‘Ah, a man after my own heart.’
‘Indeed.’
His phone buzzes urgently. Frankie’s father again. He puts the flashing phone back in his pocket. If something is ignored often enough, it disappears eventually. His mind picks at the thought of why he is calling. Have they seen him on the news? What did they think of his interview? It’s best left alone. He has no time for diversions. The last time they spoke, Frankie was dead, hair spread like a fan above her in her coffin. He hoped she was wearing the rose-shaped marcasite pendant he had given her but he never got to see. He hadn’t even known what chapel they were using for the funeral, or if they used one at all. On that muggy, typical London day he had sat on the couch, downing Scotch from the bottle as his almost-wife lay unmoving, as his almost-father-in-law yelled over the telephone, ‘STAY AWAY FROM MY FUCKING FAMILY, YOU HEAR ME? OR IT’LL BE THE LAST THING YOU DO, TYLER. STAY THE HELL AWAY.’
Chapter 47
Holly then
They meet at one of those sad cancer events where the music is too loud and the décor is too bright. Where the sick are ushered in like cattle to be subjected to the healthy’s idea of what they need to do to feel better. Today, it is a fashion show, an awkward procession of designer sleepwear to help the audience survive in comfort.
Holly walks inside, head bowed. It’s been a while since she’s been among cancer sufferers and she’s nervous. Her London life to date has been a far more comfortable series of raw food and vegan events. She was welcomed into a new circle where, for once, she legitimately belonged. Now, being back into this fold of cancer sufferers feels like a terrible mistake. She shouldn’t have said yes to the invite, but the organisers’ sad story about lack of funding, and request for Holly to be the keynote speaker broke her heart. It will just be one quiet good deed, and then she will slink back into the unlikely universe she has created. Besides, it’s not like there are any media people present to recognise her.
‘Hey! I know you.’
A wild-haired redhead strides over to her. Confident and strong in an easy, angular Cos dress, she doesn’t belong with the other downtrodden women swimming in loose jumpers. Even Holly’s simple jeans, cardigan and trainers now seem in poor taste.
She can’t help but break a smile at her. ‘Maybe you do. I’m Holly Evans.’
Her curls quiver in excitement and the stranger grabs Holly’s arm, ‘Oh my goodness, I knew it. You look even more radiant in real life, do you know that?’
It shouldn’t matter. Holly should shake her off and go backstage to prepare her speech, but the woman anchors her somehow. She’s the type of woman you want to look at a second longer, or rather, you want her to look at you.
‘What is your name? And what brings you to a place like this?’ They both regard the silver and pale blue draping, the twee banners, and the gel candles haunting every table, and burst into laughter.
‘Oh gosh. I’m Frankie and this is my first time at . . . something like this.’ Her voice softens. ‘I only received my diagnosis last week and my doctor thinks I should, you know, hang out with like-minded people while I figure things out.’ For the first time, Holly notices the bulging Boots tissue pack in her hand. She must have expected the event to involve a lot of crying.
‘Yeah, because what better to distract you than a crowd of people even sicker than you are.’
Another laugh ripples through her. ‘I’m beginning to find this whole “being sick” thing a bit of a strange state of affairs. Like I’m meant to play a role, you know?’
Doesn’t Holly know it . . .
Her heart breaks for Frankie, standing at the cusp of a world she didn’t ask to enter. Soon, nobody will care about her job anymore, her opinions or her nice Cos dress. They will only want to ask the type of questions that peer inside her body, that poke into her fragile skin. Everything she thought she knew about herself will be put to the test and proven wrong. A new cancer-self will emerge and devour it all.
In some ways, she’s jealous.
‘You’re OK, right?’ she whispers. ‘I mean, you quit chemo and went for natural remedies and look at you, you’re fine now? No evidence of disease?’
‘I’m all clear,’ Holly says reassuringly.
