‘Tracey. It’s Fiona.’ There was a silence. She knew she didn’t have to elaborate or explain. Tracey knew exactly who she was, and why she was phoning. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Right.’ Fiona could sense the tension from two hundred miles. ‘I’ll come to you. Where are you?’ She obviously didn’t want Fiona anywhere near her perfect lifestyle. She didn’t want a skeleton tumbling out of the closet where she kept her designer dresses.
Fiona told her.
‘I’ll drive down tomorrow,’ Tracey told her crisply, and hung up.
She arrived at midday, dressed for St Tropez, not Everdene, in cropped denim jeans and towering espadrilles, a huge pair of Givenchy sunglasses holding back her hair, which had clearly undergone some drastic chemical process to make it straight. Her breasts were even larger than Fiona remembered. Her face was considerably less heavy of feature. Someone skilful had been at her with the knife.
She embraced Fiona like a long-lost friend rather than something rather nasty that had come out of the woodwork. That was Tracey’s way, to lull you into a false sense of security. Fiona’s stomach turned over, at the memory, the fear of what was to come, and the revulsion of her overpowering perfume. She knew she must look terrible by comparison, with her hair scraped back and no make-up, drawn with the effort of not drinking. Her head was pounding. She thought her body had probably gone into shock.
It was all she could do not to suggest they decamp to the pub.
Tracey didn’t bother with any niceties about how lovely the beach hut was. She lit a cigarette without asking if it was all right.
‘So,’ she blew out a plume of smoke. ‘What’s the score?’
‘I can’t keep quiet any more,’ Fiona told her. ‘I need to tell the truth.’
Tracey looked quizzical.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘It’s not going to bring her back.’
‘I can’t stand the guilt any longer. I’m not worried about ruining my life, but I’m ruining other people’s. My husband’s, my kids’.’ She took in a deep breath. ‘I’m an alcoholic, Tracey. I drink to forget. Every day I drink to wipe out the memory. Oh, I can function OK. Pillar of society, me. But I know everyone knows, and they know I know, and I know they know I know . . .’
She trailed off, exhausted. It was the first time she had said those words. I’m an alcoholic. And she was still here.
Tracey shrugged. Luckily, Fiona hadn’t expected sympathy.
‘We all deal with things differently, don’t we? I’m a workaholic. It’s all I do. Everything in my life is to do with my business. I don’t have a family.’ She gave a wintry smile. ‘This is the first day off I’ve had for six months. And that includes weekends. My staff are mystified. They know something must be up for me to be off. Either that or they think I’m away having something fixed.’ She stared at Fiona. Her eyes were still small. No surgeon could fix that. ‘So what difference do you think a confession’s going to make?’
Fiona steeled herself. She was going to have to be firm, because she knew Tracey would talk her out of it.
‘We killed Lindsay because we were too busy trying to prove to everyone who was in control. It was our bloody egos that put her up on that banister. And I can’t live with it any more. I need it out in the open, so I can deal with my guilt. So I can help the people I love, and who hopefully love me, understand why I am like I am.’
Tracey lit another cigarette. Fiona could see that although she was playing it cool, she was rattled.
‘I don’t see the point in dredging it all up. It’ll be a nightmare. The press’ll be all over it like a rash. It’s a great story. Bullying schoolgirls send pupil plummeting to her death and keep it quiet for twenty years? Then there’ll be the court case. If you didn’t drink before, you will after.’
Fiona shut her eyes.
‘And what about Lindsay’s family? How do you think they are going to feel, knowing we were toying with her just to prove who was top dog? That’s not exactly going to bring them any comfort, is it? You can’t pile misery onto someone else just to make yourself feel better.’
Fiona could feel tears welling up. She looked out towards the beach. A mother was walking along the sands with her toddler. He was determined not to hold her hand, plodding along stolidly. She remembered her two when they were that age. Just about . . . God, what wouldn’t she give to have those years all over again and do it properly.
