Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

  My heart sinks. He does know something. He must do, or

  why would he be saying that? Who was he talking to on the

  phone the other day? Who’s told him about me?

  The doorbell goes. ‘That must be Jez,’ Richard says, but still

  he doesn’t move from the doorway. There’s something else he

  wants to say– it’s written all over his face.

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  ‘One of my yacht- club buddies,’ he explains. ‘He’s been help-

  ing me with a few legal bits and pieces. You never know when

  you’ll need a good lawyer, and Jez is as honest as they come.’

  The word ‘honest’ reverberates in my head. Was that some

  kind of coded message?

  At last he leaves the room, and I roll my shoulders back to

  ease the tension in my neck. I could cry. I’ve grown so attached

  to this new version of myself. The helpful, responsible girl-

  friend. The selfless daughter. What started as a veneer is now

  seeping into my flesh and bones. I don’t want it to end, any of it.

  After all those years of kidding myself I needed excitement

  and danger, the edgy glamour of a big city, it’s been a revelation

  to discover that a gentle, ordinary existence with kind, gener-

  ous souls like Josh and his dad and the daily routine of my

  painting is just what I need. And now I’ve gone and ruined

  everything by not coming clean with them sooner.

  I recognize the voice in the hallway instantly, and freeze. But

  before I have a chance to dive into the downstairs loo, Richard

  is leading him into the room.

  ‘Jez, meet Astrid, my son’s new girlfriend. She’s a very tal-

  ented artist, as you can see. She’s painting us a trompe l’œil.’

  Jeremy from AA looks directly into my eyes. My chest con-

  stricts. It must have been him. He must have said something

  to Richard. He’s betrayed my confidence. Broken the AA code.

  How could he?

  He extends his well- manicured hand. ‘Delighted to meet

  you, Astrid.’

  ‘M— . . . me too. Delighted to meet you too, I mean.’

  Jeremy’s right eye twitches in what might be a wink. It’s some

  kind of reassurance, I think. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong and he

  hasn’t given me away. Isn’t going to. Maybe Richard doesn’t

  even know that ‘Jez’ is an alcoholic and I’m just imagining a

  change in his behaviour, in which case I’m safe.

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  But for how long?

  Jeremy steps closer to my picture and leans in towards it,

  hands clasped behind his back. ‘It’s the shadows that make it

  seem so real, isn’t it?’ he says, scratching his chin.

  My heart beats in the back of my throat as he takes a step

  back and tilts his head to one side. ‘The clever art of decep-

  tion, eh?’

  ‘Are you having fun with your family?’

  There’s a slight pause on the other end of the line. Oh God, I

  wasn’t wrong. Josh knows too.

  ‘Yeah, it’s been great catching up with all my cousins. You’re

  going to meet them soon.’

  My shoulders sag with relief. I’m being paranoid, as usual.

  It’s okay. There’s still time to make things right. Josh’s voice

  sounds all crackly and faraway. I walk into the kitchen and out

  through the back door. There’s a better signal outside.

  ‘Really?’ I make my way to the end of the garden, out of ear-

  shot of Richard and Jeremy, who are in the living room, heads

  together over some papers and with the French window wide

  open.

  ‘Yeah, it’s Dad’s sixtieth in a couple of weeks. He thinks we

  should have a party, a sort of birthday- cum- housewarming do.

  We talked about it on the journey up here. It’s a bit last minute,

  but that’s how he is. He’s going to send an email invite round

  to everyone this evening.’

  Visions of this beautiful, empty house filled with people

  crowd into my mind. Noise and laughter echoing off the walls

  and floorboards. The popping of corks and the flowing of

  champagne. The chink of glasses. It’ll be like being in the

  Flinstead Arms all over again. I feel weak just thinking about it.

  ‘Sounds great.’

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  show you off. Oh, and Dad says to invite your mum as well, if

  she’s feeling up to it.’

  The thought of Mum, here in this house, fills me with dread.

  I doubt if Richard or Josh would say anything to her about her

  ‘depression’. Most people shy away from that topic, especially

  in social gatherings, but what if they did? Mum would be abso-

  lutely furious that I’d lied about her. It’d set us right back to

  how we were when I first came out of rehab. And even if that

  doesn’t happen, she might let something slip about my past,

  answer a question a little too truthfully. She never lies about

  anything. Ever. It’s not the Quaker way.

  ‘I’ll ask her tonight,’ I say, knowing full well I won’t.

  Jeremy’s words come back to me. The clever art of deception.

  Maybe he was just talking about the trompe l’oeil.

  Even if he was, this can’t go on. I can’t lie to them for ever.

