richard have commissioned me

  if he knew I hadn’t painted for seven long years?

  Josh carries the easel into the small, middle room where the

  only light that comes in is via the wall lights and the transom

  windows above the two internal doors. He helps me slot the

  canvas into place.

  A couple of minutes later he returns with a portable radio.

  ‘In case you fancy a bit of background music as you work,’

  he says.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  Alone in the room, surrounded by my brushes and sponges,

  my tubes of paint and my plastic pallets, I take a deep breath.

  This is the moment I’ve been anticipating for days. It’s also the

  moment I’ve been dreading.

  I try to visualize the finished product. Once I’m happy with

  the painting on canvas – if I’m happy with it – and once I’ve got Richard’s agreement to go ahead, I’ll take a photo, print it out

  and draw a grid over it. Then I’ll draw a larger grid of equal

  ratio on to the wall itself so that I can transfer what I see in my

  reference photo square by square. It’s like painting by numbers

  except it’ll be my own painting I’m copying.

  There is, of course, an easier way of transferring an image on

  to a large surface, and that’s using a digital projector, but it’s

  expensive and, besides, the grid method is a brilliant way of

  training your eye to break down images into small, interlock-

  ing shapes. I’ll have to get the ratios spot on, though. There has

  to be the exact same number of equally spaced lines on the

  wall as there are on the photo – identical, perfect squares –

  otherwise, the finished product will look distorted.

  It’s time- consuming, intricate work, but if it was good enough

  for the Old Masters, then it’s good enough for me, and Richard

  has already said that I must take as long as I need. He’s not after

  a rushed job, and nor am I. This house is a labour of love for

  him. He cares about aesthetics. He cares about the small details.

  Josh does too. I can tell from the quality of their workman-

  ship. Which makes the task ahead of me seem even more

  daunting.

  I can’t begin to imagine what they’d make of Mum’s house,

  with its dated anaglypta wallpaper and Artexed ceilings. I’ve

  stopped suggesting she redecorate because, try as she might,

  she can’t stop herself harking back to the squat thing. As if

  someone who’s lived in a squat isn’t allowed to have an opin-

  ion about home decor. I suppose one day the house will be

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  LESLEY K AR A

  mine – then I can do what I want with it. Unless she’s left it all

  to Wells in India or Donke
ys in Peril. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  Suddenly, I feel terribly ashamed. My mother is a good per-

  son. A worthy person. She used to teach challenging children.

  Children who’d been expelled from school. She doesn’t deserve

  a fuck- up like me. She wanted someone called Hilary. Someone

  who would have benefited from her steady influence, who would

  have followed her into teaching or social work or another public-

  spirited career. Someone who would have made her proud.

  I swallow hard. She was proud of me once. Proud of the

  paintings I used to do. Maybe it’s not too late.

  We call it a day around three. Josh suggests a swim – he knows

  my costume is in my bag because he saw it earlier, when I was

  searching for my lip balm – and although I’m weary from my

  first day’s painting, it’s that good type of weariness, the one

  that comes after doing something you want to be doing. Turns

  out I can still paint, after all.

  I’m expecting it to be cold, but as I walk into the water it’s

  still a shock to the system. The chill coils round my ankles and

  creeps up my calves like a pair of icy socks. It doesn’t seem like

  such a good idea now that I’m actually here, even though the

  late- afternoon sun is warm on my back and there’s hardly a

  breath of wind. But I’m not going to chicken out now.

  ‘Don’t just launch yourself in,’ Josh says. ‘Wade in slowly.

  Get your body and mind acclimatized first.’ He’s up to his waist

  already, splashing water on to his arms. ‘It’s the first time this

  year I’ve been in without a wetsuit.’

  As the water reaches my thighs I gasp. Josh laughs. ‘Told you

  it’d put that flame out.’

  Right, then: it’s now or never. I dip below the surface of the

  water. It’s even colder than I imagined, a real adrenalin rush

  that makes me gasp. I propel myself forwards and, within

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  seconds, Josh is swimming alongside me. I’d never have done

  this on my own, not at this time of year, but he makes me feel

  safe. There’s never a moment when I think he might ambush

  me from under the water or splash me. For Josh, swimming is

  a serious business.

  I have a sudden image of him teaching a child to float. Our

  child. Talking to her in that gentle voice of his, a reassuring

  hand under the small of her back. My God, what am I think-

  ing? I can barely look after myself, let alone a child.

  I keep swimming, but now another child threatens to come

  into focus. I won’t let it. I won’t. But it pushes its way through,

  its little feet kicking and thrashing against the footplate of its

  pushchair, its face contorted in distress. And then the noise of

  its cry. That panicky, staccato burst that makes my ears pound.

  Not now, please. Not here. I turn back towards the shore, anxious to get out of the water and dry off.

  ‘I don’t want to get out of my depth,’ I manage to say between

  breaths.

  ‘You won’t,’ Josh says. ‘Not if you swim parallel to the shore.’

  At last, the image fades. The crying becomes the squawking of

  a distant gull and I feel strong enough to swim alongside him.

  How do you feel?’ he asks.

