‘That was close!’ the driver says cheerfully.
‘Sorry,’ I say breathlessly, fumbling in my bag for my card. ‘Where is this bus going? I just want to make sure I’m on the right one.’
‘Brixton.’
Brixton? Oh God. I make my way to the back of the bus, stepping over outstretched legs and bags of shopping. Carl would be horrified if he knew I was on my way to Brixton—it’s one of the roughest areas in London. I cram myself reluctantly next to a man three times my size. I don’t want to miss Imogen getting off and it’s the only seat that has a good view of the stairs. I can’t believe I’m actually following her. For a start, it must be illegal, and secondly, what am I going to do if she sees me? None of the other mums would have such qualms, I realize. I realize something else too—that the only reason I’m sort of okay with what I’m doing is that, when I tell them, they might be impressed with me for once. If only I didn’t crave their admiration, my life would be a whole lot easier. But whatever I’m doing, even if it’s something as simple as baking a cake, I’m continually referencing the other mums. What would they think of this cake I’m about to bake? What would they think of this dress I’m about to buy? What would they think of this book I’m about to read? To use one of Bel’s expressions, it’s toxic.
I’m so wrapped up in the scene unfurling in my mind, the one where Carolyn tells me I’m amazing to have done what I did, that it’s a while before I realize that I have no idea where I am. The bus pulls into a stop and I’m tempted to get off while I still have a chance of finding my way back to the Academy. A pair of denim-clad legs appears on the stairs and I start to get to my feet, breathing a sigh of relief. But to my dismay, they don’t belong to Imogen. The legs and other passengers get off and the bus continues on its way. I peer through the window. What is this area, with its boarded-up shops and groups of young men huddled on street corners? I wouldn’t dare get off the bus now unless there was a taxi ready and waiting to take me straight back to the Academy. But there don’t seem to be any taxis at all around here.
The bus slows to a stop. I turn from the window just in time to see Imogen stepping off. I leap to my feet.
‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ I say breathlessly, pushing my way down the aisle. Imogen was the only passenger to get out, so the doors have already closed again. I feel a surge of panic. ‘The doors, please! I need to get off!’
Fearing that I’m about to vomit on them, the passengers grouped near the exit move back and begin shouting at the driver.
‘Open the doors!’
‘There’s a woman here that needs to get off!’
‘Open the fucking doors, mate!’
The doors thankfully reopen and before I know it, I’m standing on the pavement, not quite sure how I got there but relieved not to be going all the way to Brixton. And then I look around, and if a bus had been coming the other way, I’d have run straight across the road and jumped on it, because I’ve never felt so out of place in my life. Apart from Imogen walking twenty yards or so ahead of me, oblivious to the cold in her tiny crop top, there are only men around. And the way they’re looking at me as I hurry after her makes my skin crawl. Don’t be silly, Bronnie, I tell myself sharply, they’re only men, not murderers.
‘Not so fast.’ A man steps out of a doorway and stands in front of me, tall, threatening, and reeking of alcohol. Instinctively, I clasp my bag to my chest. ‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’
‘My daughter.’ My voice comes out in a squeak. ‘That’s her up ahead. I need to catch her up.’
He leers into my face. ‘Don’t you want to spend a bit of time with me first?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Did you hear that, Kyle?’ He turns to someone standing in the doorway. ‘Not very polite, was it?’
‘Excuse me.’ I try to step round him but he moves with me, blocking my path. My heart starts beating faster. I don’t want to antagonize him, but Imogen is getting farther away. What should I do? Carolyn. Think Carolyn.
I draw myself up to my full height. ‘Get out of my frigging way!’
His eyes narrow. ‘What did you just say?’
‘I said—get out of my frigging way!’
He reaches into his back pocket and steps right up to my face. The smell of him turns my stomach.
‘Don’t waste your time, Daz,’ his sidekick drawls from the doorway. ‘She’s old, and ugly as sin.’
Incensed, I turn on him. ‘And you can fuck right off!’
