The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting

by Angela Marsons

  ‘But I remember the last time—’

  ‘That’s not important now. The fact that you’re willing to stay means there’s hope for you, can’t you see that?’

  ‘But you’re so close now to being retired. That’s why I’m recruiting tomorrow.’

  Val moved closer. ‘What the fuck do you think retirement is, Kit? A two-bedroom flat and a pension? I’ll be lucky to make it out of here alive and even if I do, where the hell am I going?’

  ‘You could get a job, a place to live…’ Kit tried to stop the emotion gathering in her throat.

  ‘I’m a thirty-five-year-old drug addict with no money, no family and no skills. Where exactly am I going, Kit?’

  The tears were falling openly down her face now. ‘But he’ll—’

  ‘Let me worry about that. I’ll be okay, but you have to go tonight. You have to.’

  Kit nodded, her tears glistening from the street lamp that shone in from the pavement.

  Val moved forward and pulled her close. Kit hugged her tightly, trying to push the sobs down.

  ‘Look after yourself, kid, I’m sorry.’ And then she was gone.

  Kit dressed quickly. The drawer made the familiar grinding noise as it slid open. She felt inside for the box but it was gone. She searched again, urgently, the smile frozen on her terrified features. Beads of perspiration began forming on her forehead, the effects of the drink way behind her now. She was stone cold sober and no matter how hard she looked, the box wasn’t there. Maniacally she pulled the few clothes out of the drawer. A slight noise in the dark caused her to glance behind, just in time to see the sharp, unforgiving piece of metal that came towards her, attached to Banda’s hand.

  Three days later she regained consciousness in a hospital bed and remembered. She had staggered on to the pavement, where a passing businessman had used his mobile phone to call an ambulance before he disappeared. Banda had watched from the window above as she bled from stab wounds on to the pavement.

  As she was placed on a stretcher and carried into the ambulance her eyes travelled upwards and met those of Banda. He blew her a kiss: it was the kiss of death.

  She wasn’t expected to survive. Apart from the cuts and bruises that mottled her welted, swollen body, the two causes for concern were the amount of blood she’d lost from a deep cut that ran across her buttocks and a blow to the head which had cracked her skull in two places.

  Social services were informed by a junior doctor pulling a forty-hour shift, who still believed in the system. He knew what she was and guessed it was the work of her pimp. Punters didn’t go to this much trouble.

  The first day she couldn’t move and had no choice but to sit motionless and listen to a man in his early forties tell her he knew what she was going through. She stared at the ceiling and let him think what the hell he wanted just so long as he could get her away from here. He promised a rehab programme in Birmingham and so she said nothing.

  On the third day when she could finally sit up he showed her a small item in the newspaper. It told the story of a blonde prostitute found dead near King’s Cross. The report stated the cause as multiple stab wounds inflicted by a punter.

  Val had known what Banda would do to her, Kit realised, as her heart wept. She wished her friend peace and knew, without question, that it wasn’t over.

  3

  Fran

  Fran pulled away from the kerb slowly. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror told her that the insufferable woman, who bore a macabre resemblance to Morticia, had just faded into the darkness, where she belonged, judging by her appearance.

  When the woman had first entered the meeting Fran had felt a little sorry for her obvious embarrassment. And although intrigued by the black-haired woman, the aggressive appearance had deterred her from making contact.

  She was like an exotic puma, Fran thought. Dark and mysterious with limbs that moved effortlessly and carried her elegantly but with a demeanour poised for attack at the earliest opportunity. Like a shaken bottle of pop she was ready to explode if anyone was brave enough to open the top.

  Fran was mortified when she realised she’d been driving the car that had almost run the woman over. That lasted for at least two seconds, or rather as long as it had taken for the awful woman to open her mouth, revealing a tongue sharper than secateurs. Fran had even, through a sense of decency, tried to make her peace at the coffee shop but bad manners and delinquent responses had been her reward. Hmm, civilised conversation indeed. Bad mistake, she’d realised before her first sip of espresso. Maybe I should have knocked her down when I had the opportunity. At least I’d have been doing the other members of the meeting a favour. Who on earth did the woman think she was to treat the whole subject as a joke? There was no room for humour in that place.

  It was with a clear conscience that Fran put any feeling of culpability out of her mind and focused her thoughts on the meeting.

  She recalled the words of Step One that she’d spoken with the others and yes she admitted she had been powerless over alcohol and that her life had become unmanageable. : ‘She was sure that the judge, who had watched her pass out while defending an important case, would agree. The memory of the events that had followed, the total betrayal by her mother, had caused her to stumble over the words of Step Two.

  She wouldn’t, couldn’t think about that now, not while she was driving – she made a conscious effort not to take her mother to the meetings. Her memories in that department were sure to send her crying and screaming to the nearest bar. She focused on a military cannon, loaded the cannonball and lit the fuse, blowing away the image of her mother.

  As she entered the apartment building through the freshly painted plaster pillars that supported a deep green canopy she nodded curtly at the doorman. The pillars were painted every eight weeks which kept them up to standard but Fran felt the canopy was a little pretentious and the doorman’s uniform a little too British. She often saw residents chatting with the portly chap and wondered what on earth they’d have to say to him. At Christmas she put twenty pounds into his collection but for her that was it.

