Then finally he asked: ‘Does anyone have any questions?’
My head was full of questions, each one screaming and shouting and taunting me. But still I had no voice and the ground around me was crumbling away. If I moved I would surely have slipped into the dark hole that was forming beneath me. So I sat there, rigid, as others raised their hands and their questions floated in the air above my head.
I wonder now if there was something else at play that day; if I realised even on a subconscious level that DCI Gunn couldn’t help me. If somehow I already knew that I had all the answers, I just needed to search for them.
Chapter Two
Three days before
EVEN THROUGH THE phone I can hear it in your voice. The spark I had forgotten existed. And your laugh, loud and contagious, ricochets through me like a charge. This is how we used to be, I think. I’ve missed you, Clara. I’ve missed us.
‘Honestly Rachel,’ you say, ‘I haven’t had so much fun in ages. We went to this club that was so tacky but hilarious. I even had a snog at the end of the night, although God knows what he thought of me.’
‘I wish I’d been there,’ I say, not mentioning the fact that you didn’t invite me because I don’t mind, not really. I understand. You need to broaden your circle of friends and that means doing things without each other; after all, my life has moved on too. The career, the boyfriend. And Jonny isn’t just any boyfriend, he’s everything I thought I couldn’t have. His dark eyes twinkle when he laughs, which he does a lot. When he kisses my neck it tingles all the way through my body. He understands me, totally, just being around him makes me calm. Sorry if that all sounds a bit corny but I love him. Now we just need to work on finding you someone too.
‘Are you seeing him again,’ I ask. I’m five leaps ahead already. I’m turning into one of those smug people who want everyone else to couple-up and share the happiness.
‘I very much doubt that very much.’ You are giggling so much you can’t get your words out. ‘I had to break off mid-kiss to puke in my handbag.’
‘You are not serious?’ I ask in my big-sister voice. ‘I’m protective, Clara. It used to be the other way round, I know, but for a long time it’s been me looking out for you.’
‘Well, what was I supposed to do? I wouldn’t have made it to the loo, and I didn’t want to do it on the floor, so the bag was the next best place. He didn’t see me either. Though the bag was in a terrible state and the keys …’
‘Stop! I don’t want to hear any more,’ I say, but I am laughing too. ‘So who are the new friends?’
Your laughter is replaced by a cough. I imagine the smile slipping from your face.
‘Just some people from school,’ you say finally.
‘Really? Who? Do I get to meet them?’
‘I didn’t realise I needed your approval on everything?’ Your mood has changed and your words slap me down.
‘Jesus, Clara, I’m only asking, I’m curious, that’s all …’ I let my sentence trail off. Don’t bite, don’t rise to the bait.
‘Well since you ask, Sarah Pitts and Debbie Morton.’ You sound out the names slowly, for effect I think.
Those names carry with them bucketloads of memories. In an instant I’m transported back to school, I can feel their hockey sticks on my shins, their elbows sharp in my ribs during netball. But that’s nothing compared with the time Lucy Redfern pushed me in the water on the PGL school trip in Shropshire. I see myself emerging from the lake; the whole class is laughing at me but Sarah’s cackle is the loudest. Lucy jokes that I needed a wash anyway, and her twin James leads the boys in a round of applause. You were there, Clara, you saw my face turn beetroot with the shame of it all.
Then again it was a long time ago. Maybe they’ve changed, I think.
‘Does Debbie still smell of chips?’ I say. I don’t even ask about Sarah.
‘Fuck off, Rachel. You’re so up your own arse.’
‘Jesus Clara, I’m just joking. They ruined my last year at school but you know me, move on, never hold a grudge.’ You give something that sounds like a snort. ‘Though now I can see why I wasn’t invited,’ I add.
For a moment neither of us speaks and the elation I felt at the beginning of our conversation is sucked out of me by the silence. I wonder if it will ever be right between us again.
And then you say something that surprises me.
‘We’re going out again on Friday.’ Your voice is softer. You pause as if considering your words. ‘You could always come. Stay at mine afterwards. You might even change your mind about them.’
