Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

  staying here for the rest of the summer to help him out with the

  refurbishment.’

  He’s looking right at me now. ‘So what made you want to be

  a set designer?’

  Now this I don’t even have to think about. ‘I love painting on

  a big scale,’ I tell him. ‘Climbing on scaffold towers and trans-

  forming a plain old backdrop into a forest, or an ocean, or a

  busy street. Mixing the colours and textures together, flicking

  paint on to the canvas and getting my hands and clothes covered

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  in it too. Makes me feel like I’m part of the painting, actually

  inside it – do you know what I mean?’

  I haven’t talked about any of this for ages, haven’t even

  thought about it, to be honest. But now that I am, it’s all com-

  ing back to me. The passion I felt before it all went wrong.

  Maybe if I hadn’t been hell bent on self- sabotage, I could have

  been on my way to being a respected set designer by now, or at

  least in regular work with good production companies.

  Josh is nodding at me and smiling.

  ‘It gets your adrenalin pumping too. Especially when you’re

  working so high up. You’ve got to know what you’re doing. And

  there’s something really special about working in a theatre late

  at night. The atmosphere, you know? Eerie and dark. Echoes

  bouncing off the empty auditorium. Always a broken light

  flickering somewhere in the darkness.’

  I stop. He must think I’m mad, rattling on like this.

  He leans back in his chair. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen some-

  one so in love with what they do,’ he says. ‘Your face is completely transformed when you’re talking about it.’

  I look down, embarrassed.

  ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I might pick your painterly brain, if you

  don’t mind.’

  I give him a quizzical look.

  ‘There’s this weird little room in the middle of my dad’s house

  that hardly gets any light. He’s thought about knocking it through

  into the two adjoining rooms but there’s something about it he

  likes, and I know what he means. It’s like a secret chamber.’

  He pauses while Bob brings the buttie and teacake over and

  we move our cups aside to make more space.

  ‘He’s got this idea of getting someone to paint a window on

  one of the walls. You know, one of those realistic ones that

  looks like it’s opening on to a beautiful garden, or something.’

  ‘A trompe l’œil.’

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  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A trompe l’œil. It’s French for “deceive the eye”. A painting that tricks you into seeing it as a three- dimensional solid form.

  It’s all about illusionism and forced perspective.’

  ‘You see?’ Josh says. ‘You know about these things. Why don’t

  you come and have a look, see what you think?’ He winks. One

  casual movement of an eye and there’s a strange fluttering sen-

  sation behind my breastbone. Between my thighs. I glance out

  of the window.

  ‘Seriously, you don’t have to if you’re too busy, but it’d be

  good to have your input, and Dad’s great. You’ll love him.’ He

  blushes then. This six- foot- something blond Adonis actually blushes. ‘And it’d be really nice to see you again.’

  I wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans under the table.

  This is crazy. I’ve only known this guy five minutes and already

  he wants me to meet his dad. I was with Simon for almost three

  years and I never met a single one of his relatives. He’d lost

  touch with them all by then. It’s hardly surprising, in the cir-

  cumstances. I doubt Mum and I would still be talking if I hadn’t

  agreed to rehab.

  ‘Okay, then.’ The words fly out before I can change my mind.

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  5

  Josh’s text comes through later that week.

  ‘Hi Astrid. Meet you outside the Old Schooner in Mistden?

  2pm Wednesday?’

  Shit! What have I done? I suppose I could tell him Mum’s

  taken a turn for the worse and that I can’t leave her too long on

  her own. Or I could do the easiest thing of all and ignore it. Not

  turn up. Pretend none of this is happening.

  And yet, if I close my eyes, I can already visualize the small,

  dark room at the centre of his dad’s house. Its secret chamber.

  Part of my brain is already imagining myself there, doing the

  job for them. I can picture the bare plaster wall, smell the primer

  I will prep it with.

  I stick my head round the living- room door. Mum’s fallen

  asleep on the settee and her mouth’s hanging open. She looks

  like a corpse. I close the door softly, then go upstairs and pull

  down the extending ladder that’s attached to the loft hatch.

  My brushes must be up here somewhere, along with all my

  other stuff – the boxes and bags and bin liners that contain

  my worldly goods, or ‘a load of old rubbish’, as I heard Mum

  call it the other day. She was speaking to one of her Quaker

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  friends on the phone. I’m not the only one who goes to

  meetings.

