Who Did You Tell?

by Lesley Kara

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Rosie says.

  It isn’t till I’m out on the street that I work out what it is about her I don’t like, apart from the nosiness and the silly little sayings and the incessant attempts to befriend me. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s something else too. Trapped behind that caring, sharing, successful sobriety act, I can still see the nasty, fucked-up drunk she once was.

  Takes one to know one, I guess.

  19

  Mum holds my new swimming costume out in front of her. ‘This will suit you a lot better than my old one.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t like to say anything, but …’

  ‘That’s not like you, darling. Not saying anything.’

  We both laugh. We haven’t teased each other in this jokey way for ages. It feels good. Although the fact that it feels good is now making me feel bad about all the times I’ve been mean to her in the past. Which then gets me thinking that, actually, that wasn’t always my fault because she can be so fucking annoying sometimes. So now the good feeling is all spoilt because it’s got mixed up with guilt and resentment. That’s the trouble with emotions; they zigzag all over the place and leave you exhausted. Leave you wanting a drink to make them soft at the edges.

  If I knew for sure that there was a bottle of vodka somewhere in this house, or wine, or beer. Sherry. Cider – anything, in fact – I’d drink it. I’d drink all of it, every last drop. And then I’d scrape together the last of the money in my pockets and anything else I could get my hands on, the contents of Mum’s loose-change bowl for instance, and I’d go down to the Co-op and buy whatever I could afford. And I’d sit on the beach and drink it all and then I’d come home and I’d see Mum’s face, all screwed up and angry, and I’d hear what came out of her mouth, but it wouldn’t be words, it’d be noise. A harsh, jarring noise. The sort of noise that sets your nerves on edge and makes you want to drink even more so you don’t have to hear it any longer and you don’t have to see the way her mouth moves and the way her pupils dilate, and you don’t have to feel her pain because it’s your pain too. It’s always your pain.

  ‘Astrid? Astrid?’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I said, what do you fancy for supper?’

  Josh’s text arrives in the nick of time. It saves me from the downward spiral of my thoughts.

  ‘I’ve just got back from my swim. Do you want to meet me at the chippie? I’m starving. xx’

  ‘Sounds great. What time?’

  ‘7 o’clock? I’m just going to have a quick shower.’

  ‘Ok. See you soon. xx’

  It isn’t till my hand’s on the front door half an hour later that I remember Mum’s taken a vegetable curry out of the freezer.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘In here, darling.’

  She’s watching the evening news in the living room. I keep my voice as light and friendly as I can. ‘You don’t mind if I have that curry tomorrow, do you? Only Josh has asked me out for fish and chips.’

  She looks at my new dress and something unreadable flickers across her face. This really is like being a teenager again. Only now it’s worse, far worse. Back then it felt like the power was all mine. I knew it all, had my whole life in front of me. Navigating Mum’s moods was just something I had to do for a couple more years and then I’d be free. Now I’m back where I started. I’ve had my taste of freedom, and look where it got me.

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she says. ‘Are you bringing it back here to eat?’

  ‘No, we’ll probably sit on a bench or something. It’s a nice warm evening.’

  ‘You haven’t told him, have you.’

  The way she says it, it’s more of a statement than a question.

  ‘I will do. When I’m ready.’

  She nods. Don’t say anything else, Mum. Please, just don’t say anything else.

  ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ she says. ‘You know what they said …’

  ‘At rehab, yes. I know what they said. I was there, remember?’

  Mum presses her lips together. One of those stupid Go Compare adverts with the twirly-moustached Italian opera singer has just come on. Normally, she switches channels the second it starts up. Now she just stares at it, stony-faced.

  There’s a queue outside the chippie, but I don’t join it, just in case I get to the counter before Josh arrives. I sit on the wall of someone’s front garden. That’s the price they pay for living next to the chippie, having to put up with strangers’ bums on their wall. Mum would hate it. She gets cross when mothers who’ve just dropped their children off at school gather on the pavement outside the house to chat. She says things like: ‘Why can’t they have their mothers’ meetings somewhere else?’