I am about to say no and then I think about it for a moment. The first thing that occurs to me is that Jonny will be away, travelling out to Afghanistan to film a documentary, and I will be alone. The second thing I think of is this: Sarah Pitts was my high-school nemesis but who’s laughing now? I have the job, the boyfriend. She can’t touch me.
‘Why not,’ I tell you. ‘I might even enjoy myself.’
On the roads there is an edge to the traffic, a hint of menace. Corporate boys bloated on expense accounts are tailgating in their Audis and BMWs, shining their lights too close to my Mini. I blink to clear my vision but the rain falling on the windscreen blurs it again just as quickly. Occasionally I question the wisdom of agreeing to meet you and Sarah and Debbie. Given the choice I would be at home, snuggling up with Jonny on the sofa, with a Thai takeaway and a bottle of wine. I think you’ve guessed I’m having second thoughts. You’ve called three times this week to check I’m still coming, which is unusual to say the least. Lately you rarely call or return mine.
Anyway Jonny is staying at Gatwick tonight to catch an early flight so I’m not going to cry off. Our flat is cold and empty without him. It feels like we are two halves of the same person these days. With every other guy before him it was like they were from one planet and I was from another. And then he spoke to me and we just clicked and I thought hello, my man from earth. Before I knew it I was doing all the things I used to frown upon, like peeing in front of someone one minute and then fucking them the next with such an urgency, such a need that makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time. We fill each other’s spaces, end each other’s sentences and sometimes we just sit in silence because we don’t have to hide behind words and gestures. We can just be ourselves. What I’m trying to say is when he’s not at home I feel like I’ve lost part of myself and I’d rather be anywhere than face the flat without him. So here I am on the M23 with the Arctic Monkeys playing on my CD, a Diet Coke and a bag of Haribo, heading towards you and the high-school bitch girls.
I’m a few miles past Gatwick when I get that familiar sinking feeling. The traffic is slowing, the red brake lights are all bunched up on the road ahead. The Haribos are gone, my teeth are aching from the sugar and my bladder is full of Coke. I start flicking between radio stations to get the traffic update and catch snippets of news. The woman on Radio Four says that eleven people died in yesterday’s storms in the Midlands and the North. On Radio One there’s a breathless girl reading too fast and stressing words in all kinds of weird places. She says the Prime Minister Gordon Brown is in India talking about a racism row on Big Brother. Is this what the world has come to?
Ahead, I see flashing lights, strobing in the rain. We are funnelled into a single lane, slowly, slowly. Further up the road there are two police cars, a fire engine and an ambulance. I can see high-vis jackets moving in the gloom. I wonder what they have found but I don’t have to wonder for too long because soon I see it myself. To the left of me there is a red Ford, a Fiesta I think, with its roof half off and the firemen are cutting someone out. Either that or they are trying to get into the car to see what is left of the driver. I picture severed limbs and death. There’s another car, a silver Mercedes, at a right angle, near the Ford. Its rear and side door have been bashed but it has fared better than the Fiesta. The beauty of German engineering. A man who looks like the driver is sitting on the roadside. He has a blanket draped over hi
s shoulders and his head is in his hands. Underneath the blanket he is wearing a suit and black shoes. I shudder. I wish I hadn’t seen him, but the image is burnt into my brain now. And I am reminded that we are not in control, even when we think we are. Life is random; anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.
Slowly the traffic starts moving again. As I pull away my phone beeps. A text message. I’ll wait until I stop to read it, I think. I’m not ready for my life to change suddenly on the M23 on a dark Friday night in January.
I open it when I arrive in Brighton. It’s from you.
Rach, so sorry, feeling terrible, think I might have flu, still in bed but will heave myself out to make it. Will call later Clara x
When I try to call you back, it goes straight to your answerphone. I don’t leave a message. I text you back instead.
Don’t leave me on my own with them!! Take some Lemsips. And turn your phone on. X
But you never do.
It is a five-minute walk from the car park on Black Lion Street to Cantina Latina. The wind, sharp from the sea, shaves my skin. I cross the road and walk past the pier, illuminated in the dark. A few arcades are open, defying the January freeze to lure the hardcore gamblers. In front of me a group of girls teeter on high heels, no coats. Don’t they feel the cold? Occasionally one of them laughs. The night is full of expectation. Smudged make-up and disappointment will come later.
