by Niamh Greene
‘Yeah.’ She considers this. ‘Chloë said she was really nervous about it too.’
‘Maybe she feels the same way you do, then.’ Inside I’m appalled. Chloë? That puny girl with the freckles is thinking about having sex with her boyfriend? That’s crazy! I fix a look on my face that hopefully says, ‘You can talk to me about this,’ instead of ‘I’m calling everyone’s parents, right now.’
‘Maybe.’ Matilda’s face brightens.
‘So talk to her about it. But even if she doesn’t feel the same way, you have to trust your instincts. You’ll know when you’re ready. And you know what? You should try talking to your dad too – he’s a good listener.’ My heart constricts when I mention Edward.
‘Some chance!’ Matilda grunts.
‘Why not try?’ I say softly. ‘He might surprise you.’
‘He never listens to me. He hates me!’ Matilda starts to cry hard again.
‘That’s not true, Matilda,’ I say. ‘How can you even think that?’
‘I don’t think it – I know it,’ she sobs. ‘It’s my fault Mum died. That’s why he hates me!’ She buries her face in her arms.
‘Matilda, it’s not your fault your mum died – that was a tragic accident.’
‘If it hadn’t been for me, she wouldn’t have gone out that day – she was cross with me because I wouldn’t tidy my room.’ Matilda’s face is bleak.
‘That’s not why your mum went riding that day,’ I whisper, ‘and even if it was, it wouldn’t make it your fault. You need to talk to your dad about this.’
My heart is breaking for her: she’s been carrying this burden ever since the accident. She totally blames herself for what happened – just like Edward does. He thinks June died because of the argument they had about the estate agent. No wonder Matilda’s been so angry and confused. All her acting up was because of this. The truth is, the accident was no one’s fault: it was just that – an accident.
‘I didn’t want to burden him with all my stuff, you know. When Mum died he was so devastated. I didn’t want to add to his worries.’
‘He’s your dad, Matilda,’ I say. ‘He loves you and I know he’d love to listen. Just give him a chance and trust him.’
‘You think so?’ She looks doubtful.
‘Yes, I do.’ I smile with encouragement.
‘Thanks, Maggie.’ She shoots me a watery smile.
‘Feel better?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I do a bit. Why are you leaving anyway?’
I pause before I answer this. I can’t exactly say, ‘I’m running away from Rose Cottage because I lied to everyone and now they all hate me, especially your father.’ Matilda would think I was mad, and if she thought that, she might be less inclined to take my advice about the sex thing. ‘I have to go back to the city,’ I reply. That’s not a lie, not technically. I do have to go, but not because I want to.
‘Oh, right.’ She rubs her tear-streaked face. ‘When are you coming back?’
‘Em, I may not be coming back.’ I avoid her eye. ‘Something’s come up that I have to deal with. It’s … complicated.’
‘But what about the cottage? And the ponies?’ She’s confused. ‘Who’s going to help Dad?’
‘I’m not exactly sure.’ I look away from her. ‘He’ll cope without me.’
‘You haven’t told him, have you?’
Her voice is accusing. How come all these kids are so clued-in, these days? I can’t get away with anything! ‘Like I said, Matilda, it’s complicated.’
‘It wasn’t that complicated a minute ago when you told me not to have sex with my boyfriend.’
Crap. Why is she interrogating me like this? I can see Polly being just like her in a few years’ time.
Suddenly I make a decision. I have to tell her the truth. If I don’t, she won’t trust me, and if she doesn’t trust me, she might give in to that creep Daniel. The thought of her being pressured into having sex when she doesn’t want to makes me ache so badly to protect her I could cry. ‘Matilda,’ I look at her, ‘I told a lie. Lots of lies, in fact. I’m not an artist. I’m an estate agent. Your dad never would have let me stay if he’d known the truth.’
‘He doesn’t like estate agents,’ Matilda says solemnly.
‘I know. I should have told him the truth. And I never should have got involved in the debate about the supermarket. I should have kept out of it.’