‘Right. My new boyfriend is a doctor and he doesn’t get my paranoia over the traditional medical fraternity. It’s coming between us all the time. I mean, we’ve only been together for six months and he’s acting like he has some sort of authority over my life path and what is best for me. He doesn’t understand that ever since I was little I hated everything to do with hospitals. He won’t read my research on alternative cancer therapies. Maybe if I tell him I met you in the flesh and saw how wonderful you looked he will believe me. You went the natural route and you are fine.’
She nods. ‘Yes, Frankie, I am fine.’ Something pushes, trying to free itself from her tongue. She could tell her. Now is the time she could open her frozen jaw and hawk it out, an ugly, writhing thing on the floor between their feet. But she couldn’t bear to see Frankie’s freckled face contort in disgust. She looks healthy enough, with a strong mind to match. Armed with this and her doctor boyfriend she will come out of this. Holly’s opinion doesn’t matter, her lie is of no consequence. Frankie will be fine.
The organisers, two sour-faced women wearing matching heart-shaped badges, gesture for her to come on stage.
‘Holly?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘It was amazing to meet you, really.’ Frankie shifts on her feet. ‘Could I email you sometime? Maybe even grab a cup of coffee with you? I’m feeling a bit alone on this path right now.’
She looks like a little child, her small, innocent face framed by angelic curls.
‘Of course, of course. Consider me your friend.’
Chapter 48
Holly
The air feels thinner now, but clearer. The sneering face that cut Holly now has a name and a story. Tyler Wells, surgeon, surviving partner of Frankie, a better girl than she could ever be. What Tyler does not know is that things are about to get a whole lot worse. If he wants to watch her from his pedestal, she has every right to watch him back. She has every right to reveal his secrets. Just as he has revealed hers.
After they finish watching the interview, she begged Ayo for access to the cottage’s Wi-Fi through forced tears. The guilt was eating her alive, she said. She needed to contact some people, to make arrangements, to set things right. Ayo nodded then and held her tightly. She understood the power of making amends.
Now the phone warms her hand. The relief Holly feels is expansive, imbuing the room around her with a golden glow. Perhaps the people who go on retreats like this feel better afterwards simply because they are connected again, not because anything special happened during their isolation.
Isn’t the magnetic pull of the Internet so strange? She knows everybody still hates her. She expects the thick, unending bile of vicious comments but she needs to log on anyway and scroll through the horror until she feels sated. They don’t burn as much anymore. Nothing can erode her new-found feeling of redemption. She isn’t the only one who has lied. In many ways, Tyler’s lie is far worse. After all, it may have cost Frankie her life.
Now she has the opportunity to make things right. She’ll show her followers that yes, she lied and she feels terrible about it, but she never meant to hurt anybody. It will take care and meticulous planning, but if she pulls it off Holly Evans will be reborn.
A quick search for his name on Instagram reveals him right up top. The Wells Way, the fat-filled, indulgent diet he was peddling on live television, has made him an instant star. His pictures are still amateurish. Poor lighting and blurry subjects. None of the sharp, clean lines that the professionals have. He’s just winging it, throwing a garbled message into the ether and people are in love with him for it. She can tell from the hundreds of comments, from the way people talk to him like he’s a friend. Holly should know. This is the world he snatched away from her
.
Her hands shake over the phone. Her body pulses with delicious excitement. It’s that feeling of messaging a crush to say hey, how’s it going, would you like to maybe hang out sometime? She selects each one of his pictures, and touches her finger on the little heart. A fluttering butterfly-winged assault of like, like, like, like. Who cares what others think? She has a purpose of her own now. She needs him to see her name flashing on his screen over and over again. An uncomfortable reminder. He needs to know that she is watching.
Chapter 49
Tyler
Tyler runs through Soho, pushing past dawdling lovers and distracted tourists. He turns the corner where it happened, and feels a little tug in his chest. The mud and rubbish on the paving has long since washed the last trace of her blood away. There’s no time to stop, to breathe the moment in. He’s late, and the stain of his sweat has ruined his Ralph Lauren shirt.
