by Fiona Harper
She spots it almost instantly. A jellyfish. It’s translucent, with a dull white canopy and neon-pink see-through tentacles underneath. Barney will love it. Who cares that what should be a tiny sea creature is half the size of the killer whale in her other hand? Obviously, when it comes to plastic animals, relative size isn’t a concern.
She turns and heads towards the till, pleased with her finds, but then something strange happens. As she’s nearing the midpoint of the shop, instead of heading down the wide path between racks of frilly clothes and tiny shoes to pay for her choices, she just keeps going towards the door.
Stop, she tells herself. Stop! But her feet don’t listen. They just keep moving, even though she knows this is wrong, even though she knows she can’t steal Barney’s birthday present. If she gives them to him after this, it’ll be like making him an accessory. Could a four-year-old even be charged with receiving stolen goods?
‘Excuse me!’ The voice is loud and clear behind her. Her stride quickens. ‘Excuse me, Madam!’
She’s almost at the door now, fresh air and freedom taunting her. A hand rests on her shoulder. She turns to find one of the sales assistants – the bossy one with the sharp eyes – looking pink and exasperated. ‘Madam… I think you may have forgotten to stop by the till for those items.’ She glances down at the plastic jellyfish gripped in Heather’s left hand and the assortment of other animals clutched to her midriff with the other.
‘Um… But…’ Heather stutters. She has no idea how to talk her way out of this one.
Sharp Eyes smiles. It makes her look much nicer. Her gaze dips to Heather’s stomach. ‘Easily done with “baby brain”. when I had my first, I almost burned down the house by trying to cook rice but forgetting to put water in the pan.’
At first Heather can’t make sense of what the woman is saying, but when she does a hand flies to her stomach. The sales assistant thinks she’s pregnant – or is at least giving her a convenient ‘out’ – but instead of being cross or embarrassed or grateful, all Heather feels is a stabbing sense of loss that she isn’t. Her womb is empty, and she’s afraid it will always remain so, that she had her chance and fluffed it.
She realizes the woman is still looking at her, waiting for a response, so she nods and follows her to the till. She’s burning with humiliation but also secretly relieved. She couldn’t stop herself but this woman intervened and saved her.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers, as the woman rings the tiger family and sea creatures through the register. ‘I… I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘No harm done.’
But as Heather leaves the shop, relief starting to crash over her in waves, she’s aware of the woman’s razor-sharp eyes on her back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
NOW
Someone is ringing the doorbell insistently. Heather pauses the drama series she’s watching on TV and jumps up. She’s expecting a delivery at some point today. She ordered Barney some story books online that she hopes he’ll like. She can’t give him the animals. They feel tainted, even though she paid for them. Maybe at Christmas…
She runs into the hallway as Jason comes bounding down the stairs. It makes her heart hiccup. She reaches the front door before him, thanks the delivery guy for her package, and closes the door again. Jason jumps from the last step onto the floor.
‘Why did you come down?’ she asks, perplexed. ‘It was my buzzer he was wearing out.’
He walks towards her and she hugs the cardboard package to herself. ‘I haven’t seen you for three days and I wanted to see if you’re okay.’ He exhales. ‘Saturday was a bit of a head trip, even for me.’
She nods and squeezes the parcel more tightly. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Really?’
She smiles at him. ‘Really.’ And then she sighs. His gentle concern has bulldozed a wall inside her. It’s as if, since she spilled everything out to him the other week, the words keep falling out of the hole he made, even when she’s not sure she wants to share them. ‘I went to see my sister on Sunday. We pieced a little more of the puzzle together.’
‘You did?’
She nods then glances towards her open front door. ‘Do you want to come in? I’ll fill you in.’
He thinks for a moment and then smiles at her. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
* * *
They jump in Jason’s car and he takes her to a nice little pub he knows about half an hour away, in the depths of the countryside. It sits on the edge of the Downs and boasts a terrace with spectacular views of the valley below. Heather doesn’t usually like fizzy drinks, but she joins Jason by having a pint of lemonade – the only drink to have at the end of a hot summer’s day like this.