‘But, Maggie, you were only trying to help! My dad said you were very supportive.’
‘He did?’ My stomach flips.
‘Definitely. And he said you were super-smart.’
‘Smart?’
‘Yeah. I made up all that other stuff. I’m sorry. The truth is, Dad really likes you. That’s why Granny doesn’t.’ Matilda giggles.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Thank goodness it’s dark – otherwise Matilda would see how my face is burning.
‘Sure you do. Dad fancies you – anyone can see that. Granny doesn’t like you because she doesn’t want anyone to replace Mum. She was being nasty to you to drive you away.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Oh, yeah, it’s textbook. I’ve seen stuff like this on Oprah.’
I can’t help but laugh at this.
‘Yeah, she feels threatened by you, it’s classic.’
‘Well, there’s no need to be threatened by me,’ I say. ‘Edward doesn’t like me in that way.’
‘Oh, yes, he does,’ Matilda argues. ‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Maggie.’
‘How does he look at me?’ I’m almost afraid to ask.
‘Like you’re in some soppy romantic movie.’
I swallow, but say nothing. Was the way he looked at me for real, after all?
‘Daniel never looked at me like that,’ she says sadly. ‘He only wanted to use me. Anyway, I don’t know why Granny was being so mean – Mum would have liked you.’
I feel tears prick my eyes. I can’t believe Matilda is saying all this. I can’t bear it – if any of it is true, then the timing is terrible. The stupidity of what I’ve done hits me hard and I feel lightheaded – I’ve made such a twenty-four-carat mess of everything. ‘But I have to go,’ I wail. ‘I have no choice. I’ve let your dad down, I’ve let everyone down. I’m so stuuuupiiiid!’
‘Don’t cry, Maggie.’ Matilda drapes her skinny arm across my shoulders. Through my tears I see a tiny barcode tattoo on the upper inside of her wrist. I can bet Edward doesn’t know about that. Then again, there seems to be a lot he doesn’t know about his troubled daughter. If only I could help. I wish they could communicate better – Matilda is so warm and funny once you crack the tough-nut exterior. And she’s a really good listener too.
‘Sorry.’ I snuffle. ‘I’m not much use, am I?’
‘Be quiet.’ Matilda’s voice is suddenly harsh.
‘No, honestly, I’m not much use. I’m hopeless – here I am, trying to help you, and I end up sobbing on your shoulder …’
‘Maggie. Shut up.’
‘Eh?’ That’s out of order. I’m only trying to explain myself.
I lift my head to look at Matilda and see her staring over my shoulder, a terrified expression on her face.
‘It’s Drya,’ she hisses.
‘Drya?’ Drya is back?
I twist my head to see the horse galloping wildly towards us, her eyes rolling in her head. If we don’t jump aside she’s going to plough right into us.
‘Move, Matilda!’ I shout, trying to push her away. But she’s stuck, rigid with fear.
‘Move!’ I yell again, and with an enormous effort I shove her away. And suddenly I’m flying through the air.
Rule Twenty-seven: Believe in happy endings
‘Is she going to die?’ a small voice says.
‘No, of course not,’ another answers.
‘She might,’ the small voice replies.
‘No, she won’t – I promise.’ The other voice softens a little.
‘She’ll be fine,�
� a third voice interrupts. ‘She’ll come round – the girl has grit.’
‘I hope you’re right, June,’ a fourth voice says. He sounds worried.
June. Why does that name sound familiar? June … There’s definitely a ring to it, but I just can’t seem to put my finger on it somehow … But I won’t think about it now, because all I want to do is drift back into the darkness and sleep.
‘Dr Martin’s on his way,’ a fifth voice adds. ‘He’ll be here in a few minutes.’
‘I have a Mars Bar,’ someone adds. ‘Would it help?’
‘How would a Mars Bar help?’ a woman says. ‘She’s unconscious – what are you going to do? Set up a drip and mainline chocolate through her veins?’
‘Sorry,’ the man says. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘No, you didn’t, you sausage-roll-eating traitor!’ the woman snaps.
