The Orchid Girls

by Lesley Sanderson

I nod, willing him to believe me. His moods can change so quickly.

  He stretches. ‘How was your meeting? I can’t believe I forgot.’

  ‘What meeting?’

  Richard looks at me as if I’m a complete idiot.

  ‘The branding meeting with Simon?’

  I concentrate on my nails, hoping the look I flick him is convincing. ‘It’s tomorrow.’

  ‘I could have sworn it was today.’

  ‘He postponed it. More time for me to work on my designs.’

  ‘But you’re ready, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course, I can’t wait to get my products out there. Having my own range is what I’ve been working towards. Shall I make some tea?’

  As I fuss about, filling the kettle, I hope I’ve done the right thing telling him. Maybe I shouldn’t have lost it with Molly, but now I can say that Richard knows about her and she’ll have to leave me alone. As I’m pouring water over the loose tea leaves, I remember the anonymous text Molly mentioned and my hand jolts. What if it’s genuine? If it is, it’s more imperative than ever that I stay away from her. I can’t stop thinking about Aunt Jenny’s response when I told her I was moving back.

  ‘You’ll regret it,’ she said. For the first time since my return I’m wondering whether she might have been right.

  Twelve

  MOLLY

  Grace didn’t get my letters. She’s telling the truth. She went to France, that’s why the letters never reached her and why it was impossible to find her. It did my head in, looking and wondering and worrying. It’s her dad’s fault, sending her away, no surprises there. But there’s still so much we haven’t talked about, so much I want to know. She threatened me as she left the other day, but she didn’t mean it, not if she thinks about it. She said it in the heat of the moment, that’s all. Otherwise she’s making a big mistake. Because I kept it for a reason. Let her believe I destroyed it – for now. The time will come to hit her with it. Despite what Grace said, she might call, so I daren’t turn my phone off and I switch it to silent instead.

  The curtain flutters as I walk up my front path and I know Mrs Bird is snooping. Her door creaks and her face is hidden by a huge bunch of flowers, a mass of bright orange roses. They must have come while I was out signing on. I hate roses; Charlotte’s front garden was full of them the last time Mum made me go round there.

  ‘These came for you, dear.’ The surprise on her face is mirrored in mine. ‘A woman delivered them, a friend of yours.’

  My pulse quickens, but they can’t be from Grace. She doesn’t know where I live.

  ‘The one with the motorbike?’ She comes out into the tiny hall.

  Jodie. My heart drops. Mrs Bird’s voice lilts upwards in a question and I know she wants me to talk about this friend. I’ve seen her watching Jodie, wondering. But I won’t.

  ‘Cheers.’ I’m about to go upstairs when I notice the peeling wallpaper, yellow patches and grime where time has left its mark – I don’t want Grace here in her smart clothes and fancy attitude. I can be better for her. I have to be. Then the doorbell stops me. Mrs Bird shuffles back along the carpet, voices follow and Jodie appears. This time she’s not coming in. The flowers are still in my arms as I push past Mrs Bird and close the door behind me.

  ‘Your favourite colour.’

  Jodie sits on the garden wall; I stay standing. Water drips from the stems of the flowers over my arm and onto the floor.

  ‘Why aren’t you listening to me? I told you we’re finished.’

  A truck trundles by, filling the street with a rattling noise and Jodie looms across the path of the sun casting darkness over me.

  ‘I’ve been doing some research on Grace Sutherland.’

  ‘Leave it, Jodie.’ I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry.

  ‘Or what? Look, I’ve met this guy who’s interested in talking to you.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘He’s a journalist, writes for the Sun. I got chatting to him in the pub and he gave me his card.’

  I stand up so she can’t see the alarm on my face and I move away from her. ‘I’m not interested.’ The downstairs curtain twitches. ‘Leave me alone, Jodie, I mean it. If you don’t, I’ll tell Frances all about us.’

  Her face darkens and we stare at each other before she turns and jumps on her bike. The tyres screech as she disappears off down the road.