‘So what do I do?’ She turned to Tracey pleadingly. ‘I can’t keep it quiet any longer. I can’t walk around with this terrible secret for the rest of my life.’
Tracey pulled her card out of her bag.
‘Go and see this bloke. He sorted my head out. He knows all about it. He’ll help you . . .’
Fiona looked at the card. Tracey Pike’s shrink? Is that what her life had come to? She must be desperate.
She was desperate. Her whole body ached with longing. Not for absolution. Just a bloody drink. She could keep the secret for all eternity if she drank. But she didn’t want to drink any more. She wanted to be a normal person. A happy person.
Maybe it was a curse. Maybe she was destined never to be happy, like her mother. She couldn’t bear the thought of her children thinking back on their childhood the way she did hers, their mother figure a black spectre who hung over the house, draining it of any chance of joy. She wanted to take them swimming in the sea without fear of drowning. She wanted to have a conversation with them without repeating herself, without the maniacal, forced laughter that made them stare back at her, wide-eyed. She wanted to decorate the Christmas tree with a clear mind, not through a fug of mulled wine.
She just wanted to be a normal mummy. Was that too much to ask? She gave a heavy sigh.
‘Look,’ said Tracey. ‘You’re just using it as an excuse. It’s a habit. You’ve piled all the reasons you’re unhappy with your life onto what happened that afternoon. Get over it, Fiona. Move on. I guarantee if you start blabbing now, after all this time, it’ll cause more grief than you can imagine.’
She wanted Tracey out of here. It was a mistake. But she had thought it only fair to tell her. She might have been the instigator of the crime, but Fiona had aided and abetted. Now Tracey was taking over, as only Tracey could. And Fiona couldn’t argue with her. Everything she said made sense. A simple confession wasn’t going to turn her into someone who bounced out of bed with a smile on her face. There was a lot more work to do than that.
‘You’re right,’ she said wearily. ‘Of course you’re right.’
Tracey nodded, satisfied. She picked up her bag, slung the chain handles over her shoulder. She wasn’t going to hang around. She was a busy woman. She walked over to the door, then turned.
‘I hope you work it out,’ she said softly. ‘You have a lot to live for.’
For a moment, Fiona saw a glimpse of vulnerability. For all her chutzpah, she realised, Tracey was hiding behind a façade. She wondered what had gone on in her life to make her the way she was. She’d probably never find out. She lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell. There was no air-kissing this time, no meaningless hug. Just two women who wanted to get away from each other as quickly as possible.
After Tracey had gone, Fiona flung open the double doors of the beach hut to get rid of the toxic smell of her perfume and cigarettes. She sat on the top step, thinking about what she had said. It was always my way or the highway with Tracey - had she done her usual trick, of brainwashing her with her quicksilver tongue? Or was she right? Fiona didn’t know what to think any more. But as she looked out to sea, she felt a tiny trickle of optimism. If Tracey had done one thing, it was to make her realise how lucky she was. To have a husband and children who loved her, despite everything. At least, she thought they did. Tracey had no one. She had ‘single’ written all over her. And although she was obviously very successful, it seemed a hollow victory.
She thought she would phone Tim and see how they were all getting on. Perhaps she would suggest he bring the children down tomo
rrow - they could spend the weekend at the hut. The weather looked as if it was going to be nice. She would go to the shop and make up a big picnic - they could walk along the coast path to their favourite beach, the one they called the ‘secret beach’, because it was quite a hike to get there and most of the tourists couldn’t be bothered to make the effort, so they usually had it to themselves. She’d go and buy a wetsuit, go bodyboarding with the children. They were always desperate for her to go bodyboarding with them.
She grabbed her phoned and dialled Tim’s number, euphoric with excitement at her plan. He answered curtly on the second ring.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me. I wondered . . . how you were getting on.’
‘Fine.’
‘How are the children?’
‘Fine.’
Fiona hesitated. She hadn’t expected quite such monosyllabic hostility. Wasn’t he going to ask how she was? She wasn’t sure whether to tell him she hadn’t had a drink since she’d crashed the car. She wasn’t sure it sounded like such an achievement.
