by Fiona Harper
Heather hears this, takes it in. Inside she smiles lightly. She can picture the scene, can logically understand that it must have been amusing, but it doesn’t seem relevant to her. It’s as if she’s inside a thick glass jar, trapped like a butterfly, and the rest of the world is happening ‘out there’. She can see it. She can hear its muffled sounds, but she is completely separate.
This is how it has to be at the moment. Even Jason must stay on the other side of the glass because she doesn’t know what will happen if she can’t maintain this precarious balance. She doesn’t want to know.
Jason slides his arms around her from behind. She feels his warmth against her back, but she doesn’t sink into him. Not yet. His mouth is close to her ear, so when he speaks his breath is warm against her neck.
‘I saw her – Lydia – walking back inside the hotel. You found her?’
Heather dips her chin slightly and raises it again. It is all that is needed to signal her answer. The more still she stays, the better.
‘Are you okay? You seem so calm.’ She can hear the worry in his voice, knows he is not fooled.
‘She told me everything,’ Heather begins. ‘It wasn’t her fault.’
‘What? You mean she wasn’t the one who took you?’
‘No, she did. But it wasn’t… It wasn’t like the papers made out.’
She thinks about Lydia losing her child, and not just the promise of a child but a living, breathing thing that could smile at you, call you ‘Mummy’, put its arms around you and hold you tight. It makes Heather ache so much that she can hardly remain standing.
‘She was troubled, hurting. But she was trying to help, trying to take care of me. It just all went horribly, horribly wrong.’
Heather knows about making decisions in the moment, swept away by emotion – love, or what you think is love – and the disastrous consequences that can follow. Memories come then, the whole fortnight, a whole stolen holiday, in less than ten seconds: beaches, warm doughnuts, laughing in the penny arcades and at the crazy golf. Snuggling up at the top of the bed in the evening to read stories. Being tucked in at night. Hot chocolate and strawberry sauce on ice-cream sundaes.
She goes on to tell Jason the whole story, standing there, facing away from him, eyelids still closed. When she’s finished, he turns her around and folds her into his arms. This is when she lets go. This is when she opens her eyes, even though all she can see is the too-close fabric of his dinner jacket.
It is as if, when Jason first put his arms around her, a key slid into a lock, and now, with one tiny twist, everything is laid open to him. She has revealed more of herself to him than she has to anyone else in the whole of her life and he hasn’t run, he hasn’t called her a freak. She feels tears building behind her eyes. They spill over her lower lashes and onto his lapel.
This is it now. She loves him.
The knowledge is both heartbreaking and exhilarating all at once, but Heather is still too numb from her conversation with Lydia to work out which is the overriding emotion. They pull against each other, thankfully, so she seems fairly sane and balanced on the surface.
‘In my whole childhood,’ Heather says, ‘she was the one person who tried to do something to stop the chaos, the mess, and make my life better. Faith did what she could but she was only a child, but why did nobody else do anything? My father? Even though Mum hid the truth from him, it wouldn’t have been too hard to guess. I think he just blocked it out, didn’t want to face it. Aunt Kathy tried a bit, but then she just gave up. And what about neighbours? Teachers? There must have been signs!’ She pulls back a little so she can look him in the eyes. ‘Why did no one else care enough to try and do something to save me? Only Lydia. Only her.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I know, I know. She did the wrong thing. She probably made things worse in the long run, but for two weeks – two whole weeks! – I was properly happy. I cried when they found us and they made me go home again, I remember that now. I was inconsolable for days. It was like putting an animal back in its cage after it’s had a taste of freedom. I can’t hate her for it any more. I just can’t.’
As Heather hears herself say those words, things solidify in her head, and in her heart. She is back at square one again, isn’t she? It always comes back to the same thing, and she’s just so tired of it. This is all her mother’s fault. It was always her mother’s fault. How could Heather ever have believed differently?
The rage inside flares up again then, threatening to engulf her. No wonder her mother hadn’t wanted to talk about it for all those years, Heather thinks. She knew she was guilty. More than that, she didn’t want people to know the details because then they’d have to know the reasons why. She’d have to own up to her hoarding, probably get rid of her stuff, and she couldn’t do that, could she? Her stuff was more important than anything. Certainly more important than her children, if having one stolen from her couldn’t even change anything.
But Heather realizes she can’t go down this path now. It is not the place. It is not the time. She takes her anger, packs it into a tight, hot little ball, and hides it away inside herself.
Jason stares out into the darkness. ‘What do you want to do now?’
Heather turns to look at him. ‘I think we should go back inside. We probably missed most of the main course.’
‘You’re hungry?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not really, but we might as well do what we came here to do: support the charity.’
Jason gives her a look. She knows she’s too calm. She knows she’s being odd.
‘And you’re sure you’re ready to do this? To go back in there?’