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  33

  Five minutes after I’ve said goodbye to Richard and Jeremy and

  set off for home it starts pissing down. A soaking deluge that

  drenches me within seconds. The rain sweeps the pavement

  and plasters my hair to my head. By the time I’ve reached the

  end of the lane and turned left on to the main road, the pot-

  holes are brimming and cars splash through them, sending

  great arcs of water into the air. But there’s nowhere to take cover

  until the bus shelter at the top of the road, so I have no choice

  but to trudge on through it.

  I don’t take much notice of the car at first. I assume it’s just

  slowing to avoid the ever- expanding puddle at the side of the

  road, but then I realize that it’s coasting along beside me. Instinctively, I move away from the kerb, my fear returning.

  I slide my eyes to the right. It’s still there, hugging the kerb.

  When the window on the passenger side slides down I break

  into a run. I don’t know anybody round here with a car except

  Richard, and this isn’t a Mercedes.

  Somebody calls my name – a man – but I don’t stop run-

  ning. The second time they say it, the voice sounds familiar and

  I force myself to slow down and look properly. Jeremy’s face

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  peers at me through the lashing rain and I feel like a fool. He’s

  beckoning me to get in and, though sitting in a car with Jeremy

  is one of the
last things I want to be doing, my clothes are now

  sticking to me uncomfortably and I can hardly say I’d rather

  walk. Not in this weather and not when I’m still a good twenty

  minutes from home. Besides, I don’t really want to be on the

  street for any longer than necessary, not with the threat of that

  death notice hanging over me.

  Reluctantly, I open the door and slide in.

  ‘We can’t have you walking home in this,’ he says, in his posh,

  affable voice. He waits while I put my seatbelt on. Except I can’t

  pull it out far enough to reach the buckle – it keeps stopping.

  After a minute or so of trying and failing, Jeremy says, ‘May

  I?’ and leans across to help. I wish he wouldn’t.

  There’s an embarrassing moment when his upper body swiv-

  els in front of me so that his head is perilously close to my

  neck, like a clumsy lunge after a first date. He grasps the metal

  tongue and draws it out.

  ‘It’s a little temperamental, this one,’ he says. His breath smells

  of garlic and I try not to breathe so I don’t have to smell it. ‘You have to draw it out slowly or the retractor mechanism locks.’

  At last, he clicks it into the buckle and he’s back on his own

  side again. I breathe out in relief.

  The indicator ticks as he waits for a break in the traffic and I

  wonder whether he’s going to say anything about what hap-

  pened earlier. Pretending not to know each other in front of

  Richard. I hope he doesn’t. Because I don’t want to talk about

  it. I just want to be home and get out of these wet things.

  ‘Which street do you live in?’ he asks as we join the flow of

  traffic.

  The windscreen wipers swish backwards and forwards but,

  even on full speed, it’s difficult to see through the torrential

  rain.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  ‘Just drop me off at the top of Warwick Road,’ I tell him.

  ‘No, no, I’ll drive you all the way home.’

  ‘That is home,’ I lie. Even if I have to walk up someone else’s driveway till he’s gone, I will. I know I’m being overcautious.

  But that’s what being stalked does to you. It makes you suspi-

  cious of just about everybody.

  When we reach Warwick Road and I’m about to open the car

  door Jeremy places his hand on my forearm. Just briefly, enough

  to make me pause. Oh no, he’s chosen now to start talking.

  ‘There’s a Buddhist quote I’d like to share with you, Astrid.’

  Bloody hell. This is all I need.

  He looks at me from under his steel- grey eyebrows, like a

  headmaster admonishing a wayward pupil.

  ‘Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon and

  the truth.’

  My fingers fumble to unclick the seatbelt, the word ‘truth’

  running through me like an electric shock. As the belt unclicks

  and recoils, it’s as much as I can do to mumble my thanks for the

  lift, open the passenger door and climb out. He takes ages to

  drive off and I know he’s waiting on purpose because he knows

  I don’t live in this large Georgian house with the immaculate

  flower beds and the Mazda convertible parked up on the drive-

  way. But I walk all the way to the front porch anyway, pulling my

  phone out of the back pocket of my jeans as if to make a call.

  Eventually, he puts me out of my misery and drives away. The

  rain has eased off a little now and I slip my phone into my coat

  pocket, retrace my steps to the pavement and continue down

  Warwick Road towards Mum’s cottage in a state of heightened

  awareness till I’m safely behind the front door. I stand for a few

  seconds in the dark hall until my breathing returns to normal.

  He was only making a point about coming clean with Josh and

  Richard. He doesn’t know anything else. Of course he doesn’t.

  *

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  Mum takes one look at me and laughs. ‘I was wondering

  whether you’d get caught in the downpour. Come on, get out

  of those wet things and I’ll hang them up to dry. You look like

  a drowned rat.’

