‘It’s fantastic so many people are here. Can you hear me at the back?’
Shouts and laughter affirm ‘yes’, so Julia introduces my book and I, gesturing to two chairs placed to the side of the table on which copies of my books are piled high. The talk is to comprise a question-and-answer session with a Guardian journalist, before further questions will be taken from the floor. Julia’s shown me the questions in advance, and I’m not feeling nervous. My hands are steady as I shake the journalist’s hand, take my seat and blank out everything except my interviewer and her confident voice. The conversation flows naturally and time flies by before questions are invited.
‘Given that your book is about food, and women often have complicated relationships with what they eat, do you feel a pressure to look a certain way?’
The very thin woman who asks this is holding a copy of my book up and looking at the cover as she asks the question. A conversation I had earlier with my editor flashes through my mind, her comment about my ‘model looks’ and her insistence on putting me on the cover. Now isn’t the moment for being indignant.
‘My looks are irrelevant. What’s important for me is to feel healthy – I haven’t always. I care about how nutrition impacts on my health. So many women have a self-destructive relationship with food, and if my recipes and attitude can help change this then my book is making a difference, and that makes me feel good.’
As Julia selects the next question from the audience, my attention is drawn to the door opening and a latecomer rushes in. Something about the woman’s deep red hair and angular body makes my breath catch in my throat. As she turns towards me, I see that it’s Molly. My head goes into a whirl. Julia coughs and I’ve no idea what the audience member has asked.
‘Could you repeat that please?’ While I’m answering the question I watch Molly edge to the back of the crowd out of the corner of my eye. I clasp my hands in my lap to stop them from visibly shaking and force myself to smile as I speak, keeping the fear from my face.
After my talk a book signing has been set up, and a queue forms at the desk. Richard’s mother Jean is first in line, and as she throws her arms around me, the corner of the book she holds digs into my spine, so eager is she that she forgets she’s holding it. Her warmth always makes me emotional, reminding me of my own mum before cancer got to her, changing her beyond recognition. If only she could see me now. Richard takes after his dad in that respect – showing affection in public is not the done thing. Over Jean’s shoulder I see Molly watching me, but I don’t meet her eye. Instead I hug Jean harder, turning my eyes away.
‘You were marvellous, darling. We’re both so proud of you.’
My signature, which I’ve perfected over the years, looks dramatic. The signing takes ages as I chat to those I know in the queue, taking my time. As I work through the line, I sip from my champagne glass, which is regularly topped up by the waiter who hovers nearby. Molly stares throughout. Every time I look up, she’s there.
Carrie’s next, with a wide grin on her face. Ordinarily I’d be thrilled, but Molly’s presence makes my mouth wobble as I attempt to smile back.
‘You didn’t need to queue, you know I owe you a copy for putting up with me stressing over this book.’
‘Don’t be daft, it’s all part of the occasion. You know how proud I am. Shall we have that drink later this week? Cocktails on me.’ Carrie’s normally infectious grin is lost on me as Molly lurks in the background.
‘Yes, lovely,’ I say, ‘text me.’ My gaze flickers to her shoulder, where I catch sight of Molly’s dark, staring eyes. I grip Carrie’s hand. ‘Thanks for being there.’
She squeezes my hand, gives me an enquiring look.
‘You OK? Your hand is shaking.’
‘Of course.’ I sit up straight. ‘It’s excitement. Let’s catch up over that drink.’
The hum of conversation fades as the evening wears on and I pause and flex my fingers to ease my growing cramp. A discreet glance at my Fitbit tells me we’re into the last half hour. Richard is chatting with his parents in the corner and I wish I could join them. I’m dreading having to deal with Molly. There are two women and one man left in the queue and Molly walks slowly across the room and joins them. As the lady in front of me rummages around in her bag for her book, I take a moment to control my breathing.
‘Sorry, sorry to keep you waiting,’ she says, after clearing her throat. ‘You must be exhausted.’
I attempt to smile and will my hand not to shake as I sign. My heart pounds against my ribs. There’s no escape. She’s getting closer. My panic is growing and sweat gathers on my back.