‘Yes.’ Because what else is there to do? He takes her hand and they walk together across the springy grass back to the terrace, to the hotel and its floodlights. As they go inside, Heather catches a glimpse of her reflection in a glazed door. She stops walking and turns to Jason, pulling her hand free from his. ‘I’m just going to take a trip to the Ladies,’ she says, indicating her smudged mascara with a wave of her hand, ‘and repair some of the damage.’
He nods, watches her walk away for a few seconds, then continues back into the ballroom. Heather goes to the bathroom, deals with her face as best she can, and then she looks at herself in the mirror, takes a shuddering breath, and heads back to join Jason.
Her journey takes her through the lobby again, past the display stand with the items for the auction. Cassandra is standing there, high up as always, casting her beady, haughty eyes over the other offerings as if they are not up to her standard. Goodbye, Heather mentally whispers to her. Good riddance.
For a moment she thinks she’s going to lose her cool. She thinks she’s going to reach up, pull the doll down by one shining ringlet and hurl it across the lobby, but she manages to stop herself. She can’t rob the charity of the money that has already been bid on the doll. To stop the fire growing in her chest, she deliberately looks away, fixes her gaze on something else, something completely random.
A handbag.
A rather nice handbag, actually. A designer label she recognizes, made from soft red calfskin. She spends a few moments taking in the details – the shape of the clasps and buckles, the stitching on the strap.
It’s supposed to be an exercise in distraction. She’s not supposed to reach out and touch it, let her fingers close around the handles and grip them firmly. She doesn’t mean to lift it off the display table, nor turn and start to walk, not towards the ballroom and back to Jason, but towards the hotel entrance.
Inside her head she screams at herself to stop, but her legs just keep moving.
‘Hey!’ She hears a voice behind her. ‘Hey, you!’
Heather starts running.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
NOW
‘Stop!’ A hand clamps down on Heather’s shoulder, turning her around. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ It’s the receptionist she met the day she went to the Haven Project offices looking for Lydia. She�
��s wearing a hideous lime-green ballgown covered in crystals that clings in all the wrong places.
‘I’m… I…’ That’s the best answer Heather can manage. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She tries to break free, ducking down a little to avoid the pressure of the hand on her shoulder, but the woman is too clever, and soon she is joined by a hotel worker from behind the nearby reception desk.
And then more people come: staff, guests from the gala dinner, hotel security… Heather is still gripping the handbag, pulling it into her body as if it’s a child that needs protection.
The horrible receptionist yells at the security guard. ‘She’s trying to steal that! It’s for the charity auction!’
Heather shakes her head. ‘I… No…’
‘I saw her!’ a hotel waiter with an empty tray says emphatically. ‘I saw her pick it up and run.’
‘Madam?’ one of the security guards says, looking at her and then looking at the handbag clutched to her chest.
It all gets a bit fuzzy after that. There is shouting, from the receptionist and others too, and she’s handed over to the security guards, who march her off to the side of the lobby, peel the handbag from her fingers, then flank her while they wait for someone with more authority to turn up.
Hearing a commotion going on outside, more guests from the dinner start to appear through the open ballroom doors. Very soon a crowd is standing around Heather. It’s all too much. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe slowly, but it seems her lungs only want to work in short gasping breaths. She feels the black tide approaching and knows a panic attack is imminent.
No. Not here. Not now.
‘Heather?’
It’s Jason’s voice. Her eyes snap open and she finds him instantly in the crowd. He looks confused, worried even. Heather’s eyes lock onto his and she sends him a silent plea: Help me.
Jason walks towards a grey-haired man and woman who seem to be in charge, perhaps something to do with the charity. They’re deep in conversation with yet another security guard and the nasty receptionist.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Jason says after he hears a snatch of their conversation. ‘This has to be a mistake.’
The receptionist turns on him. ‘No mistake! I saw her take it myself.’
Jason shakes his head, and inside Heather something melts just a little bit more. He’s standing up for her. Fighting for her. Even though she doesn’t deserve it.
Any further discussions are cut short by a pair of police officers edging their way through the crowd. They take charge instantly, escorting Heather off to the manager’s office, where the grey-haired couple, the security guards and the receptionist follow. Heather keeps her eyes on Jason as long as she can before a pillar blocks her view and she can’t see him any more.
There are more angry words, more explanations, more descriptions. Heather loses track of the speakers, because she sits silently on the chair she has been shown to and stares at the carpet as it all swirls around her.
The last thing she hears clearly is the bizarrely soft tones of the female police officer. ‘Heather Lucas, I am arresting you on suspicion of theft. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence…’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
NOW
Heather sits on a row of blue plastic chairs that are bolted both to each other and to the floor. Only one other seat is occupied; the hefty policewoman who arrested her is sitting next to her. In front of them a drunken man in his early twenties is swearing at the custody sergeant and being particularly uncooperative.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ PC Calder asks when there is enough of a break in the obscenities to be heard.
Heather shakes her head. The thought of eating or drinking anything makes her feel ill. Besides, she’s doing her best to concentrate on the mottled pattern of the vinyl flooring. It’s the only thing keeping her sane at the moment.