My work clothes look out of place among the short skirts and shiny shirts. And I realise I’m not part of this now. Jonny and I go to pubs. We talk. You tease me about it, Clara. You say I act like I’m middle-aged and I can’t have fun any more but that’s not true. Jonny and I are happy in each other’s company, we don’t need anything else. It’s the way we used to be, Clara.
I see Cantina Latina across the road from the Sea Life Centre, next to a fish and chip shop. As I approach I notice two bouncers, like fat bald pillars on either side of the door.
‘Evening,’ says the shorter of the two with a gold-tooth smile. He pulls the door open and I am inside.
The air is liquid. Sticky. It runs down my back, seeps into my pores. The change, from outside to in, is so sudden it sends me swimming. I try concentrating to steady myself but my eyes can’t hold on to anything. The room is a sea of blue and pink and green lanterns and fairy lights which nod in and out of focus. I reach for the nearest table to steady myself. I know you won’t leave me here with the two of them. But still, I want to turn round, go to your flat and drag you off your sick bed, just to be sure. The only thing that stops me is my bladder, which is ready to burst. And in the toilets, waiting for the two-at-a-time girls to come out and reapply their lip gloss, I give myself a talking-to. She’ll come, she wouldn’t dare not turn up. Have a drink. Relax. That’s what you always said wasn’t it? ‘Relax, Rachel.’ So I take your advice.
I’m waiting at the bar. There is no queue to speak of, more of a mob shouting to be served. I can feel the mass of a belly against my back, soft and wide. It pushes and jostles me and it has a voice which shouts above my head, ‘Becks, mate,’ to the barman, who is busy with someone else and doesn’t even look up. The voice tries again, this time louder, angrier. Then the shout stops and is replaced by a yelp not unlike a dog’s. The heel of one of my Louboutins has found its way on to a foot and is grinding down. It must be his. You told me I was mad to pay that much for them. I always knew they were worth the money. The barman looks and me and then to the guy behind me and I wink.
‘A peach Bellini, please.’
‘Happy hour finishes in –’ he looks to the clock above the bar – ‘in two minutes. You want two of those?’ The barman’s hair is not unlike a cloud around his head, thick and long and bouffant with curls.
‘It would be rude not to.’ I smile. The voice behind has started shouting again. I think he will miss happy hour. I think he knows it.
I take my Bellinis and move down the bar away from the crowds. I drain the first glass in minutes and wait for the alcohol to soften my edges. It does, quickly. I breathe. Deep. My shoulders sag, the tension in my head is released by degrees. I look around, my eyes seeking you out at tables, in dark corners of the room. I look to the door. I think I see your shape coming through it countless times only to realise it is someone else.
I’m trying to call you again when I’m interrupted by a voice so loud it reaches above the music and thunders across the room. All of a sudden I’m back at St Gregory’s and the same voice, powering across the school yard, makes me small. I look around again and see her and suddenly I am glad I came. Sarah Pitts, the prettiest girl in the school, has moved a few dress sizes in the wrong direction. I laugh to myself, remembering how she used to swear blind ice cream had no calories in it because it melts. If I’m honest it looks like someone has taken her old school face, pumped it up with a balloon and covered it in thick, orange make-up. Her bobbed hair is bottle-blond and ends abruptly at her jawline. ‘Ghosty’ she used to call me and told everyone you could see through my skin to my blue veins. Oh I remember that now and I’m smiling inside. I’m smiling inside and out.
‘Oh my God, Rachel, it’s you.’ She gives me a prod. ‘We’ve seen you on TV so much, and now you’re here. We couldn’t believe it was really you when we saw you, you looked nothing like you used to. You’re so polished these days and you are TINY, isn’t she Debs, how did you lose all that weight? I need some tips,’ she says and with her thumb and her index finger she pinches a roll of fat on her stomach to prove her point. I remember how that felt, the desire to be thin. Now we have swapped places.