  From outside it probably looked like a community. Two residences only on each of the eight floors should have encouraged a cosy atmosphere. As far as she was aware none of the professional people living in the building knew each other. It was no more than a collection of dwellings but it had the right postcode.

  The only evidence that the lift was moving came from the wrought-iron dial that turned like the hand of a clock against the arc of roman numerals. As she stepped from the carriage the keys were already in her trembling hand and the buttons of her ankle-length raincoat undone. She pulled across the two brass bolts and secured the deadlock behind her before placing the car keys on the grey marble fireplace as she did every night. She hated it when people complained about losing things. It was unnecessary.

  Immediately she headed for the bathroom. Fran didn’t use public bathrooms if she could possibly avoid it. The rule her mother had imposed when she was seven had been good training: no visits to the bathroom during the night. Her mother had called it an exercise in self-control and discipline and, although Fran had to admit it had caused her tears of discomfort as a child, the training served her well now. As usual she tore off the first two squares of velvet toilet tissue. Another habit formed from her younger years – ‘One never knew whose hands had touched those two squares’. Although she was in her own home and knew who’d used the bathroom last, it was still an automatic response.

  The frosted glass doors in her bedroom slid soundlessly along their runners to reveal a walk-in closet six-foot square. Her jacket was hung straight on to a blue satin hanger, the shirt on to the pink and the cream trouser suit on to the white. The high-heeled court shoes, which emphasised her five foot ten height, were placed in the vacant spot of the shoe rack that ran the entire length of the closet in the same colour-coded system as the clothes. That way she didn’t need to search for matching outfits. The underwear was remo
ved and placed immediately in the laundry basket.

  White silk pyjamas were taken from a drawer that housed more than twenty pairs. Some had not been removed from the tissue wrapping. Once she’d found the item of nightwear that fitted her perfectly she bought numerous pairs in case they stopped manufacturing them, just to be safe.

  The favourite part of her nightly ritual was saved until last. She released the wild curls that reached halfway down her back from the restrictive clips, grips and slides that held it in place throughout the day. Then she shook her head, allowing the hair to break free and breathe. Her long fingers massaged her scalp.

  She removed her make-up expertly and without the aid of a mirror, choosing not to look at her reflection unless necessary. She couldn’t see the beauty that other people referred to. She only saw extraordinarily high cheekbones and arched eyebrows that received no help from her. The eyes she thought passable and that was about it.

  The perfect end to the day would have been a couple of glasses of Chardonnay, she thought wistfully as she filled the percolator jug. Although it had been quite some time since she’d been able to drink only two glasses. When did I cross the line? Fran asked herself for the hundredth time. When did a relaxing drink after work develop into an unbreakable habit? she wondered.

  It hadn’t just changed, she knew that. Each night it had just taken a few more sips to dull the craving emptiness in her stomach, head, heart. She wasn’t even sure which void she’d been trying to fill now and even when breakfast had consisted of three glasses of vodka, convenient because of its lack of smell, she’d convinced herself this was normal behaviour.

  Her first ever taste had been during a school trip to the Loire Valley. She and her school friends had listened with ill-concealed boredom as their teacher, a woman in her early thirties who taught French and thought herself French, had explained the process of fermentation. The fourteen-year-old girls had been uninterested in whether the soil, climate and weather had affected the grapes. They had rolled their eyes while observing the grapes being pressed gently so the juice was clear. They chuckled at words like ‘cat’s pee’, ‘quaffing’ and ‘dirty socks’, deciding that the vocabulary for the trade was disgusting. And after hearing words like ‘malolactic fermentation’ they turned their attention to more important things, like French boys.

  The wine tasting had come a little later as they’d watched experts tip the half-filled glasses towards a white background to determine colour, then swirl the liquid around before placing their noses in the tops of the glasses to take deep breaths. Only then would they take a sip, swishing it gently around their mouths while trying to suck in air, and then depositing the contents in a metal dish.

  The girls had been instructed to follow suit but while Miss Parry had stood talking quite animatedly with one of the vineyard workers, they forgot the last step and it was seven drunken teenage girls being tucked up in bed that evening.

  Fran had never felt anything like it. The joy that invaded every inch of her body surprised her. The other girls were suddenly her best ever friends, her soul mates. She could trust them with her life. But more than that, if she tried hard enough she knew she could fly. Nothing mattered. Her parents faded from her mind. There were no horrible questions like, why has she never held me? Why can’t I remember one hug, one kiss? Why is every case they take more important than me?

  Her heart, which growled like an empty tummy, was quiet for once and it felt good. The nausea and the headache the following morning had been worth it for the way she’d felt.

  That was when it started, Fran knew. But she’d had a drink problem since she was sixteen, when she’d thought that maybe, at last, she would be given the opportunity to love someone. Someone of her very own. But God had taken that option from her when her baby’s life was lost.