‘I . . . wondered if you fancied coming down here tomorrow? With the children? It’s beautiful. And the forecast’s good . . .’
‘What?’ He sounded incredulous, as if she’d suggested a private jet to Dubai.
‘Why not? Daisy can miss ballet for once, and I don’t think Will’s in a match.’
‘Fiona, I don’t think you get it.’ She was chilled by the tone in his voice. ‘We can’t carry on playing Happy Families like this. You obviously have no idea what effect you have on the rest of us. How your behaviour has impacted on us. Do you know how much easier it is without you around? Just two days has made me realise that. The children are more relaxed. I can relax . . .’
Her heart fluttered with fear.
‘What are you saying? You don’t want me back?’
‘Not for the time being, no. I think we need some time out. Maybe you should get a flat.’
Her knees were trembling. She sat down on the step, her mouth dry.
‘You don’t understand. I’m doing so well. I can handle this. I haven’t had a drink since I left, Tim. I can do this.’
‘Yeah. Until the next party. Or the next crisis.’
Why was he being so harsh? Surely he should be supportive?
‘Is that what you really think?’
‘I’m only going by experience.’
A horrible thought struck her.
‘You can’t stop me seeing the children.’
‘No. But I think we should leave it at least a week before you come back. We’ve all got some serious thinking to do.’
A huge lump rose in her throat. She leant her head against the door jamb, too weak to protest. Too weak even to respond.
‘Fiona?’
She put her finger on the red button to end the call.
She sat on the step, staring out at the sea. No matter what happened in everyone’s lives, the tide still turned. In and out it came, like clockwork, never letting anyone get in its way. The sea didn’t care what happened to her and neither, it seemed, did anybody else. She looked at her toes. The bright pink polish was starting to chip on her nails. Usually she would have been to the nail bar today. She was always immaculately turned out - nails, hair, make-up - because it was so much easier to pretend you were in control if you looked the part.
She needn’t bother any more. She might as well let herself go completely. She didn’t have to pretend. She could reveal her true self. A total bloody mess. The world could see her for what she was.
She stood up. If everyone was going to treat her like an alcoholic, then she would behave like one. She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see it was nearly six. Perfect. She’d wander over to the Ship Aground, the pub in the middle of Everdene where the surfers all hung out. She would go and get completely, utterly rat-arsed. Tim, Lindsay, Tracey - none of them could get her then.
Half an hour later, she was sitting at the long bar that ran the length of the Ship Aground. It might not be high season but it was already half full, with locals and people who had come down early for the weekend to take advantage of the fine weather that was forecast. The pub did a roaring trade all year round, because they served great food but didn’t charge an arm and a leg for it, and because the atmosphere was so relaxed. Big screens on the wall showed surfing videos, scrubbed pine refectory tables with benches were mixed in amongst giant shabby-chic sofas. There was a band playing tonight - three boys with ponytails and black jeans fiddled about with drum kits and mic stands. The Urge, they were called, and Fiona gave a rueful smile. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had an urge. Drinking certainly dampened your ardour. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she and Tim had made love. That was terrible. Men needed sex as much as they needed food and drink. She put her hand to her mouth, desperately trying to recollect. Before Christmas? Definitely before Christmas. Oh my God. How was he managing? Maybe he was getting it from somewhere else? Maybe that was why he was throwing her out? Maybe he had another woman tucked away somewhere, and this was all a convenient excuse?
The barman brought over a tall glass with vodka, ice and lime, and a bottle of tonic. She picked it up and poured it in slowly, anticipating the relief it was going to bring her. As she raised the glass to her lips she thought no, Tim wouldn’t be unfaithful. He wasn’t the type. The truth was he just didn’t fancy her any more. Perhaps not physically - she hadn’t changed all that much in appearance - but he’d lost all respect, all affection. Theirs wasn’t an equal partnership. He soldiered on, trying to keep it all together, while she tottered around living for the moment she could get her next fix.
