by C. J. Skuse
I refuse to look at him. I hear the door open.
‘I’ll keep an eye on the Tessa Sharpe case, alright? I’ll do that for you. But please give me a break on the change of ID thing, hmmm? I’ll call in a few days.’
I sniff. ‘What do I do in the meantime?’
‘Go to work. Blend in.’ He glances at Emily in disdain. ‘And stop lying.’
I stand up, retrieving my mints from under the shell of the little bronze tortoise on the coffee table. ‘Take these for your meeting. Your breath stinks.’
7
Wednesday, 30th October
All morning, Scants’s words chirrup around my head like the little birds who try to wake up Cinderella. You have to immerse yourself in Joanne, forget all these other characters you play. Drown yourself in Joanne until she’s unforgettable.
Born in Liverpool twenty-nine years ago in April.
Three brothers – one in Brisbane. Systems analyst. One in Dubai, one York – a solicitor. Can’t remember where the other one is. Parents died in Crete, ten years ago. Steven and – see, I cannot even remember my own fake mother’s name.
I went to film school, no, art school. Dropped out. Gap year in India. Orphanage somewhere else. Came here as kids so moved back to Spurrington. I want to go travelling again so I’m saving up by working at The Lalique.
It’s all complete and utter lies. And not the innocent kind of fibs I tell either. It’s not like when I spin a yarn at the hairdresser’s about my gorgeous husband and kids to people I won’t see again or when the doughnut man asks me about my non-existent novels. That’s make-believe, like me and Foy used to play. These are big fat hairy lies that stick around – my birth certificate. My passport. My job. I’m sick of it, have been since I was Melanie Smith with the job in McDonald’s and the sister in Burnley and the parents who’d retired abroad. I can’t do it anymore. All being Joanne Haynes does is make me sad. Remind me who I’m not allowed to be:
Ellis Clementine Kemp.
Born to Daniel Kemp and Faye Ellis, childhood sweethearts. Danny was a builder, Faye a teaching assistant. Faye went through seventeen hours of labour before I was born via caesarean at 5.46 a.m. on Christmas Eve Eve. I was in Dad’s arms and they’d been talking about my name – Mum’s maiden name was Ellis, and something Christmassy but not too Christmassy. The smell that reminded Dad of Christmas was always the unpeeling of the first clementine. It was right as he said that that my mum stopped talking. A massive cardiac arrest, the doctors said. Major post-partum haemorrhage. Three pints of blood. A scrap of placenta left in her uterus. The coroner said it had been a ‘heinous oversight for which a loving family paid dearly’. It made the papers. Dad got compensation which he used to buy our house in Smyth Road, Bristol, next to the City ground so he could watch his beloved Robins every home game.
And he brought me up alone. Girlfriends didn’t stick around because Dad was unreliable. Jobs didn’t stick around for long either, same reason. And Dad was sad. And when Dad was sad, he’d take risks. That’s where it all started to go wrong.
How do you forget about the bricks that built you? How do you look at yourself in a mirror and be someone you know you’re not? I can play pretend for a while. I can be Ann or Claire or Melanie or whoever else they want me to be, I know how to do that, but I can’t just forget. That’s not me. That’s not Ellis Clementine Kemp.
I dragged myself in, but work was particularly diabolical today – my colleagues have found a new way to make me feel uncomfortable that they haven’t tried before – instead of laughing at me or talking behind my back, they are ignoring me. Trevor responds to my questions about where my cart is and which floor they want me to start on first, but for the most part, I am a ghost. I may as well be Tessa Sharpe.
‘Bye,’ I call into the staff office when I clock out at 2 p.m. Nobody looks up.
It’s raining hard when I step outside. I cross the road, fumbling into my bag for my capsule umbrella and some money for a bag of doughnuts, but the van’s shut up shop for the day. I look across to my flat and there is a figure standing outside, hood up, green wax jacket, looking down into my patio doors. His hand is on the gate. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, checks the screen, then puts it away. He’s lingering. I can’t go home.
I go to the arcades. I spy Matthew at the basketball game, several strings of tickets draped around his neck.
‘Oh there you are,’ he says. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Sorry. My boyfriend took me away to Corfu for a couple of days. Little treat.’
