Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

  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?’

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  ‘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 under-

  stand.’

  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.’

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  Oh God. He’s such a lovely, sensitive man. So kind and ten-

  der. 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.

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  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.

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  Josh traces a pattern on the back of my neck with his finger-

  tips. ‘And there was me thinking how romantic this was.’

  ‘I didn’t say the sunset wasn’t romantic. Just that it’s not real.’

  ‘I remember learning about that at school,’ Josh says. ‘Some-

  thing about the light from the sun curving upwards so that by

  the time we see it on the horizon it’s already disappeared.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  Josh grins. ‘I’m hoping your “trumpey loll” will be equally

  realistic. I’m looking forward to watching Dad’s mates walk

  straight into the wall and bang their heads.’

  I give his shoulder a playful shove. He’s so easy to be with, so

  laid back. I want him so badly there’s a delicious ache in my

  groin. He pulls me towards him so that I’m sitting on his lap,

  my legs wrapped round his back. We kiss for so long I lose track

  of the time. The light fades. The air grows cool.

  ‘Guess what I’ve got in my pocket?’ he says when we finally

  stop kissing.

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Think I’ve already felt it.’

  ‘Not that, you twit! This.’ He slips his fingers into his jacket

  pocket and pulls out two keys on a ring. ‘Come with me,’ he

  says, levering me off his lap and scrambling to his feet.

  ‘Don’t tell me your dad’s got a pied- à- terre on the front as well?’

  ‘Sort of. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  He pulls me gently towards the path that winds down to the

  promenade. The path that not so long ago I ran up in blind

  panic, convinced that Simon’s ghost was chasing me. And even

  though I know it couldn’t have been him, that none of it was

  real, the memory of him standing against the beach huts, ciga-

  rette glowing in his hand, is so vivid I can’t help feeling scared

  all over again. Because whoever sent me that photo and the pic-

  ture of the blood- stained hands i s real. And for all I know they could be wat
ching me right now. I try to quieten my mind by

  telling myself it won’t be someone who lives round here. It’ll be

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  some sicko in London, getting off on frightening me from afar.

  I make a mental note to pull the wardrobe out when I get home

  and retrieve the envelope, check the postmark to see where it’s

  from. Why the hell didn’t I do that before? I hold tight on to

  Josh’s hand. Even if I’m wrong and they’ve followed me to

  Flinstead, no one’s going to try anything while I’m with him.

  The hut is in the opposite direction from Mistden. It’s one of

  the ones on stilts with doors and decked platforms that look

  over the golf course and fields beyond but whose large win-

  dows open out on to the sea. Now, at high tide, the surf breaks

  against the stilts. Soon it will flow right under the hut. Josh

  flings open the double windows and I kneel on the single bed

  that serves as a sofa and lean out over the black sea with its

  orangey glimmer. Now that the door of the beach hut is closed

  behind us I start to relax.

  ‘I wish I could sleep here,’ I say, looking over my shoulder at

  Josh. He’s stuffing something into one of the cupboards in the

  kitchen area, his face flushed all of a sudden. Perhaps he’s con-

  cerned it’s not tidy enough for a visitor. Who’d have thought I’d

  be going out with the sort of man who cares about such things?

  ‘You’re not supposed to,’ he says, his voice unusually brusque,

  as if the suggestion has annoyed him. He straightens up and

  comes over to join me at the window. ‘It’s one of the conditions

  of the lease.’

  How is it possible I’ve fallen for someone so inherently sen-

  sible and cautious?

  ‘But you could, right, just for the odd night? I mean, how would they find out?’

  He shrugs. ‘They wouldn’t, I guess.’

  Something is wrong with him. His mood has darkened.

  ‘Haven’t you ever wanted to?’

  I think of all the places I’ve slept over the years as a

  result of bravado, romanticism or, more often than not, sheer

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  desperation: beaches, cars, abandoned buildings, a bothy in

  Scotland, tents, bus shelters. Cold, hard floors.

  ‘It’s crossed my mind a couple of times.’

  I get the feeling he’s just saying this because he thinks it’s

  what I want to hear.

  ‘I dunno,’ he says. ‘Maybe it’s the thought of the stilts giving

  way while I’m asleep, of waking up in the water.’

  Our shoulders touch as we kneel on the bed next to each other,

  our arms resting on the window frame. The sea creeps nearer and

  nearer and for a few minutes we gaze at it in silence and awe.

  ‘Is that likely to happen?’

  ‘I guess not. Not unless there was a massive tidal surge.’

  ‘I thought you must be fearless, the way you swim so far out.’

  He frowns. ‘You’d be a fool not to fear the sea, Astrid. It can

  turn on you in an instant.’

  Then I tell him how I almost drowned once, how if I hadn’t

  managed to scramble onto a concrete groyne I wouldn’t be here

  today.

  ‘That was probably what got you into trouble in the first

  place, swimming too near the groyne. The currents deflect off

  any obstruction like that. You were lucky.’

  ‘My legs got cut to ribbons trying to clamber on top.’