Like right now. She drank deep, savouring the prickle of the quinine as it coated her throat, relishing the kick of the vodka which would hit her nervous system as soon as she swallowed it. Faster than wine, which was a more subtle descent into fuzziness. Vodka was hardcore; vodka was for people who didn’t pretend, and she wasn’t any more.
She indicated to the barman to bring her another. He raised an eyebrow as he brought it over.
‘Drowning your sorrows?’ he asked.
‘Nope,’ she replied. ‘I’m celebrating.’ She waggled the glass at him. ‘Celebrating the fact I can do what I like from now on. I don’t have to make excuses any more. My name is Fiona, I’m an alcoholic and I don’t give a toss.’
She threw back her drink. The barman looked at her, mildly alarmed.
‘Another?’ he guessed.
‘You got it,’ she grinned.
He shrugged as he took her empty glass away to refill it. It wasn’t his job to judge. If he judged everyone who drank too much in this place, he’d be out of a job.
By eight o’clock, Fiona felt wonderful. She had ordered a plate of nachos, smothered in salsa and guacamole and melted cheese, and washed them down with another three vodkas. The band were tuning up, the bar was heaving, full of people waiting for the weekend to start. There was a real party atmosphere, and she felt happy. Wimbledon seemed a million miles away, Tracey’s visit a million years ago, the crash even longer.
Oh yes. This was why she drank. Oh yes.
She smiled as a group of lads on a stag night bustled in. They were all dressed as fairies. Underneath their tutus they were fit and toned, which made their costumes even more ridiculous. Broad shoulders sported silver wings, and they all had on blond wigs.
One of them tapped her on the head with his star-tipped wand.
‘I shall grant you just one wish,’ he warbled, and she laughed.
‘Vodka and tonic, then,’ she replied, and he looked around warily.
‘I’m not going to get walloped by an angry husband?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she assured him. ‘I’m on my own.’
‘OK,’ he grinned, and she saw he had lovely eyes. Greeny-grey, with long lashes. She felt glad she’d changed and put on some make-up. She probably had ten years on him, but she didn’t look too bad.
The band struck u
p the opening chords of ‘Satisfaction’. There was a rousing cheer, and people pushed their way to the stage area and started dancing. The fairy punched the air in appreciation and started singing along tunelessly.
The barman handed Fiona her replenished drink.
‘I know it’s none of my business, but you have had quite a bit, you know,’ he warned her. ‘You’ll feel like shit tomorrow.’
‘You’re right,’ she said happily, raising her glass to him. ‘It’s none of your business.’
By ten o’clock, Fiona had been officially adopted by the stags and Liam, who turned out to be the best man, had taken her firmly under his fairy wing.
‘Tonight’s my responsibility,’ he confided. ‘It’s Dan’s stag night. It’s up to me to make sure nothing goes wrong.’ He looked over at the groom, concerned. He was deep in conversation with a brunette, riveted by her plunging neckline. ‘That’s the chief bridesmaid. She’s seriously got the hots for him. I’ve got to make sure nothing happens, or I’m a dead man.’
‘Leave him to it,’ Fiona told him airily. ‘He’s big enough to look after himself. Let him enjoy his last night of freedom. It’s all going to be downhill from here anyway.’
He looked at her askance. She was feeling woozy by now, even drunker than usual.
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Problems?’
‘My husband says I’ve got a problem,’ she confided. ‘Just because I had a bit of a prang in my car. Well, I wrote it off, actually - but only because some idiot walked out into the street. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Run them over, or bash into the lamp-post?’
She was very close to him. He looked at her, then stroked her hair consolingly. He was, she guessed, as drunk as she was.
‘Never mind,’ he said, and she suspected he hadn’t really listened to what she had said, just surmised that she needed reassurance.
‘Thank you,’ she said, nuzzling into him. He put his arm round her and gave her a squeeze. She looked up and he bent his head, kissing her. Just the briefest of kisses, but on the mouth.
The Beach Hut Page 10
