My eyes fall on a study of Willow at sixteen, her naturally curly hair straightened to shiny sheets of gold – the face of an angel.
She was spotted by a scout and picked up by a big modelling agency at sixteen. In no time her beautiful face was bounced from magazine cover to magazine cover. Her tall, slim body shuttled from fashion show to fashion show.
At first she revelled in it. Enjoyed the attention. Her eyes sparkling as cameras flashed. Although thrilled for her, it was strange seeing her face everywhere – from billboard posters to national newspapers – not looking quite like the Willow we knew and loved. We were worried too. Worried about the effect it was having on her.
‘I wish I looked like Willow,’ Becky would say, just nine years old at the time.
Willow was almost seventeen when I took one of my monthly trips by train to London to meet up with her. She was renting a huge apartment with three other models, which looked out over the River Thames.
We met in an Italian restaurant in Leicester Square, and as we hugged hello, I felt how dangerously thin she was, noticed how sallow her cheeks were, how the sparkle had disappeared from her eyes that now rested on dark cushions of flesh.
‘So how’s it going?’ I said, trying for upbeat as we studied the menus.
‘Great,’ she said, not looking up.
‘You look tired, Willow.’ I reached across the table, rested my hand on hers.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘I barely sleep.’
‘Have you tried lavender?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried everything from hypnosis to sleeping tablets. Nothing works.’
‘Then take a break? Come home for a bit.’
‘I can’t, Rose. They’ve got so much lined up for me over the next few months. Anyway, I love it. I love everything about it.’ Her words didn’t match her lifeless tone. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’
She barely ate that day, and it was a couple of weeks later she disappeared. It was all over the tabloids. We were in such a state.
She was found a week later in a motel in Scotland. A wreck. A mess. Addicted to prescription drugs. Suicidal. The whole experience had been too much.
I cried so hard when we got her back, holding her tightly, never wanting to let her go. Blaming myself that I hadn’t done something when I’d seen her last. That despite spotting how dreadful she looked, I’d done nothing.
She gave up modelling and came home, and seemed her usual upbeat self far too quickly, but there was something different I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then she took off again, refusing to tell anyone where she was – saying she needed to escape, needed time out. It was the first of many escapes. Something we’ve got used to over time. It’s what Willow does.
Even now I sometimes Google her name and they are still there – thousands of images of Willow Winter. I want to rip them all down. Stop people ogling. Tell them to leave her alone. Leave her in peace.
*
Once we have showered and dressed, Becky and I load our holdalls into the boot of the car, and climb in.
Becky plugs her earphones into her ears, and her thumbs tap her phone screen. I start the engine, but before I pull away, I notice a voicemail on my phone from Willow. She must have called when I was getting ready.
I listen to her strangled voice. ‘Rose. Rose. Pick up, please.’ A pause. ‘I know who killed her. I know who killed my real mum. I’ve worked it all out.’ The message ends, and despite the warm day, my body goes cold.
I try to call back, but it goes straight to voicemail. ‘Willow, I got your message. Is everything OK? We’re on our way now but call me when you get this. Please.’
‘What’s up, Mum?’ Becky says, pulling free one of her earbuds.
‘Nothing,’ I say. Deciding not to worry her, I put the car into gear with a shaky hand and pull away.
*
We are halfway to Cornwall, when I pull into a service station. My head is throbbing and although I’d rather keep driving, I know I have to take a break, have something to eat to up my sugar level. Becky’s feet are up on the seat and she’s cradling her knees, listening to music. I find a space and kill the engine.
I take off my sunglasses and put them in the well between us. The sun has disappeared behind fluffy white clouds, after streaming through the window for most of the journey. The tell-tale zigzags and blurs of a migraine niggle. I’ve no doubt it has partly been brought on by the stress of Willow’s call.
‘Shall we have some coffee?’ I say, nudging Becky, who removes her other earbud, and looks up at me.
‘What?’
‘I said, shall we get a drink or a cake or something?’
