After half an hour the type is swimming on the screen in front of my heavy eyes. One more cigarette, I’m sure she’ll have answered by then. But she doesn’t. My hands are jittery and my back feels cold with sweat. I can’t wait any more – I need to make contact. I swill the vodka around in the glass, staring at Grace’s phone number. Images I’ve refused to face for years dance around in my head. The beautiful girl with long blonde hair and marble blue eyes. For a moment I see her rushing at me on the cliff, with fierceness in those eyes. And now I know where she lives.
The room blurs as I pick up my phone and punch in the numbers, hitting the wrong keys, willing my fingers to work properly. It takes a few tries before I get the right number. Pressing the phone against my ear, the ringing sounds distant and I imagine a smart glass flat by the canal in darkness, a light going on. A voice breaks through my thoughts.
‘Hello?’
That voice. I feel my heart splinter. ‘Gracie?’ The silence is loud. ‘Hello, Gracie, is that you?’
The dialling tone buzzes like a bee stuck in my ear, and I drop the phone on the floor.
When I wake up a few hours later, my back is stiff from lying on the floorboards, my muscles cramped. I sit for a while with my head in my hands, waiting for my stomach to settle. I swallow half a pint of water and some painkillers before heading down to the canal – it’s quite a walk and my legs ache. White mist hangs over the water and I shiver despite the thick jumper I’m wearing; the early-morning sun hasn’t thawed the morning frost yet. My breath bursts out in white puffs. There’s no way of knowing exactly which flat is hers, so I just stand and watch. The sky goes from dark to light and I have to pace about to stop my legs from going stiff, trying to avoid looking at the water in case it sets the memories off. Water has done that to me ever since.
A man wearing a checked cap steps out from one of the barges moored up at the side of the canal. He's holding out a steaming mug of tea.
‘You look frozen, love. Have this.’
I force my cold lips into a smile.
‘That’s better.’ He taps the roof of the boat. ‘Leave the cup here, when you’ve finished.’
The tea is strong and warms me a little. Only a few moments after I’ve left the cup on the boat, a woman emerges from the swanky flats. I stand up, my nerves stretched taut, my heart pumping. It’s her. It really is. She straightens the collar on her expensive trench coat before her high heels clip-clop past me. I keep my head down as a man passes by before tucking myself in behind him, making sure to keep her in sight.
A few people are around now and I keep to the right as runners and cyclists whizz past. Most people are in a hurry, as is Grace, who is walking fast. My chest is tight and I regret not bringing my bike.
After about ten minutes she climbs the steps leading into Kentish Town and walks along towards Camden Station. As she slaps her pass onto the barrier and slides through the gate, I scrabble around in my pockets. A two-pound coin is caught up in the lining, but it’s not enough for a ticket. The bus stop on the other side of the road is empty and I sit inside it and light a cigarette. Rumblings from underground make me wonder where the train is taking her. Next time I’ll be more prepared. I know I can’t sit here any longer, but I want to get a reaction. I don’t want to have come all this way for nothing, and I’ve thought of a little memento I can drop off at the block she lives in. If I address it to Grace it will find its way to the right flat. Because she’s a celebrity now, which makes everything so much easier.
Three
GRACE
The next day is an ordinary weekday, an ordinary morning. Richard drinks his coffee in large gulps, glancing at the clock.
‘I’ve got a busy day today, won’t be back until late. I’ll probably eat while I’m out.’
Ordinarily I don’t mind, but today the thought of an evening in alone makes me feel cold. The postcard might be hidden away in the drawer, but that doesn’t keep it from my mind and an image of the seafront flashes into my head. Richard gives me a look.
‘You don’t mind me working late, do you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘It’s just that you were restless last night, is something bothering you?’
‘No, I’m fine. You worry too much.’ I open the fridge and pretend to study the contents. ‘You go, I’ve got heaps to do this morning.’ He looks concerned and I can’t resist pulling him to me, inhaling his lovely Richard smell, a mixture of aftershave and him. ‘But I love you for caring.’