  ‘Talking of your legs,’ he says, slowly trailing the fingertip of

  his right index finger from my knee to my thigh like a feather.

  ‘That’s some piece of ink you’ve got down there.’

  I grin. Whatever was troubling him back then seems to have

  passed. ‘Were you shocked when you saw it?’

  ‘Surprised more than shocked. What with the braids and the

  Doc Martens, I guessed you might have one somewhere.’

  ‘You were looking for a discreet dolphin or butterfly on the

  hip or shoulder, weren’t you?’ I say, teasing him. I can just imag-

  ine some of the trendy middle- class girlfriends he’s been out

  with in the past.

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  A slow smile spreads across his face. ‘I might have guessed

  you’d go for something more dangerous. There’s something

  subversive about people who change their names.’

  Within seconds we’re tugging each other’s clothes off. The

  bed creaks as Josh lowers himself on top of me. His mouth

  closes over my left nipple and I wrap my legs round his warm,

  smooth back. Over his right shoulder I watch the darkening

  sky framed by the open window of the beach hut. In the top-

  left- hand corner is a small circular patch still streaked with

  crimson. The last vestiges of the fraudulent sunset, like a blood-

  shot eye staring down at me.

  Josh walks me home and I can’t help noticing how relaxed I

  feel when I’m with him. How safe. The last time I walked home

  at this time of night, I was petrified, couldn’t wait to get inside

  the cottage and be with Mum. Now, I’d do anything to stretch

  time and make these precious moments with him last as long

  as possible.

  We kiss goodbye in front of the neighbour’s hedge, just in

  case Mum happens to look out of the window. But as soon as I

  turn my key in the door I know something’s wrong. Mum is

  waiting for me in the hall, stony- faced.

  ‘Pam phoned me earlier,’ she says. Her voice is cold, her eyes

  like small black bullets, boring into me. ‘She saw you go into

  the Flinstead Arms. You lied to me, Astrid. You said you were

  going for fish and chips.’

  I stare at her, open- mouthed. How dare she accuse me of lying?

  And how dare that wretched friend of hers spy on me like that?

  ‘Did Pam also tell you I ran out of there literally five minutes

  later? Did she tell you I drank lime and soda? Did she? Well,

  did she?’

  I walk right up to her and breathe out in her face. ‘Can you

  smell any alcohol on my breath?’

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  Her nostrils quiver. Her upper body bristles with rage. ‘What

  were you doing in a pub? What were you thinking?’

  ‘Look, I made a mistake, okay? I thought I could handle it

  and I couldn’t. I came straight out again. I promise you, Mum,

  I didn’t drink anything. You have to believe me.’

  ‘Like I believed you all those other times, you mean?’

  ‘That’s not fair. You know it isn’t. It’s different now.’

  ‘Is it, Astrid? Is it?’ She walks away from me into the living room and sinks down into her armchair. ‘How do I know it’s

  not exactly the same?’

  ‘Because I made you a promise, Mum, and I wouldn’t break it.’

  ‘You made promises before, remember? And you broke them

 
all. Every last one.’

  I perch on the edge of the coffee table and take hold of her

  hands. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Mum. Pam’s right. I did go into

  the pub, but I was always going to have a soft drink. Then when

  I got inside and saw all the people drinking and laughing, I

  thought for a moment I could have one and it’d be all right.’

  Mum closes her eyes and shakes her head.

  ‘But as soon as I thought that I changed my mind. I got out

  of there as fast as I could. Please, Mum, please believe me.’

  She opens her eyes and they’re full of tears. ‘Oh, Astrid.’

  I lean forward to hug her and, for a few seconds, I think she’s

  going to push me away. Her body is hard, unyielding. But then

  she softens against me and I’m sobbing into her shoulder. ‘I’m

  so sorry for all those other times, Mum. I’m sorry for hurting

  you. I’m sorry for everything. But I didn’t have anything to

  drink tonight. I didn’t.’

  She squeezes me tight and we sit there for ages. Me still

  perched on the edge of the coffee table and her on her armchair,

  clinging on to each other in a way we’ve never done before.

  ‘I believe you, darling. I believe you.’

  *

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  Another week. Another Wednesday. Why does AA night always

  come round so fast? Because if there’s one place I don’t want to

  be, it’s here, in the vestry of Flinstead parish church, sitting on

  a rickety wooden chair with this bunch of losers. But of course,

  I’m one of them, aren’t I? I nearly blew everything by walking

  into the pub last week.

  The man with acne is rambling on about his boring life. I

  stopped listening after the first few sentences. I know I should

  be concentrating and making the sort of encouraging noises

  the rest of them are making – those little ‘mm’ sounds when he

  says something they can relate to, but my mind’s too scattered

  to take any of it in. I feel like telling him to relish the boredom, to make the most of the fact that he’s not having his every

  move scrutinized, that he’s not receiving threatening messages

  through the post.

  I’ve been so jittery lately. Jumping at the slightest noise. Not

  sleeping. It’s ever since I pulled the wardrobe away from the

  wall to check the postmark on that envelope. I think part of me

  was hoping there’d be nothing there except bits of dust and