Becky straightens up in the seat and lowers her feet to the floor. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘But no cake for me, I’ll have some fruit or something.’
Once we’ve collected a cup of coffee and a chocolate muffin for me, an apple and a bottle of mineral water for Becky, we find a table in the corner. Once seated, I give it a quick clean with a wet wipe, and take a couple of migraine tablets.
‘Are you going to be OK to drive, Mum?’ she asks, as I massage my temples. ‘You’re, like, really white.’
‘Once the tablets kick in, I’ll be fine,’ I say, leaning over the table to twirl a straying curl over her ear. She bats me away with her hand and I laugh. ‘Are you looking forward to seeing Willow?’ I ask.
‘Yep. You?’
‘Of course.’ It’s true, but I feel jittery about the photos, and her message is playing in a loop in my head.
Becky smiles, and a dimple forms in her cheek, disappearing as quickly as it came. ‘You know I still can’t get my head round Willow sending you those photos,’ she says.
‘Nor me. I’m hoping she’ll explain more when we get there.’
She pushes sugar granules across the table with the tip of her finger, her earphone back in, and hums a tune I don’t recognise. I realise how glad I am that she’s with me, and watch her, trancelike, for several moments, before saying, ‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’
She looks up. ‘Mega worried about Willow, is all. You don’t think she’s in danger, do you?’
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I say, trying not to think about her last voicemail. ‘It’s Willow, don’t forget, we know what she’s like. And we’ll see her in a couple of hours, won’t we? She can tell us everything.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it from her pocket. Her face lights up. ‘It’s Dad,’ she says, answering it. ‘Hey, Dad.’
Her eyes sparkle, and I know already what he’s telling her. He called me a few days ago to let me know he was getting married. That he wanted to tell Becky himself and would ring her soon.
‘Oh my God!’ Becky squeals into the phone. ‘That’s fantastic.’
Her dad has been serious about his latest partner Jack, a lawyer from Florida, for a while now, and I smile. They are good together. I’m happy for them – but my head is spinning.
‘Do you think he’ll let me be their bridesmaid?’ Becky says, once the call has ended, her face lit up by a wide smile.
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘Will he let me wear my DMs, do you think?’
‘Probably.’ Becky could wear a sack and he would let her get away with it.
‘We should get going.’ I glance at my watch, a sense of urgency bringing me to my feet.
She rises too, and links arms with me. As we head across the café I glance back at her uneaten apple.
Chapter 14
AVA
2001
From the moment Gail and Rory pulled up outside Ocean View Cottage in his red Ferrari, tension had crawled across Ava’s shoulders.
Although Gail had finally moved out, it was as though she was still there. Constantly visiting to discuss the wedding with their mum, over and over and over. And now they were having a family gathering to welcome Peter – the prodigal son – back from Australia.
Gail sat on the two-seater sofa next to her brother, scooping her blo
nde curls behind her ears as she turned the pages of her bridal book. Peter swigged beer from a bottle, his eyes closing briefly each time he swallowed.
‘We’re having the reception at the Jester Hotel in Newquay. It’s five-star with Jacuzzis in every room and everything. But we can afford it, can’t we Rory?’ She sounded like a spoilt child.
‘Of course,’ he said, looking up from shuffling through a pile of CDs.
‘And I’ll be expecting you to get a new suit, Peter,’ Gail continued. ‘And you’ll need a haircut.’
‘I’m up for a new suit,’ he said, ‘but nobody touches my hair.’
‘Well, you’ll need to put a comb through it,’ she said, reaching up and ruffling it.
‘Get off,’ he said, smacking her hand away and laughing. Was Peter really as absorbed as he seemed by her wedding plans?
‘You do know marriage is the chief reason for divorce, Gail,’ he said, and laughed. Ava met his eye and smiled.
‘Not in our case.’ Gail had completely missed his humour, rarely laughing in the abandoned way she had as a child.
Ava was kneeling on the floor, a glass of white wine clasped in both hands. Gail and Rory had brought two bottles with them, Gail bragging how expensive it was, and nagging Ava for drinking it way too fast. Truth was, Ava wasn’t even keen on the taste, but she enjoyed the numbing effect it was having – each gulp making her care less and less that she’d been thrown together with her family.
