‘Now you’re being ridiculous. We’ve talked about this before and you’ve got nothing to hide, so don’t worry.’
An image flashes into my head, a skeleton emerging from a cupboard, pointing his bony finger at me.
‘Unless there’s something you haven’t told me?’
‘No, don’t be silly.’ I turn a nervy giggle into a cough, easing myself out from under his arms. He rolls over onto his back.
‘You know I trust you, Grace. I’ve never pushed you to talk about your childhood, have I? Everyone has things they want to forget. I get that. But you’ve always seemed so in control. If something is bothering you, maybe it’s time to talk about it. You can’t let your emotions affect your work. Not now, when everything’s coming together.’
‘That’s all you care about, isn’t it? How I look, how I reflect on you.’
Richard props himself up on one elbow and looks down at me. His eyes glint in the darkness, his breath so close, in and out. Seconds tick by. I’ve gone too far.
‘You’re beginning to annoy me. Everything is going well. When I saw you on TV, I was so proud of you. I thought you wanted success as much as I do.’
‘Oh I do, Richard.’ Thoughts reel through my head. Get to the top in my career, then children. That’s my plan. I want this even more than he does.
‘I hope you’re not regretting falling in love with me and having to uproot to the UK.’
His voice sounds cold and tears spring into my eyes.
‘Don’t get emotional. You know it annoys me.’
‘I don’t regret it, it was my decision to come back.’
He moves so that his arms pin him above me. ‘Show me how much you want me, Grace.’ His voice sounds harsh.
I hug him to me, needing to feel secure, but he pushes me back against the pillow, pulling my top over my head. I can’t let Richard see the vulnerable side of me. I can’t show him what I’m feeling inside. I kiss him hard, sliding my hand under his waistband. I will not let Molly jeopardise what we have. I have to fight for us. I scratch my fingernails over his thigh.
‘That’s more like it,’ he mutters into my neck, biting into my skin. ‘I love you.’
I love you, too, I want to say, but he’s hurting me and it takes all my energy not to cry out. What would he do to me if he knew the truth? Would he still love me? My dreams are under threat. Everything I’ve worked so hard to build. Everything I’ve tried so hard to escape. Tomorrow I’ll look into booking the trip to Rome, he’ll like that. But the journalist’s words run on a loop through my head, unlocking a place I thought I’d secured away forever. The Orchid Girls… Before that, I need to deal with Molly. How can I get through to her? Making her angry is only stoking her fire. It’s better to work with her, rather than against her, even if I have to fake it. I’m good at faking. My whole life is based on my ability to play a role. The new Grace. My heartbeat thuds along with the loud tick of the clock outside and I turn away so that Richard can’t hear it.
Ten
MOLLY
On the way over to Janet’s I call in at the chemist, who puts a dressing on my hand. It’s the first thing Janet notices as I take my usual seat on the cream sofa. Everything in this room is cream, plain and bland. There’s just a coffee table and box of tissues between us. No pictures on the wall, no knick-knacks to distract me.
‘What’s happened to your hand?’
‘Accident.’
‘How did it happen?’
I look behind her through the large window, watching a pigeon peck at something on the windowsill, jabbing his beak, over and over.
‘I finished with Jodie. She wasn’t too pleased.’
‘She did that to you?’ Janet stiffens, horrified. Things like this don’t happen in her nice life.
‘No, it was me. An accident, like I said.’ I drop my head into my hands. ‘I lost my job.’
Janet waits, head tilted to one side. She prefers me to talk. It winds me up. Worst is when she sits there without saying anything, eyes focused on me, as if she can drill my thoughts out. But there are some things only one person can access.
‘I overslept. One time too many,’ I say with a shrug. ‘It’s OK. Ellis said I shouldn’t work in pubs.’
‘Ellis?’
‘The woman from the counselling centre, the one you told me to ring. I finally got in touch with them. It’s taken me what, a year?’
Her mouth twitches, almost a smile. It’s a game I play, trying to make Janet smile.
‘I’m pleased you’ve reached out for help. Do you think that’s it with Jodie, that you won’t see her again? Apart from anything else, she’s in a relationship already.’
‘She’s not very supportive about me stopping drinking either. But I’ve got to. I’ve done some stupid things this week.’