I’m almost as shocked as they are. I have no idea where that came from. It’s as if I’ve been possessed by Carolyn. Luckily, ‘Daz’ finds it hilarious and when he doubles over, laughing like a hyena, I push my way past him, anger making me stride rather than run. And maybe it’s because of the way I’m walking, in a don’t-mess-with-me kind of way, that nobody comes near me as I hurry after Imogen.
I manage to close the gap between us just before she takes a sharp left into a narrow side street. I follow her cautiously; both sides of the road are lined with run-down terraced houses and Imogen is crossing over to one of the nearest ones. I dart back around the corner, my heart thumping in my chest. I haven’t come this far and been scared out of my wits to have Imogen see me now. I feel terrible for doubting her. From the glimpse I had of the street, it’s entirely possible that her grandparents live somewhere like this. They could have moved here when they were first married and lived here ever since. The little terraced house would have been their pride and joy until age and ill health made it difficult for them to cope. I peer carefully into the road, already wondering how I can help, from baking a cake for Imogen to take to them to offering Carl’s services in repairing the front of the house, and see Imogen waiting patiently on the doorstep.
A man opens the door. Not her grandfather; he looks too young. It must be her father—no, it can’t be, not dressed like that in scruffy jeans and a dirty sleeveless T-shirt, not with tattoos running the length of his arms. My senses are immediately on alert; something feels wrong. All I can think is that Imogen has come to the wrong place, or has been lured here and is about to walk into a trap of some kind. I take a step forward but before I can do anything, she leans in and kisses the man full on the lips. I blink rapidly, wondering if I’m seeing things. I take another look and see the man cupping her backside with both hands, pulling her further toward him until she disappears into the house. An eerie silence descends on the road, broken only by the resounding slam of the front door.
A man pushes past me, bumping my shoulder. I whip round, thinking I’m about to be mugged, but he doesn’t appear to notice I’m there. I catch a glimpse of glassy eyes and ribs protruding beneath the thin T-shirt he’s wearing, despite the cold. His bare arm is scored with needle marks. My stomach churns. I’m so far out of my comfort zone that all I want is to get back to the Academy. As I move back out onto the main street, I take a last look behind me and see the man disappearing into the house where Imogen is. I feel sick and afraid at the same time—there’s no way I can leave now, I’m too worried for Imogen. I need to get her out of there.
Without giving it too much thought, I cross the street, march up to the front door, and knock loudly. It’s opened almost straightaway by the man who pulled Imogen into the house. He looks even worse close up, with his pockmarked skin and sunken eyes.
‘What do you want?’ he says rudely.
‘Imogen,’ I say, shivering from cold, or maybe something else.
‘Imogen?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Never heard of it.’ He starts to close the door. ‘You won’t find it here.’
I put my hand out, stopping the door from closing. ‘I’m not leaving without Imogen,’ I say with more assurance than I feel.
‘I just told you, I don’t sell it. Try some other doss house.’
‘I know she’s here.’
‘Who?’
‘Imogen.’
‘You’re fucking nuts, lady. If you don’t want what I’m
selling, piss off.’
The door slams in my face and, furious, I raise my arm to knock again, ready to tell him that he’s the one who’s nuts because Imogen isn’t an it, she’s a she. And then a light bulb comes on in my brain. Realizing what our conversation was really about—as far as he was concerned—I turn around and run down the path, along the street and back out onto the main road, my heart pounding so hard I can hardly breathe. There’s no way I’m getting a bus back—I look around and see a taxi on the other side of the road. I run over, almost getting hit by a cyclist in the process, and yank open the back door. A giant of a man crouches there and a small scream escapes me before I understand that he’s only trying to get out. I move aside to let him by, then hurl myself onto the back seat before the driver can move off.
‘Are you free?’ I ask, my voice all over the place.
‘Looks like it,’ the driver says grimly. ‘Where to?’