He kisses my forehead, pushing my hair away from my eyes before he pulls away.
‘OK. Mum phoned about our visit this weekend. She’s pretty shaken up by Emily’s disappearance. People are out looking for her. I can’t believe this is happening in Ash Fenton. It’s the last place you’d expect.’
‘Maybe we should cancel. It’s been ages since we’ve had a day to ourselves.’ I tilt my head to one side and he grins.
‘No, they still want us to visit. And hopefully they’ll have found her by then. You know what teenagers are like, she’s probably run off with her boyfriend or someone she’s met on the internet.’ He takes a last look at his hair in the mirror. ‘Right, must go. I’ll see you later.’
As soon as the door closes behind him I put my arms around myself, rubbing warmth into my bare arms. A lemony fish smell lingers from last night’s meal and I push the balcony doors wide, but I am reluctant to go outside. My eyes are drawn to the tall buildings across the murky water. They remind me of the menacing cliffs in my dreams, which loom over me like the shadow of the past. Details from last night’s phone call tumble into my mind, making me shiver. I push my thoughts aside, head into the kitchen, arrange my bread and set to work.
The early light is perfect, and by mid-morning I’ve edited the shots and added them to my site. My followers never fail to let me down but today there’s only one I’m looking out for, and I chew on my nail as I search through the messages. She hasn’t posted anything since last night. I delete her comment, switching the radio on for some background noise. The news presenter is talking about the girl from Ash Fenton, who is still missing. I switch it off.
I hope she turns up soon; I won’t be able to stand it if it drags on. And I don’t want Richard getting drawn into it. He’s always one for a cause and he’ll be all over it – as if he isn’t busy enough already.
Cold air blows in from the balcony and I close the door, but the flat feels small and stifling. Cleaning uses some of my pent-up energy, but even though I make the kitchen surfaces gleam and everything is in place, I’m a mess. I need to get out. It’s a bit early for my lunch date with Julia, my publicist, so I decide to walk, adding a few steps to my Fitbit total.
Autumn colours decorate the trees and I walk fast, aware that footsteps behind me sound too close. But when I turn around the man coming up towards me peels off in a different direction. Something compels me to constantly look back, and I can’t shake the feeling I’m being followed. No posing for selfies on the route like I usually do, adding to my #londonlife series, where I add to my story as a city girl. I’ll make up for it later, hoping Richard won’t notice any slump in my online activity. After all, he was the one pushing me on to social media and encouraging me to go for it.
Julia is already seated in the restaurant, raising her glass to me as she talks on her phone. I check behind me one last time, seeing a woman sitting on a brick wall opposite the cafe, kicking her boots against the ground, a bike resting beside her. A memory flashes into my head, the woman overtaking me on the canal. I push hard against the cafe door, almost falling inside.
Julia finishes her conversation as I place my order.
‘Got to go darling, speak soon. Grace, hi.’ We air-kiss. ‘Congratulations on the TV appearance. How did you find it?’
‘Good, I enjoyed it. Thanks to Richard, I knew what to expect.’
‘Well, it’s done wonders for the book, pre-orders are in their thousands.’
I can’t help a
massive smile at the news, excitement fizzing inside.
‘Great. My Instagram followers are up, too. How are plans for the launch?’
‘Everything is ready, the venue has been reserved and I’ve invited everyone who needs to be there. All you need to do is check over the guest list. Richard is coming, isn’t he?’
I hesitate before answering.
‘Of course, he’ll be lurking in the background somewhere.’ But this is about me, not him.
‘And are we finally going to meet any of your family?’
I flick my hair over my shoulder, avoiding looking at her. ‘Richard’s parents will be there.’
‘And your dad?’
My salad arrives and I pour some San Pellegrino, my favourite sparkling water.
‘It’s too difficult. He’d need a carer and I haven’t made any provision. There’s no point even telling him about it.’
