Dear Anybody

by Rosa Temple

  At The Crown I thought I’d given him ample opportunity to make his move but instead he ran away. I thought it a bit strange but now I know he’s tongue tied and nervous around me. His flirting was all a front. The letter puts everything into perspective. I must admit, having a boyfriend who cheated makes me anxious about starting something with Damian. I have been knocked back, battered and bruised but here is Damian giving me the green light to just go for it. At last I can start getting Rob out of my system.

  When lunchtime comes around I’m feeling fired up and ready to march into Damian’s. I’ll just go and ask the man out, no beating about the bush. I pull out my vanity mirror and lipstick. Quick touch up. This expensive lippy is supposed to be twenty-four hour but after just two coffees the Cherry Blast vibrancy has worn away from the centre of my lips. I brush my hair, several times, and then mess it up so I won’t look as if I’ve tried too hard. I put my coat on and I hear Mags in her office selling advertising space in a booming voice as I trot downstairs. She’s guffawing in a horsey way down the phone and by the time I’m at the bottom of the stairs I hear her bellow, ‘That’s great, I can give you the middle page spread.’

  Beth and Jenna have gone to sample finger buffet food at a nearby hotel as part of Jenna’s feature about brides. She has already struck several deals of her own for her upcoming nuptials and has coaxed Beth into being her tasting buddy for the afternoon. Ordinarily I would have insisted on accompanying Jenna myself. Any excuse for a free nosh up. But I have been holding back on excessive eating as well as booze and it is paying off. I no longer get that red groove around my waist after I take off my skirt or trousers. I refused to go up a dress size. I’d squeezed into my clothes until they jolly well fit again.

  I march with purpose to the village centre. I might not be back to a proper size 14 but my lipstick looks good and I’ll get to my former size one day. My plan is to eat my lunch at Damian’s and hang out until everyone has left before making a move on the man himself.

  I get as far as the shops around the corner from Damian’s Coffee House when I hear my name being called. Looking around I see Carey by her car taking shopping bags out of the boot. Carey is looking a bit flustered as I cross the road. She has scooped her gorgeous hair into a pigtail and shoved a knitted, red hat over it.

  ‘Shopping?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ she says slamming the boot and sighing.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Well, you know I told you I’ve got friends coming tonight and you’re welcome to join?’

  ‘You changed your mind? I mean they’re your friends I could do something else tonight.’

  ‘No, that’s the last thing I want. I need the moral support. I haven’t seen or spoken to any of them properly in ages. I just bought some food from the deli and I can’t get my car started. I’ve got cold meat and God knows what else in these bags. I just wondered if you’d help me get them home. I can’t carry them all, unfortunately.’

  I glance down the road that leads to Damian’s Coffee House and try not to look too disappointed.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to ask and you’re at work and everything,’ Carey continues.

  ‘It’s lunchtime,’ I say weakly, knowing I can hardly let Carey down. I’d been invited to this little soirée of hers after all.

  ‘Then lunch is on me,’ she says. ‘I’ve definitely over bought so we can raid some of this lot and I could always get you a taxi if it gets too late. I’d take one now but it’s a long wait and I don’t want anything to spoil.’

  ‘It’s no problem,’ I say. ‘Running home with bags of shopping can be my workout for the day. God knows I need the exercise.’ I reach down to pick up some bags. Carey clicks the remote of her car and grabs the rest before we set off for her house.

  ‘You’re an absolute godsend,’ Carey puffs behind me. I give a last lingering look in the direction of Damian’s. It’s not the end of the world. I can always try again tomorrow. Besides, when I look back at Carey, she is smiling so sweetly it makes me feel bad about being reluctant to help. She has yet to accept any rent from me and is adamant that all her bills are up to date and she would work something out for future months.

  I’m convinced Carey has a secret. A secret about where all her money came from. Yes, she’s a working photographer but how much can that actually bring in? That house, her clothes. Even her car, though it’s broken down now, isn’t of the low budget variety. I turn and she smiles sweetly at me again. Maybe these friends of hers might reveal a bit more about what I’m now calling the Carey Enigma.

