‘Hello?’ I say. The word sounds hoarse, as if spoken by a heavy smoker. Silence. I clear my throat, ‘Hello?’
‘Hi! Yes. Um, is this Mary?’ It’s a soft, husky female voice, not what I was expecting.
‘Yes.’
‘Hi! It’s Rachel. For the room?’
‘Right, yeah. Of course. Come on up.’
‘Thanks!’
I press the button for the front door and hear a short, low brrrrrrpt on the other end.
She’s in.
Swallowing thickly, I pour myself some water, then stop. Shit, I’ve forgotten. Today of all days. Dashing to my room, I yank open the top drawer of my dresser and find the aluminium popper pack. I thrust my thumb into the foil twice and throw back the small, white pills with a slug of water. As I’m wiping my mouth on my sleeve, there’s a knock at the door.
‘Coming!’ That’s better. Normal-sounding, friendly. I make myself walk slowly to the door, breathe, then open it.
At first all I see is an oversized grey raincoat with a hood and a shadow for a face. Then the hood slides back and a face appears: pale, angular, with a high, domed forehead and hazel eyes. Dimpled cheeks bracket a wide, even-toothed smile. Two small hands reach up to disengage a bundle of dishevelled, shoulder-length blonde hair from the hood of the raincoat.
All thoughts of greeting are erased by the sudden feeling of recognition. A face like that would be hard to forget, I think. But I can’t pinpoint where I may have seen her. I almost ask if I know her, but she’s thrusting out her small hand, beaming, and saying in that rough-edged voice, ‘It’s so nice to meet you!’
‘Hi. Yes, you too.’
Rachel grasps my hand with fingers that are ice-cold. She’s surrounded by the scent of something sharp and sweet. I’m about to pull my hand back when our eyes connect. I feel a jolt; there’s something in those wide-set eyes, something that makes me feel exposed.
‘Are you okay?’ Rachel’s peering at me, brow furrowed. I can see the dusting of freckles on her small, upturned nose. She’s pretty. Really pretty. And then I wonder if it’s okay to think she’s pretty when she looks a bit like me. Not a dead ringer, of course, but the basic stats: blonde, slim, around the same age. But I’ve got nothing on this girl. At my best, I was that balance of plain and pretty that made me approachable, not too intimidating.
‘Mary?’
I shake my head to clear it. ‘Yeah, yes. Sorry. I just … Bit of a headache.’
‘You poor thing,’ Rachel puts her hand on my upper arm and squeezes gently. The sleeve of her raincoat rides up and I glimpse a black, Celtic-looking pattern on her wrist. A tattoo? ‘I get headaches a lot, so I totally sympathise. Do you want some ibuprofen or something?’
I force a smile. ‘No, really, I’m fine. Sorry about that. Come in. Would you like a coffee, or a tea maybe?’
‘I’d love a coffee, thanks.’ Rachel kicks off her trainers and walks down the hallway and into the kitchen, placing her handbag on the counter. ‘Oh god, wow,’ she breathes, her gaze settling on the dark, rolling clouds, the grey sea and the misty mountain beyond. The flailing branches of the fir trees by the shore hint at a storm. ‘This place is amazing.’
‘Yeah. The view is pretty great.’ I flick on the kettle and spoon instant coffee into two mugs. ‘Did you walk here?’
‘Yup. I don’t have a car at the moment.’ Rachel shrugs out of her raincoat to reveal a baggy jumper emblazoned with the Sydney University logo and a pair of black leggings. Her long legs remind me of a dancer’s or a model’s, and I wonder if she has that ‘thigh gap’ everyone has become obsessed with in recent years.
‘Sorry, I didn’t dress up for you.’ She grins and I wonder if she saw me looking. ‘I’m more of a “dress for comfort” kind of girl.’
‘You’re in good company,’ I say with a smile, gesturing to my T-shirt and jeans.
‘Oh, I love your shirt! Where did you find it? Astro Boy is so retro!’
‘It was a gift, ages ago. It’s way too big.’ I pull at the hem of the shirt, which hangs mid-thigh.
‘It really suits you.’ Rachel smiles warmly and I feel my cheeks heat up as though a boy I liked just paid attention to me. Rachel is not just gorgeous; she’s cool, confident. Like I used to be.
