by Fiona Harper
‘That’s enough for now,’ she replies. Even if there is more to find out, her brain is too overloaded to deal with it. Before they round off their conversation, Faith promises to call again next week and Heather agrees to think about going out to Spain for a visit. Maybe it would be good to get away? Properly away, that is, not just hiding out at her sister’s.
Both sisters head back to the kitchen and Faith makes them a cup of strong coffee. Faith glances up at the clock on the wall. It’s only a few minutes until Matthew and the kids are due back, and she’s obviously got one last thing she needs to get off her chest before they do. Heather steels herself.
‘What you told me last night…’
Heather had suspected the subject wasn’t over and done with, but had been hoping her sister’s new-found sensitivity might last more than twenty-four hours. Mind you, asking for two miracles in such a short space of time might be too much.
‘Yes,’ she says lightly.
‘I know you probably don’t want to hear this – and I know I could ruin everything by saying it again – but I think you need to talk to someone about it. Someone qualified.’
Heather exhales slowly. ‘So do I.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’m reluctant to admit it, you’re right – I’ve been hoarding all the things that have happened, never sorting through how I feel because, well, basically I couldn’t remember a lot of it. And what I could remember, I just ignored. As much as I don’t like to say it, as much as I don’t want to, it’s time for a clear-out.’
‘I know someone from church. She has her own practice in Biggin Hill. She’s properly qualified and everything, and it would be totally confidential. I would only know about what’s said in your sessions if you tell me yourself.’
Heather nods. ‘Okay.’ She trusts her sister’s judgement, and it’s got to be more reliable than going on the internet and picking someone at random. It’s time to sort herself out, once and for all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
NOW
Heather stays with Faith for the next few days in the lovely guest bedroom. It’s got a few more knick-knacks and fussy interior-decorating flourishes than Heather would prefer, but she puts up with them instead of hiding them in the wardrobe and then getting them out again before she leaves, like she did at Christmas.
She borrows Faith’s car to get to work, dropping Matthew at the station on the way, so Faith can use his to do the school run. Very quickly they settle into a rhythm. For almost a week she tries to pretend that she’s just visiting her sister, that there’s no ulterior motive for staying away from her flat, but she can’t keep borrowing her sister’s clothes. She can’t keep pretending.
The thought of going back home nearly prompts another panic attack. Faith has said she can stay as long as she wants. Maybe another week, Heather thinks to herself. She’s not kidding herself she can move in permanently. She doesn’t want to push this newfound truce with her sister to breaking point.
At six o’clock on Saturday morning, she catches the train back to Orpington then changes for Shortlands. This way she can pick up her car and be a little more independent and not so much of a burden on Faith and Matthew over the next week. It’s less than a ten-minute walk from the station to Heather’s flat, and her blouse is sticking to her back by the time she reaches the shade of the porch and slides the key into the front door. It’s overcast. Muggy. And the air is so still.
She takes care not to make too much noise when she enters the hallway, hoping she can just slip in and out before the other residents wake up. She fumbles with her keys as they slide through her clammy fingers, and it takes three attempts to gain access to her flat. Once inside, she leaves the front door open – a signal to herself this is just a fleeting pit stop and she shouldn’t get comfortable, shouldn’t allow herself to enjoy the cool tranquillity of her living room – and heads straight for the bedroom.
It’s not lost on her that she was doing this only a few weeks ago. Packing. Hiding from Jason. She’s more than a little disgusted with herself that she hasn’t been able to find a backbone in all that time. But she just needs to find some… stability. Everything is shifting underneath her at the moment, like the pebbles on Hastings beach underfoot. By next weekend hopefully she’ll have found something solid to stand on, some truth she can use as her pole star, and then she’ll be able to start putting her life back together again.
She’s just zipping up her roll-along case when she hears a noise in the hallway. She pivots, still at her bedroom doorway, and sees Jason standing at the threshold of her flat, looking taller and more solid, and also more foreboding than she remembers him.
‘You’re back,’ he says.
Heather swallows. This is harder than she thought it would be. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘At your front door?’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Or do you actually mean, “Up this early when you were trying to sneak in and out without seeing me?”’
‘I—’
‘Save it,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure I want to hear another lie.’
Heather’s lips quiver and she presses them together to stop them wobbling. She deserved that. But the urge to run and throw herself against him, to feel his strong, solid arms come around her the way they did in the gardens of the Palm Court Hotel, is almost overwhelming. Inside her it feels as if something is ripping.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. It’s the most honest thing she can say to him right now.
‘What exactly are you sorry for?’ he asks, folding his arms. ‘Sorry for getting arrested and then leaving me sitting like a mug in Hastings nick while you swanned off with your sister? Sorry for not even having the guts to contact me for a whole week? For not even letting me know you weren’t coming back or if you’re alright? Or is it just sorry you can’t play the helpless waif who needs a big, strong man to do her detective work for her?’ He shakes his head. ‘Was that even real?’
Heather winces, not just at his words but at the tone. Caustic. Justified. She’d always told herself that getting close to Jason was a bad idea. There’s so much she wants to tell him, but she’s afraid if she starts she won’t be able to stop. And there are things about her he can never know.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbles again, and is rewarded by a huff of frustrated laughter.