  Broken. Adrift. At the mercy of forces beyond my control.

  The sudden swell of an unwanted memory crashing into me

  like a wave.

  ‘Freezing,’ I tell him.

  But with each stroke it becomes just a little easier, till it’s

  bordering on being strangely pleasant, in a sharp, biting, maso-

  chistically invigorating sort of way. The water is smooth and silky

  on my arms and shoulders. Every so often, I pause and stand

  up, just to reassure myself that I can still feel soft sand beneath

  my feet.

  Josh dives under the water and surfaces a few feet in front of

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  me. His wet hair clings to his head like a swimming cap and he

  runs his hands through it, pushing it back so that it’s off his

  forehead.

  ‘Maybe I should get a short back and sides like you,’ he says.

  ‘No. I love your hair.’ Shit. It’s too soon to be bandying words

  like ‘love’ about, even if I am just referring to his hair. Change the subject. Quick. I take a deep breath through my nostrils.

  ‘That ozone smell’s great, isn’t it? Takes me back to being a little girl, on daytrips to the beach.’

  The way my voice is coming out, all breathy with the cold

  and the physical exertion of the swimming, I must sound like

  a little girl to his ears.

  ‘Except it isn’t ozone,’ Josh says. His face glistens with water,

  little drops of it trapped on his eyelashes. ‘What you’re smelling

  is actually the gas that comes off decomposing plankton and

  seaweed. That’s why it has that sulphurous whiff. It’s called

  dimethyl sulphide.’

  ‘Now who’s being romantic?’

  Josh grins and launches himself head first into the water

  again. The last thing I see are the pink soles of his feet. I wait for him to reappear, but he doesn’t. A stray cloud covers the sun

  and fear sneaks up my spine, vertebra by vertebra. How can he

  do that? How can he swim under for so long? I take a step for-

  ward. My foot slides across the slippery surface of a large

  smooth stone embedded in the sand, and as I try to right myself

  I realize my toes aren’t touching the bottom and I almost lose

  my balance. Water rushes up my nostrils and before I can snort

  it out some of it’s gone down the back of my throat.

  I tread water till I’ve coughed and spluttered the pungent,

  briny taste away. A few yards to my right Josh’s shoulders and

  arms, and then the long, graceful curve of his back, break the

  surface. At least he didn’t witness me spitting and snotting into

  the sea.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  I swim over to him in my pedestrian breaststroke.

  ‘I want to be able to swim like you.’

  He pulls me towards him and encloses me in his strong, wet

  arms. ‘I’ll teach you,’ he says. ‘I taught my mum how to swim too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, she had a mean front crawl.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Sure you can. Go on, have a try.’

  I do my useless version for as long as I’m able, which isn’t

  long at all, not in this choppy water.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, grinning. ‘We’re going to have to do a lot of

  work on your breathing technique. You need to roll further for

  your breaths and breathe on alternate sides, if you can. You’ve

  got to find a pattern that matches the waves and breathe as fast

  as you can, suck the air in quick. You are breathing out under-

  water, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m holding my breath when my face is under.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re going wrong. You’ve got to exha
le

  while your face is in the water, or you’re going to get out of

  breath and tire too fast. The most important thing to remem-

  ber when you’re swimming in the sea is that if you get into

  trouble, try not to panic. Tread water for a while, or float. The

  more relaxed you are, the less oxygen you’ll need.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be any good at it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘By the end of summer I’ll have you

  leaping through the water like a dolphin.’

  The end of summer. It sounds so final.

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  23

  The second I turn my key and push open the porch door, I

  smell it. Joint, by Roccobarrocco. Simon’s aftershave. And even

  though I know it isn’t his – of course it isn’t, it’s just the

  postman – the sudden and powerful surge of memories that

  come with it still makes me gasp.

  I drop my bag on the hall floor and walk towards the living

  room and the clacking sound of knitting needles. The door is

  ajar and, as I approach, I see Mum, sitting in her usual arm-

  chair by the fireplace, balls of flesh- coloured wool nestled in

  her lap like hairless kittens. On the coffee table in front of her

  are two empty cups and saucers.

  Oh no, Pam isn’t here, is she? Mum’s informant. That’s all I

  need. I’ve only met her a couple of times, and on both occasions

  she looked at me as if I were some kind of alien. Pam’s daughter,

  it goes without saying, isn’t a hopeless alcoholic without a penny

  to her name. Pam’s daughter is a proper grown- up. A maths

  teacher, married with two boys. Lives in a semi on the new estate

  on the outskirts of Mistden, which, if you listen to Pam, you’d

  think was the pinnacle of success.

  And to think, all that could have been mine . . .

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  I walk further into the room and turn, reluctantly, towards

  the sofa. But whoever was here is now gone. Only a slight

  indentation in the cushion remains.

  ‘You’ve had a visitor.’

  Mum lances a ball of wool with her needles and drops it into

  the basket at her feet. ‘Yes, she came back. The girl who used to

  live here. Well, young woman, I suppose I should say. She kept

  saying how different it looked.’

  My eyes scan the room. Something about this doesn’t feel