Thinking about my father unsettles me. Michael, as I think of him now. I hadn’t planned on ever seeing him again once I returned to the UK, but his poor health changed all that. And Mum is long gone. The thought catches me unawares and I sip my water to stop a lump from blocking my throat. How she would have loved my book launch. She would have been so proud, I’m sure of it. Enough, Grace. Focus.
Julia breezes on. Time with her is always a bit of a whirlwind. How she manages to fit everything in I don’t know. Half an hour later she’s on her way, her ample proportions weaving a path out of the cafe, with me close behind, my salad barely touched. I notice that the woman is no longer sitting on the wall and as Julia disappears into a cab, I make sure there’s nobody else in the station before I pass through the underground barrier.
The cleaner has left me a note when I arrive home, telling me she’s going to be away for the next few weeks. My skin feels cold from the autumn wind outside. I check the flat over to ensure everything has been done properly, before I give in to my growing obsession and search for Molly on the internet. But there’s no sign of her. She must have married and changed her name. What does she want? Why does she need to talk to me? Why now?
I place an Ocado order and sort through my emails for the next hour or so, making sure everyone I want to be at the launch has been invited. Carrie, a close friend, texts me about going for a drink sometime next week and I accept, thinking it will be just what I need to take my mind off Molly. Richard messages to remind me he won’t be back until late; it’s dark outside and I’m hungry. On cue the shopping arrives, the usual delivery guy who doesn’t speak much English, which suits me fine. Too many unwelcome thoughts mean I’m not in the mood for conversation. After unpacking I cook up some wholewheat noodles and I’m about to eat when there’s a bang on the door. It must be the delivery man again, although everything I ordered is here. I’m about to open the door when I hesitate – a gut feeling that something isn’t right stops me. I know I’ve been paranoid over the past couple of days, but I check the spyhole and step back, my hand over my mouth. I see a flash of red hair. It’s her. My breath catches, and I hold myself still.
The figure outside is distorted, but she’s so close my legs feel wobbly, as if I’m about to fall. I press my palm against the door to steady myself. How does she know where I live? Even as I’m asking myself the question, everything falls into place. The way I talked myself into believing being in the public eye wouldn’t matter, convincing myself that it all took place so long ago. I press my eye to the spyhole again to make sure, holding myself still for fear that she can hear me. Does she know only a strip of wood separates us? Is her heart racing like mine? She bangs once more, her metal rings knocking against the wood; the noise is a drill in my head. I sink down to the floor. When I take my hands away from my ears, complete silence unnerves me. I am scared to breathe, lest she stands outside, waiting for me to make a move. Five minutes pass by, ten. My legs are cramped and it’s hard to stand so I lean my weight against the door, looking through the spyhole at an empty corridor. Relief floods me. The noodles are cold and glutinous and I throw the whole lot into the bin and pour myself a glass of wine. Only when the wine is drunk do my hands stop shaking.
Richard is talking on his phone when he gets in, looking exhausted, mouthing to me that he’s off to have a bath. I check around the living room, making sure everything is exactly how he likes it. I linger a while downstairs, take my glass of water over to the sofa and switch the television on, keeping the sound low. My eyes are heavy and when I close them I can no longer fight the memories. Molly is in front of me, not the stringy adult with auburn hair whose features I can only guess at, but as she looked all those years ago. Molly. The Molly I used to know. The girl who used to be my best friend.
Although the last time I saw Molly was in the courtroom, I don’t want to remember her as she was in that horrible week, staring with vacant eyes at one of the many adults whose opinions were listened to with rapt attention by all the people in the room. The Molly I remember has soft curls and freckly skin; strong, muscular limbs from pulling herself up cliff faces and clambering over rocks. Arms darting like arrows as she swam through the surging sea while I watched her from the water’s edge, shivering. Her fierce expression when we made that promise to one another…
Richard is moving around upstairs and I snap myself out of my ridiculous daydream. I can’t believe I’ve allowed myself to go there. Aunt Jenny’s words are loud in my head, the concern in her voice when I told her I was coming back to England. ‘You’ll regret it, Grace, you are so much safer here in France.’