  As I’m waiting, something she said a few days ago comes back to me, about the young woman she saw staring at the house, the one who said she lived there as a child.

  I chew the inside of my lip. I don’t like the thought of her turning up at the house when Mum’s on her own. What if she’s lying about it being her childhood home?

  If it weren’t for all the weird things that have been happening lately, I probably wouldn’t be giving it a second thought. I mean, some people do things like that, don’t they? Revisit the place where they grew up. Wild horses couldn’t drag me back to Peckham Rye – too many memories. But what if she’s connected to all this? What if this woman, whoever she is, is the one who sent me that photo?

  Josh drops on to the wall next to me and grabs hold of my hand, brings it to his lips. I didn’t even see him approach. He gives me a hug. His hair smells of shampoo.

  ‘I saw you with your mum earlier,’ he says as we join the end of the queue.

  I stare at him. How is that possible? Then I realize. He must have seen me with Helen down on the beach.

  ‘I was going to come over and say hi, but you looked so engrossed in your conversation I thought I’d better not.’

  ‘That wasn’t my mum. It was a friend of hers.’

  Why did I say that? Why didn’t I just say it was a friend of mine? Why have I tied myself up in another lie? What’s wrong with me?

  ‘She was asking me how Mum was,’ I say. ‘Mum isn’t socializing much at the moment.’ Now I’m making things worse, spinning another tale. It’s completely unnecessary. He wasn’t going to ask what we were talking about. Why would he?

  ‘Depression’s like that,’ he says. ‘Not that I’ve suffered from it myself, but I know people who have.’

  I nod. I’m trying to think what he might have seen. Was it when we were on the beach or when we were sitting on the bench? Was I crying? I can’t remember. I was so immersed in my own problems I wasn’t aware of anyone but Helen and myself.

  The woman at the front of the queue is taking ages to make up her mind and the people behind her and in front of us are rolling their eyes at each other and muttering under their breath. Josh and I are still on the pavement outside because there isn’t room for us all in the shop.

  ‘Where were you, when you saw us?’

  He hesitates. Is it my imagination or does he look a bit cagey?

  ‘In the sea,’ he says. ‘Well, just walking out of it.’

  Of course. That’s why I didn’t see him. For once, I wasn’t focused on the sea; I was too busy regurgitating bits of my past to Helen.

  I’m on the verge of saying that I thought he’d said in his text that he’d only got back from swimming a little while ago, but I stop myself just in time. Maybe he went earlier too, although didn’t he say he was helping his dad sand some floors? Oh, for God’s sake, why am I even worrying about this? Josh is a free agent. He’s allowed to change his mind, isn’t he? I don’t want him to think I’m checking up on him. Maybe he already does. The dynamics in a new relationship are so hard to call sometimes, especially when there’s no alcohol to smooth things along.

  ‘The thing is,’ he says, taking hold of my hands and fixing me sternly with his eyes, ‘now I know your shameful s
ecret.’

  20

  Blood rushes to my ears. What does he mean, he knows my shameful secret? How does he know? What does he know? I try to swallow, but it takes ages. For a split second, I even wonder if maybe Josh has something to do with what’s been going on. All those times I just happened to see him down on the beach – and it was him who approached me first, wasn’t it?

  I can’t look at him for fear of what I might see in his eyes and yet … he’s still holding my hand.

  I’ll brazen it out. What else can I do?

  ‘Which one?’ I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes, to smile. It’s the standard, jokey response. He can’t possibly know how serious a question it is.

  ‘The smoking one,’ he says, pulling an expression of mock-disapproval.

  It’s as much as I can do not to laugh out loud. I look down at my feet to compose myself, but Josh obviously thinks I’m annoyed, or embarrassed, or both.

  He draws me into his arms and hugs me tight. ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,’ he says. ‘I was just surprised, that’s all.’

  ‘I want to give up,’ I say.