The final woman in the queue towers over me in a red floral dress; Lycra poppies stretch across her body, petals cling to her curves. She breathes heavily, like she has run here and a faint smell of sweat lingers in the air. As I’m about to start writing, she grabs my hand.
‘You don’t know how thrilled I am to be here,’ she says. Her hand is warm and clammy, and I hope she doesn’t notice the tremor in mine. ‘The bus arrived late and I thought I wasn’t going to arrive in time. Your cake recipes are to die for.’
She tells me her name is Clarissa, and I keep her talking, adding my own name to hers with a wobble of the pen, trying to stretch out the moment, but inevitably she turns and leaves. When she finally moves away I fix a smile on my face but it freezes as I look up and see Molly. The girl from the past, the girl I used to know so well, is in there somewhere, buried deep in a narrow face with tired-looking eyes masked in heavy make-up.
A smell of alcohol hangs over her and I want to look around the room in case anyone is watching, but I am unable to move. Julia’s belly laugh rises over the crowd and Richard has his back to me. Molly picks up the display copy of my book from the table, strokes her fingers over my face on the cover. It feels like a punch to the gut.
‘What are you doing here?’ I lean forward so she can hear my voice, deliberately pitched low. Sweat creeps down my back.
‘You won’t answer my calls. Tell me we can meet, and I’ll go.’ She sways.
She’s drunk. Over her shoulder I see Richard looking in my direction; he’s noticed the queue has gone.
She taps a pen against the table. Her sleeve rides up and the purple orchid tattoo flashes into sight. I gasp. Richard is crossing the room.
I compose myself and nod.
‘The Camden Angel pub,’ she says, ‘tomorrow, two o’clock.’
‘OK.’ I stand as Richard appears behind Molly. ‘Richard,’ I say, trying to make my voice sound light and breezy. ‘I'm pretty much finished here.’
Molly looks from Richard to me, and sticks the display book in front of me with a defiant look in her eyes. She flicks her wrist and I almost drop the pen. The orchid catches me unawares again. The pen shakes as I sign and she doesn’t take her eyes off me the whole time, before shoving the book into the pocket of her grubby parka. She knows I’ve seen it.
‘Cheers. So good to see you again.’
I move closer to Richard, and he puts his arm around my shoulder. I try not to shudder, willing Molly to leave. I’ll cover the cost of the book. I just need to get rid of her.
‘Do you know her?’ We watch as she walks to the door, grabbing at a bookshelf to steady herself.
‘She went to my primary school. I never liked her much,’ I lie.
Molly turns when she reaches the exit and our eyes meet.
‘Tomorrow,’ she mouths.
Back home, I’m relieved when Richard mentions an early start and goes straight to bed. I’m always up early but there’s no point in me trying to sleep. I can’t get Molly's face out of my head. Despite my fear, I can never forget the closeness we once had. During all my years abroad I managed to stop myself searching the internet, but tonight I can’t resist. I want to see a picture of Molly, how she was back then, the girl with the cheeky face and freckles who has lived in my head all this time. The Molly who climbed back up the rocky cliff without protest because I’d dr
opped my cap, who washed the sand out of my hair after a day at the beach. The Molly who wouldn’t hurt me. The little circle spins round on the screen as it searches and I will it to go faster, but the connection is taunting me tonight.
Finally the page loads and there are hundreds of thousands of possible avenues to follow The Orchid Girls down. But it’s not the stories I’m interested in. I click on the images, and there she is. Wide grin, red springy hair, wearing her favourite green T-shirt. The look in her eyes catches me out and I remember when that photo was taken – the first time she let me use her precious camera and capture the smile that got me into so much trouble.
Richard calls my name, making me jump, and I wipe the search history and log out before I make my way upstairs.
He’s surprised but doesn’t object when I reach for his shoulders, kissing him with a hunger I haven’t felt in a while. I lower myself on top of him in an attempt to rid those images from my mind.
I’m with Richard now, and nothing will change that.