She closes her eyes as she sips it and wonders where that conviction came from. Instantly another lost memory flashes up: a picture of her father handing a tumbler of spitting, hissing liquid to her, the blessed coolness as it goes down, the clinking of the ice cubes as she gets near the bottom. She’s getting more and more of these memories now. They keep popping into her head at random.
The sunset isn’t a showy riot of fiery oranges and purples; just a demure blending of pastel colours at the horizon. Heather tells Jason about the photograph, and about the house in Hawksbury Road and Lydia, as the colourful sky dissolves into a uniform lilac-grey.
‘You think this Lydia is definitely the woman you saw on the pier?’
Heather sighs. ‘My gut tells me yes, but memory is such a tricky thing…’ She scrubs her forehead with her hand, as if trying to clear the dirt from a murky mental window. ‘But she said my name, didn’t she? She said my name.’
Jason nods. ‘It certainly sounded that way, but…’ He stares into his half-empty pint glass. ‘Maybe she thought you were someone else? There could be any number of reasons…’
‘But we were in Hastings, at the same place she took me. All these things keep adding up,’ Heather says, feeling surer now. ‘It can’t just be coincidence.’
When they’ve finished their drinks, they walk to the end of the pub garden. There’s a small playground there with two swings, a slide and some weird contraption for kids to climb on, but it’s almost dark now so it’s deserted. They stroll to the far side where there’s a view over rolling fields, lean on the wooden rail of the fence, and stare out into the twilight.
The sounds of the crowd on the terrace are muffled here, and they’re hidden from view by some overgrown shrubs, so Jason leans in and kisses her.
‘Every time I tell you something sad or traumatic about my life, you kiss me,’ Heather whispers when they pull apart.
‘It’s not why I kiss you.’
Isn’t it? thinks Heather. She can’t fathom any other reason. He’s too much of a knight in shining armour, this one, and she’s definitely a damsel in a whole heap of distress. She’s not sure he can help himself, despite his protestations to the contrary. And it’s horrible timing for her, even though she’s been aching for someone to say these kinds of things to her, to look at her this way, for so long. The truth is that she’s not ready to get involved with anyone. She’s such a mess still.
‘What happened with her?’ she says suddenly. ‘The woman the leathers belonged to.’
Jason sighs. ‘Her name was Jodie. She was the sister of my old flatmate, Alex. A couple of years ago she came to stay with us – it was supposed to be temporary, just a couple of weeks until she could get herself sorted out.’
‘She was in trouble,’ Heather says. It’s not a question.
‘Yep.’ He sighs again. ‘She’d split up with her boyfriend. She didn’t say much but she gave the clear impression it had been a bit of a toxic relationship: that he’d been controlling, even stealing from her, and that in the end she’d just had to run. But it left her in a bit of a bind financially, which is how she ended up staying with us.’
‘And the two of you became an item?’
He nods and gazes off down the valley.
‘What was she like?’
Part of Heather really doesn’t want to know the answer to that question, but another part is fascinated by what Jason finds appealing in a woman.
He shrugs. ‘Lively, funny… but vulnerable. I don’t know why but she reminded me of a butterfly.’
Heather looks down at her feet. ‘You really liked her, then?’
‘I was on the verge of asking her to marry me.’
Oh. She hadn’t been expecting him to say that. In fact, she wishes he hadn’t. How can she compare to this wonderful, vibrant woman he’s just described?
She doesn’t need to ask the next question because Jason tells her anyway. ‘One day some burly-looking guys came knocking at the door. At first, I was going to call the police because I thought they were something to do with her ex, but it turned out she owed their boss money – lots of money.’
‘Drugs?’ Heather whispers.