They sound familiar too. Why is that?
‘That’s enough. Out – all of you. She needs some peace and quiet.’
It’s a man talking now. A man with a lovely deep voice. I can hear him, closer, whispering in my ear: ‘Maggie,’ he says softly. ‘Maggie, can you hear me?’
I open one eye and try to concentrate. Who is he? I can’t see very well. Maybe if I could get the other eye open … but I can’t for some reason. It’s as if the lashes are firmly glued together. Did I forget to take off my mascara again last night? I wish someone would invent a mascara that miraculously disappears while you sleep, just sort of dissolves into your skin, maybe. It’s such a bummer to wake up with panda eyes. Now the gloop will have hardened and it’ll take twice as long to get myself looking presentable for work. I hope I haven’t run out of eye-makeup remover. The bottle was almost empty the last time I used it.
‘Maggie,’ the voice says again. ‘Maggie, can you hear me?’
God, my head hurts – what did I do last night? I try to remember. First I forgot to take off my makeup; now my head is pounding like I have the worst hangover in history. Did I go out? My brain is fuzzy and, for the life of me, I just can’t remember. Was I with Dom? Did he finally manage to get me to go clubbing? I’ll kill him when I get my hands on him – what on earth did he make me drink? I’ve never had a hangover like this. Not ever.
I turn my face to the left, where the voice is coming from, and with one last effort I manage to wrench both eyes open.
There’s a man kneeling by me – a stranger. A stranger who looks oddly familiar. Oh, my God. I’ve had a one-night stand. I’ve slept with a random guy. Is he someone I met in a nightclub? I rack my brains, panic flooding through me. I must have been really, really drunk – that’s why I ended up in this state, lying beside a total stranger. I can’t believe I’ve done this. It’s so not like me to hook up with someone I don’t even know. Even if he is … gorgeous. God, he’s gorgeous – even in my state I can see that. He has the most beautiful eyes, really smiley and crinkly and lovely.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
His voice is lovely too, really caring. It looks like I had a one-night stand with a really nice person. Not that this in any way absolves me of blame – I am a bad person, a very, very bad person. I should be ashamed of myself. I am ashamed of myself. If I could just sit up and get out of here …
‘Are you feeling a bit muzzy? You hit your head pretty hard. The doctor’s on the way.’
Doctor? What doctor? I hit my head? What’s he talking about? I can’t focus, because my skull is throbbing so much.
‘Do you have a headache?’ the stranger asks now, smiling kindly at me. Mmm … he’s cute.
I try to nod, but even that hurts. But it seems the stranger knows what I’m saying. ‘Here, take this.’
He lifts a glass of water to my lips and I drink thirstily. That’ll be the hangover – that’ll teach me to drink too much. I must be in a complete mess – what on earth did I get up to last night? I haven’t had a shocking hangover like this in years.
‘You’ll feel better soon,’ the stranger says. ‘Are you comfortable?’
‘Yes,’ I hear myself say, even though my head feels like it’s going to explode.
Who the hell is this guy and why does he look so familiar? And where exactly am I? I’m not in a bed – I seem to be lying on a sofa. Oh, God, it looks like we never even made it to the bedroom. I must have had wild-stranger sex in this guy’s front room – right here on this chesterfield with the worn cushions. Come to think of it, the cushions look familiar – I’m sure I’ve seen them somewhere before. And that smell … it’s sort of musky, almost outdoorsy. It smells like … horse manure.
And then it comes to me, like a blinding flash of light. This isn’t some gorgeous guy I’ve had a one-night stand with after a drunken night out. This is Edward – my temporary landlord. I am in the country, not in some stranger’s flat after drunken sex.
It all comes flooding back – Robert turning up at the meeting, Ted having his heart-attack, Matilda going missing. And Edward. He knows the truth about me. Oh, God.
‘Did I … did I faint?’ I croak.
‘No, you didn’t. Drya ran into you and you fell and hit your head pretty hard,’ Edward says.