  ‘Good for you. I tried smoking once, but I was always into my swimming so I never really got into it.’ He fingers the hem of my new dress. ‘This is nice.’

  ‘You can borrow it if you like.’

  Josh’s shoulders start to shake and, before long, we’re both giggling like a couple of schoolkids. I haven’t laughed like this for ages. Not since Simon and I were on that park bench draining cans of beer, slipping beyond the point of no return. Things weren’t so funny after that.

  The chips are good. Crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside. Josh put even more salt on his than I did on mine. It’s nice to know he’s got some vices, that he’s not a complete health freak. We’re sitting on a bench in the little garden near the seafront. The sun is still warm and the sky is tinged with orange and red. Gulls circle overhead, waiting to swoop down on a dropped chip.

  ‘I bought the paints today,’ I say. ‘The man in the shop was really helpful.’

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Don’t know his name.’

  ‘Sixtyish. Bald. Glasses.’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Yep, that’s Charlie. He and Dad go sea-fishing sometimes. Charlie’s got a boat.’

  I take the last mouthful of my fish and lick my lips. I can’t get used to this small-town life, everyone knowing each other. It’s kind of nice, although part of me can’t help worrying. Mum knows a lot of people round here. I don’t know how many of them she’s told about me, apart from her Quaker friend Pam, and Quakers aren’t generally the sort to gossip. But then everyone does sometimes, don’t they? It’s human nature.

  Last year, a rumour went round that a child killer was living here under a new identity and some poor shopkeeper got falsely accused of being her. Mum said it spread like wildfire. So how long will it be before one of them mentions something about June Phelps’ alcoholic daughter? And then someone says something to someone who happens to know Charlie’s wife and before long Charlie’s wife tells Charlie and Charlie tells Josh’s dad.

  Josh shovels up the last of his chips with his fingers and scrunches his paper into a ball.

  ‘Fancy a quick drink in the Flinstead Arms?’ he says, holding his hand out for my rubbish.

  My stomach tenses. Such an innocent, casual question. I should have anticipated this, should have prepared an answer, but it was all so last-minute I didn’t even think.

  ‘I don’t really like leaving Mum on her own too long.’

  A look of disappointment flashes over his face. It sounds like a brush-off, I know it does. But what else can I say? It’ll be weird just eating our fish and chips and saying goodbye. I can’t invite him back to Mum’s. It’ll be unbearable, the three of us squeezed into that tiny living room. I’ll be on tenterhooks the whole time. There’s no way I’m inviting him up to my dingy cell of a bedroom with its squeaky single bed either, and he’s not likely to suggest I go back with him to Mistden, not now he’s just walked all the way here.

  This is crazy. Surely I can walk into a pub without falling apart. I can have a Coke or a lime and soda. I can’t spend my whole life avoiding places where people drink. I’ll never be able to go anywhere or do anything.

  ‘But I’m sure she’ll be fine for a little while longer. She’s probably watching one of her gardening programmes.’

  For fuck’s sake, what the hell are you doing?

  ‘Great,’ he says. ‘I could murder a pint.’

  *

  The Flinstead Arms is heaving.

  ‘What do you want to drink?’ Josh shouts over the noise.

  My eyes dart towards the bar and the line of optics illuminated by spotlights. Smirnoff, Gordon’s, Jack Daniels, Archers, Pernod, Bacardi, Courvoisier, Captain Morgan, Teacher’s, Grant’s, Martini, Baileys. All the premium spirits glinting seductively. My knees tremble. My mouth is dry.

  ‘A lime and soda, please.’ My voice sounds all muffled, as if I’ve got a bad head cold. I brace myself for his reaction. The jokey comment. The ‘Are you serious?’ look.

  ‘With ice?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Look, there’s a space near the window. Why don’t you grab it?’