‘You don’t look very brown.’
‘I don’t tan easily,’ I say, gazing at his tickets. ‘Have you won all those today?’
‘Yeah,’ he says proudly. ‘Do you wanna go on the air hockey?’ He yanks a wodge of tenners from his jeans pocket.
‘Where did you get all that?’
‘My dad gave it to me last night.’
‘Why?’
‘Guilt, I s’pose. Come on, I’ll treat ya.’
He changes up two tenners for burgers, Slush Puppies and all the brass tokens we can hold in our pockets. Inside the arcades it’s busy and loud and while I don’t feel up to playing games, I stand alongside Matthew and watch as he does. I get the firm impression he mostly wants me there to prop up his ego. The more I tell him ‘Good job’ or ‘Well done’ or ‘I’m so impressed’ when he nets twenty-five air hockey pucks in a row, the more he smiles. The tickets are his thing – he wins hundreds of the things on every visit but never ever changes them for prizes at the kiosk. He must have enough for one of the larger teddies or even something electronic. But no, he only wants the tickets.
The captain of the pirate ship pops up behind a cannon and Matthew shoots him square in the face and all these bells and whistles go off like it’s Mardi Gras and the machine spews hundreds of tickets out the slot.
‘Wahoo! Yes!’ he cries. ‘Look how many I got!’
It’s probably only enough to buy half a Maoam and a scented comb but I smile encouragingly. I’d like his advice, really, but I don’t know where to start. And I don’t want to tell him about Tessa Sharpe in case it scares him. He’s got enough on his plate.
We play on all the machines until it’s time for him to go home and he says ‘Laters’ at the door as he’s checking his phone, like it’s no big deal for him to leave. Probably because it isn’t. But it is for me. Because it means I’m alone again. And that man might still be hanging around outside my flat.
Out of the arcades, I head down one of the side streets to the only shop I know along that row – the only place I’ll be safe. Seaside Bridal. I sneak under the awning of the wool shop, closed for the afternoon, and put my umbrella on the ground, fumbling inside my bag for my little pillow. I reach under my coat and stuff it up inside my jumper. Then I make my way down to the shop, perfecting my waddle.
‘Hi there,’ says a blonde lady in the grey suit behind the till. ‘I’m Cathy, welcome to Seaside Bridal. Can I be of any assistance?’ She blinks fast and smiles falsely.
‘Hi there,’ I say, blowing out my stomach and patting it. ‘Can you make a beached whale look pretty for her big day?’
‘Ahhh congratulations!’ she beams. ‘When are you due?’
‘Oh, not until the spring,’ I say. ‘Do you mind if I sit down? Getting a twinge.’
‘Of course, of course,’ she says, moving a stack of magazines from a grey velvet chaise longue. I sit down and from there I get a bird’s eye view of the street. I can’t see the man in the hood.
‘My Sarah’s due around the same time. Third grandchild.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Is it your first?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Me and Kaden have been trying for years so it’s a bit special.’
I rub my bloated stomach which contains little more than two bowls of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, a steak and onion pasty and a can of Fanta.
‘Aww, well that’s fantastic,’ says Cathy. ‘You getting all the cravings the
n?’
‘Oh yes. All the time. I sent my Kaden out for a jar of pickled cucumbers at ten o’clock last night. I just fancied some with a slice of malt loaf.’
The woman laughs.
‘Ooh!’ I cry. ‘It kicked!’ She seems delighted for me. One younger woman offers me a glass of water. I decline, politely.
‘I remember it well,’ she says and sits beside me on the chaise longue. ‘So, are you planning your wedding for next year then, or before the baby’s born?’
‘After the baby’s born, ideally, so I’d need to factor that in to the tailoring.’
‘No problem.’
I see the man again. Lingering. Loitering. Waiting for someone. I don’t think I know him. He’s jittery. Won’t keep his feet still. And then he goes out of eyeshot.
Cathy is still chit-chatting about my options – accessories, fittings dates, materials, hairdressers. I can’t go back to Curl Up and Dye, of course, but she doesn’t recommend them anyway.