Drya? That’s right. Matilda took Drya – she ran away.
‘Matilda?’ I croak. ‘Is she OK? Is she hurt?’
‘She’s fine.’ Edward smiles. ‘A bit shaky, but fine. Thanks to you. She told me everything about … about Daniel. We had a very long talk.’
‘Good – that’s good. She’s a nice kid – she’s just a confused teenager.’
‘You’re right. And I haven’t been a very good listener. But that’s going to change.’
I’m so proud of Matilda I could burst – she’s taken my advice to heart and reconnected with her dad. She’ll be OK now, even if she’s heartbroken for a while.
‘How’s Drya?’
‘Not so good – she fell too.’
‘Oh, no, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he says softly. ‘You and Matilda are safe, that’s all that matters. It could have been so much worse.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ I’m trying to make sense of it all.
‘We have to get you checked out, though – you might have concussion. The doctor will be here in a minute.’
‘How did I get here?’ I ask.
‘Robert drove you,’ he replies. ‘He’s been a great help tonight.’
Robert. Of course. ‘Can I maybe have some more water?’ My throat feels like sandpaper.
‘Sure.’
He holds the glass to my lips again and I take a sip – the cool liquid feels wonderful as it slips down my throat.
‘Is Polly OK?’ I ask. ‘I hope she wasn’t frightened.’
‘She’s fine,’ Edward says. ‘She was very concerned that you might die, but once we reassured her that you weren’t going to she recovered pretty quickly.’
‘Die? Why would she think I was going to die?’
‘Well, I guess since her mum passed away she’s had a heightened sense of fear that people she’s fond of will do the same. The psychologist says it’s perfectly natural – a sort of transference, I think.’
‘Polly’s fond of me?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘She’s very fond of you. She says you’re different from other people. You’re not naff apparently.’
He fiddles uncomfortably with the blanket that’s draped across me while I try to think of something to say. Everything is such a mess – there’s no getting away from it.
‘I’m not an artist,’ I confess. ‘But I think you know that already.’ I may as well tackle the subject – there’s no time like the present.
‘Yes, I do.’
Edward’s voice isn’t angry. Why is that?
‘I’m an estate agent.’
There. I’ve said it. If there was any doubt in his mind about what he overheard in the hall I’ve cleared it up for him. There can be no misunderstanding any more.
‘An unemployed estate agent is
what I understand,’ he corrects me.
He still doesn’t sound angry. Why? He hates estate agents – he blames them for his wife’s death. He thinks they should all rot in hell.
‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘And I’m homeless too.’ In for a penny in for a pound.
‘That’s why you agreed to stay in Rose Cottage? You had nowhere to live in the city?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I didn’t mean to lie – it all just got out of control …’ I struggle to sit up and explain it properly to him.
‘Sssh, you need to rest.’
‘Maggie!’
Before he can continue, Polly bursts into the room and flings herself at the chesterfield. Edward drops my hand. It’s only now I realize he was holding it tightly as we talked.
‘Hi, Polly!’ I smile at her.
‘Are you OK?’ Her plump face is creased with worry.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Pinkie promise?’ She holds out her baby finger to me and grabs mine with hers.
‘Pinkie promise,’ I repeat.
‘I was really scared.’
‘I’m sorry, Polly. I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Polly, you have to go,’ Edward says kindly. ‘Maggie needs her rest.’
‘Can’t I just sit here, Dad? I won’t talk.’
I nod at Edward.
‘OK, then,’ he ruffles Polly’s hair, ‘but not a peep, OK?’
‘OK. I swear.’
Polly hunkers down on the floor beside me and takes my hand. ‘Can I just tell Maggie one thing?’ she asks, after about two seconds of silence.
‘Polly!’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Go on, Polly.’
‘We all know you’re not an artist,’ she announces solemnly.
‘You do?’ Of course they do. Nothing stays secret in Glacken for very long, I know that.
‘Yup. Odette told us. And then Peg and Ted told her she should mind her own business!’