The kettle squeals as it reaches boiling point and, grateful for the distraction, I turn and pour hot water into the mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Thanks, yes. Milk and two sugars.’
I slop milk into both mugs, some of it splattering onto the counter, and stir in the sugar. ‘So,’ I say as I hastily wipe up with a grubby cloth and hand Rachel her mug, ‘how about you take a look at the room, see what you think?’
Rachel beams. ‘Great.’
I lead her down the hall. The room is clean and smells of fresh paint. Cat’s family had some furniture in storage so we decided to rent it furnished so we could ask for more money. The space looks neat and inviting. The room is a mirror image of mine, and beyond the glass sliding doors that connect to the balcony, the sea is visible through the mist.
‘Jesus,’ Rachel murmurs, so softly I can barely hear her. ‘I knew it would be nice, but I wasn’t expecting this.’
I smile. There’s something endearing about her reaction. ‘You’re available straight away, is that right?’ I ask. As soon as the words are out, I cringe inwardly. It sounds like I’m already asking her to move in.
Rachel nods, smiling wide. ‘I am, absolutely, yes.’ She takes a sip of coffee as she combs her fingers through a strand of fine, blonde hair. ‘I’m currently crashing on a friend’s couch – not ideal – until I find somewhere. I just moved from Melbourne, kind of in a hurry actually, so I’m still finding my feet.’
‘Oh! I’m from Melbourne, too.’
Rachel’s eyes pop. ‘Seriously? Wow!’ She beams, hazel eyes twinkling. Again, I have that feeling of exposure, of being really looked at. Being seen. I haven’t felt that in a long time. ‘You know – and please don’t think I’m crazy here – but I get this weird feeling like I already know you. You know how sometimes you meet someone and you just click?’
A smile touches my lips. ‘Yeah. Actually, I do.’
Rachel puts a hand over her mouth. When she pulls it away, she’s grinning. ‘I was thinking, oh my God, Mary’s going to think I’m a complete freak saying that. But you didn’t. Thank fuck!’
A laugh escapes and I can’t believe it, I actually laughed.
‘And now I’ve gone and said fuck! See how comfortable I am with you already?’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I swear all the time,’ I tell her. ‘Fuck is probably the most frequently used word in my vocabulary.’
Rachel giggles, an airy, girlish sound, and I find myself joining in. I feel lighter all of a sudden. Taller.
A sharp trilling intrudes and it’s a moment before I realise what it is. I snatch my phone from my pocket.
Aunty Anne calling.
‘Sorry,’ I say to Rachel. ‘I have to take this.’
‘No probs.’ Rachel waves a hand in the air. ‘Take your time.’
I slip out on the balcony, sliding the door shut behind me. ‘Hi, Aunty Anne.’
‘Mary, darling.’ The familiar voice is muffled by the teeming rain. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. What’s new?’
There’s a pause. The storm’s moving in, the mountain across the water barely visible through the mist. ‘He’s been here again.’ There’s a note of apology in her tone. ‘Asking after you. Mentioning something about police this time.’
A cold shiver moves through me. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘Did he …’
‘I’m okay, darling. He tried his best to rattle me, but you know your old aunt, I stood my ground. I told him you were still on holiday. He called me a liar and … a fucking bitch I think it was?’
‘God.’ I wince. Aunty Anne’s not one to mince words. ‘That’s horrible. I’m so …’
‘Don’t be sorry, darling, I just thought yo
u should know.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘He said …’ A meaty cough comes through the phone; she’s been recovering from bronchitis. ‘Well, just what I told you. He called me a few things and …’
I press a finger to my throat, feel my pulse quicken. ‘And … and what else?’
A heavy sigh. ‘I suppose you could say there were threats.’
‘Like what? Against who?’
Pause. ‘Well, me. He was quite worked up. But that’s hardly new! I’m sure he didn’t really mean it.’
My throat tightens. I’m sick of it, this feeling. ‘I’m calling the police,’ I say. ‘Doctor Sarah said if he makes any threats …’
‘Oh, darling, hush. I’m not telling you so you worry about me.’ Aunty Anne’s voice sounds tinny, distant. ‘I’ve got your uncle and you know damn well no one gets past him. Next time, that bastard is going to leave with more than just a warning.’
My shoulders relax. My uncle, Lieutenant General John, is the main reason I felt okay to leave my aunty in Melbourne.