  I flick the switch and a dingy yellow light creeps into the

  darkness. It takes me a while to find them. They’re in an old

  suitcase under a pile of winter clothes. I draw out the stained

  canvas roll and bring it towards my face, breathing in the long-

  forgotten smell of turps and linseed. Just the possibility of

  painting again makes me want to weep, but I wall in the emo-

  tion, seal it up tight. I’m about to pull the lid down on the case

  when something shiny and gold catches my attention. I peel

  back the jumper that’s half covering it and gasp. It’s one of

  Simon’s old juggling balls. How the hell did that get here?

  I pick it up and squeeze it into my palm, the beat of my heart

  loud, insistent. Simon was teaching himself to juggle when we

  first got together. He wanted to be an actor. He thought the

  more skills he could develop, the more roles he could play. The

  trouble was, he kept missing out. No matter how many audi-

  tions he went for, he never got the parts he wanted. Alcohol

  took the pain of rejection away.

  I see him now, in my mind’s eye, dropping the juggling balls

  and swearing. I’d pluck them off the floor and throw them

  back to him, and they’d be all warm and sticky in my hands.

  I’d say, ‘Go on, then, show us what you can do with your golden

  balls,’ and he’d give me that crooked little smile and start undo-

  ing his flies as a joke.

  Did he have them with him that last time? He must have

  done. How else to explain one of them being here?

  I stuff the ball back in the case then take it out again and

  edge backwards, my
right foot dancing in the emptiness behind

  me, searching out the top step of the ladder. I turn the light off

  and climb down, watch the ladder retract into the dark black

  square in the ceiling.

  Back in my bedroom, I put the ball on my bedside cabinet.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  In the early days, before it all went wrong, just seeing some-

  thing of his would make me glow inside. Now, my pulse races

  for entirely different reasons. Why on earth didn’t I leave it in

  the loft? The last thing I need is reminding.

  I unfurl the roll of brushes on to my bed. There’s no way Josh’s

  dad will ask me to do that painting. And even if he does, I won’t

  agree. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. It’s happening

  again. The sudden swell inside me. The suffocating need to

  drink. My eyes flick to the travel clock perched on the window-

  sill, not that I need to check what my body knows with every

  fibre of its being. Four o’clock in the afternoon. The time I used

  to start drinking, or if, by some miracle, I was employed, the

  time I used to start planning for it in my head. Imagining the

  satisfying twist of the cap as the seal cracked, the glorious glug-

  ging sound as I poured it out. That first long- awaited mouthful.

  The muscles in my stomach flutter. My scalp itches. I scratch

  it, or try to. Work my nails into the exposed areas between the

  braids. What the hell am I going to do? Is this what it’s going to

  be like for the rest of my life?

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’m ripping the beads off the

  ends of my braids. It’s a long, fiddly procedure, unravelling

  every last one, detangling the clumpy bits at the roots, washing

  my hair over the bath and combing conditioner all the way to

  the ends. But it’s something to do. Something to fill the end-

  lessly dry void. Besides, it feels good, dragging the teeth of the

  comb from my forehead to the crown of my head and down

  over the back of my neck. Over and over again, till my arm

  aches and my scalp tingles. Till the wave of longing finally

  breaks.

  Mum widens her eyes when she sees my hair. ‘I was wondering

  when you’d get rid of those awful things. You look so much

  better without them,’ she adds.

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  She’s scrubbing new potatoes at the sink with a nail brush.

  ‘Pam said she saw you coming out of the Fisherman’s Shack,’

  she says, not looking round.

  Pam is her bridge partner and fellow Quaker.

  ‘She said you were with a young man.’

  I sigh. It’s no wonder I feel like I’m being watched.

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t organized the whole town to keep

  an eye out for me.’

  The potato Mum’s been scrubbing shoots out of her hand

  and plops into the washing- up bowl. She lifts it out and rinses

  it under the tap. ‘You know what they said in rehab, about not

  getting involved with anyone else. No major life changes.’

  ‘I had a coffee and a toasted teacake with him. We’re not get-

  ting married.’

  Now it’s Mum’s turn to sigh. ‘Just so long as you know what

  you’re doing.’

  If only I could confide in her that I have absolutely no idea

  what I’m doing, that each new day without drinking is uncharted

  territory, that I feel like a tiny boat, buffeted by waves. A boat

  that could sink at any minute. But we’ve left it a bit late for heart-to- hearts. The pattern of our relationship is already fixed, and it’s prickly. Combative.

  She runs cold water into a colander of lettuce and shakes it

  over the sink. ‘Omelette, new potatoes and salad for supper.

  Is that okay for you?’

  ‘Lovely, thanks.’

  She gives me a quick, tight smile. It’s a truce, of sorts.