He shakes his head. ‘Gambling. It seemed Jodie had quite the habit. After that it all came out and suddenly I became the controlling one who was cramping her style. She just couldn’t see why I was upset she hadn’t told me about any of it, about how she’d lied. Those are the worst kind of lies, you know?’ he says, looking over at Heather for confirmation. ‘Not the fib – or even the whopper – told in the heat of the moment, but the ones that are built slowly, deliberately constructed to obscure the truth.’
Heather’s stomach starts to quiver.
Jason laughs softly, shaking his head. ‘I started to feel a bit sorry for the ex, realizing there was probably more to that story than I’d cared to know, that maybe it wasn’t him she’d been running from after all. I felt like such an idiot. There was the engagement ring, hiding in my sock drawer, and I had no idea who this woman was.’
‘She left you?’
‘No,’ he replies, and his tone hardens. ‘I told her she should move out, and when she refused, said this was her brother’s flat and she would stay if she wanted to, I packed my stuff and left. That’s how I ended up where I am now. It was the first place I found that was suitable.’
Heather nods, because she’s not quite sure what to say.
He looks at her intently, leans forward, but doesn’t kiss her. ‘So that’s my story, but it’s in the past. I want you to know that, which is why I’m going back to our original topic of conversation. I like you, Heather. That’s why I want to kiss you. You’re kind and imaginative and funny. But if this isn’t what you want, we can go back to being friends… neighbours. I can stop kissing you. It’s up to you.’
Heather weighs his words for a moment, and then she slides her flattened hands up his chest, loops them round his neck and pulls him closer. ‘No,’ she says with the barest of breaths. ‘Don’t stop.’
Stupid, stupid, stupid. But it seems Jason isn’t the only one who can’t help himself.
* * *
When Heather gets back that evening, she spots the plastic animals she almost stole for Barney, their knobbly shapes clearly visible through a reusable shopping bag hanging from the hooks in her hall.
Bolstered by her lovely night, she takes the bag and walks to her spare bedroom. It’s half-sorted now, but boxes and crates still fill one side. She hasn’t even dared to touch the chest of drawers up until this point, but now she does, sliding the middle draw out – the one that holds all the stuff she doesn’t want to think about – and carefully wedging each plastic animal in the spaces between the other items. It’s full to bursting now.
There’s no more room for anything else. No more room for this terrible, terrible behaviour in her life. She’s got to stop. She’s got to. Because if she can conquer this compulsion – this addiction – then she won’t have anything to hide from Jason. She won’t have anything she needs to lie about, and then maybe there’s hope, because she can become the person he already thinks she is. And she’d really, really like to be that woman.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
SUNDRESS
It’s yellow, made of cotton, with spaghetti straps and a skirt that flares out a little from the waist. It is bright and optimistic, a perfect representation of all the girlish innocence and hope that fills me this evening. I know it looks good on me. I just don’t know how good until it is too late.
THEN
It’s Friday evening. Heather hops off the bus near Queen Mary’s Hospital and walks along the road until she can see the sloping lawns of Sidcup Place. There’s a tree on the brow of the hill. She waits there, nervously adjusting her dress. Ryan has never seen her in anything but school uniform before. She wants him to think she looks nice, and this dress is the nicest thing she owns. Well, her mother owns. She stole it from the hoard this morning.
Heather has been meeting Ryan behind the pavilion after school every day for the last three weeks. He talks to her. Actually, properly talks to her. And he says she makes him laugh. Mostly she does it without meaning to, but sometimes she actually manages to do it on purpose.
Then, this afternoon, he suggested meeting up away from school. She went warm all over when he said that. Heather has always believed that secrets are nasty, dirty things, but this one – her friendship with Ryan Fellowes, hidden from everyone else at Highstead – is delicious. It’s left untold because it’s too precious to share, not because it’s shameful.
She snuck out earlier that evening. Her mother doesn’t know she’s even left the house. Heather is banking on the fact she’ll be too caught up watching eviction night on Big Brother to notice she’s alone in the house.
