The Orchid Girls

by Lesley Sanderson

  I increase my pace and follow the canal as it flows alongside the park. Not far to go now. The flats are visible, their balconies with ‘desirable views’ stacked one on top of the other, the matching window boxes resplendent with pink blooms. Not a hint of originality. Most of them are in darkness, cold and unwelcoming. The dark cloud hovering overhead bursts and rain pelts down on me. The wind picks up, gathering leaves and twigs as it hurtles past, and I wish it could carry me along too, and drop me at home, warm and safe.

  There’s a tunnel ahead and as I enter it a bicycle bell sounds behind me. A female cyclist is approaching too fast, and I move aside to make space for her. There’s a whoosh of air as she cycles past, so close, her arm brushing my shoulder. As she turns to look at me I recognise the woman I saw earlier. I stumble against the wall, feel the cold brick through my top. Darkness presses in on me and I sprint back to my flat, collapsing against the flat door, panting hard, sweat clammy on my back.

  It takes a few moments to get my key in the lock. A white square glows on the doormat, an unaddressed envelope. It isn’t sealed and I slide the contents out. There’s a picture postcard inside, the seafront at Lyme Regis. My legs feel unsteady and my pulse races like a stopwatch. No stamp, nothing written on the back.

  The intercom buzzes three times, which is Richard’s signal he’s home. I shove the postcard into my pocket and dash upstairs.

  Sounds filter up as Richard bashes around in the kitchen, and I look once again at the postcard – the jaunty angle of the boat with the red sail on the beach, the perfect blue of the sky. But it’s the cliffs in the background which draw my attention, make me hold onto the dressing table to steady myself. Our beautiful bedroom is reflected back in the mirror, the pure white furnishings, the splash of crimson from the designer fabrics in the wardrobe, shoes piled up in boxes, a hint of expensive perfume in the air. Everything I have worked so hard for. I can’t afford to lose it, I can’t. I push the postcard to the back of my underwear drawer, closing it with a thud.

  ‘Stop being dramatic, Grace,’ I tell my reflection, before walking to the mezzanine stairs. I pause to look down at the vast open-plan space, full-length windows spanning the far wall. But the satisfaction I normally get from looking at this gorgeous apartment eludes me.

  Richard sprawls on the sofa, two glasses of wine in front of him, and he pulls me into a hug.

  ‘Let’s watch the news,’ he says, ‘something’s going on in Ash Fenton.’

  ‘I can’t believe that.’ Nothing ever happens in the sleepy village where Richard’s parents live. I press the remote and the breaking news story slides across the screen:

  POLICE SEARCH FOR MISSING GIRL, 13, IN BUCKINGHAMSHIRE VILLAGE

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Not this again.

  ‘I read about this earlier, but I didn’t notice where she was from.’

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening in my constituency. The whole village is out looking for her. Wouldn’t be surprised if Mum and Dad don’t go and help. You know what they’re like.’

  A reporter is speaking to camera, the village green behind him marred by clusters of people milling around, news vans and equipment ugly against the pretty green. Richard continues speaking but I no longer hear his words. The rest of the news plays out in front of me: refugees from war-ravaged countries, equally distressing. The weather follows: a woman presenter with a maroon dress and matching lipstick moving her mouth and pointing at a complicated map. But I don’t see any of it, still too shocked by the reminder of the upheaval of a missing person in a small town.

  Richard falls asleep, his head snug against my shoulder, so I mute the sound on the television and log on to my laptop, checking out my latest post on Instagram. Thousands of likes cover the page, and tears spring into my eyes as it hits me. I am making a success of this; all my late nights and determination are beginning to pay off. Richard grunts, and I put my hand on his arm, drawing comfort from his presence. My eyelids prickle and words wiggle on the screen as my eyes close and images muddle together in my head. The red sail of a boat; the journalist and her questions; Richard’s trusting eyes. I’m about to log off when a name jumps out at me and I gasp, waking Richard.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I turn the screen away from him as he rubs his hands over his eyes, stretching out his legs. Richard switches the sound up on the television where the missing girl is back on. A photograph appears on the screen, the usual school shot, a white Alice band in her long blonde hair, a toothy grin for the photographer, school tie knotted in place. A chill rushes through my body as I note the likeness to Charlotte for the first time. Richard sits up, alert, giving me a shocked look.