Sarah doesn’t stop talking but I notice Debs is looking down at the floor refusing to make eye contact with me. My shoulders stiffen again. I am the one supposed to be here under duress, am I not? I don’t dwell on it though because Sarah pulls me towards her in an awkward embrace, burying my face in her neck. She smells of 1991. Calvin Klein Eternity. I am left thinking (with even more satisfaction) that she hasn’t come very far at all.
‘How do you do it? Standing up there every night on the TV in front of millions of people? So professional. I could never do that. Does someone tell you what to say? Or do you think of it all yourself?’ She doesn’t pause for breath. But her eyes are flitting about, she can’t hold eye contact for more than a second. I think she must be nervous. My job has elevated me in her eyes. I’m worth talking to now. She removes her pink coat and scarf to reveal a purple top which isn’t up to the job of containing her enormous boobs.
‘I wish someone did tell me what to say, it might make more sense,’ I laugh, surprised to find myself enjoying her attention. It seems the schoolgirl in me still wants to be liked. ‘I can’t get through to Clara,’ I add.
Her eyes dart towards Debbie, who is looking around the bar, and then she laughs, a forced, jangling laugh.
‘Scared to be all alone with us?’ She nudges me. ‘She’ll be here, trust me. At least now we get to pump you for gossip about her new man.’
Something catches in my throat, a bubble from the champagne, or maybe it’s Debbie’s perfume. Whatever it is, it brings on a cough. ‘Come on, let’s sit down and you can tell us all about him,’ Sarah says.
A waiter leads us through the crowds to the darker part of the bar. His orange shirt is unbuttoned revealing a tuft of hair on his olive chest. The dress policy for staff, I note, is to wear as little as possible. He sits us at a table with tea lights which illuminate Sarah’s and Debbie’s faces in a ghoulish glow. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘To old friends,’ Sarah says once we are seated. She chinks my glass first then Debbie’s like she’s been practising it.
‘To old friends,’ I repeat, and I look towards the door again but there is no sign of you.
‘He’s probably the one she told me about a few weeks ago, I don’t think she’s that serious about him,’ I say.
It’s a bluff, Clara, as you know, because you haven’t told me anything about a new man in your life. I’m not angry though, just surpris
ed and a little bit embarrassed because they expect me to know everything about you. We’re so close we’re almost the same person, that’s what they think.
‘I doubt that’s true.’ The voice is quieter, an octave higher than Sarah’s, unpunctuated by laughter. It is the first time Debbie has spoken. There is a smugness running through her words. I look at her properly for the first time. She is smaller than I remember, thin and bony next to Sarah’s girth. Her mousy hair is cut in a crop. Too severe. And her eyes look like the lights have gone out. I’m willing to bet Debbie’s life so far hasn’t been all she hoped for.
‘She’s really into this bloke. I think he’s married or something, maybe she didn’t want you to know, maybe she doesn’t tell you everything after all,’ she says.
The tone is the verbal equivalent of her sticking her tongue out at me and the child in me wants to stick mine out at her. I don’t, of course. To be honest, I feel sorry for her, the way she is trying to intimidate me, unaware that she doesn’t hold that power any more. She fixes me with her eyes and I notice they have little specks of orange at their centre, like pools of fire. I don’t blink. Debbie doesn’t like me even after all these years. I shouldn’t care but I do. I smile. The challenge of winning her over is too much to resist.
‘You could be right,’ I say.
‘Well, we all change don’t we, Rachel,’ Sarah is giggling again, ‘and Clara was away for so long? Was it five years?’ Sarah asks.
‘Seven,’ I say. And I wonder how much you’ve told her. What gaps you’ve left in your story. ‘She was away for seven years. It’s been hard for her, her dad dying and then adjusting to life here again. Mind you, a few more weekends like the last one will put a smile back on her face.’
Debbie and Sarah look at each other and then back at me and cackle in unison. I detect a crack in the ice; it is thawing. ‘It was a hoot,’ Sarah says. ‘Clara is so funny, she completely cracks me up. Don’t you think, Rachel?’
Precious Thing Page 2