  A thorn in the stem of one of the flowers digs into my hand as I throw them into the street bin. Blood beads on my palm. I smudge it away but it reappears a second later.

  Cold water washes the blood away but I stand and stare at the plughole for ages, waiting for my pulse to return to normal. I’m trying to ignore the voice telling me that a drink would make me feel better, help me to forget Jodie and all her shit. Ellis has told me to ring her any day, any time, so I dial her number, rapping my fingers against the wall, willing her to answer, telling myself she won’t pick up. I’ll be getting on her nerves, big time. But she doesn’t show it when she answers. Instead, she suggests I meet her in the park.

  Ellis is sitting on a bench in Finsbury Park, watching a man struggling to control his dog. She’s just finished a run, and she tells me she comes here most mornings before she goes back home to work. Freelance, she is. That would suit me, and I wonder again if it would be possible to be a photographer without a boss, setting my own rules.

  ‘Hey Molly, what’s up?’ she greets me.

  ‘You know I finished with Jodie the other night? She just turned up at my flat. Flowers and everything.’

  Ellis is giving me her full attention, unlike Jodie, who is always looking over my shoulder to see what else is going on.

  ‘Does she want to get back with you?’

  ‘It’s not that. Do you know Grace Sutherland? The food blogger?’

  ‘Not the Queen of Clean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what she’s known as.’

  That fits. I didn’t used to recognise my bedroom when she was sharing it, folded clothes, smoothed-down bed covers, make-up lined up on the dressing table.

  ‘I love her recipes,’ Ellis says, ‘but I don’t believe her image. People like that are always too good to be true. She’ll be indulging her secret passion for cream cakes at home.’ She laughs, a glorious chuckle.

  I picture Grace cutting food in her precise way. ‘I doubt it. She’s a friend from a long time ago. I reconnected with her.’

  ‘Facebook?’

  I nod, it’s less hassle to lie.

  ‘What’s she got to do with Jodie?’

  ‘We went through a lot together, me and Grace. Stuff I still need to sort out, that she might be able to help with. It was an intense time. You know how teenagers are. What you were saying about getting rid of all the baggage – well, Grace is one bloody huge suitcase. I’m such an idiot, I told Jodie about knowing Grace. I knew I shouldn’t have. She’s been talking to this journalist, reckons he thinks I have a story to tell. I bet I know what kind of story he wants.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Some made-up sleaze, no doubt – you know, how she bullied me at school, that kind of shit, which she didn’t, by the way. I’m sorry to dump all this on you. You said to ring any time and I didn’t know what else to do. Stuff like this makes me want to drink.’ I place my head in my hands.

  ‘I said any time, and I meant it. I’d much rather you call me than have a drink. But are you sure there’s nothing more to it? Are you in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Were you and Grace together? Is that what she means? Some kind of lesbian kiss-and-tell? Or is there something else?’

  I shake my head, my cheeks hot. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking, a scruff bag like me. How does that fit with Miss Super Healthy? She’s married, moved on.’ I look away, letting her work it out.

  ‘I don’t see you like that, Molly. And Jodie can’t make you do anything, you’ve finished with her now. Ignore he
r, she’ll go away.’

  I'm not so sure.

  ‘Do you know what kind of journalist she’s spoken to, who they work for? Are you sure there isn’t something you’ve told her to make her think there’s a story?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Then leave it in the past, Molly. But if there is anything, you can trust me, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ But I don’t know if I can. ‘You must think I’m a nightmare.’

  ‘I’ve seen worse, believe me. The last woman I was helping had a relapse and ended up in Amsterdam. Had no idea how she’d got there.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Sure. She went into blackout. You must know about those?’

  ‘Don’t. Story of my life.’

  Shame colours my cheeks. So many missed evenings. Banned from the local club for being abusive to a woman I don’t even remember meeting. Jodie reckons I hit her once, but she must be messing with my memory, surely that can’t be true. I tell myself that’s not me any more. I don’t want it to be.