  Chapter 19

  I don’t know what I was expecting. Somehow, I thought Carey’s friends would be gregarious, arty types. Men with beards and cardigans. Women in high fashion who only went by one name. I thought their jobs would be in the arts, creative and innovative. But they’re just regular people. The doorbell rings and a group of four perfectly ordinary looking people arrive at the same time filling the downstairs hall with drab grey coats from High Street chains. I thought they must be the fillers, the ones who arrive far earlier than anyone else and nod and say polite things until the real party people turn up. I also thought there would be at least thirty people coming to this little do, considering how much Carey bought by way of food and drink. I was surprised to see her set the table in the dining room for six.

  Carey’s friends are two men and two women, which include a couple who keep checking their phones as if they’re looking for good conversation starters online. When the pleasantries are out of the way, the Hello’s and the It’s been too long’s, Carey herds them towards the living room. The flock is dressed very plainly in jeans and sweaters and no one has a beard, in fact one man is almost bald and comes up to my shoulder.

  ‘Oh, everyone, this is Sydney. Sydney is up from London on a temporary contract.’

  The short balding man holds out a hand as the group all stop just outside the living room door. I shake his hand and try to spark some life into him as he considers me through his small round metal frame glasses.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ I say. ‘And you are … ?’

  ‘I’m Nick.’

  They each offer me a hand in turn. Mary and Peter are the mobile checking couple and Maeve is a twitchy redhead in a pale blue shirt.

  After drinks, all of us standing in the living room like pieces on a chess board waiting to be moved, Carey prompts us to come to the dinner table. She has set up the dining room which is never really used and lights two candles on the long table. The overhead lighting is subtle but candlelight causes the good crystal and the silverware to sparkle. It’s a beautiful room with a high ceiling and French windows that open out to the garden. Outside fairy lights dangle around the old apple tree and an electric heater, as yet unlit, is set up next to some garden chairs. Maybe we’ll all be out smoking joints later. Looking at this party of friends I’m really hoping so.

  I’m sat next to Nick, the Mary and Peter couple sit together opposite us. Maeve sits at one end of the table while Carey hovers and says she’d better see how things are doing in the kitchen. She seems on edge for some reason. She wasn’t herself when I left for work this morning.

  ‘Would you like some help in the kitchen?’ I ask Carey before she disappears.

  ‘I’m on it,’ she says with a smile.

  I awkwardly turn back to the party guests. Nick is frowning while fiddling with his water glass. The phone couple look from their phones to each other and at the same time say: ‘Anything?’ then they both shake their heads. So they’re expecting some news I surmise. Maeve is smiling sweetly at nothing in particular and fixing the collar of her shirt.

  ‘So, Nick,’ I say with a broad smile. Someone has to break the ice here. ‘What is it you do?’

  ‘Who me? I’m an electrician. And an old friend of the family.’ Carey’s family I’m guessing but does he mean her parents and siblings or, if one of my theories about Carey’s past is true, does he mean the husband and children she left behind? I go in f
or a follow up question but Carey comes in with a large tray of bowls and our avocado starter is served.

  In my previous attempts to learn more about Carey’s past I discovered her absolute knack for changing subjects very quickly, answering questions with a question or just going into snooze by letting her hair cover her face.

  As the evening wears on I discover her friends are no different when it came to prising information out of them about Carey. It’s almost as if she has primed them to diffuse my prying mode with vague answers that never really answer my question. I am completely in the dark. It’s as if they’re talking a secret code. I decide to amp up the flow of alcohol, topping everyone’s wine glasses before they’ve barely drunk a sip in the hope the drink will loosen tongues.

  ‘So Nick,’ I say turning to him as he’s about to put the last piece of avocado into his mouth. He pauses with it on the fork and raises his eyebrows. ‘How long did you say you’ve known Carey and her children?’