‘I just want to remind you to be careful, Mary.’
‘I am,’ I assure her. ‘He can’t find me here and if he did, he’d never get into the building.’
Aunty Anne is saying something, but the rain is coming down in sheets and a clap of thunder drowns out her voice. I run a hand over my mouth, turn to go inside.
Rachel is standing in the doorway. With a gasp, I drop the phone.
‘Sorry,’ Rachel says, looking sheepish. She bends to pick up my phone and hands it to me. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. You just looked so upset …’
‘Aunty Anne? I’ll call you back,’ I say into the receiver before ending the call.
‘Are you okay?’ Rachel asks. She has a glob of mascara in the corner of her eye; it’s all I can focus on. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe you should sit down.’
I don’t want to sit down. I want a glass of wine, and I want to call Cat and tell her what’s happened. I want to smash something, but I do not want to sit down. ‘No, I’m okay, really. Just some … news from back home. Nothing serious.’
‘You’re sure?’ Rachel’s standing close, I can see flecks of gold and brown in her irises.
I take a breath, try to smile. ‘Everything’s fine. I’ve just got something I need to deal with. Sorry to cut this short, but …’
Rachel’s face clouds. ‘Oh. Okay.’
‘I’m definitely interested!’ I blurt. ‘I mean, this isn’t because of you … just bad timing. I’ll give you a call later, once I’ve talked things over with the others.’
Rachel’s face relaxes and she gives a small smile; for the first time, she seems uncertain. She steps inside, collects her handbag on her way to the door. ‘Okay, thanks. That’d be great. I look forward to speaking to you again. I, uh …’ She ducks her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It was really nice meeting you today.’
‘Same here. Thanks, Rachel, I’ll be in touch very soon.’
Rachel kneels to put her trainers back on, opens the door and walks out. I’m about to close the door behind her when she looks over her shoulder.
‘Mary?’
‘Yes?’
A pair of sympathetic hazel eyes stare into mine. ‘I think you should go and have a lie-down or something. You really don’t look too well.’
Chapter Four
As I approach the entry doors to the apartment block, a pungent, spicy scent invades my nostrils. It’s probably coming from the sixth-floor apartment with the balcony directly above ours. The couple who live there are always cooking something exotic, in between screaming at each other and having noisy sex. But there’s something not quite right about this smell. It’s as though something has started to rot.
Holding a hand to my nose, I reach for the letter box to find it unlocked, the flap hanging from its hinges. Letters are scattered on the slate tiles below, one with a filmy, brown stain on the corner. Slick-skinned and weary from my walk, I’m thinking only of a cold shower, and it isn’t until I’ve gathered the mail, shut and locked the flap and taken the lift to the fifth floor that I stop to think. Why was the letter box unlocked? Cat and I never unlock it; it seems strange anyone bothered to open it in the first place seeing as the envelopes usually protrude from the slot.
A scruffy beige suitcase with a hole in the seam greets me as I enter the apartment. It sags sadly against the white hallway wall like a stain. Rachel arrived at seven-thirty this morning, deposited her belongings, and immediately rushed off to work. She didn’t bring much, as the room came furnished. So, all day today, the few items comprising Rachel Cummings’ worldly possessions have lain where they fell, awaiting her return.
Flicking on the kettle and glancing at the clock (five-oh-six!), I change my mind. Just a glass or two to end the day, I tell myself as I open the fridge, take out a bottle and slosh the remains of last night’s Pinot Grigio into a wine glass. There’s plenty more in the bar fridge in the laundry room, I’m sure. Leftovers from the party.
The wine is cool and crisp as it passes my lips and, after a couple more sips, the familiar warmth curls in my stomach like a cat settling in for the night. Humming a catchy tune I heard on the radio, I flip through the mail. An estate agent advertisement, the electricity bill and a letter, the one with the brown stain on it, addressed to someone named Sophia Gates. It’s the second time this person’s mail has arrived here; Sophia Gates must have been the previous tenant.
I toss the letter into the recycling, take a long pull of wine and then pause, rubbing a finger along my lips. I knew someone named Sophia once. Or Sophie, maybe. I think for a moment but my mind’s cloudy, and I can’t remember anyone specific. It’s probably no one important, yet I have that feeling I get at times, like I’m supposed to remember something but there’s a brick wall in my mind and my thoughts stop there. A blank space, as I’ve come to call it.