‘Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else.’ He shakes his head, looking sober again. ‘I’m an open book. I deliberately chose to live my life that way – not spilling it all out there but just not hiding, not holding back. I was so sick of how I grew up, all the lies my dad told, layer upon layer upon layer, and the secrets that went along with that, the secrets he made us keep for him. I thought you understood that.’
‘I do,’ Heather croaks.
‘And then I opened up to you about Jodie, too. God, what a mug I’ve been.’
Tears well in Heather’s eyes and threaten to spill over, but she sniffs them back. It’s tearing her apart that she’s hurt him, but she can’t be an open book like he is, because if Jason ever read the bedtime story that is Heather Lucas, he’d have nightmares for a week. Even now she can’t face the fact that he saw her being arrested, that he witnessed possibly the most humiliating moment of her life.
‘I suppose I might as well do what I came here to do when I heard you come through the front door, and give you this.’ It’s only then that Heather notices the long cardboard box by his feet. Her stomach goes cold. No. It can’t be. ‘I bid for it the night of the gala dinner,’ he says. ‘It was going to be a surprise.’
He picks up the box and hands it to her. She feels sick as she turns it over, dreading what she’s going to see, but still hoping that she’s wrong, that it’s something else.
But no. Cassandra’s glossy curls and hard eyes stare triumphantly back at her, as if to say, You thought it would be easy to escape? Ha! She almost drops the box and runs. It’s only the fact that it would make Jason hate her even more that stops her doing so.
That’s the moment when Heather realizes she’s got to cut the piece of elastic that keeps pulling her back to this man – the smug curve of Cassandra’s peachy lips confirms it – and there’s only one way she can think of accomplishing that.
‘You want the truth?’ she asks him, almost defiantly. ‘You want me to be open?’
‘Of course.’
Still so sure of himself, Heather thinks, even though he’s got no idea what’s coming.
‘Saturday night wasn’t the first time I’ve stolen something,’ she tells him.
The surprise on his face would be comical if she wasn’t smashing her own heart to pieces in the process, but she’s on a roll now, powered by some roaring, deafening need to vomit the truth all over him, and although it’s terrible, it’s energizing her, feeding its own momentum.
‘I’ve done it before. Look.’ She grabs him by the hand, ignoring the warmth of his fingers, and drags him into her flat. It’s only the fact she’s caught him by surprise that allows her to do it, but she makes good use of her advantage. She flings open the door to her spare bedroom with her free hand, then releases him so she can pull the draw of shame open. She’s too wired now, though, and she tugs too hard and both draw and contents tumble onto the floor in a mess of pastel-coloured cuteness.
‘I stole all of this,’ she tells him. ‘You want to know who I am? This is who I am! I’m a liar and a thief!’
Jason is just standing there. Frozen. Stunned. His mouth literally hanging open. And then he blinks, begins to collect himself, and the eyes that have been fixed on the mess on the floor refocus on her. He shakes his head slowly, as if his brain is working so hard on other things that this is the only speed it can manage.
‘What an idiot I’ve been,’ he says quietly, and Heather swears she can hear her heart cracking, splintering, inside her chest. Some of the shock begins to wear off, because the anger returns to his expression, narrowing his eyes and twisting his mouth. ‘I thought I was falling for you, but I can’t have been. You’re right – I don’t even know you.’
And then he turns and walks away. Heather runs after him. She wants to call him back, wants to tell him it’s a mistake, that they can work it out, but she knows that’s just wishful thinking. She stops at the threshold of her flat and watches him stomp up the stairs, two at a time, and then slam his door behind him.
Cassandra’s box, with its clear cellophane front, is lying on the hall floor, where Heather dropped it when she grabbed Jason’s hand. She turns it over to find that the doll landed on her head and now there’s a crack, and maybe even a small dent, in her left temple.
She brings the box inside, puts it down on the living-room sofa and then tears it open. She flings the cardboard aside and places the doll very carefully in the middle of the rug, spreading her dress neatly to shake out the folds, fanning her ringlets so they fall around her head like a halo, and then Heather takes her foot, raises it high and brings it smashing down on Cassandra’s head. Over and over and over, until her foot is bleeding and there’s nothing left but a faceless corpse where her mother’s favourite possession used to be.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
NOW
Heather leans on the railings of Hastings pier. Lydia stands beside her and they both stare out across the grey-green waves flecked with white froth.
‘Do you know what the weirdest thing about this is?’ Heather asks.
Lydia shakes her head. ‘No, what?’
‘That being here with you doesn’t feel weird.’
‘I’m glad you emailed, but I have to admit I’m a little puzzled as to why you’d want to see me again.’
‘To thank you,’ Heather says and squints a little. There isn’t a patch of blue overhead, but the completeness of the cloud cover somehow makes the sky whiter and brighter. ‘For everything you did. They told me how you explained to the charity people that I didn’t mean to… that I wasn’t feeling… quite myself.’