She stares out across the valley. The building behind her was probably a lovely house once, but now it’s a Brewer’s Fayre and the car park has swallowed up what would have been the front garden. However, the rest of the grounds remain: a small formal area and then sloping hills and trees. It’s a pity the view is spoiled by the ugly gash of the A20 and the concrete of the Sidcup bypass at the bottom of the hill.
Heather keeps her eyes open but imagines the eyesores away, and then she just keeps going, spinning a wonderful fantasy that’ll make this night even more special. She imagines herself and Ryan as characters in a Regency romance, meeting for a secret tryst. It feels daring to think such things, probably because she still can’t believe he likes her. But he must like her a bit, mustn’t he, otherwise why would he ask her to meet him here?
Ryan arrives, strolling lazily across the grass, a couple of cans of cider dangling from the plastic webbing hooked over his fingers. He smiles and Heather goes hot all over. They walk further away from the road, down the grassy hill and out of sight of both people and cars. She can almost believe her fantasy is real now the traces of civilization are out of sight.
They sit under a drooping tree and Ryan – in a very gentlemanly way, Heather thinks – cracks the first can of cider and hands it to her. They sit there, drinking and talking, until Heather starts to get giggly, and then Ryan moves in closer. ‘You know I like you,’ he says, and then he leans in and kisses her. Properly kisses her.
Heather whispers, ‘I like you too.’
He kisses her again, pulling her closer, and this time his hand comes to rest on her boob. She jerks back at the touch – mostly because she’s surprised. She still has her Regency daydream running in her head and, let’s face it, it’s not what Mr Knightley would have done in the same circumstances. But when he whispers that she needs to relax, she doesn’t tell him to stop. This is the ultimate proof that Ryan Fellowes, Highstead heart-throb, actually truly likes her.
Eventually his hand stops kneading her boob and trails its way down her body, under her skirt and up her thigh. It makes everything down there tingle in a nice way, but she’s scared too. It’s all happening very fast. She expects him to just stroke her thighs, tease a little, so when his hand reaches the spot where the tingling is the fiercest, she gasps.
Ryan takes this as encouragement and keeps going. Heather wants to say something but she’s too shocked to make any other noise. This isn’t exactly how she thought this would be. She’s always imagined it would be more gentle
, more romantic, not like the guy is fumbling around as if he’s searching for a lost set of keys.
The buzz from the cheap cider is gone now. Heather starts to think about asking him if he’d mind slowing down, maybe even stopping, but the words never leave her mouth because just as she’s managed to pluck up enough courage, he leans in and whispers in her ear. ‘You’re so hot, Heather, so pretty. You feel so good. I just can’t help myself with you. You drive me crazy.’ And then he kisses down the side of her neck so softly, so tenderly.
Everything changes in that moment. So what if this isn’t exactly how she imagined it would be? Maybe it’s just that she’s new at this. Maybe everyone feels like this the first time they, you know, do stuff. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. How Ryan feels about her is what’s really important, and he’s just told her, maybe not in so many words, that he wants her, that she’s special. She reaches up and winds her arms around his neck and kisses him back harder. She is not going to ruin this.
As a result, it’s not long before her knickers are lying on the ground near her feet and Ryan is on top of her, grunting. She holds him tight and tries not to mind that her head keeps bumping rhythmically against a tree root. His eyes are closed, his face a mask of concentration. He seems lost inside himself. Heather can’t quite believe that it’s her making him feel this way. It’s quite intoxicating to be the entire focus of someone’s attention like this. She even starts to think she might be enjoying it a little.
Even so, as she stares at the sky through the branches above their heads, she wonders how long it’s going to be until it’s all over and done with.
CHAPTER FORTY
NOW
Heather glances at herself in her dressing-table mirror as she threads a dangly silver earring through the hole in her earlobe. Her hair is brushed and shiny and her eyes are huge, thanks to the careful application of mascara and a little eyeliner. She looks like a different person.