  After supper, I open my copy of Alcoholics Anonymous. I’ve read the same paragraph three times and it still doesn’t make any

  sense. It’s no surprise that it’s known as ‘the Big Book’. It’s dated and repetitive and I seem to have been reading it for ever but,

  right now, it’s the closest I’ve got to a lifeline.

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  No wonder I can’t concentrate. Mum’s pushing a carpet

  sweeper over the rug and the squeaky noise is doing my head

  in. It’s so like her to still be using a carpet sweeper.

  ‘Someone at my bridge club is starting up a beginners’ class

  at the community hall,’ she says, as if the thought has just that

  second popped into her head, as if she hasn’t been planning on

  saying it to me all day. ‘It starts tomorrow. I wondered whether

  you might be interested.’

  ‘Not sure bridge is really my thing, Mum.’

  Mum’s stopped pushing the sweeper now. ‘It’s a fascinating

  game when you get the hang of it. And there’s so much to learn,

  it might be good for you.’

  This is what she’s like. She won’t let things go.

  ‘Seriously, Mum, I don’t want to. I might start swimming or

  something.’

  The thought of plunging into cold seawater with Josh has been

  exercising my mind ever since we said goodbye and swapped

  phone numbers. I want to feel cleansed and invigorated. I want to

  learn about the tides. I want to learn what the hell a sea squirt is.

  ‘I’m going to see Josh’s dad’s house next week.’

  She gives me a sharp look. ‘Who’s Josh?’

  ‘That guy I had coffee with. His dad wants some advice about

  a trompe l’œil.’

  A strange look comes into Mum’s eyes. ‘I saw an amazing

  one of those in Quebec once,’ she says. ‘It was on the side of a

  house and it looked like the wall had been ripped off and you

  could see inside all the rooms.’

  I stare at her. It sounds like she’s talking about the Fresque du

  Petit- Champlain. I remember it from one of the lectures at uni.

  ‘When were you in Quebec?’

  There’s a long pause. ‘After your dad died.’

  Dad. It’s the first time either of us has mentioned him in

  ages. The words hang in the air like an accusation. No matter

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  how many times I tell myself that he had a heart condition and

  would have died anyway, I’ll never stop torturing myself about

  the stress my drinking gave him. It might not have caused his

  heart attack, but it didn’t help. I know that’s what Mum thinks

  too. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in the things she doesn’t say.

  ‘How come you never told me you’d been to Quebec?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You didn’t. I would have remembered.’

  ‘You think?’

  I look down at my book, cheeks burning. Good point, Mother.

  I’ve missed too many things in my cobweb of a life. Black holes

  in my memory I’ll never be able
to fill, no matter how hard I try.

  Not that I want to fill them all. Some things are best forgotten.

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  6

  The hair salon is warm and smells of hairspray. I made the

  appointment a few days ago. They’re offering discounts if you

  don’t mind letting a trainee loose on your head, and I don’t.

  People who have to ask their mothers for pocket money can’t

  afford to be too fussy about these things.

  With each snip of the scissors, the curve of my skull is slowly

  revealed. My cheekbones look sharper. I feel lighter and freer

  than before, as if the weight of my past has also been shed. If

  only that were true. If only we could cut out the bits of our life

  we don’t like. The bits that fill us with dread and self- loathing.

  If only we could excise them like warts or lumps and wait for

  the scar tissue to seal the wound.

  I brush away the slivers of hair that sit on my gown- covered

  lap like pale wood shavings and try to steer my mind away

  from its usual course, the one it always takes when I start

  thinking like this. I read Josh’s message for what must be the

  twentieth time. Wednesday has come around a lot sooner than

  I expected, and I still haven’t decided if I’ll go. It says to meet

  him outside the Old Schooner. Although there’s still a chance he might suggest we pop in for a beer before we go to his dad’s,

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  so I need to have some excuses at the ready. Just in case I end

  up going.

  Here’s what I’ll say: I’m not that thirsty, to be honest. Or, Actu‑

  ally, I’m trying not to drink during the week. No, not that, because then he might ask me at the weekend. What about I’ve gone right

  off pubs lately, or The Old Schooner’s a bit of a dive, isn’t it? or I’m not really a pub person.

  The one thing I know for certain I won’t say is: The thing is, Josh, I’m a recovering alcoholic, so if you don’t mind, I’d rather we didn’t.

  Why can’t I just say that? Why is it so damn hard?

  ‘Wow!’ Josh says. ‘You look fantastic. I nearly didn’t recog-

  nize you.’

  He pecks me on the cheek, then falls in beside me. After all

  that worrying, he doesn’t even mention the pub. It feels odd,

  having to match my pace to someone else’s. It’s as much as I