Janet waits for me to say more but I can’t talk about going round to Grace’s, all that. My cheeks feel hot and I fiddle with the tape on the dressing, deciding to stick to safe ground.
‘Ellis said I shouldn’t look for a new job straight away, that I should take some time to sort myself out, get in touch with my mum.’
‘That’s a big step. Do you think you’re ready?’
My throat is dry and a wave of tiredness hits me. ‘There are things that happened back home that I need to look into. If I want to sort myself out, then I don’t have a choice.’
‘Can you tell me about those things?’
I think of the darkness, the black mist that descends, like a leech, sucking everything out of me. The thought makes me shudder. Janet is leaning forward, elbows on her knees, watching me.
‘I can help you, that’s what I’m here for,’ she says.
An image from a recurring dream I have floats into my mind. I am standing on the edge of the cliff, searching, hunting desperately to see if she is there. My head snaps up.
‘I can’t talk about it, not yet. There are some things I need to find out first.’
After leaving Janet’s, I can’t stand the constant chatter in my head. I try to force myself to think positive. Ellis’s idea to get back into photography makes sense – I’ve got to distract myself. An idea is lurking at the back of my mind but I can’t squeeze it out. Something to do with photographs. My phone camera will have to do.
What shall I shoot? Grace uses Instagram a lot, so I set up a new account, using a fake name – I don’t want her to know it’s me this time. For now she’s the only person I need to follow. The urge to peep at what she is doing bites me but I control it and look up a couple of photographers whose work I like. There’s a street-art account that gives me an idea. I’ll go down to the canal and take some shots of the recent graffiti. Once I’ve made that decision I click on to Grace’s blog, and the idea that wouldn’t surface hits me when I’m looking at her blue eyes and flawless skin. The idea that’s been lurking in my mind ever since Ellis suggested taking pictures again. Grace’s blog is full of photographs that I’m sure she’s taken herself with her phone. She’s added a post about some cakes she’s made, disgusting sugar-free cakes for skinny celebrities. The photos are OK, mostly close-ups, different angles, filters, basic stuff. Nothing original. What she needs is someone to take decent shots for her.
The idea fires me up. I pull on my hoodie and as I’m walking down to the canal, my thoughts are spinning. Me and Grace, together all the time, just like before. She’ll be more comfortable with someone she knows, not some random man sent in to do the job. Us, together, busy in her flat, like when we used to make coconut ice in Mum’s kitchen, scoffing the lot as soon as we’d made it. Pastel-pink sugar. Poking at trays with dusty white fingers. Chunks of sticky toffee in a boiling-hot kitchen. Us, together. My memories make me feel warm and glowing. And for the first time in forever, I’ve not thought about having a drink.
Of course, as soon as the thought about drink hits me, it’s back in my head, churning. Why am I kidding myself about being Grace’s photographer – she won’t even talk to me. I chew some gum, bi
te down on the tension. No harm in taking some photos, anyway. I’ll have a coffee near Grace’s once I’ve got a few shots. I’ll be near her flat, but this is different, I’ve got a purpose. That’s what I need, a purpose.
Down by the canal the light is clear and the graffiti shines out luminous green, orange and black. Grace would hate this, but it’s practice; I need to get used to taking some good shots again. While I’m leaning into different angles to get the picture I want, I work out where I can take some shots of food, something I can show her to impress her. The market is the answer, the fruit-and-veg stall, which is piled high with bright colours and different shapes. I love the smell, too; shame that can’t be captured with my lens.
When I’ve taken enough photos of the graffiti I stop at the cafe. I jump every time the door opens in case she comes in, or even the husband, who I could follow again. A woman at the next table wearing dark red lipstick catches my eye. I play out a little fantasy in my head where I follow him and catch him stealing kisses from a different woman with red lips and Grace is grateful to me for sussing him out, realising she doesn’t need him any more. I sit there for ages with my coffee going cold, making up stories in my head.
The woman beside me leaves her Metro newspaper on the table and I snatch it up, knocking my bandaged hand in the process. The pain brings tears to my eyes. Fuck, it stings. The story about the missing girl fascinates me. It’s like picking a scab. Her bag has been found by a member of the public. I wonder what’s in it. Could be important, I know that well enough. What Charlotte had in her bag started all this. Or what she said she had. Charlotte’s bag fell with her in a flash of orange against the green grass of the cliff, and Grace said the photograph wasn’t in it, but I didn’t know if she was telling the truth. If she didn’t have the photo then the fight needn’t have happened, and I had to know if it was all for nothing. That’s one of the things I wrote to Grace about, before she disappeared.