My wine’s nearly gone and no one’s home yet, so I top up my glass with a bottle from the laundry. I go to my room, sit at my desk and flip open my laptop. I check my email, trawl through my newsfeed. Without planning to, I google the name Sophia Gates. Images, Facebook pages and LinkedIn accounts pop up, but I don’t recognise anyone. I’m being stupid, paranoid as usual. It must just be a coincidence.
‘Any mail?’ Cat’s voice calls from the kitchen, startling me. I hadn’t heard the door.
‘On the coffee table!’ I tell her, gulping a mouthful before hiding the glass under the desk.
A moment later, Cat pops her head around the door frame, sleek black ponytail snaking over her shoulder. Her eyes are unusually bright, probably a result of her afternoon Pilates session. ‘Is this all?’ she asks, holding up the electricity bill.
‘Yes. Uh, and there was one for the previous tenant.’
Cat looks at me sharply. ‘Oh, where is it? Do you still have it?’
I shrug. Why is she so worried? ‘I just tossed it.’
Cat’s shoulders relax. ‘Okay. Good. I mean, I just couldn’t be bothered collecting them all and taking them down to the estate agent’s.’
I frown. ‘Cat, did we know anyone called Sophie? At school or something?’
She stares at me for a moment. Then, slowly, she shakes her head. ‘No. Not that I can remember.’
‘Are you sure?’
Cat shrugs. ‘I don’t remember everyone we went to school with, Mary. Look, I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you got around to making that appointment yet?’
‘Appointment?’
Cat gives me a meaningful look. ‘With the psychiatrist. The one Doctor Sarah referred you to. What’s his name … Doctor Chen? Doctor Chang?’
I worry my lower lip with my teeth, shake my head.
‘Mary.’ Cat clicks her tongue, glancing around the room as if looking for something. I imagine her eyes burning holes in the desk, spotting the wine glass hidden underneath.
‘It’s on my list, I swear.’
Cat eyebal
ls me with pursed lips, then releases a sigh that tells me she gives up. ‘Pizza for dinner?’
That coaxes a smile from me. ‘Obviously.’
As I sit, stealing sips of wine, drumming my fingers on the desk, I do the thing I always promise myself I won’t do, but then always do. It’s as though some invisible force is steering my hand. I type one letter and, as it does every time, the search engine remembers the sequence of words in an instant.
The articles pop up in the same order they’re always in.
Leads in murder investigation go cold.
Investigation meets dead end.
Murderer never found.
The same grainy black and white picture of his smiling, unsuspecting face stares out at me. And I wonder, for the hundredth time, if he ever saw it coming.
A breeze creeps in from the balcony door, fragrant with brine. Goosebumps rise on my arms; I shiver and close the browser window.
Chapter Five
24th November 2016
See? I’m keeping it up. I’ve promised myself I would. It seems, more often than not, I manage to break my promises to myself. But not this time.
I made it out on my walk today, so that’s something. And I’m writing – that’s another. But today was warm – too warm, thirty-four degrees – and in this kind of heat, I can’t escape that it’s officially ‘that time of year’ again. Decorations are up, songs are playing, adverts are plastered everywhere declaring joyfully that Christmas is coming! But, for me, they may as well be sounding doomsday signals.
When the weather starts to warm up, regular people get excited; they smile more, they go outdoors, they picnic on the beach. They dine al fresco – Mark loved that because it meant he could smoke. And, when it’s too hot, they chatter and browse and brunch in shopping malls, escaping the heat in air-conditioned comfort as they prepare for another family Christmas.
Seeing them reminds me of everything I’ve lost. As soon as I feel that change in the air, the crispness of spring sinking into the muggy heat of summer, the anxiety creeps in. Because Christmas is when it all happened.
So that’s where the benchmark has been set. Today I got out of bed, I took a walk, and now I’m writing in my journal. That’s my measure of success. I even left my phone on last night. It’s been an anxiety trigger lately, so I’ve kept it off during the night, holding my breath as I switch it on each morning, but there hasn’t been any news. No further updates about him from Aunty Anne, which is good. But I can’t help but feel it’s the calm before the storm.
The New Girl Page 2