  The man yanks at his stubborn dog, who leaves whatever he’s sniffing and follows him out of the park. Ellis grins as she watches.

  ‘That would have made a good photo, don’t you think? Try and keep yourself busy, get your camera out, maybe think about a project. Come round to my flat tomorrow evening, I’ll make you something to eat.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘You OK?’

  I swallow hard.

  ‘I’m not used to nice people asking me to do things.’

  ‘Only because you don’t give them the chance. I’m persistent. If you’re serious about photography, I can help you set up a website to display your work.’

  ‘Really? That would be great. But what about your own work?’

  ‘It’s fine, I haven’t got much on at the moment.’ Ellis gets to her feet. ‘Come on. I’ll buy you an ice cream. Photography will give you a focus. Keep you away from Jodie and old friends with baggage. You’re not drinking, and that’s the most important thing. You just need to focus on that.’

  Despite Ellis’s reassurances, Jodie’s words about the journalist whirl round and round in my mind. I go online but Grace hasn’t posted anything yet today. Annoying. A link flickers to the right with today’s news headlines. The missing girl is still one of the top stories and I can’t help myself from clicking on it.

  The search continues in Ash Fenton today, home to missing teenager Emily Shaw. The last known sighting of Emily was on Wednesday at Drake’s Common with two school friends, who left her in town at around one o’clock. Anyone who may have seen her is asked to come forward and speak to the police. MP for Fenton North constituency, Richard Sutherland, today appealed for witnesses to come forward.

  I wasn’t expecting that. There’s a link to a clip of him talking to a news reporter and I click on it. I zoom in on his face, trying to see what it is that attracts Grace. Handsome face, good teeth, and he’s fit-looking – with his money I bet he’s got a personal trainer – but his eyes lack warmth and the photograph makes him look arrogant in his designer suit. I zoom out, not liking the twisting jealousy he awakens in me. Takes me back to when Grace was with Jason.

  That time at the Burger Palace when he couldn’t take his eyes off Grace, and she leant in closer to him and made him laugh. Even though I knew she was only doing it to wind Charlotte up, it made me want to scream, to slap his ugly face away from her. Charlotte was watching me and the look of recognition on her face made me realise I had to be more careful. I smirked at her and she turned to Jason, her mouth set in a pout.

  I try to push those thoughts aside. I can’t believe that this Emily girl comes from the same place where Richard works. I bet Grace feels uncomfortable about that. Just reading about the case brings back memories that loom like tombstones in my mind.

  The next morning I’m awake early, but my head’s clear. I believe Grace when she said she never received my letters. It makes sense. But would Michael still have them? I don’t want to see him again, but if he’s got them I want them back. I tell myself I’m not scared of him any more. There’s nothing he can do to me. It takes me twenty minutes to locate the only sheltered housing in Ash Fenton. I wonder when he relocated from Dorset. I’m struck by an image of him in a deckchair on the beach, fully clothed, with only his ankles exposed. I never saw him relax.

  When I arrive, it’s not bad-looking, not what I expected sheltered housing to be like. A row of identical bungalows. It’s in better nick than where I live; the crumbling old Victorian house that looks as if it’s going to fall down every time the fat bloke from upstairs leans against the wall for a smoke.

  I ring the doorbell. The woman who answers the door tells me her name is Angela and that she’s Michael’s full-time carer.

  ‘How is he?’ I ask, wondering what’s wrong with him. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while.’

  Angela talks as we make our way to his room. ‘His emphysema has been worse lately. He’s been admitted to hospital twice this year already, it makes him very weak.’ She knocks on the door. ‘Michael, you’ve got a visitor.’

  I’m led into a room lined with books, and there’s a framed photo of a crucifix on the wall. I look down at the frail old man in front of me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his collar. Watery eyes look out from a lined, parchment face, wary.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  His words hit me like shock. I’m unable to move. He can’t think I’m Charlotte.

  ‘No, it’s your niece, Molly,’ Angela says.