Hawksmoor, his favourite steakhouse, is launching a new menu tonight. The restaurant glimmers with food bloggers and journalists who have been invited from all over the city. He stands outside the window, catching his breath. It still feels peculiar that this self-aware crowd now includes him.
The door opens to warmth and fire smoke. The ripe smell of steak and red wine hovers heavily over the crowd. A blogger he’s seen in the papers with high, coiffed hair and a prominent chin paces determinedly towards him. She has an animal-like sexuality to her, the type of woman who would have her way with you then leave while you’re in the shower.
‘Tyler! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you made it!’ She enfolds him in a musky embrace and fires questions at him. How is he? Is he going to the launch at the Savoy? Is he signed on for the media tour of that new four-Michelin-starred restaurant in the south of France? Once she has exhausted every angle of superficiality, she flits off.
It continues, over and over again. The unsolicited love of strangers. Their perfume and smoky blazers rubbing onto him. In this world, you don’t have to do anything to be famous. You just need a whiff of approval from someone, an article in a magazine, an air of importance. Then everybody pushes themselves into your path, hoping you will give them some of whatever it is they imagine you have.
He goes through the motions. Greets the chef and the owners. Feigns interest in the cooking process. Asks the questions that he figures will impress them, the questions that will make him stand out. He can’t get too emotional about it. Focusing on how unqualified these self-proclaimed foodies are to even talk about anything more than a bowl of cereal will get him nowhere. Why exhaust himself with questions of who is deserving or undeserving? This is all a game that he will do anything to win.
He takes out his phone, elevates himself above a slab of pink, salted meat with a deep glass of wine teetering next to it. Pink, blood red, burgundy. Focus. Zoom. A still life of everything Holly hates. A provocative prod in her side.
Look how easily replaceable you are. Look at all the different ways I can take your life.
He adds a few filters and sharpens the image. His skills improve every day. The little adjustments he makes feel less like a lie and more like an advantage. Though he dismissed Holly’s online kingdom, he can’t help but think that his is different, his is something real.
The likes come in immediately. Ten, twenty, one hundred. A few overwhelming comments. One direct message from a young woman intent on sending him several unsolicited nudes a day. He’s read a bit of psychology. He knows that this pounding feeling in his chest is nothing more than a shot of dopamine, a physical reward for every like.
What the textbooks don’t tell you is that some highs are better than others. One hundred, no, one thousand likes don’t compare to one particular name flashing across his screen. Holly Evans, over and over again, telling him she has noticed. Telling him that she is watching.
The buzz is back. This time, languid and delicious. It flows thickly through his veins and coils around his bones. His small, petty statements of intent are replaced with a clear purpose. He is performing for someone again. He slips out of the restaurant, ignoring the tugging arms of fake friends begging him to stay for one more drink. He makes his way through Soho, down Broadwick Street and left onto old Compton Street. It is later than he expected. Restaurants are locking up. The bakers at the French patisserie are blaring trance music while pounding dough for tomorrow’s bread. Even the sting that comes with walking past his and Frankie’s favourite sushi place has dulled.
All the planning, all the nights of stewing in his sweat thinking of the ways Holly harmed him have started to feel fruitless. This spark of activity came out of nowhere, this glimmer of hope. He didn’t have to bother chasing her as much as he did. All he had to do is wait for her to come to him.
Chapter 50
Holly
How many hours has Holly spent studying magazines filled with thin, beautiful girls, pondering the secret to being loved? How many times has she beaten herself up for not having that special, secret femininity that kept her make-up in place, her arse tight and her demeanour sunny?
When she shifted from ugly to beautiful, she didn’t notice the pattern underlying each action. She didn’t question the choices she made about what clothes she wore or the way she did her make-up. It was a case of priorities. She couldn’t say she had cancer anymore but she could draw attention to her eyes, her waist, her hair. What she didn’t realise is that all her attention was won by looking the same as everybody else, and touting a message everybody wanted to hear.