‘I’ve seen cockroaches in there before now,’ she says, all serious-face. ‘And I know someone who tried the lip fillers and ended up looking like one of those fish.’
She laughs and suggests we make an arrangement to go through the racks properly next week ‘when I have more time’. I can’t think of anything else to keep me in the shop, so I agree and she puts my name down in a little book, then I waddle out.
I need to find somewhere else to hide. The man in the hood stands further up the road on the opposite side. He’s tall. Definitely not one of the men from the hairdresser’s. Maybe he’s not after me. Maybe he’s waiting for someone and this is a ‘little nothing’. But why was he outside my flat? After a while he saunters back off towards the seafront. Loping walk. He’s waiting for someone.
I head for the high street. I need to be around people. The farmer’s market is on as it’s the last Wednesday of the month. I daren’t look behind me but when I get to the corner of the street I do. The man is there, at the end. Looking around. But it’s not normal looking around – it’s the sort of looking around you do when you want to do something else. When you’re up to something. I still can’t see his face clearly.
Tessa Sharpe. Tessa Sharpe. Tessa Sharpe. It’s all I can think about. He found her, he will find me. He’ll do to me what he did to her.
I lose myself in the crowds, keeping my wits sharp and my umbrella firm in my grasp. I chit-chat with stallholders about their cheese, local gins, hand-woven rugs and organic vegetables. The veg man knows me as Dr Mary Brokenshire – he asks me about his wart. The plant lady thinks I’m Betsy Warre on chemo – she once gave me fifteen per cent off a pot of basil. The couple running the gin stall think I’m author Charlotte Purfleet and a connoisseur of fine wines, a by-product of attending so many book launches. They all ask after Emily and I tell them the same thing – she’s well, thanks, I’m on my way to collect her. My dread dissipates with every new lie. Nobody bats an eye. No one here knows who I am – I am amongst my friends.
And then I spy the man in the hood, Gallaghering along outside the fish shop. He’s pretending to look in the window. Nobody’s that interested in mackerel. The rain has eased off but his hood is still up, his sunglasses on now. I have even less chance of recognising him. He walks my way. He’s looking for me.
I can’t go home, I’ll be a sitting duck. And I can’t go to work, they all hate me. Can’t call Scants again.
I have a flash of inspiration. I’ll go to the gym. I’ll go to Kaden. He did offer.
And so I walk, fast. Using a family eating pasties as a shield, I dodge through the crowds, all the while thinking which is the quickest route. I duck down a side street towards the main road, looking behind me for signs of the man. I dart into an alley and race along it towards the main road where people walk dogs, families push pushchairs, and there are constant cars. Witnesses. Safety.
I’ve passed the entrance to the newsagent’s when the door flies open and out strides a very angry woman with piercing green eyes, wearing pink Ugg boots over pink leggings and a faded blue tabard. She owns the place with her husband but I don’t know her name – I’ve seen her telling kids off for reading comics for too long.
‘Oi, you,’ she shrieks. ‘Joanna, isn’t it? My Alfie brings your paper on his round.’
‘Yeah, how is he? How is he getting on at school now?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ she snarls. I’ve no idea why she’s so angry. ‘And you can take this back.’ She shoves a box into my stomach, the cardboard dented at the sides. It’s the Build a Burger game I ordered for him off eBay.
‘This was a present,’ I tell her. ‘I didn’t want it back. He was a bit upset one morning on his round and he told me about these two bullies at school and I wanted to cheer him up so I gave him this. That was all.’
‘You been giving him sweets as well, int ya?’
‘Only tubes of Smarties. He likes the purple ones.’
‘Always leaving little presents for him at the gate. He don’t want them.’
‘He always seems to take them,’ I smile.
‘You laughing at me?’
‘No, no I’m not. I just wanted to cheer him up, that was all.’
‘You’re bleeding grooming him, I know your game you fucking perv.’ And without another word she swings back and thrusts her fist forwards at my face, hitting me with such force I lose all balance and collapse against a garden wall. ‘Leave my son alone. And get your fucking paper from another place from now on, ya paedo bitch.’
‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ I cry, holding my nose and mouth and certain I’m going to feel blood there but nothing’s coming. I can taste it at the back of my throat so I know something’s broken. It throbs and aches like I’ve never known pain before.