  Michael looks away, staring at the view of the back garden. Angela fusses around the table beside the bed, straightening a photograph of him wearing his robes with his ever-serious expression.

  ‘You haven’t seen her for a while.’ She touches my shoulder and I move to the side. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says. ‘I’m next door if you need me. And you should know his memory isn't what it was, he gets a bit confused.’ She bustles out of the room.

  For a moment I’m unable to move. I can’t get over how different he looks. He seems to have shrunk. To think he used to frighten me.

  Michael is looking at me, unsure.

  ‘It’s me, Molly.’ I shuffle the armchair over towards him as I sit down. ‘Grace’s friend from Lyme Regis.’ He doesn’t react so I scrabble around in the front pocket of my bag, pulling out an old photograph of us sitting on the wall – Grace and I squinting into the sun. The spots on Michael’s hands are like inkblots, dark and irregular, but his hands are steady as he peers at the photograph. ‘Do you remember? This was taken outside your house, we’d been at the beach.’ He brings the photo closer to his face.

  ‘I know who you are. You shouldn’t have come. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I wrote to Grace back then. I wrote hundreds of times. She says she didn’t get my letters. What happened to them?’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to get in touch. We told you not to. We stopped her from reading them. Didn’t even open them. I know what you were up to.’ He sneers over his glasses.

  Anger ripples through me. ‘What did you do with them?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you leave it alone? Do you know how upset her mother was? Do you know how much she suffered?’

  ‘What did you do with my letters?’ Answer me.

  ‘Under my guidance Grace was able to move on. Letters from you would have kept her stuck in the past. We prayed together and she soon saw the error in her ways. God sees everything. I sent her away to rebuild her life.’

  ‘We weren’t doing anything wrong.’

  ‘You sinned in the eyes of the Church, no matter what they tell you these days. Leading my daughter astray. All this modern liberal claptrap. Anything goes, it’s wrong. Why have you come here? Grace is married now. Stay away from her.’

  Michael spits the words out, saliva spraying at me. I move backward, shocked by the hateful look in his eyes. The old fear I used to feel in his presence returns. I had no idea that he knew. Th
e bastard. But I remind myself he’s ill, that he can’t hurt me now.

  ‘Shocked you, haven’t I? Want to know how I knew what you were up to? She told me. Big mistake. I warned her what would happen if she wouldn’t keep quiet.’

  My mouth falls open at his revelation. Why would Grace have told him about us? Is that why he sent her away? The look on his face scares me, and I’m twelve all over again and he’s shouting at me for losing my temper and I’m clenching my fists behind my back. It’s time to get out of here. I reach my hand out to take the photo but his claw-like fingers are gripping it with a strength that surprises me.

  ‘They’ve found her, you know, her picture is in the paper.’ His voice is louder and his breathing becomes erratic. ‘I told her not to say anything but she refused to shut up.’

  What is he talking about?

  Angela appears in the doorway.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ She leans over Michael, loosens his shirt. The photograph flutters to the floor and I snatch it up. Angela’s face and neck are pink and patchy. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I cover the photograph with my hand and slide it into my back pocket. Michael’s breath comes out in gasps, but he is quieter.

  ‘I think you’d better go,’ Angela says. ‘I’ll get you some tea, Michael,’ her voice is loud and she touches his shoulder. ‘Would you mind waiting outside a moment while I get him settled?’

  The soft carpet swallows my footsteps and within less than a minute I’m outside, walking as fast as I can away from the bungalow, my feet pounding in frustration. So it’s true he sent her away. Grace wasn’t lying. But he didn’t say whether he’d kept the letters, and I can’t go back now. His comments about Grace and I circle round in my head. He knew about us? She told him? My boots feel heavy as I stomp through the park, kicking at piles of muddy leaves. Why didn’t she warn me? Or did it happen after she’d moved? She used to share everything with me. Even after all these years, it hurts that we aren’t close.

  I think back to what just happened. When he got all confused, talking about a photo in the paper. What photo? And what did he mean about Charlotte?