Текст книги "Lost Girls"

Автор книги: Celina Grace

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Chapter Ten

Forgiven or not, Matt was stiff with me the following morning. Our breakfast was normally punctuated by the singing of random song lyrics (Matt had a particular fondness for Bob Dylan in the mornings) but today, quietness reigned over the cornflakes. I kissed him goodbye at the front door and he kissed me back, but  with lips that did not yield.

Alone in the flat, I mooched around, picking up a magazine and dropping it again, collapsing on the sofa and then getting back onto my feet. I looked at the clock; eleven am, surely not too early for a gin and tonic? A pre-lunch aperitif? I gathered together a few bills and shuffled them about on the desk, swigging at my drink. God, I hated paperwork. I was bored again, bored and restless. Stupidly I thought that perhaps I should think about getting a job. Then I remembered the money that would soon be ours and told myself not to be so ridiculous.

The G&T went down so nicely I poured myself another. The telephone rang as I was flicking through the television channels, in the faint hope I might find something worth watching. Mr. Fenwick’s dry, correct voice greeted me as I picked up the handset.

“It’s the estate, my dear,” he said after the preliminary pleasantries. “I’m so sorry to bother you but we really do have to have a think about what we’re going to do with it.”

“Yes,” I said. “I didn’t think – I mean, I know I have to decide what to do about the house and so forth.”

“Indeed. You’ll have to decide whether you want to keep it, perhaps rent it out, or sell it. Mrs. Green will want to know if her services are required, plus there’s the casual staff and so forth.”

“Yes,” I said again, hesitating. I didn’t want to think about it, any of it. “Perhaps – perhaps I might take a trip up there and see if I can help – I mean, I can decide what to do.”

“I think that’s a fine idea, Maudie. Oh, I am sorry to have to pressure you but really, I think it should be your decision, yours and Matthew’s, of course. If I thought Matthew would be happy to take charge – do you think he would?”

I answered without pause. “Oh no, Mr. Fenwick, he’s far too busy at the moment. I’ll be fine, I can do it.”

“Well, that’s marvellous then, Maudie, as long as you think it won’t be too much for you. Perhaps you could give me a call when you get back to London?”

After I put the receiver down, I sat for a moment, staring out of the window at a grey-skied winter day. I had no idea what to do about the house, or the staff. I wanted to ask Matt his advice, but I thought it might be better to present myself as capable and able to take care of myself; to reassure him after my behaviour at the restaurant and at the party. I decided to present him with a fait accompli.

“I’m heading up to Caernaven tomorrow,” I said to him over dinner.

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, really? Why’s that?”

I told him of Mr. Fenwick’s telephone call.

“And he thinks we should sell it? Well, I suppose we should at least think about it. We’ve got to do something about it, sooner or later.”

I pushed at the food on my plate before answering. “I don’t...”

“What is it?”

I put down my fork and reached for my wine.

“I don’t know if I want to sell it.”

Matt looked at me steadily. “Why not, Maudie? It’s not like we spend a lot of time there. You’re not saying you want to live there, are you? Darling, it’s so far away! We’d spend half our time driving back and forth.”

“I don’t know what I want to do. I’m just – I’m just going up to have a look, that’s all. To have a think.”

Matt had paused in cutting his steak. Now he picked up his knife again. “I’m not sure you should drive all the way up,” he said, after a pause. “It’s a very long drive for you to do alone.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

“Well, I’ll worry about you.”

“Oh really,” I said, uncomfortably. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Matt,” I said, without a thought of what I was going to say next.

“What happens if you have another – another episode like the one the other night?” he said, not looking at me.

I was struck dumb for a moment. I thought, with a quake of shame, that I didn’t know which episode he was referring to. “What do you mean?”

“You know – at the restaurant.”

“I’ve explained that,” I said, hating the querulous sound of my voice. “And I’ve said I’m sorry.”

Matt sighed. He put his knife down again. “Alright,” he said. “I don’t want to argue. Just – just be aware that I worry about you, that’s all.” He got up and took his half-eaten steak over to the counter. “We all worry about you,” he said, so quietly I barely heard him.