She glanced up at Rory fiddling with the CD player. He looked good in a black tailored shirt and jeans. She couldn’t help admiring how well they fitted.
‘Hey, Gail,’ he said, lifting up an Eric Clapton CD. ‘You look wonderful tonight.’
She smiled and blew him a playful kiss – she looked happy. Ava bit down on her envy. They seemed besotted with each other. She should be pleased for her sister.
‘What music will you have at the wedding service?’ Jeannette asked.
‘Vivaldi, Winter,’ Rory said. ‘For when Gail walks down the aisle.’
Gail smiled. ‘Rory likes his classical music,’ she said.
‘Only Italian composers, Vivaldi was my mother’s favourite.’
‘And at the end of the service, we’re having “Candle in the Wind”,’ Gail said.’
‘Like at Diana’s funeral?’ Peter said, with an air of sarcasm.
Gail didn’t take the bait. ‘It’s our song,’ she said, her cheeks glowing. ‘And our first dance will be “Yellow” by Coldplay.’
Ava’s eyes moved to the open kitchen door, to where her mum was putting the finishing touches to a plate of sandwiches.
‘Need any help, Mum?’ she called through.
‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’ Rory said. She looked back at him. He nodded towards the table laden with food and laughed. ‘Pretty sure you waited until everything was done before offering.’
‘I didn’t see anyone else offer,’ she said with a half-smile, as her mum appeared with the final plate.
Rory pressed play on the CD Player. ‘That looks great, Jeannette,’ he said to her mum, as she placed them on the table.
Jeannette threw him a wide smile. ‘It’s so lovely that we’re all together again. It’s been so long,’ she said, dropping into the armchair, and tapping her knee to Eric Clapton.
‘When can we eat, Mum?’ Peter said, as though he was eight years old.
‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ she said. ‘Always liked your food.’
He rose – his purple cotton trousers creased from sitting too long – and grabbed a plate.
Gail closed her wedding book and slipped it down beside the sofa. She picked up her glass of wine, taking a delicate sip. ‘Do you like the wine, Mum?’ she said.
Jeannette took a mouthful and winced. ‘Lovely.’
‘We’re having it at the wedding,’ she said, as Rory sat down beside her.
‘Are you having Asti Spumante?’ Jeannette chirped in. ‘I do like a drop of fizz.’
‘I’m getting a box of champagne, Jeannette,’ Rory said. ‘For the toasts.’
‘Well, as long as there’s beer,’ Peter said, grabbing a handful of sandwiches, and looking around for somewhere to sit.
The room was small and square with patio doors opening onto the wintery garden. The walls were papered with two different Laura Ashley patterns, separated by a dado rail, and photographs and ornaments cluttered every surface.
Claustrophobia washed over Ava. There were too many people – too much noise. The room swam before her eyes. Oh God, had she drunk too much wine? She got up to leave.
‘Where are you off to, Ava?’ Peter asked.
‘I thought I heard Willow, that’s all.’
‘Well, don’t be long,’ Gail said. ‘Mum’s gone to a lot of trouble.’
‘Yes, yes I know. I’ll be back in a minute.’
She took the stairs two at a time and entered her bedroom. The room was in semi-darkness, red curtains pulled across the window. She clicked the door closed behind her – glad of her sanctuary, now Gail had moved out.
But it hadn’t been all bad sharing with Gail, had it? A happy memory brightened her thoughts. Ava sitting at Gail’s dressing table, flicking her sister’s mascara brush over her fair lashes, leaving them gloopy.
‘Not like that,’ Gail had said, laughing, coming up behind her, and pulling up a stool. ‘Let me show you.’
Gail had made up Ava’s face that day – narrowing her eyes and biting the tip of her tongue as she applied foundation to Ava’s fair skin, red lipstick to her lips, shades of grey and silver shadow onto her eyelids.