Six
MOLLY
On the way back from the bookshop I pass a McDonald’s, seeing friends and families through the glass windows, laughing, eating, joking around. I go inside, buy myself a meal and sit next to a woman and her three noisy kids, listening in on their conversation. The Coke tastes better with a nifty shot of vodka. Halfway through my meal I picture Grace behind the desk, her lips as she says to her husband, ‘I’m pretty much finished here’. My stomach twists. The burger looks greasy and I push the plate away, pick up my drink and stumble against a table as I leave, feeling the glare of the mother on my back.
Back home my flat looks small and unloved compared to my image of Grace’s sleek canal-side apartment. I imagine her curled up with her husband on a pristine cream leather sofa. How much does he know about her past?
The news is on; there’s a piece related to a kid who has gone missing and I’m compelled to watch. Her parents are on TV, raising their teary faces to the camera and holding hands, pleading for whoever has taken their girl to please get in touch, and telling their daughter they aren’t cross with her. I can’t help remembering my shock at seeing Mr and Mrs Greene doing an appeal for Charlotte; it made it all real. It meant Grace was wrong, that what we had done had consequences. I go to switch the TV off when the girl’s face flashes onto the screen and I grab at the sofa to stop myself keeling over. Straight blonde hair, the same grey school tunic they made us wear. The likeness makes me gasp out loud.
I go to my bedside drawer, take out the only photo I have of Grace and I, two girls sitting on a wall, squinting at the sun. I wish I could go back to that time. But I can’t. Before I switch the light off I flick through Grace’s book, look at all the pictures, tracing my finger over her immaculate skin, the perfect angles of her face. I place the book by my pillow when I go to sleep.
The following day I don’t get up until it’s time to go and meet Grace. Energy ricochets inside me at the thought of seeing her. Camden High Street is rammed full of people. They spill out of the tube in a line of chatter, noise, excitement. Teenagers emerge into the market, buzzing, reminding me of the first time I came here, aged sixteen. I remember the rush to the head as I first saw the mysterious shops with their fronts adorned with signs advertising tattoos and piercings, rock star posters and huge platform boots, with more secrets and surprises inside, and vintage stalls bursting with alternative fashion, shades of black everywhere. Long nights drinking cider and dancing at the Electric Ballroom. So different to Dorset. I can’t imagine Grace here, in her neat suit and high-heeled shoes. Excitement lights me up inside.
The pub isn’t one I normally visit and it’s pricey, but it’s important to get it right for Grace; it has to be fancy enough for her. I’m the only person in jeans and sturdy boots. I arrive early and order a tonic, slipping in a little vodka from the bottle in my pocket and knocking it back before she joins me. The liquid slides down my throat, soothing my nerves. She’s taking her time and I sit with my back to the counter, avoiding the looks of the witch at the bar. It’s hot in here and I loosen my collar, clenching my fists in my pockets. Ten minutes in and a dull ache appears behind my eyes, anger rising. After fifteen minutes I know she isn’t coming, but I sit it out for thirty. When I finally leave I don’t look back, letting the door crash behind me.
She’ll pay for this. I’ll make sure of it.
On the way home I pick up some cans for Jodie, who’s texted that she’s coming over. At least my flat isn’t such a tip this time. While the kettle boils I stand in a cold shower, flinching at the icy drops of water on my face, waking myself up. Two paracetamol should help. I stick Grace’s book under my bed, out of sight.
Jodie is over an hour late. She doesn’t reply to my texts, which pisses me off – she mustn’t be able to get away from her girlfriend. The girlfriend she never talks about, but who I know everything about. She’s small and mousy and looks like Jodie would eat her up for breakfast. Mouse Face, I call her. I’ve no idea what Jodie sees in her. I try to imagine the two of them together. The idea of Mouse Face at a club – Jodie’s usual scene – doesn’t make sense. I can’t visualise it in my mind, which is how I try and imagine things. At home doing a jigsaw puzzle, that’s how I see her. Thinking makes my headache worse and I switch the kettle off and grab myself a beer.
I’m halfway through it when I hear the roar of Jodie’s motorcycle coming down the street. I stand by the window and watch her take off her helmet, parking her bike up at the rack outside. Abdul is standing outside his shop. He waves, but she turns her head. I think about not drinking but it’s too hard and I’m already one beer in. I’ll try again tomorrow.