I didn’t eat much after that. I put the plates in the dishwasher and watched television desultorily for an hour. I opened another bottle of wine. I was thinking hard. Perhaps I should sell Caernaven; it was no doubt worth a huge sum of money and I knew it cost almost as much to run. But it wasn’t as if we were going to be strapped for cash anytime soon. Perhaps it would be the best thing; let some other family fill it up and make their own memories there, happy ones this time.

I left early the next morning, so early I was out the door before Matt was fully dressed. I kissed him goodbye and he told me to drive safely.

I hesitated before I left, wanting to say something else, but I couldn’t think what. As I drove out of London and joined the motorway heading north, I began to feel angry. Why was Matt acting so continuously hard-done-by? I seemed to annoy him constantly at the moment. Alright, so I’d forgotten a few things and drunk a bit much a couple of times, but so what? My fucking father’s just died, I said to him, arguing with the version of Matt that I carried around in my head. That was my excuse and I was sticking to it, but I felt a momentary qualm. I’d tried for so long to seem normal. It hurt to think that he might soon look at me and think I was about to slip. Perhaps he was already thinking that, after my behaviour at the Ivy. But I’m not, I told myself fiercely. I’m perfectly fine.

It was raining when I finally pulled into the driveway of Caernaven and made my way slowly down it, the gravel under the tyres making a sound like rushing waves. There was no Angus to greet me at the door, no exchange of awkward kisses. I paused for a moment after shutting the door, breathing deeply. Mrs. Green had long since gone home to her cottage that lay about half a mile down the estate lane. She’d left a note for me, telling me she’d see me in the morning, and a casserole kept warm by the Aga. I ate it at the kitchen table, unwilling to bear the dining room with its frigid temperature and the empty chair at the head of the table. Then I went down to the cellar.

The kitchen was always warm from the Aga but walking down the cellar steps was like plunging into a cold pool. The air down there smelled dank and the dusty bottles in their serried rows glinted dully in the wan light that fell from the doorway at the top of the stairs.

The only light switch was at the bottom of the stairs, so there was always the terrifying descent into darkness when walking down the steps, and the equally frightening, panicky, run back up, with the dying of the light behind you and the darkness that came snapping at your heels. I took an armful of bottles, not checking the labels, and bolted the cellar door behind me when I got to the kitchen.

I poured myself the first glass and wandered through to the hallway. I had taken off my shoes at the door and my socked feet moved almost soundlessly over the chessboard tiles on the floor. This is all mine, I thought. I felt oppressed by the knowledge. Despite the high ceilings and the wide hallways, the house felt as if it were shrinking, pressing itself closer and closer about me. I walked up the stairs, trailing my free hand up the polished banister. At the first landing, the stairs split in two and I followed the left-hand stairway, walking up to the first floor where the majority of the bedrooms were. I paused outside Angus’s room, my hand on the door handle. Then I pushed the door open and went inside, walking over the spot where he’d fallen and died. I only realised this once I’d done it and a shudder went through me.

I stood in the centre of his bedroom. It was tidy, the bed stripped bare, the fireplace empty save for a few flecks on soot on the grate. For all that, it smelt musty, unaired. I realised I had one hand up to my mouth and I kept swallowing. There was an old photograph of my mother on his dressing table, but no image of me. I felt a jab of anger. Why didn’t he have a photograph of me? Was I that much of an embarrassment that he couldn’t bear to be reminded? The anger cooled as quickly as it had appeared and I felt my eyes burn yet again. Abruptly, I turned and left, banging the door behind me.

I had some thought of going into the rest of the bedrooms on this floor but I had finished my wine. I went back to the kitchen to top up my glass, slopping it over the side.

I decided to go to bed early, to turn my back on the day and make a real start tomorrow. There were papers to go through and documents to find. All of a sudden, I felt weary. It was this twitchy, fraught state that frightened me in London; it was then I had strange thoughts and fancies. I thought for an instant of the blonde woman, but somehow knew I would never see her here. She belonged to London and all its tensions.