As she stands in the now-familiar kitchen at the retreat, she realises the secret once and for all. Compliance. Smile like you mean it. Compliment strangers. Have the expected reaction to trauma and pain. Don’t diverge from the path for fear of being labelled ‘other’. Sinister. A lone wolf.
She fries a handful of onions in coconut oil, adds masala, cinnamon and some fresh curry leaves. God, it feels good to cook again. She knows by smell when the onions are done, and adds some fresh chopped tomatoes and red lentils. This remains the only area of her life where she feels natural, and still in control.
Ayo and Tara chat contentedly to each other as they set the table, looking up briefly to proclaim, ‘Holly, that smells sublime!’
‘Thanks!’ she replies. ‘It feels so strange to be actually cooking food again!’
In many ways, she is healing. After the watershed moment of finding out about Frankie’s death she has done everything right. She has delivered long confessional monologues in the afternoon meetings, cried furiously over the shame she feels, and spent time after dinner getting to know her new friends. Some of her feelings – anger, sadness, regret, self-hatred – are true, but they start to recede as she focuses on a more urgent plan.
It hurts, but a new emotion is breaking through the surface. Forgiveness. She can’t change the choices she has made in the past, but she does have the power to do the right thing in the future. Every night, before she falls asleep, she dreams of seeing Tyler. The scenarios change. Sometimes they happen to be waiting for the same tube or walk into the same room at the British Museum. The best ones are where she is most triumphant: she has smoothed foundation over her new face until not one remnant of a scar is visible; her hair is freshly dyed caramel blonde, with wind-blown beach waves as laid-back as Frankie’s; the muscle she has built hiking in the hills surrounding the cottage each day and practising her sparring skills against the retreat’s boxing bag is visible through her black bodycon dress. He stares at her, because no man wouldn’t. He looks at her, and she watches his face fall as he realises she knows, as shame sucks him into its endless black hole.
‘I can’t believe you’re leaving us so soon,’ sighs Verushka. ‘I was just getting used to your amazing cooking!’ Over the past few nights, Holly has taken to cooking the retreat dinner as an act of service. She loves foraging in the garden for fresh herbs and walking in the crisp morning air to buy fresh vegetables at the market. For her, it is another form of redemption, of rebirth. If her new friends can
forget her past and see the value in her cooking, surely the rest of the world can too?
‘Don’t worry, I’ll leave you some recipes.’ She smiles. As much as she would love to live suspended in this cosy moment, nestled in the warmth of this kitchen, laughing at Alan’s awkward jokes and fighting Tara for the last slice of bread, it is time she took control of her own life. Her train ticket is booked, her bag is packed and Zanna is expecting her. It’s time to go home.
Chapter 51
Tyler
Tyler’s ringing phone has become a constant soundtrack to his day. It starts as early as 7 a.m. after his run, and keeps going late into the night. Some of the calls relate to his actual job, others are waves of journalists, all riding the ‘Hotshot philanthropic surgeon tells of private anguish’ angle. More still forge a new path, one that is dominated by ‘The Wells Way’, one that is solely his own. He doesn’t have the time for any of it, but at least it’s a distraction from the buzz, a distraction from the other missed calls, the ones from Frankie’s father.
He’s thought of blocking him, but that feels too final, an admission that there is bad blood between them. He’ll lose interest eventually, surely. All this fuss will die down and the calls will dry up, his among them. Tyler isn’t even sure what the exact cause of the acrimony is, although he has an idea.
It’s not his favourite memory. There were better days. He’d caught the fear by then – it itched inside his skull. She didn’t love him anymore; she didn’t love him. The signs had been racking up, undeniable. Her eyes fled somewhere else when he spoke to her. She never wore her engagement ring. Hours went by before her reply to his message flashed across his phone and even then, it was lukewarm. He’d tried to spoil her with gifts delivered to her parents’ door, but these went unacknowledged.
Shame on You: The addictive psychological thriller that will make you question everything you read online Page 23