  ‘Children?’ He is obviously confused. It’s an interview tactic I picked up to illicit information the interviewee isn’t ready for. It encourages them to spill the beans before they realise they’ve done it. This isn’t something I picked up after years on the Kilburn Times or from my journalism course. I got the technique from a Dustin Hoffman film in which he played a newspaper reporter. ‘I never mentioned a child.’

  ‘Sorry, no. You said you were a friend of the family.’ Before I can go on Carey gets up, cuts the conversation about Brexit at the other end of the table dead and stabs me with a stare.

  ‘I do need you, Sydney. Let’s take these bowls out and see what’s happening with the main?’

  I follow her like a faithful puppy to the kitchen with a strong feeling she might want to reprimand me for asking too many questions.

  ‘Your friends are lovely,’ I say. The so-called help she needs isn’t obvious to me. As usual Carey has everything under control. ‘Any of them from the photography world?’ Carey shakes her head but remains unflappable despite my intense line of questioning.

  ‘I was introduced to them some time back.’ Carey cuts me short and pushes a ladle into my hand. ‘Could you heap some stroganoff into that serving dish please? I can carry it in if you want to grab the tray of veg.’

  She is gone, like a stealthy cat, out of the kitchen. I crane my neck to overhear the mumble of voices from the dining room when the door opens. I hear a conspiratorial stage whisper from Carey but automatically dismiss the idea. The last thing I want to feel is like Rosemary in Rosemary’s Baby when everyone at the dinner party is in on something and Rosemary is completely in the dark. There’s no way this group of people are planning some satanic ritual involving me.

  Carey is leaving the dining room as I arrive with bowls of steaming veg on a silver platter and holds open the door.

  ‘Nearly forgot the rice,’ she says as she breezes past. She leaves in her wake a very chilled dining room. Everyone is silent now that I’m back and Maeve is still smiling at some imaginary object inches from her nose.

  ‘Anyone for a top up?’ I ask waving a bottle of red that Carey has left to breath.

  ‘Just a small one for me,’ says Mary. ‘And Peter can’t because he’s our nominated driver.’

  This elicits a much-needed peel of laughter from them all.

  ‘So, you’re not staying tonight?’ I ask as Carey comes back with two different types of rice. ‘None of you? I thought you were all up from Bristol. That’s quite a drive.’

  ‘Peter and I have two children,’ Mary replies putting a hand over her glass before I can turn it into a wine waterfall. ‘The sitter wants to be leaving by at least midnight.’

  The other two aren’t staying, either. But it’s a Thursday night. I wonder if the reason Carey had this party on a weekday was so that no one would stay. Carey has no real friends here in Bridley, no one close, and I never hear her chatting on the phone unless it’s for work.

  As the main course progresses, things become more and more curious to me. The way everyone is acting, so stiff, so restrained as if no one wants to say a wrong word. The entire time, all I hear is small talk, actually it’s all they have been making. When it seems as if the small talk has run out, they turn their attention to me. After being on the sidelines of what is a game of charades in which everyone else is on one team and I’m on my own in the other, I resort to drinking more than I’d intended. My cheeks are tingling with the buzz of alcohol as I find myself under the spotlight.

  ‘A three-month contract, eh?’ Nick says taking a short sip of wine. ‘What will you do at the end of it?’

  ‘Well I certainly won’t be staying, the way Carey did.’ I outdo his small sip with a very large one.

  ‘So, you’ll go back to London and try for another magazine? Freelancing perhaps?’

  ‘Both very good options,’ I say, not admitting I had no solid plan. ‘Journalism is just so competitive.’

  ‘Have you been doing any writing?’

  ‘You mean other than on the magazine?’