I had a missed call from Matt on my mobile, asking if I’d got there safely and to please call him as soon as I could. I rang him and waited, a little nervously, for the phone to be answered, but my call went through to the answer machine and his mobile was switched off. He hadn’t mentioned he was going out. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. I left him a loving and light-hearted message, trying to sound as carefree as I possibly could, hoping that would reassure him. Then I trailed up to bed and sat down, stretching my legs and wincing at the ache in my back. I put the half empty wine bottle and another full one on the bedside table. I’d hang out here for the evening, with some books and my drinks. I felt jumpy and nervous. The house felt too big; I could feel the space of it behind my bedroom door, its creaks and echoes and empty rooms. I returned to my bed and the wine bottle and began drinking determinedly, seeking a measure of bravado, or alternatively, sledgehammering myself into oblivion for the night.

Chapter Eleven

True to her word, Mrs. Green was in the kitchen cooking breakfast for me when I stumbled downstairs at half past eight, my head throbbing. Her greying hair had recently been crisply permed and her broad, capable hands were following their familiar routine; breaking eggs into their poaching pans, measuring coffee grains into the percolator, wiping crumbs from the surface of the breadboard.

“How have you been, Maudie?”

“Well,” I said, tentatively. The smell of coffee caught in my throat. Nausea hit me and I turned away, breathing deeply.

“Oh, I’m sorry dear. Of course you haven’t been here since the funeral, have you? It must be hard.” She sighed. “It’s not been the same since he’s gone, you know. Well, of course you know. It’s not the same at all.”

The nausea receded. I managed to mutter something in response.

“Breakfast won’t be long,” she said. “Are you alright? You look a bit peaky.”

“I’m okay,” I said. “Just a bit under the weather.” I kept my distance, in case she caught the reek of wine fumes from me. “I’m sure a bit of breakfast will do me good.”

After I’d forced a plate of food down my reluctant throat and sat for a moment, struggling not to vomit, I levered myself back up and went outside for a bit of air. My head was killing me.

The sun was struggling feebly through a bank of grey cloud. I could barely see the mountains; cloaked in mist as they were. I took a few deep breaths, trying to quell the nausea. This house was bad for me, in all ways. Perhaps I should sell it.

After a while, I went back inside and straight up to the study. Angus had been an organised man, a skill I didn’t think I’d inherited. I waded through neat reams of paper and countless files, all correctly labelled. What exactly was I looking for? Why was I even here? I was just fumbling around, as usual, getting in the way, not knowing my purpose. Halfway through the morning I called Matt’s mobile, just to say hello, but it was turned off. He probably had a class. No matter, I’d try him later.

There was really nothing for me to do in the study. I drifted back to my room and began to poke around in the cupboards. Within minutes, I’d found a whole heap of absorbing stuff; stuff I’d forgotten about for years – school certificates and books and faded photographs. There were several from boarding school, including a group photograph of all the girls in my final year. I’d framed it, for some reason; God knows why I’d thought it worthy of that. I picked it up, wiping the dust from the surface of the glass. There was my fifteen year old self, third row, fifth from the left; my hair in an unfortunate fringe and the knot of my school tie slightly askew. I wasn’t smiling.

I dropped the photograph and wiped my hand on my jeans. I sifted through a few old textbooks and dog-eared notebooks. There was a battered old teddy bear wedged underneath another heap of exercise books. I picked them up to see if I could free him and then recognised the writing on the front page of the top book. My God, my old diaries. I picked up the topmost one and weighed it in my hands. I felt a sudden reluctance to open it. If only I could be sure of the year, without opening it, to see if it was safe for me to read... I took a deep breath and turned over the front cover.

I’d been holding my breath and, when I read the first entry, I sighed out with relief. This was from nineteen eighty; I had written about starting the new school year and how I didn’t much like my new teacher, the unfortunately named Mrs. Spot. How Jessica and I had giggled over that name. Seeing Jessica’s name on the page in my eight year old handwriting gave me a jolt. I read on a bit further, slowly turning the faded pages. Some entries were written in pencil and almost illegible.

After a while, I sat down with my back to the radiator, the warmth of it pushing against the whole length of my spine. Gradually, as I read on, the central heating went off and the metal cooled against me until I looked up from the diary and levered myself from the floor, cramped and stiff. I creaked across the carpet, leaving the diaries in a heap on the floor.