  She bustles off to unfold the clothes horse she keeps in the

  back room while I shrug off my coat and slip my hand in the

  pocket to retrieve my phone. But it’s the wrong pocket. My fin-

  gers close over something else. Something I don’t immediately

  recognize. Curious, I pull it out. It’s a little package secured

  with an elastic band. My heart skips a beat because I think I

  know what’s inside. With trembling fingers I ease the band off

  and unfurl the piece of paper it’s wrapped in. My throat closes.

  It’s a miniature bottle of vodka.

  With blood pounding in my ears, I race upstairs to my room.

  If Mum sees this, I’m done for. I drop the paper on the floor and

  stare at the bottle nestled in the palm of my hand. It’s cold and

  smooth against my skin. Absolut Blue Vodka, 50ml, 40% ABV.

  How the hell did this get in my pocket? Someone must have

  put it there. But that’s impossible. I’d have felt it, wouldn’t I?

  ‘Astrid, are you bringing those clothes down?’

  The sound of Mum’s voice makes me start. I can hardly

  breathe.

  ‘Just coming.’

  I stuff it into one of my socks and ball it up, tuck it right at

  the back of my drawer. I need to get it out of here as soon as I

  can. Mum searches my room sometimes – she pretends she’s

  looking for dirty mugs – but we both know what she’s really

  looking for.

  I think of all the people who’ve had access to my coat today.

  It’s been hanging up in Josh’s dad’s house all afternoon, but

  why would Richard Carter slip a bottle of vodka into my pocket?

  It doesn’t make sense.

  Unless it was Jeremy. He’s had ample opportunity to do it,

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  both at the house and just now, in the car. He could have

  dropped it in when he was leaning over me to sort the seatbelt

  out. But why would he do that? He wouldn’t, surely. All he

  wants me to do is come clean with Josh and Richard. To tell

  them I’m an alcoholic.

  I took my coat off in the Oxfam shop this morning, gave it to

  Pam when I was trying that leather jacket on. But Pam’s hardly

  likely to have done it, and she’d have noticed if Rosie had,

  wouldn’t she? It was folded over her arm the whole time and,

  anyway, it couldn’t have been Rosie. She might just as well have

  the Twelve Steps etched into her soul like letters in a stick of rock.

  The fact is, it could have been anyone. I was pickpocketed

  once, in broad daylight. Didn’t feel a thing. And it must be a lot

  easier to put something into a pocket than take it out.

  I take one last look at my closed drawer and imagine myself

  unscrewing that little silver cap later tonight. Slugging back

  50ml of Sw
edish pure- grain vodka. My mouth waters. Who-

  ever did this knows exactly what they’re doing.

  I pick the paper off the floor from where I’ve dropped it and

  go to put it in the bin. Looks like it’s a promotional flyer for a

  local business.

  Oh no. Please, no. I stare at the printed words till they swim

  before my eyes: ‘P. Hollingford & Sons, Funeral Directors.’ And

  then the slogan in large black letters. ‘It’s never too early to

  start planning your own funeral.’

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  34

  All the time I’m eating supper with Mum, or pretending to,

  pushing the food around on my plate and hiding as much as I

  can under the mashed potato, I’m thinking of the words on

  that flyer. And I’m picturing the vodka wrapped up in my sock

  and wondering what would happen if I just had a couple of

  sips. If ever I needed some Dutch courage, it’s now.

  I can’t help thinking of how, not so long ago, I nearly bought

  a bottle myself. But I didn’t, did I? I found the strength to say

  no, just as I’ll find the strength to get rid of the one upstairs.

  I’ll do it after supper. Tell Mum I’m going out to get some

  chocolate.

  A horrible thought drops into my head. Sly and swift, it

  pierces through the incessant mind- chatter like an arrow head-

  ing straight for its target. What if it was there all along, nestled in the lining of my pocket, just waiting to be discovered? I

  haven’t worn my coat for a couple of weeks, haven’t needed to.

  It’s been hanging up in the porch all this time.

  The porch. Oh my God! That girl could have dropped it in

  when she came round. I look at Mum, squashing peas against

  the back of her fork with quiet determination, oblivious of the

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  turmoil churning in my mind. She could have found it at any

  time. It’s a miracle she didn’t.

  It takes me ages to get out of the house. Mum’s got a migraine

  coming on and by the time I’ve cleared the supper things away

  and taken a cup of tea up to her it’s already getting on for half

  past eight. Then the bloody phone rings and it’s my Great- aunt

  Dorothy wanting a chat. I tell her Mum isn’t feeling too good,

  but that doesn’t stop her bending my ear for almost forty- five