It feels weird, being asked in a kind voice if she would like a cup of tea, as if she’s a visitor in someone’s house. She always thought police officers would be dismissive and gruff to those they arrested, but the policewoman has been nice. Motherly, even. But then Heather hasn’t given them much reason to get tough with her. They didn’t even bother with handcuffs.
It takes ten minutes to get a name and address out of her fellow prisoner, but eventually he is led away and the sergeant indicates that Heather should come forward.
PC Calder reels off the basic details of the arrest: name, time, location, offence. It’s only then that the sergeant turns to Heather and starts asking her questions. She answers them mechanically, nodding to confirm her name, supplying her date of birth and address when prompted. No, she doesn’t have any medical conditions and she isn’t taking any medication. Yes, she’s consumed alcohol this evening – half a glass of champagne, maybe two hours ago now – but she hasn’t taken any drugs.
She is then instructed to empty her pockets (the dress doesn’t have any, so that’s easy) and her handbag. She stands there, watching the custody sergeant go through her things, feeling a sense of violation as he picks them up and places them in a clear plastic bag. They take her stilettos away from her, providing her with a pair of plimsolls – laces removed, of course – in their stead. They take her wrap too.
Heather has spent her whole life trying to hide her dark corners from the world, trying to convince everyone she’s an honest, productive member of society, and she’s done a pretty good job of it, so she can’t decide whether she’s offended or quietly relieved that these people start with the worst possible assumptions about her then work their way up.
She is asked whether she has been read her rights, whether she understands what was said to her, and if she has any questions, then they offer her the chance to phone someone. She snatches at the opportunity immediately. There’s only one person she wants to call. That done, PC Calder leads her away down a corridor to a cell.
When the door clangs closed, she looks around. It’s pretty much like you see on television: a concrete bench with a thin blue mattress and a folded blanket, a toilet in the corner, shielded by a partition. There is a light in the centre of the ceiling, but no switch to turn it on or off, and another glass dome, which she supposes to be a camera. She reaches over and pulls the blanket towards her, unfolds it and wraps it around her shoulders. She’s shivering, but even with the added warmth from the blanket, she can’t seem to stop.
She sits on the bench and shuffles until her back meets the wall, then folds her legs up underneath her, covering herself completely with the blanket so only her head pokes out of the top. The borrowed plimsolls sit on the floor, parallel and empty.
She closes her eyes and wonders what Jason must be thinking. She saw the look on his face as she was led away, bundled into the back of a police car. She heard him arguing with the hotel staff and security guards, even with one of the police officers, saying this had to be a case of mistaken identity, that the Heather Lucas he knows would never do anything like this. She had walked faster then, allowing them to hurry her away to the police station.
Even with her eyes closed, the light on the ceiling is too bright, too bleaching. She concentrates on the feel of the bare wall behind her back, the hardness of the concrete bench through the thin mattress, the sound of her own breath, rhythmic like the waves on the seashore not half a mile away.
Her sense of time slips away, and in its place comes a strange sensation, something she should not be feeling in this moment, in this place – peace. She has been stripped of everything bar the clothes on her back, but for some reason, sitting in this tiny cell, with no choices and no options, this is the freest Heather Lucas has felt in years.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
KNICKERS
White. Cotton. Marks & Spencer. A bow at the front, which I think is possibly a bit babyish, and lacy elastic round the legs. There’s nothing special about these pants. They’re part of a multipack of four equally white and unremarkable knickers, so there really shou
ldn’t be anything to make a fuss about.
THEN
When Heather gets off the bus on Monday morning, Ryan is sitting on the wall near the bus stop with his mates. She catches his eye, then puts her head down and walks on, keeping their secret safe. His smile is possessive and it makes her flush from head to toe. She’s smiling softly to herself as she walks through the school gates.
Heather’s not sure she recognizes herself any more. She’s not quite sure who this bold Heather is, the one who does these new and daring things. Even though she got into the shower and scrubbed herself hard when she got home on Friday night, there was a part of her that felt exhilarated too.
She went home that night without anything under her dress. Ryan had tucked her knickers into his pocket, saying the thought of her going home without them made him hot. She can’t wait until after school when they’ve planned to meet behind the pavilion again.
She feels fluttery and excited all day, can’t concentrate on her lessons. It doesn’t even bother her that Tia Paine is being extra-snarky. Tia just doesn’t count any more. And when Heather’s secret comes out and other people at school find out that she and Ryan are a couple, ‘Hobo’ will be a creature of the past. Extinct. Long live Heather Lucas.
As soon as the bell rings, she grabs up her bag and dashes for the pavilion. Even before she can see him, she can feel he’s there, waiting for her. She sprints the last part, but when she turns the corner she skids to a halt.
Ryan is there, but so are a lot of other people. Heather frowns. She doesn’t get it. This is her and Ryan’s spot, their private place. What are they all doing here? Is there a sports practice she doesn’t know about?
The surprise wears off and she starts to notice the individual faces. Tia Paine is here with her gang, along with a handful of others from their year. Heather looks at Ryan, hoping he can explain.