‘You look amazing,’ Gail had said, giving Ava’s shoulders a squeeze, as their reflections looked back at them.
‘I look like you,’ Ava whispered as her sister left the room, knowing if Gail had any idea she had planned to meet Justin that evening, she wouldn’t have been so kind.
Now, Willow was asleep in the single bed in the corner, covered with a quilt; her head nestled against the pillow, her hair like a golden halo. She hadn’t really woken. Ava had needed an excuse to escape.
She would go back downstairs again soon, she knew that, but they wouldn’t miss her. Not immediately anyway – far too full of wedding talk to notice how long she’d been away. She thumped down on her beanbag, rested her head against the red and white striped wall, and closed her eyes.
Her parents had bought the house in the early Eighties, and the small mortgage was paid off a long time ago. Their father, wherever he was, had never asked her mother to sell the place. They weren’t well-off, but they managed with her mum’s savings and Ava’s wages.
She opened her eyes and picked up the photo of Justin on her bedside cabinet. She took in his white-blonde hair, his eyes – the piercing blue of them. Gail said once his eyes were too close together, but they weren’t. He was perfect. And one day they would get married. Buy a little house with roses around the door. They would own a golden retriever and have a little brother or sister for Willow. And Justin would have his own music studio – be famous one day.
‘He’s applied for Popstars,’ she’d told her mum a few weeks back, trying to make her see he was doing his best.
‘Never heard of it,’ Jeannette had said.
‘It’s a TV talent show,’ she’d gone on, but her mum wasn’t listening. She’d made it clear from the beginning she didn’t trust him. She hated that Ava was mixed up with that family. And the truth was, deep down Ava was beginning to doubt him too. He hadn’t been round for ages to see her or Willow, and wasn’t answering her calls or messages. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could believe in him. But if she didn’t have Justin, she had no one. The few friends she had were at university, or spending money on booze – having fun in Newquay at the weekends. She was stuck. Stuck in Ocean View Cottage in what some described as the most beautiful part of Cornwall, but she sometimes thought of as the loneliest place on earth.
She kissed the frame. Justin wouldn’t let her and his daugh
ter down completely, would he?
She put the photo back on her bedside unit. She would ask Justin to Gail and Rory’s wedding as her plus one. Gail hadn’t put his name on the invitation, saying she didn’t want ‘his type’ there, and that he wouldn’t come anyway. She’d told Ava he’d been sleeping with half of Cornwall. But she was lying. Justin wouldn’t do that. Once he’d got his life on track, he would call her.
Her eyelids dropped over her eyes, the wine making her tired, and before long she’d drifted off to sleep.
A sudden noise on the landing woke her, and her eyes flew open. The bedroom door stood slightly ajar – hadn’t she closed it? She blinked, a shudder running through her body. Through the crack in the door someone hovered.
‘Who’s there?’ she called, unable to tell who it was. She pulled herself upright. ‘Hello?’ But whoever it was moved away.
‘Mummy?’ She turned to see Willow sitting up and rubbing her eyes with her fists. ‘I need a wee wee.’
She jumped to her feet and headed towards her daughter, glancing over her shoulder, a tingle running down her spine. Outside on the landing a floorboard creaked before footsteps descended the staircase at speed.
Whoever it was had been watching them.
Chapter 15
YOU
‘He’s homeless, for fuck’s sake,’ you said, barricading the barn door with a piece of wood, your eyes fired with excitement. ‘Nobody will miss him. His life is meaningless.’ You turned and glared at me, before grabbing the can of petrol. ‘Are you with me, or against me?’
I was with you. I loved you – pure and simple. And I’d thought I would do anything for you, if you would stay in my life.
The man was in his seventies. I’d seen him sitting on the street with his little white dog. He slept in the barn in the wood at night, and I often saw him begging on the streets in the day. Dad would give him a pack of sandwiches and a coffee sometimes, or food for the dog.
I lifted onto my toes and peered in at him through the window. He was swaddled in a grubby duvet, his mongrel dog close by.
Traces of Her Page 6