When Grace didn’t reply, the not knowing was driving me mad, like bees in my brain, buzzing and bothering me, so I went round to Charlotte’s house. We’d been acquitted by then. Her mum was all drugged up, held me so close her heartbeat sounded hard and fast in my ear like a drum and I had to pull away, I couldn’t bear her pain. While she made orange squash that had way too much cordial in it, I nipped to the loo but on the way went into Charlotte’s room. It was exactly as it was when I was last there, while Grace and Jason went next door doing things to each other I didn’t want to think about and I dug my fingernails into my thighs. Remembering makes me feel sick. Charlotte’s bag was folded on the floor like she’d only popped out, as if deliberately left there by Mrs Greene, who wanted to forget the bag had been dusted and tested and God knows what else the police did to it after it was found on the beach. Obviously the photograph wasn’t there but I knew Charlotte’s hiding place. She’d shown me it herself. A different photo, the one she’d sneaked of Mr Owen, our chemistry teacher and her major forbidden crush, was slid into the frame behind the picture of her nan and grandad on the dressing table in her bedroom. I moved her CK One perfume aside and slid the photo out of the frame, hands shaking so much that I cut my finger on the sharp edge and blood beaded onto it. One-handed, I pulled out the photo while I sucked the blood from my finger. I was right. There it was. But it wasn’t a photo of Mr Owen any more. It was of me and Grace. The one Charlotte threatened us with. Seeing it made my breath disappear, made me stand still for so long that Mrs Greene called up the stairs. I shoved the photo in my pocket before I bolted back down as if Grace’s dad was running after me.
It’s cold outside and the wind beats against my top – I wish I’d put my parka on. But the food market is only on today and if I want to get some good pictures I have to head down there now.
My mate Danny’s on the fruit stall.
‘Hey, Molly. What are you doing here? Not after fruit, are you?’
‘Nah. You know me, Dan. More of a burger girl. Do you mind if I take some photos of your stall, though?’
‘Go ahead. I didn’t know you were into photography.’
‘Yeah, I used to be. Thought I might take it up again. Do something different.’
The veg is a happy splash of greens and reds, deep purple aubergines and bright orange carrots. I forget about everything while I’m snapping away and I get some good shots. Danny gives me a paper bag full of ripe bananas and sweet-smelling apples and I kiss his bristly cheek, making him blush.
Back home I upload the photos onto my laptop and it’s not until I’ve finished and my stomach is rumbling that my mind strays to having a drink. An ice-cold lager to soothe my throat. Jodie would bring some round, but we’re finished and I have to be strong. I pace around the flat, remembering Ellis’s advice.
No. No Jodie and no drink. Ellis doesn’t answer her phone, so I recall what she said earlier: keep busy. I know she wouldn’t approve of the amount of time I spend thinking about Grace. She suggested I take up running and from her Instagram I know that Grace runs. It will give me more in common with her. Never mind that I don’t have any fancy gear like she does, shiny white trainers from Lululemon, Lycra clothes that glow in the dark and fancy water bottles. My old Converse will have to do, and I dig out a faded Adidas sweatshirt – designer labels Molly-style.
Street lights cast a glow on the pavement, showing me where to put my feet. I start small, aim for the corner of the road but I only make it as far as the lamp post before I’m doubled over, unable to stop coughing, lungs on fire. I can’t remember the last time I tried to run. Not since the muddy field at school, our butch PE teacher shouting at girls who lagged behind, but not me. Not back then. Bitchy girls mocking others, making jokes to a student about her girlfriend, making me feel uncomfortable and not understanding why. A stitch digs in my side but I won’t give up. I run for a few steps, walk a few more and it’s not long before I’m at the path that leads to the canal. I tell myself it doesn’t matter that it’s the second time today I’ve been here.
I look up. There’s a light on on Grace’s balcony. A figure steps out of the shadows. It’s her. I stand behind some trees and pull my phone out of my pocket. The phone camera isn’t great in the dark, but these aren’t for show, they’re for me. A flash and Grace’s face appears as she lights a cigarette. Why is Grace smoking? I bet the husband doesn’t know about that. Blowing dirty clouds into the air. Polluting her body. Smoking was one of our special things we did together. Sneaking out into the garden after dinner, lighting up behind the shed, taking it in turns to keep watch. Maybe all this clean living is down to him and she can’t wait to break free.