I’m about to ask him to take me back to the school when I realize that I may as well go straight to Elise’s. I find her address on my phone and check the time. It’s only ten fifty, so I’ll be there too early. It doesn’t matter; I can always find a café.
It’s a while before my heart rate is back to normal, but worry gnaws away at me. Maybe I should have tried harder to see Imogen. But once I guessed that the man was a drug dealer, all I wanted was to get away. How can he possibly be her boyfriend? He must be at least thirty. What if he has her hooked on drugs? What if he’s using Imogen as his way into the Academy? What had Bel said only last night? Drugs are easy to come by at the Academy. Is it possible that it was Imogen who introduced Sadie to drugs? Remembering how I saw them huddled together a couple weeks back, I know I need to speak to Elise fast. And Adam, because he should be told about Imogen.
The traffic is so bad that I’m only twenty minutes early at Elise’s, so I walk around the neighborhood, practicing what I’m going to say and how I’m going to say it. The houses are amazing—huge, double-fronted, four-story, white-painted palaces—and I wonder how Elise feels about having one of the smallest houses on the street. It’s still impressive, though. I see her click-clacking down the road in her heels and go to meet her.
‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long,’ she says, a frown on her face. ‘I told you I wouldn’t be here until twelve.’
‘Just a few minutes,’ I say, wondering why she always has to sound so impatient.
I follow her in. I never feel comfortable in Elise’s house. It’s like being in a show house, and I’m so scared of breaking something, or leaving a fingerprint on a glossy surface, that I turn into a nervous wreck. I especially dislike her kitchen, where we’re heading now. She waves me over to one of the ridiculously high bar stools.
‘Tea?’ she offers as I clamber up.
‘Please.’
‘Turmeric or fennel?’
‘Actually, could I have a coffee?’
As she walks around the kitchen, preparing my coffee, her reflection is mirrored over and over again in the chrome surfaces.
‘I don’t suppose we could go through to the sitting room, could we?’ I ask. Her eyes widen in surprise, as if I’m a tradesman asking to use the main entrance, and something snaps inside me. ‘These bar stools may be the latest design but they’re bloody uncomfortable! And you might like seeing yourself reflected a hundred times over but I don’t!’
A frown creases her brow. ‘Are the stools really uncomfortable?’
‘Yes! It’s like being perched on a bloody pole. And before you ask, your kitchen is so clinical it’s like being in a hospital!’
‘Oh.’ She takes a bottle of water from the fridge, pours herself a glass, then fetches my coffee from the machine. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel, come on through.’
I slide off the bar stool and follow her through to her enormous sitting room. There are four large sofas to choose from, and I imagine their family evenings—Elise, Nick, and Sadie sitting miles apart, each on their own chair—if they have family evenings.
‘So what’s this about?’ Elise says, sitting down on one of the sofas.
‘Sadie,’ I say, wondering if I should sit next to her, or in the nearest armchair. But it’s so far away I’d have to shout to make myself heard.
‘Sadie?’
‘Yes,’ I say, sitting down next to her.
She gives an exaggerated sigh. ‘This isn’t about her having a bit of alcohol from time to time, is it?’ she says, sounding bored.
During all the pacing I’d been doing while I waited for her, I’d been trying to work out how to break it to her gently. But her attitude rips my kid gloves off.
‘No, it’s about her taking drugs!’ I say furiously.
She looks at me in bewilderment. ‘Drugs?’
‘Yes. Surely you must have noticed how dreadful she’s been looking?’
Elise shakes her head. ‘I—’
‘You can’t have missed those huge circles under her eyes,’ I persist, digging the knife of bad parenting in a little deeper. ‘Bel said she’s barely eating and sleeping.’
‘Sadie can’t be taking drugs,’ she says, smoothing her skirt down several times, a sign that she’s lost some of her composure. ‘She’s too—sensible.’ She falters on the word.
‘I’m sorry, Elise, but all the signs are there. The good thing is that she’s aware that she has a problem and seems to want to do something about it.’
‘Why, have you spoken to her?’