Jodie opens some cans, passes me one. Her deep brown eyes narrow.
‘Still thinking about that old friend of yours?’ The way she emphasises the word ‘friend’ winds me up. I tighten my hands around the can, remembering Grace not turning up, how stupid I felt. I hate that she still has this power over me.
‘No, why would I?’
Jodie shrugs. ‘I dunno, the way you were talking about her, made me think she was on your mind.’
I know I shouldn’t tell Jodie any more details, but I can’t resist.
‘Do you want to know who she is? You’ll never guess who she’s married to…’
Jodie shifts to an upright position when I tell her.
‘I’ve heard of her,’ she says, tapping into her phone. She shows me a picture and I hope she can’t tell the way my pulse quickens when I see Grace. ‘She’s a looker.’
‘If you like that sort of thing.’ I add a laugh and hope it’s convincing. Sudden panic rises inside me; I wish I hadn’t shared Grace with Jodie. She watches me with fierce eyes and I’m suddenly aware of cool air blowing in through the window.
‘She’s a celebrity now – you must be tempted to see her.’
‘No.’ I stand up and head towards the window, looking down at the street as I light a cigarette. ‘Not at all.’ If only you knew.
Jodie goes into the kitchen, gets another can and I wonder how long she’s staying. She pats the sofa next to her when she sits down again, treating me like some kind of dog, and I ignore her. I still want her, but it has to stop. The way she treats me isn’t right. Seeing Grace again has helped me see Jodie for what she is. What me and Grace had was way more special.
‘Tell me what you talk to your counsellor about.’ Jodie leans forward, her shoulders rigid.
Why won’t she let this drop? If that’s how she’s going to play it, then I know how to make her change the subject.
‘I talk about you. How you’re with someone, how I’ve never even spent the night with you. How much it would mean if you would stay.’
She purses her mouth and blows out air, her mouth tight. ‘You knew my situation when we first met. I've always been honest with you.’
‘So why do you get funny when I mention other women? If I got involved with someone else, then you’d be free of me.’
‘I d
on’t want to be free of you.’
‘Maybe I do. This isn’t working for me, Jodie, my head’s too messed up.’
The can is empty and I crumple it into my palm, the cold metal digging through my skin.
‘Tell me what’s messing you up.’
‘I can’t talk about it, Jodie.’
‘You never confide in me. We’re supposed to be close, in a relationship, yet you don’t tell me anything. Don’t you trust me?’
‘But it’s not a proper relationship, is it? You go home to wifey, she gets to be with you every day, every night. And it’s not like you talk about important stuff either.’
‘That’s because I haven’t got anything to confide. You’re the one with all the fucking secrets. I’ve said it before, Molly, you need to get yourself together. Makes me think seeing you isn’t worth the hassle.’
‘Well, that’s what I’ve been thinking.’ I clench my fists together, gathering my courage. She won’t like this, but I’ve got to do it. ‘I don’t want to see you any more.’
‘Where’s this coming from?’ Her mouth is open, as if she can’t believe I’d dare.
‘Haven’t you been listening to me? Being your bit on the side isn’t what I want.’
Jodie stretches her legs out and pulls herself up. ‘The timing feels off to me. It’s her, isn’t it, your sister?’
My stomach curls at the poison she pours into the word.
‘She’s your first love, isn’t she?’
I bite hard into my lip.
‘I knew it.’ She laughs. ‘Get real, she wouldn’t look twice at you now. But if that’s what you want.’
She shrugs her leather jacket on and crosses to the door.
‘You know where I am. Bet you’ll call me before the end of the week.’
The door slams and she’s gone. I tell myself it was the right thing to do. Now that Grace is back, there’s no time for anyone else. Shame she doesn’t show me the same respect. But I’ll prove Jodie wrong. The can is still crumpled in my hand and there’s a nasty mark, the colour of a rotting apple, where I’ve been squeezing it so tight that my skin’s cut and my blood has smeared. All of a sudden Charlotte’s face is back in my head, her eyes taunting me. She made me do it. But it’s still my fault, everything that happened.
The Orchid Girls Page 5