She leans forward and looks down into the water. My stomach lurches. What can she see? A woman’s body was pulled from the canal only a week ago, her secrets submerged under the water. That was before that girl Emily went missing, otherwise they might have thought it was her. Maybe Emily is still submerged deep under the pool of black, waiting to appear and shatter the dreams of her loved ones. They said it was the sea that took Charlotte in the end. Overnight the tide came in, picked her broken body up in the wild waves then threw it back again. Imagining the rough sea makes me shiver – I haven’t been in since that day, and I used to love swimming. How can Grace bear to live here? Why doesn’t it freak her out like it does me? Time to get over it, and fast, if I want to be near her.
But I’m beginning to doubt everything. More than ever the need to talk to Grace, to find out the truth, burns inside me. Only she can tell me what really happened. As if Grace can read my thoughts, she lifts her arm and hurls the cigarette butt over the canal, a tiny glow in the dark flitting through the air. I blink and it’s gone, swallowed by the water.
‘I’ll make you talk,’ I whisper.
On the way home I receive a text from an unknown number.
So why do they call you OrchidGirl?
The words steal my breath from me. I look around as if the sender is behind me, but the black water of the canal gives nothing away. Could it be Grace, trying
to play me at my own game? But no, Grace is afraid of history catching up with her, exploding her life apart, exposing who she really is. She’s made that clear. Someone else wants me to talk, and I wonder what I’ve set in motion. Footsteps break into the silence and a man approaches. I glare at him as he passes, standing still and listening until his steps fade into nothing. Then I run, feet flying, chest bursting. Running like I ran home from school, away from Charlotte and Belinda, thinking that if I ran fast enough I could escape their threats, make them stop. But they were stuck in my head like a noisy clock, ticking down the seconds until they found me again.
I need to do more. I’m not getting Grace’s attention. I’ve had another idea for using my photos, let her see how I won’t stop until she responds. Because we’re meant to be together – she just hasn’t realised it yet.
Charlotte’s Diary
Sunday 11th August 2002
Grace has been all apologetic and swears she’d had too much cider and she isn’t interested in Jason, but I don’t trust her. I don’t want to hang around with her any more but it’s the only way I can keep an eye on her. If I find out she’s been tricking me, there’ll be trouble. And there’s something weird going on with her and Molly. Ever since the beach party I’ve been watching them.
Belinda rang this evening THANK GOD, and I rang her back so we could talk and talk. Mum will go mad when the phone bill comes, but so what. I told her about everything and she said Grace sounds like a right bitch and not to trust her. She couldn’t believe it about Molly. I told her how she’s different now, confident, like she doesn’t care. Besides, we’re never gonna be bessie mates, and it’s only for a couple of weeks. After I got off the phone I felt bad again about what we did to Molly. Bel goes mad if I bring it up – she’s totally over it, says it was an accident. She’s right, it wasn’t as if we’d meant it to happen. And Molly started it. We’d arranged to meet her in the park after school so she could give us the make-up we’d made her promise to get us. She said she hadn’t got any money so Belinda told her to nick it from Woolworths – everyone was doing it back then. So when she turned up and emptied her pockets, we couldn’t believe it. Talk about a stash. Belinda nudged me with her bony elbow and I know she was thinking we were on to something and could place orders. But Molly wouldn’t hand it over, said we had to promise to leave her alone first. Belinda said ‘yeah, ok’ but the minute she took it off Molly she told her she wanted more and reminded her of the time Molly refused to give her the fiver she’d asked for, so she pushed her head down the toilet. Belinda was drinking Pepsi through a straw and made a loud sucking noise. Molly’s neck and face were flaming red like her nasty hair and she suddenly lunged forward to grab the stuff back off Belinda. Bel screamed and they did a tug of war with the bag and Molly fell onto Belinda, the Pepsi bottle smashed on the floor and Molly fell on top of it. Her arm started bleeding. It was an accident. But she never told on us and we left her alone after that. A month later, she moved schools. I didn’t expect to ever see her again.
The Orchid Girls Page 9