Why is it so wrong, giving a child presents? I’m not a paedo, I’m not grooming him, why would I be grooming him? I don’t want anything back from him. Am I a pervert and a liar now? My emotions bubble up and I’m in tears by the time I get to the gym, slightly concussed and fuzzy about the eyes.
All I want is to see Kaden, to be in his safe orbit. But Kaden is on his way out. I stand in the car park, checking my watch – it’s 4 p.m. He’s in a rush, needs to be somewhere. He’s doing the long goodbye to some other PTs in Reception – that thing when you’re halfway out the door but people keep talking to you.
And then he’s outside. Rucksack tight to his back. He seems purposeful – needs to be somewhere. Running late. Now’s not the time to counsel me. But I want to know what’s so important. I want to know what he does when he’s not at the flat and not at the gym. What if it’s a date? That woman in the leotard he was flirting with at the gym. Ugh, please no, not her. Not anyone. I want him. I saw him first.
He’s on his motorbike in seconds but he doesn’t turn right out of the car park towards the seafront and our flats. He turns left and roars away.
I’ve never been cheated on before. It hurts all over. I feel sick to my guts.
If you get scared again, or if anyone calls who you don’t wanna see, call me. If I’m not home, I’ll be at the gym.
The fucking liar. And now I have no one.
Middle of the Summer holidays, eighteen years ago…
8
One Saturday, Auntie Chelle and Uncle Stu get cover for the pub so we can all go and spend a day at the beach. Stu and Chelle always head down to Cornwall whenever they can as it’s where Stuart was born and where they met. They named Isaac, Paddy and Foy after places in Cornwall too. Today we’re going down to St Agnes, a place they haven’t been before called Trevaunance Cove, and as a treat, me and Foy are allowed to sit in the open boot of Uncle Stu’s estate on the way down, guarding all the picnic stuff. We pretend we’re stowaways on a cart travelling across the desert. Kidnapped queens – Queen Charlotte and Queen Genevieve. We tie our wrists with friendship bracelets and let down our hair so it looks more dramatic.
Paddy and Isaac are in the back seat, playing games that bing
and crash every now and then. They’ve got their earphones in.
We arrive at the cove and walk down the steep steps to the beach at the bottom, and for the first hour it’s the day I hoped it would be. There’s a ready tide that me and Foy run down to the shoreline to greet, tilting our buckets full of water and running back to build the moat of our enormous sandcastle. We aren’t just building it, we are in it. Inside our minds. Our flowing gowns kiss the sandy walls of the hallways, our laughter echoes along the corridors. We can almost hear the tinkling of the priceless jewels that hang around our necks and the sound of the knights’ horses clopping into the courtyard and bugles tooting out the national anthem heralding our arrival.
‘Call us by our new names, Mum,’ says Foy. ‘We’re not Foy and Ellis anymore, I’m Queen Genevieve and Ellis is Queen Charlotte.’
‘Actually, I’ll be Mary today,’ I tell her. ‘Because I’ve got lots of children.’
‘Okay, we’re Queen Genevieve and Queen Mary. Call us that, Mum, alright?’
‘Alright then, Queen Latifah, come here and get some sun cream on your back.’ Auntie Chelle’s wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a red and navy swimming costume that makes her look like a film star. She only normally wears slouchy T-shirts and long dresses. Everyone’s different at the beach. Happier. The sun can do that to people. It gets Uncle Stu out of his Doctor Who T-shirt and jeans and into baggy shorts, and the boys off their Nintendos. Isaac buys himself a boogie board from the surf shack along the seafront and he and Paddy take turns with it in the water.
And we eat. Every wonderful thing you can imagine. Sausage rolls and chicken nuggets and crisps and pinwheels and soft baps filled with corned beef and lettuce. Then for pudding chocolate fingers and Jammie Dodgers and me and Foy eat them in our special way, prising apart the biscuits, licking out the jam, putting them back together and eating them round and round until a small disc remains, all spitty and soft between our thumbs. It’s only when I get a stomach ache that I stop. It’s the happiest day. The kind of happy you don’t notice you are, until you’re not.