  The clatter of glass against metal woke Fran from the memory as the coffee jug loosened itself from her fingers and slid into the sink. She fought the pain back into its cage like a quarrelsome tiger – it was easier to handle when it was behind bars but something still wanted to escape. A feeling, a tear. That was it, she wanted to cry, to grieve. She would not. It wouldn’t bring him back. Nothing would change. Tears solved nothing. She’d still have papers in her briefcase to look over, she’d still have to meet her mother for dinner tomorrow and she’d still go to bed alone tonight. No, definitely no crying.

  She decided against coffee and switched the kettle on. A cup of herbal tea might be more suitable. No caffeine if these were the thoughts terrorising her mind. The last thing she wanted was to lie in bed chewing on old bones. Her hand hesitated as she pondered the numerous sachets. She had camomile for relaxing the mind and body, valerian which reduced anxiety, peppermint for mental clarity, borage for depression and lime flowers for insomnia. Briefly she considered throwing in the whole lot.

  The shower relaxed her while La Bohème played on the stereo. The cool fabric of the pyjamas soothed her scalded skin as she sipped on the camomile tea that was no substitute for a proper drink. She settled against monogrammed cushions with her legs folded beneath her and began to read. A droplet of water landed on the notes of a case she was currently building for a man charged with the physical abuse of his wife and child. The drips from her hair became more frequent. When Fran realised she was paying far too much attention to the pattern the drips formed on her notes she knew she wasn’t in the mood.

  After putting the papers aside she cupped her hands around the glass of hot tea, trying to remember her first case. She was defending a businessman whose conifer trees had grown so out of control that they obstructed the light of the old lady next door. Her kitchen was forced into total darkness at three in the afternoon. The frail woman was suing her client for mental anguish.

  During the woman’s testimony she complained that the conifers did not obstruct his light at all. After forcing her to admit that she’d been into his garden to have a look, Fran made it clear she was uninvited and got the case thrown out for trespass. Her earlier cases when she’d first left law school had not challenged her but allowed her to earn her wings for the company where she still worked. Gradually the cases had become harder, the clients wealthier and the fee higher. And still she hadn’t lost a case.

  The inside of a courtroom had not seen her for a while, the partners choosing to keep her desk-bound until the gossip died down. But soon, with the case she was now working on, she’d be back and ready for a fight.

  Once tucked under satin sheets Fran took out her faithful diary. She entered the details of the day which when read back appeared in bullet-point form, following the tidy, staccato tone of her thoughts. She tried to force herself not to turn back the pages, but it was useless. The impending monthly meeting, as she referred to the dinner with her mother, forced her once more to examine the woman’s actions. As if by divine intervention she turned right to the page.

  Dear Diary,

  I think this is my fifth day without a drink. It is also the day I found out that I am not here by my own consent, and that I cannot leave until SHE says so. I can barely remember the courtroom or the judge or even the man I was defending against what charge. It’s gone. Probably a good thing. I can’t remember how I got here but I know that it was through HER.

  A doctor with no emotion tells me that I am a danger to myself. I am being encouraged to explore the person inside me. My biggest fear remains; what if there’s no one there?

  Fran’s eyes misted over. The fear and loneliness of that time stole around her like a shroud of choking grey fog. Those words she had written three months ago after being forcibly signed into the most exclusive rehabilitation clinic in London by her mother.

  She’d read the words deliberately to bring back the events, searching for a missed memory that would convince her that her mother had done it with her best interests at heart. There were none. How she must have hated that I was drunk two days after leaving the clinic, Fran thought. Yet how pleased that I have otherwise become exactly what s
he designed – a cold, hard duplicate of herself.

  She shook herself mentally and locked the diary away in the top drawer of her bedside cabinet, unsure exactly who it was being hidden from. Her parents never came here. No one ever came here. Yet still she locked the diary away.

  She settled down to sleep and imagined countless sheep jumping fences in an effort to tire her lively mind. She finally realised it was fruitless when the same sheep began to reappear.

  As usual, the night before the monthly meeting with her mother, she would not sleep.

  Fran saw her mother’s straight back in the customary navy blazer. The simple cut belied the expensive price tag that emphasised shoulders strong enough to take on the world, if necessary. The raven-black hair that never changed in length, colour or style, tucked under the strong determined chin. Fran didn’t need her mother to turn around to know that the square features that termed her handsome rather than beautiful would be perfectly displayed. The cheekbones, ever high and haughty, would hold just the right shade of colour. Sharp features held just the right amount of hauteur to assure anyone who saw her that she was a formidable force. Fran secretly thought her mother embraced middle age, glorying in the respect she now commanded.

  No cosmetic surgery for Alicia, unlike many of her friends who had been nipped and tucked so many times they wore expressions of eternal surprise. No jewellery was used to soften her image except the plain gold band on the left hand that now tapped impatiently beside a half measure of brandy. Fran silently congratulated Alicia on her tact.

  ‘Mother,’ she said more as a statement of fact than a greeting.

  Alicia almost imperceptibly swept her gaze over Fran’s slender figure as she always did, ensuring there was no weight gain. ‘You’re looking well, Frances.’ She kissed the air to the side of Fran’s cheek but skin did not meet skin at all. ‘Your father wanted to come but he’s working on an important case at the moment.’