  Nick nods and before I begin to answer I notice Mary turn to Carey. It’s not so much a turn of the head but a sidewards focus of her eyes. Mary looks sad for a moment, I think her lip quivers, ever so slightly, and her eyes look glassy. I open my mouth again to answer Nick’s question. Carey’s hand reaches for Mary’s and tightens around it. I notice a quick shake of Carey’s head, and if I’m reading this right, she’s telling Mary that now isn’t the time. Just like that the exchange is over. Mary is smiling at me, waiting, as is the rest of the table, for my reply. Carey sips her wine, nodding for me to continue. Did I just imagine it? I’ve been trying so hard to invent a back story for Carey I think the drink is making me see things. No, no. Drink or no drink, I am positive I’m sensing an underlying story, a story untold. I’m sitting on the outside of a big, big secret.

  ‘I have often toyed with the idea of writing a novel,’ I say after drawing in a huge breath.

  ‘Oh?’ Nick replies. ‘You and millions of others. I’m sorry, no. That was disrespectful. I’m sure you have a story in you. They say everyone has.’

  It’s just that mine is full of lies and deceit, of a story only half told because I’m in denial about part of it. That and a long overdue confrontation with my ex. Two things I will have to face up to some day.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ I say forcing a smile. ‘I do have a story. I blurted some of it out to Carey when I first arrived, hoping she would tell me hers.’ All eyes are now looking down at the empty plates. ‘But she hasn’t revealed anything. I guess that just leaves me with fiction. But I have been searching for ideas and I think I have something.’

  ‘Yes?’ says Nick.

  ‘It’s silly, but I thought I might write something based on the village. It’s a small village but I sense there are a lot of stories to be told. Even though I’d base my characters on the people of Bridley, the story I tell will be complete fiction. I have no idea what happens behind closed doors. I can just let my imagination go wild.’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Carey says with gusto and swoops down on the empty plates and bowls, clattering them noisily into piles. ‘If you’re basing it on this place I could help out with a bit of history, help you put things into perspective.’

  ‘That would be great,’ I say getting up to help Carey. Nick helps too. A gruelling hour of dessert and coffee follows. Gruelling because I’m doing most of the talking and I’m talking absolute nonsense to these people and telling bad jokes. There is radio silence from everyone apart from Mary who has said at least three times that perhaps it was time to make a move.

  ‘I think I might go up early,’ I say when I can’t take the pressure of keeping everyone else awake on my own. I suspect they have things to say when I’m out of the room. I say my goodbyes and leave the room.

  A little later, from my bedroom, I hear mumbling and a bit of movement from downstairs. At one time I think I hear someone sobbing but in the end I put that down t
o an over active imagination. Perhaps I should start writing my book now. I need an outlet to stop me going crazy, dreaming up all kinds of weird scenarios about Carey’s past. I even wondered if Carey and her friends are survivors of a cult.

  They are saying their farewells in the hallway and I desperately need the loo at that very moment. I wriggle around for a while because I don’t want them to think I’m spying but they’re not leaving. I hear the front door open and from the landing I can make out their softened voices.

  ‘You’ve done so well,’ I overhear Mary say. ‘We’ve missed you so much.’

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ Carey says in almost a whisper. ‘Thank you for being so patient with me and for sticking around.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nick tells her. ‘As if we wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’ve done wonders to the house,’ Maeve remarks. I think she’s hugging Carey, but without leaning over the banister and giving myself away, I can’t be sure. She might be handing something over to Carey. A present? I realise I still don’t know the purpose of the impromptu get together. Carey had simply walked into the kitchen recently and announced she was throwing a party.

  ‘And I’m extremely proud of you for the theme you’ve chosen for the photographs. It’s a brilliant coping strategy that must be working for you because you look different and you’ve finally let us back in.’ It’s the most I’ve heard Maeve utter all night.

  I hear kisses and hugs being exchanged, the bustle of coats being put back on. Then, because no one says anything else, I decide to peer over at them. Maybe I’ll spot a secret handshake or an illicit exchange of briefcases. Nothing. Just a group of people who all look sad now, no more of the excessive smiling of earlier. I see Mary wipe away a tear and then they are gone.

  I’m half-way over the banister when Carey looks up at me.