‘It was the least I could do,’ Lydia replies solemnly. ‘I know you accepted my explanation of what happened all those years ago, that you believe me, and for that I am truly, truly grateful. You have no idea how it’s weighed on me.’ She stiffens, cuts herself off, as if thinking about herself is a habit she no longer indulges in. ‘The truth is, I feel responsible – for everything you accused me of and more. Besides, it didn’t take much explaining to the founders of a mental-health charity what had happened to make you do such a thing. If anyone can sympathize with it, they can.’
Heather nods. She doesn’t like being thought of in that way – someone with mental-health issues – but she can’t run away from it any longer. People who don’t struggle with that kind of thing don’t do the things she’s been doing. ‘Well, I appreciate it,’ she says. ‘That… and the other stuff.’
Lydia turns to look at her fully. ‘Other stuff?’
‘For being nice to me… when I was little. I’d forgotten a lot of it, but I’m starting to remember more and more.’ She looks down, feeling a little shy. ‘I always thought of you as a friend.’ She risks a look at Lydia. Tears are brimming on her bottom lashes. ‘You were kind to me, and you took the time to talk to me, to play with me, when nobody else did.’
Lydia looks down at her feet. Heather can see she is struggling with her emotions. ‘I’m glad you remember it that way,’ she says eventually, looking up again. They stroll in silence for a while then Lydia says, ‘What’s happening with that nice young man you were with at the gala?’
Heather shakes her head. ‘It’s not a thing any more, and even if it was it’d probably fizzle out pretty quickly. My contract is up in a month now and I’ve got a new job.’
‘Oh,’ says Lydia. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Devon, down on the south coast near Dartmouth. There’s a house down there, used to belong to a film star – Laura Hastings. Have you heard of her? – and the new owner apparently has some diaries of hers that she wants to do something with, as well as records for a foundation the actress set up to help children. They think my previous job makes me the perfect candidate.’
‘Oh. How long will you be gone?’
‘A year.’
Lydia nods. ‘So you’re going to move down there?’
‘Yes. There’s a lovely little village across the river, apparently. I’ve already got a house lined up. I’ll get to travel to work each day on a tiny little ferry that only holds about ten people. Definitely beats the M25!’
Lydia doesn’t laugh at Heather’s joke, barely manages a smile.
‘I’ll come back,’ Heather says tentatively. ‘And we can email or Facebook or something. I don’t want to lose touch.’
Lydia smiles then, and Heather can instantly picture her in her old red coat, her glossy dark curls shining as much as her eyes. It’s the first time since she’s met this mousy little person that she’s seen a glimmer of the woman she remembers.
‘That would be lovely,’ Lydia says. ‘I do Facebook a bit. But don’t send me any videos of cats. For some reason, they really irritate me.’
Heather laughs. ‘Okay. It’s a deal.’
They’ve reached the end of the pier now and they take a moment deciding where to go. Lydia asks if she wants to do a round of crazy golf, for old times’ sake, but Heather isn’t quite ready to revisit the place she had that magical afternoon with Jason, the place they went before he kissed her for the first time. She shakes her head and the light fades out of her eyes.
Lydia notices her solemn expression and takes a stab at what might have caused it. ‘Are you sure the “thing” with the young man just fizzled out?’
‘What do you mean?’
Lydia looks at her kindly. ‘I’m no stranger to heartbreak,’ she says. ‘I know it when I see it.’ Heather shakes her head and looks away. ‘Running away isn’t going to solve anything, you know.’
Heather’s throat goes tight. ‘Getting a new job isn’t running away, it’s a necessity. And honestly, I really don’t think
the relationship is salvageable. Some things you just can’t come back from.’
Lydia nods and they start walking along the shore, heading towards the old fishermen’s huts on the far eastern end of the beach. ‘Okay. I won’t badger you about it again.’
‘It’s alright,’ Heather says, and she realizes it really is, that she doesn’t mind at all. It’s nice having someone to look out for her, to call her out on stuff. She sighs. ‘I really ought to go soon. I promised my sister I’d go for dinner. It’s my nephew’s birthday.’
Lydia nods. ‘How old is he?’
Heather smiles. Living with her niece and nephew for a couple of weeks has been nice. She’s not so tense around them any more, and Barney sometimes crawls onto her lap without asking in the evenings, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. ‘He’s four today, and a right little pickle.’
Lydia smiles back, but Heather sees a familiar blankness in her eyes. They walk in silence for a moment, then she asks, ‘Do you have a picture of your daughter?’
Lydia nods and pulls her phone out of her bag. They stand in the middle of the pavement while she pulls up a picture that is obviously a scan of an old photograph. The girl is different from how Heather imagined her. She expected to see a carbon copy of herself with the long blonde fringe and the cheeky smile, but instead she sees a miniature version of Lydia, with dark, wavy hair and large, soulful eyes.
‘I’m so sorry you lost her,’ she tells Lydia. ‘I know you must have been a wonderful mother.’
‘No, really. I—’
‘I won’t believe you if you deny it,’ Heather says firmly. ‘I know, first-hand, how good you are with kids.’
Impulsively, she steps in and gives Lydia what she intends to be just a brief hug, but they both cling to each other for an extra few seconds. When they pull away, Lydia looks at her seriously.