  He wrestles his way to the bar and I head back towards the door and the small gap where there’s space to stand by the windowsill. My heart knocks so fast it’s painful. This is a huge mistake. Everything’s too loud and bright, as if someone’s put the volume on full blast and turned on all the lights. I’m drowning in noise and animated faces, in sloshing, sparkling, jewel-coloured drinks, in the clinking of glass and drunken laughter. That musty, hoppy beer smell fills my nostrils. My mouth waters. My stomach flutters, then twists. I’ll push through the bodies and catch up with him. Tell him I’ve changed my mind. I want a beer too. I’ll be okay with a small beer. Just half a pint. Just to turn down the volume and dim the lights.

  Fuck no! This is madness. I shouldn’t have come. I can’t stay. I have to get out. I have to breathe fresh air.

  Josh finds me on the street, not with the smokers outside the pub but peering into the window of the gift shop next door, my forehead pressed against the cold glass. People are looking at me as if I’m some kind of weirdo. I know they are. And so is Josh.

  ‘I thought you’d done a bunk,’ he says, handing me my drink. He peers at my face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Sorry, I just needed some air.’

  ‘There’s a garden out the back. If you can face battling your way through.’

  ‘It’s the crowds I can’t stand. I hate being hemmed in like that.’

  ‘Me too. It was a stupid idea coming here. It’s much nicer at the Old Schooner. Have you been there?’

  ‘No. I’m not really a pub person, to be honest.’

  To be honest? Oh, Astrid, that’s priceless.

  ‘You should have said. We could have gone to the wine bar. It’s much quieter in there. Do you want to go there instead?’

  ‘No, I’d better get back to Mum. Sorry, I shouldn’t have come out in the first place. I’m not very good company this evening.’

  Josh puts his beer on the pavement, close to the shop entrance.

  ‘That’s twice you’ve run away from me.’ He takes my glass out of my hands and places it down next to his. ‘Is it what I said about your smoking?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Only it must have sounded like I was spying on you.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with that. It’s me, it’s … it’s just a bit complicated, that’s all.’

  Josh looks away. He’s gone very still. ‘Is there a boyfriend back in London?’

  ‘What? No. No. Not any more.’

  ‘You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I understand.’

  He takes a step towards me and I wrap my arms round his neck, bury my head in his broad chest. His hands cradle my shoulders. He kisses the top
of my head. Minutes pass.

  ‘The other day,’ he says, his mouth so close to the side of my head I feel the warmth of his breath on my ear. ‘It was too soon. You were so sad about your dad. And you’ve got your mum’s depression to deal with.’

  Oh God. He’s such a lovely, sensitive man. So kind and tender. So heartbreakingly beautiful. He isn’t the kind of man to enter into a relationship lightly. He’s not like other men. If he thinks smoking cigarettes is my shameful secret, how the hell is he going to react when he finds out what I’m really like? The things I’ve done. The lies I’ve told. I have to stop this now, tell him he’s right, that things are moving too fast for me. That I just want us to be friends.

  So why are my arms still round his neck? Why am I kissing him, tasting the beer on his lips and tongue? Drinking him in.

  21

  The sun dips below the horizon above the sea, half of a giant orange ball. We sprawl on the grass at the top of the cliff and watch its slow descent. Now that there’s distance between us and the Flinstead Arms, my heart rate has returned to normal. I’ve been inside a pub and survived the experience. I’m stronger than I thought.

  Maybe I can conquer this thing after all. On my own terms. I’m not kidding myself that the worst is over. I mean, it’s always going to be an ordeal, but maybe it’ll get easier with time. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be able to drink normally, sip a glass of cold white wine outside a pub with Josh. All this stuff they say in AA, about people like me being allergic to alcohol, that we’ll never, ever, get better unless we turn our lives over to God – it can’t be the only way, can it?

  Maybe one day I’ll look back on this evening as a turning point. Sitting here with Josh, gazing at this epic sky, all streaked with crimson and gold. One thing is certain: I’m not going to let some poison-pen writer throw me off course.

  ‘Did you know that sunsets are an optical illusion?’ I say.