The news is on when I open my eyes and the face of Emily Shaw stares out at me. For a moment she is Charlotte, her eyes looking deep into mine, before she spotted someone more interesting over my shoulder. My heart thuds and instantly I’m wide awake. Richard appears in the doorway.
‘Hot chocolate?’
‘Please.’ He’s in a good mood and my muscles relax. Something warm will do me good. My stomach is still clenched from the episode with Molly earlier. Supposing she’d been there when Richard got back – I can’t bear thinking about it. He brings the hot chocolate over and for once I don’t resist; I try not to think about the sugar content as we snuggle up on the sofa. It will soothe my nerves. His hair smells of lemon shampoo. I nestle into his arms and will myself to unwind.
‘How was your day?’
He smiles. ‘Busy, but good busy. The campaign is going well. How about you?’
‘I had lunch with Julia, everything’s ready for the launch.’
‘Did you organise the hotel for my parents?’
I sit up. I can’t believe it slipped my memory. I knew there was something I was supposed to do.
‘I forgot all about it. But there’s no hurry. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
He pulls away from me. ‘That’s not like you. You’re normally so organised.’ He frowns. ‘That hotel gets booked up quickly.’
‘I’m sure they’ll have some rooms left. Don’t you think?’
He sighs, his jaw tight. I reach for my laptop, not letting him see my reluctance.
‘I’ll do it now. You go to bed. You look shattered.’
He puts the mugs in the dishwasher before he goes up the mezzanine stairs, leaving me to the silence of the room. Never mind how exhausted I feel, I hate disappointing Richard. Ordinarily I appreciate his high standards. Having so many demands on his time, he’s learned to structure his days in order to fit everything in, and his habits have rubbed off on me. I can’t afford to be distracted, to risk disappointing him. I rub my fists into my eyes as the web page opens up. There are three rooms left and I go for the double deluxe room with a view of St James’s Park – Richard will want the best for his parents. Perfection. I must be perfect too.
His parents adore him, as do I, and I close the laptop when the booking is done, relieved I haven’t messed it up. Jean is like a mum to me, and tears prick my eyes at the memory of my own mother, who I miss terribly, after her illness robbed her from me for most of my life. It was only as an adult that I fully c
omprehended what chemotherapy was, thanks to my dad insisting on keeping everything from me growing up.
I make my way to bed. When I get there, Richard is staring at the ceiling.
‘All done,’ I say, trying to sound jovial. ‘I thought you’d be asleep.’
‘I wanted to make sure you got it booked. You need to keep on top of everything, Grace.’
I’ve disappointed him and my cheeks flush with shame.
‘It’s important not to let things slip now your career is doing well. Besides, you know what my parents are like, they like to have everything organised. They’re so looking forward to it, and it will help take their mind off the missing girl.’
He’s right, I know he is. But everything has changed since the phone call.
I kiss him on the cheek. ‘Stop worrying, it’s all sorted.’ I brush my hair in front of the window, staring down at the dark water. The canal is black and still. Never mind his parents; I wish he’d stop reminding me about the girl.
Richard drops off immediately, disciplined as he is in everything that he does. His lips are slightly parted as his breathing settles into a rhythm, and I turn so I can watch his lovely features in repose. It doesn’t stop me thinking about the missing girl, but the photograph in my head isn’t hers. It’s another school photo: one I’ve spent a lifetime trying to forget.
I move away from Richard to avoid disturbing him, not wanting him to see how stressed I feel. Richard’s right – he only wants what’s best for me. I shouldn’t let his desire for attention to detail get to me. It makes us better. The past has no room in my life. It has to stay where it belongs.
The Orchid Girls Page 3