  ‘It’s her, Christ, I don’t believe it.’

  I freeze. ‘Who?’ What does he mean? How can he know her?

  ‘Emily Shaw, remember? The girl who interviewed me for work experience a couple of months ago. Mum knows her from Girl Guides – she set it up. She must be worried. I’ll give her a ring in the morning.’ Lines crease his forehead as he switches the TV off. ‘I’m going to bed. Are you coming?’

  ‘Soon.’ I pull him towards me for a kiss.

  The image of the girl fades from the screen but not from my mind. I’m wide awake now, and as soon as Richard’s gone I go back to the comment left by OrchidGirl: it’s nothing to do with the recipe for blueberry and chia mousse I posted yesterday.

  Gracie, it’s me: 07775435555

  It’s the number from last night, and I’m glad Richard has gone upstairs because although I thought I was prepared for this moment, I’ve been caught out. The walls of the flat crowd in on me and I push the balcony doors open, needing to be close to the canal, the poor substitute for the sea of my childhood, which I can never go back to. Silver slivers of water ripple in the artificial lights watching over the canal. I focus my gaze on a black silhouette, which for a moment I fancy is her. As I stare out, I realise that no matter how much I’ve managed to convince myself that the past would stay buried, the threat that lives deep inside me has resurfaced. She’s back, like I knew she would be. And my whole life could fall apart unless I stop her.

  Two

  MOLLY

  If I lie still maybe my heart will stop jumping and last night’s dance music will quit thumping in my head. In a sitting position, I count to five, opening my eyes. My throat feels raw, as if I’ve been yelling. It’s possible.

  Through sticky eyelashes I make out two empty wine bottles sprawling on the floor, and a large red stain decorating the carpet. My dress is hanging over the back of a chair and the contents of my bag are a mess on the carpet. A sheet of paper lies next to the ashtray on the glass table. Breathing makes me feel like throwing up.

  Gingerly I place my feet on the floor, switching on the bedside lamp. I am wearing one sock and my vest is inside out. Now my eyes are focusing, I see that the piece of paper is a note and I pick it up. The slight movement makes my head swirl.

  SEE YOU IN THE CROWN AT 8. J

  So Jodie was here, with her raven-black hair and blue eyes which make my insides dance. The red numbers on the digital clock tell me it’s 7 p.m. I’ve been asleep all day. Something important taps at the edge of my mind, and I massage my forehead, trying to tease it out.

  Did we argue? Is that what’s making me feel sick? I see the dance floor at Highlights: I’m spinning, my arms wild and loose, people watching and laughing. A blonde girl, her hand on Jodie’s arm, fingers tracing Jodie’s snake tattoo, which slithers from her wrist to her shoulder. I wanted to thump her. Maybe I did? Then I remember, me hunched in the corner, a mess. The look of exasperation in Jodie’s eyes, the look I’ve seen so many times before. I bolt to the bathroom and throw up.

  It’s already time to go out, but I can’t leave looking a state. Dry shampoo is the answer, and I brush my red curls out so my hair looks less like a bird’s nest. I slap some foundation onto my face and paint my eyes black. Dark jeans and jacket. A quick shot of vodka, and I’m out o
f the flat.

  The smell of beer and grease hits me as I walk into the pub. It’s Jodie’s favourite, and if she’s here, I’m good with that. A group of rowdy youths surround the pool table, and a boy flashes his tattooed arms as he chalks up the pool cue. Two men argue, voices raised, in one of the dark corners. It’s the same old scene and the music is loud, pulsing inside me. A lazy smile crosses Jodie’s face as she clocks me walking towards her, and I slow my pace, shift my hips a little, before leaning forward. Then we’re kissing each other hard. I get a hit of whisky from her lips.

  ‘I’m late, sorry,’ I murmur into her hair.