My hangover was finally abating and a cup of coffee should see it off for good. Down in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, I tried Matt’s mobile again and this time he answered.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Maudie, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick. Why didn’t you call me when you got there?”

“But I did,” I said, blankly. “I called you when I got here, didn’t you get my voicemail?”

“No I did not. I saw you’d called me this morning but there wasn’t a voicemail. It was that that stopped me calling the police.”

I quailed – he was talking in the clipped, precise way that meant he was completely furious.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what sort of tone to use. I had left him a message. “I did leave you a voicemail when I got here yesterday, I’m sure I did.”

“Well, I didn’t get one. I got some garbled nonsense that cut off halfway through but that could have been anyone; it didn’t even sound like you. Were you drinking last night?”

“No,” I said, my automatic response. I tried to think of something plausible. “I was really tired. Maybe I sounded a bit weird.”

“It wasn’t just that, it just didn’t even sound like a human voice, it was just a load of static. Why the hell didn’t you call me again?”

“I’m sorry.” I felt like crying. “Maybe it was the reception here. It’s never been that good.”

“God,” he said. “You’ll be the fucking death of me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said for the third time. I hit myself on the leg a couple of times and clenched my face in pain. I kept my voice at a normal level.

I heard Matt take a deep breath in and sigh it out. “Alright. Alright. Just as long as you’re okay. Have you made any decision about the house?”

“Er – not yet. I’m still looking through things here. We can talk about it when I get back.”

“I don’t particularly want to sell it,” he said. “It would just be one less thing to worry about.”

“I know,” I said. I thought of him in the flat, sitting in his study, the ashtray on the desk piled high with cigarette stubs as he waited for me to call him. I was a shitty wife. I would do better in the future. I made him a silent promise in my head.

“Look, I’ve got to go, my break is almost up. Please, please call me before you set off tomorrow so I know what time I can expect you.”

“I will, I promise,” I said. “I love you.”

He sighed again. “I love you too. Bye.”

I took the phone from my ear and looked at it.

“Bye,” I said, to empty air.

Mrs. Green had lit the fire in the bigger drawing room and I curled myself on the sofa in there after lunch, my pile of diaries beside me. Although the sight of Jessica’s name still gave me a jab of pain whenever I came across it, I was becoming more and more absorbed in my half-remembered childhood. In some ways, it felt as if no time at all had passed since I’d actually been the age I was describing in the diaries.

I read through my eighth year and my ninth. Then I reached the last book, the last diary I ever wrote. I read the sentence that began Angus says we’re off first thing tomorrow. I can’t wait. I’ve never been to Cornwall before and this year will be brilliant... before I closed the cover and put the book down. I didn’t want to read any more. I would take the diaries home with me, even if I never read them again. At least they would be there, safe with me, ready and waiting in case I was ever able to read the last book. I looked out of the drawing room window at the darkening garden and thought, unwillingly, about the past.

Chapter Twelve

“I don’t know why I let you drag me into this,” I said to Becca.

“What?”

I repeated myself in a shout. Becca winced.

“Come on,” she said. “I knew it would do you good. Stops you sitting at home and festering. Besides, I haven’t seen you for ages.”

I felt a little pang of guilt. “Yes, I’m sorry. Things have been a bit hectic, what with having to go to the Lakes and Matt working so hard and so forth...”

“What?”

“I said–”

“Oh God, this is ridiculous, I can’t hear a word. Let’s go outside for a bit.”

We squeezed ourselves through the crowd in the corridor and headed for the street outside. Becca’s firm had hired L’Amour for their Christmas party and she’d invited me along. Music was throbbing from the largest room, bouncing off the glittering white walls, shaking the enormous chandelier that hung from the ceiling in a frozen waterfall of crystal shards. We eased ourselves through the scrum of people hanging around the back door of the club, into the dingy back alley and stood teetering on our heels.

“Christ, that’s better,” said Becca. “Some fresh air at last.” She lit a cigarette immediately.

I felt better, despite the cold. The heat and the crowd and the noise inside had made me jittery; it seemed a long time since I’d been around so many people.

“How was your trip up north?”

I grimaced. “Weird. Sad. A bit stressful.”

“Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?” Becca patted my shoulder. “Bound to be a bit strange going back to the house without your dad in it for the first time. Have you decided what you’re going to do with it yet?”

I shook my head.

“How’s Matt?” she asked.

I blinked and smiled. “Oh, okay.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“No, it’s not that–” I shrugged, suddenly flustered. “Well, he’s still not sure whether he’s got this thing at work. Whether he’s passed his probation. I think it’s weighing on his mind a bit.”

“Yes?”

“I think so. He’s not said anything, but I think it’s bothering him.”

“Oh well,” said Becca. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” I said. I thought back to last night, how I’d woken up in the middle of the night to find the bed empty. I’d gone to the study, knowing what I’d see; Matt, hunched over his laptop, smoking and frowning. He’d looked up when I’d appeared in the doorway and for a moment, his face had been the face of a young boy, vulnerable and innocent. This time it had been him who’d come to me for comfort; in bed, he’d clutched at me as if he were falling and I was the only thing holding him up. Even afterwards, in his sleep, he’d kicked and groaned and thrashed around, as if he were fighting his own version of the monster in the Men-an-Tol. At breakfast this morning, I’d hoped to hear him sing, and he did once, just one line, something about seeing a shadow and chasing it...

“You’re right,” I said to Becca, as firmly as I could manage. “He’ll be fine.”

We danced, swaying and sweating beneath the kaleidoscope lights.

"God, I'm hot," said Becca. "I'm going to get another drink. Want one?"

I knew I shouldn't. I already felt light-headed, a little blurred around the edges. But I needed something to soften me up, help me feel a bit more removed from the ragbag of emotions that made up my life. "Go on then."

Becca left me and I moved back to lean against the wall, feeling suddenly exposed. The drumbeat of the song currently playing thudded through my body like a giant pulse. I felt breathless. All around me people were shrieking and laughing and dancing. I looked up, searching for Becca's familiar face at the bar.

Then I saw her. Not Becca. Her. It was almost funny, the way the crowds parted for just that instant, long enough to allow our eyes to meet, just like a clichéd love song. The blonde woman stood there, her hands in the pockets of her long black coat. She was looking at me directly and, for a long moment, we both stared at each other. Her face was almost expressionless, the faintest touch of sadness in her eyes. She wasn't smiling or glaring. She just stood, and looked.

I shut my eyes. When I opened them again after a moment, she was still there, still looking at me. I felt a jab of fear hit me in the pit of the stomach. She continued to look steadily at me. I blinked again and she was still there, still looking me full in the face.

The pounding of the music, the noise of the crowd, it all faded away. For a frozen moment, her face was my entire world. Suddenly I wasn't afraid, anymore. As I watched, the woman raised her hand, a long, thin white hand, and began to beckon. Dazedly, I felt my legs begin to move of their own volition. She was a siren, drawing me in, trapping me with an unseen noose trailing from her long, sharp-nailed finger. I moved across the heaving dance floor, stumbling against people, pushing my way past them. Her gaze was a tractor beam, I had no power to resist.

I didn’t take my eyes off her. The music pounded at my ears. We couldn’t speak. She beckoned again and turned, moving through the crowd like smoke, one hip forward, another, the edge of her black coat flowing like water. I followed her, my mouth dry, mesmerised. I was lost.

We were out in the corridor, I think, I couldn’t see properly. She turned to face me and I looked at her, her face, her eyes, the fall of her bright blonde hair. I was dumb. I could scarcely breathe. It was like being opposite a lover.

“Who are you?” I said. I could feel my heart, punching away at my ribs like a small muscular fist. “Who are you?”

She was silent for a long while. The music pushed and throbbed in the background. Her eyes were so blue. I could feel recognition dawning, deep within me, something I’d known since I’d first seen her, something I’d not allowed myself to confront, something I’d pushed down and pushed down, unable to believe it. The impossible made real.

“Why, Maudie, don’t you know me?” she said.

I could feel my legs begin to shake beneath me.

“Don’t you know me?” she asked, again.

“No,” I said. I croaked it. It was a lie and I knew it. I knew her. I knew who she was.

“It’s me,” she said. “It’s me. I’m Jessica, Maudie. It’s me. Jessica.”