‘No, but Bel found this in her bag.’ I pull out the leaflet and hold it out to her. She accepts it slowly and looks at it for a minute, taking in the photo and the title: The first step is admitting you have a problem. The blood drains from her face. She reaches for her glass and takes a long drink, buying herself some time.
‘She—she wanted to speak to me about something last night, she said she had something to show me. But then she couldn’t find it and I told her it didn’t matter, that I was busy anyway and she started crying. I asked her what the matter was but she just shook her head and went upstairs.’
‘Did you go after her, ask her what was troubling her?’ The blood rushes back to her face, turning her skin crimson. She gives her head a small shake and I sit there in silent disapproval.
‘It’s not Sadie,’ Elise croaks. ‘It isn’t Sadie.’
‘No, I know Sadie isn’t supplying drugs,’ I soothe. ‘Although I think I know who is,’ I add grimly.
‘No.’ Elise shakes her head so violently that one of her earrings nearly hits her eye. ‘It isn’t Sadie who has a problem—it’s me!’ She looks up at me, agony in her mascaraed eyes. ‘I didn’t think she’d noticed, but she’s not stupid. She got that leaflet for me, Bronnie.’
I stare at her. ‘Oh, Elise,’ I say, my heart sinking.
She searches for a tissue and when she can’t find one, I fish one from my bag.
‘It’s clean,’ I say. ‘A bit crumpled, but clean.’
‘Thank you.’ She wipes her eyes, blows her nose, almost in control again. ‘I know you must be judging me, Bronnie, but I couldn’t do the job I do, work as hard as I work, if I didn’t have some kind of vice. It’s just not sustainable.’
‘Then is it really worth it? You’re addicted to alcohol, Elise!’
She flinches. ‘Not addicted,’ she says fiercely.
‘Well, I wouldn’t know much about it,’ I say tartly. ‘But neat vodka at midday sounds like an addiction to me, especially as I’m guessing it isn’t your first. You’ve got to get help, Elise. I know you love your job, but you love your daughter more.’
I’m sure I only imagined a slight hesitation. ‘You’re right, of course I do. Poor Sadie, she must be so worried.’
‘Will you speak to her tonight?’
She nods. ‘I’ll come and pick her up from school.’
‘Will you be able to get away in time?’
‘I won’t go back to work this afternoon.’ She gives a small laugh. ‘I think I need to sort out my own problems before
I tackle anyone else’s.’
‘That’s a very good start. I know this might sound a bit strange, but I’m glad it’s you who has a problem and not Sadie. Bel will be too.’ I pause. ‘Do you mind if I tell her? It’s just that Sadie might need someone to talk to, and she and Bel are really close.’
‘No, of course you can tell her as long as she keeps it to herself. Please thank her for looking out for Sadie.’ She reaches over and gives me a hug, slightly awkward, but a proper hug. ‘You’ve helped me.’
‘That must be a first,’ I say.
‘Don’t keep putting yourself down, Bronnie. We all envy you, you know.’ I look at her in surprise. ‘It’s true. You’ve got the most important thing in the world right: motherhood. I’ve always been shit at it.’
‘But you’re going to be less shit at it from now on,’ I say, making her laugh. ‘I better go, Elise. I’ve been away from school all morning.’ I suddenly remember that I haven’t told her about Imogen—but maybe it’s not the right moment.
I’m so lost in thought as I return to the Academy that I miss my Tube stop and have to walk back. I’m almost there when I see Kendall ahead of me in the street.
‘Kendall!’ I call.
She turns. ‘Oh hi, Bronnie,’ she says unenthusiastically.
I’m glad to see she can’t meet my eye. ‘Shall we have a coffee?’
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘No.’
We head to the nearest café, which—luckily—has a spare table near the window. We have to squash past pushchairs and step over dogs to get to it.
‘So, how are you?’ I ask once we’ve ordered our coffees.
‘All right, I suppose.’
‘Why didn’t you just tell us the truth?’ I ask, plunging right in.
The Understudy Page 17