  ‘You’re always late. The usual for Molly,’ she calls to the barman. We sit by the window, looking out over Camden High Street, where the pavement is crowded with characters. A group of teenagers, all zips, piercings and black clothes, are looking at Amy Winehouse T-shirts for sale; the stall owner is openly watching them, his tired green Mohican drooping to one side.

  ‘I feel rubbish, I need some paracetamol.’ I scrabble around in my bag, but all I find is half a packet of throat sweets and some chewing gum.

  ‘Get that down you,’ Jodie says, ‘you know it always makes you feel better.’ Ice is piled high in the glass of neat vodka Jodie places in front of me.

  She picks up her lighter and taps it on the table. The sound is like a woodpecker on the side of my head.

  ‘I was meant to be taking it easy last night. Two drinks, max.’

  ‘Shut up, Molly. You’re a laugh when you drink. Well, mostly. You got into a right state at the end of the evening. Do you remember?’

  Heat burns my cheeks and I drink some vodka, holding the glass to my face, but the cold doesn’t take away my embarrassment. ‘Yes, but forget it, you know what I’m like when I’ve had too many. I’m sorry.’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘You’re seeing the shrink, right?’

  ‘She’s not a shrink, she’s a counsellor.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Jodie leans forward. ‘Because last night you were going on about being desperate, not being able to confide in her, in anyone, about time not making it easier… but you can talk to me, babe, you know you can, whatever’s wrong.’

  My eyes won’t meet hers. Different eyes flash into my mind. I drain the rest of my glass, get to my feet. ‘Forget it, seriously.’ I lean forward and kiss her, hoping to convince her. ‘Ready for another?’

  Jodie lines up some coke as soon as we get back to my flat, and I open a bottle of wine. My hand is unsteady and a ruby droplet falls onto the counter. It looks like blood. A girl’s face flashes into my mind. I frantically sweep my hand across the work surface and the drop vanishes.

  I put some music on, snort some coke and at last I feel in control. I’m hoping Jodie will forget my earlier mood, so I lean my body along hers and press myself against her, smiling as I look into her eyes.

  ‘That’s better,’ she says, ‘I hate it when you’re miserable.’

  It’s only later, when Jodie has gone back to her real girlfriend who we don’t discuss, that I think about what she’s said. I blow out a trail of smoke, watch it coil up towards the ceiling, wishing I could blow my fear out of me and watch it float away. Yes, I’ve got my weekly appointments with Janet, my counsellor, but I won’t be able to tell her anything. My brother Darren’s cheeky grin flashes into my head followed by a pang of sadness. We used to spend hours chatting, despite him only being little back then – at least he gets why I’m like this. But even he won’t want me to ring, not after last time. No, there’s only one person I can talk to, and lately the need to speak to her is bursting inside me.

  My head feels as though it’s thick with wool when I’m woken by the sun sneaking through a tear in the blind, and I lie still until I’ve worked out what day it is. It’s my day off, and all I have to do is see Janet, my therapist, in the afternoon. My foot lands on an empty wine bottle as I climb out of bed and it spins across the floor, out of control. It clinks as it hits the metal bin, a clanging sound which hurts my head. I make a snap decision to spring-clean today; it doesn’t matter that it’s autumn. It’ll make me feel better and I’ve got to get my shit together. I open all the windows to let fresh air in, stick the TV on and drink a cup of strong black coffee while I try and wake up.

  For once I’ve surfaced early enough to catch the news, and I doze through a segment on a royal visit to a local academy school where pupils wriggle in excitement in front of a princess. I bet they’re disappointed she isn’t wearing a sparkly crown. The coffee starts to work its magic and I stretch my legs out, resolving not to drink today. The man on the screen looks familiar, and I remember the pamphlet shoved through my door: Richard Sutherland wants me to vote him in as London Mayor. I imagine his looks will get women voting but they are wasted on me, his super-white teeth and hair combed back into a slick style. I can’t even remember the last time I bothered to vote. But the news item isn’t about him. The woman on his arm has model looks. In the first shot her face is turned towards her husband, but as she turns to camera the newsreader announces that Grace Sutherland’s first book is about to be published, and then she’s on the screen being interviewed and I forget I’m holding a cup until cold liquid hits my foot. I swipe it away, not taking my eyes off the TV. It’s her. A blade slices through my stomach and I reach for a cigarette. I watch those familiar lips speaking in an unfamiliar accent, but she can’t hide from me so easily – I’d know her anywhere. I knew I’d find her eventually. Adrenaline lights me up inside.

  The flat looks different when I’ve finished. Under a pile of clothes I find a ten-pound note, which adds to the high I’ve been running on ever since I saw her. I decide to nip across the road to Abdul’s shop and treat myself. I only drink a tiny swig of vodka before I start my internet search, but this time it’s different. This time I know her name.

  At first I don’t believe it. After wondering for years where Grace is, knowing I shouldn’t look but feeling unable to stop myself – bam – she’s on TV. Online, she writes a blog. She’s all over the internet. You couldn’t make it up. She tells the world where to find her. How could I have missed her? And how could she, after everything? Her Instagram feed reveals that just this week she had an interview with a journalist for Eat Clean, whatever that is, visited her publisher to discuss book covers and the rest of the week she’s going to be at home, cooking and posting details and photos for anyone who wants to look. Well, I certainly do. Can you believe it? It’s a pinch-myself moment: Grace is cooking in her kitchen and I can watch her doing it. There are even YouTube videos. There’s no way I’m going to the counsellor now. I switch my phone to silent, engrossed in my findings.

  Once I’ve got over the excitement and poured myself a large vodka, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, scroll right back to the beginning of her blog and read right up to this month, when she’s got a book out. A fancy recipe book called Graceful Cooking. It’s been ages since I’ve looked at a book. Grace used to read to me; she was always better with words than I was. She was better than me at most things. I remember the first time we met at primary school. Me scowling in the corner of the playground while boys and girls ran and yelled around me. This girl with a straight back and a long golden plait walked purposefully over. ‘Come and play with me,’ she said in a confident voice. It was an instruction. We used to do everything together after that. Just the two of us was how I liked it. Thinking about it makes me feel hot. Washing my hands and face in cold water helps, and I snuggle up with my laptop, learning about Grace’s world.

  Watching her on video is weird. It makes my skin feel as if ants are creeping all over me. She hasn’t changed, not really. Of course she’s plastered with make-up, primed to perfection, as are most people on television these days. She always liked to look after herself, flicking through magazines, looking at clothes and sometimes at the boys, which used to piss me off. But I wouldn’t have changed anything else about her.

  A quick email to my mate Ed who works magic with computers, an
d it doesn’t take long before he gets back to me with her phone number and I do a little dance in front of the window. After all this time, I can’t believe it’s so easy. I gaze at the tiny tattoo on my wrist, the perfect purple flower, wondering if she still has hers.

  She’s seriously into her food, is Grace. ‘Clean’ food seems to be something to do with avocados. ‘Fancy food’, as Mum would call it, but Grace’s mum always had snobbish ways – must be where Grace gets it from. Aunty Deborah, I used to call her, although she wasn’t a real aunty.

  I fetch the vodka from the kitchen and top up my glass, already knowing I’m going to get through the bottle by the time I’m done here. Janet has left a message asking where I am. But I’m more interested in Grace. On Grace’s Instagram her face can be seen from every angle and I flick through the images, my leg juddering up and down on the floor, drinking the whole time. Then I have another little dance when I work out from her photographs that she lives in one of those swanky new flats overlooking the canal. I’m shocked at how easy it is – she should really be more careful. But this is great for me. I know if I can speak to her, say the right thing, I’ll reach the old Grace, my Gracie.

  Registering to post comments doesn’t take a moment, but choosing the right name is important. It has to be something she’ll recognise. She has to know it’s me. Of course there’s only one possibility; I think back to that awful time and the large-print headlines in the Daily Tribune. ‘The Orchid Girls’, they called us, and it stuck. OrchidGirl logs in and posts a comment. My eyes flicker to the tattoo on my wrist, see the flowers on the cliff, wish I hadn’t.