Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

can do to keep up with his long, easy strides. Still, at least there aren’t any awkward silences. He has the easy confidence of

  someone who went to public school. He’s got the voice too.

  Simon would hate him on principle.

  They couldn’t be more different, the two of them, and yet

  something about Josh reminds me a little of Simon. It’s how he

  makes me feel, as if the two of us have known each other far

  longer than we have. It was like that with Simon too, before

  everything turned to shit.

  My pulse quickens. Why am I still thinking about him? Now

  I can’t stop myself glancing over my shoulder. Simon once said

  he’d kill any man who took me away from him. And then he’d

  kill me. It was only the drink talking, but still . . .

  ‘Did you grow up round here?’ I ask him. Anything to take my

  mind off the image that’s just lodged itself in my head, of Simon

  watching me from the end of the road, tracking my every move-

  ment. My fingers tighten round the juggling ball in my pocket.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  ‘No,’ Josh says. ‘I was born and raised in Berkshire. When my

  mum died, Dad sold the house. Couldn’t bear the memories, I

  suppose.’ He pauses. ‘He bought a houseboat. Lived on it for

  years. It had been one of their dreams, to live on a boat, so I sup-

  pose he was doing it for her. Then he visited his aunt, who lived

  out this way, saw this place was up for sale and that was that.’

  ‘I know what it’s like to lose a parent. My dad died three

  years ago.’

  I don’t usually talk about Dad – it’s too painful. But after

  Mum’s comment yesterday, he keeps coming into my thoughts.

  Josh has the grace not to say anything, but there’s a depth to

  his silence – a comfort to it.

  Five minutes later we turn into a wide, gravelled driveway at

  the bottom of a narrow country lane. The driveway sweeps

  round in a curve towards a double- fronted Victorian villa that’s

  about five times the width of my mother’s tiny cottage.

  The front door is on the latch. Josh opens it and waves me

  inside. As soon as I step over the threshold the house welcomes

  me and all the tension I’ve been holding in my lower jaw and

  shoulders falls away. My eyes travel from the high ceilings to

  the newly plastered walls and the bare grey floorboards.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Josh laughs. ‘We’ve only just started.’

  ‘But the house itself, its dimensions and its . . . its aura. It’s

  perfect.’

  A man in paint- splattered overalls emerges from the room

  on the right. He has the same facial structure as Josh, the same

  tousled blond hair, except his is finer and starting to recede. He

  also has tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  ‘It does have an aura, doesn’t it?’ he says. ‘See, Josh? It’s not just your old man who senses these things.’ He comes towards

  me, hand outstretched. ‘I’m Richard. You must be Astrid,’ he

  says, his voice a fraction deeper than his son’s, and I realize, in

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  that split second, that I’m sexually attracted to both of them

  but that the new, sober Astrid will make a point of burying this

  thought and not returning to it under any circumstances.

  ‘Come and look at the view,’ Josh says, and I follow him into

  one of the rooms on the left, a dual- aspect living room filled

  with light. Original fireplaces with marble surrounds are in

  both halves of the room. The walls in here have been painted

  white, the floorboards sanded.

  ‘You can see all the way down to Langan’s Creek and Brin-

  tock Island,’ Richard says, following us in. ‘Although the best

  view’s from upstairs, of course.’

  I’m speechless. This beautiful house, the huge marshland

  skies merging with the mudflats. The birds circling overhead,

  the moored boats. I could stand at this window for hours and

  watch the tide creep over the saltings.

  My voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper. ‘I love it.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour,’ Josh says, and now he’s

  leading me through the house, each room a work in progress.

  The kitchen has been gutted. A cold tap sticks out of the wall

  over a washing- up bowl and the stand- alone gas oven has been

  left connected, but otherwise there’s nothing but an old pine

  table that appears to be serving as a temporary food station.

  It’s covered with plates and mugs and crumbs and half- empty

  packets of teabags, and salami and tomatoes. A small chrome

  microwave has been balanced on a chair and a massive fridge

  hums in the corner.

  ‘This wall is being knocked down,’ Josh says, flinging his

  arm out in an expansive gesture. ‘Dad wants the kitchen to be

  one huge space with a long table in the middle and free-

  standing units.’

  I can picture it already. It will be stunning. Like one of those

  kitchens you see in glossy interior- design magazines. Josh’s

  dad must be minted.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  Upstairs, it’s more of the same. High- ceilinged rooms with

  tiled fireplace surrounds and bare floorboards, some with the

  plaster still drying out, some already painted white.

  ‘This is where I’m sleeping,’ Josh says, and for a few, excruci-

  ating seconds we’re both staring at a king- size bed with the

  plumpest, whitest, most inviting looking bedding I’ve ever

  seen. He must feel it too, this energy between us. It’s almost

  palpable. I walk over to the window, my back to the bed, and

  focus instead on the view, which is, as Richard said, even better

  from up here.

  When Josh comes over to join me, we don’t talk. We don’t

  even look at each other. But we both know what’s going to hap-

  pen. Maybe not today, or tomorrow. Maybe not even this week.

  But sometime soon.

  If I let it.

  ‘It was called “the snug” in the property details,’ Richard says.

  The three of us are standing in the small, dark room in the mid-

  dle of the house. ‘But somehow I don’t see myself chilling out

  in here. It’s too dingy. Too cramped.’

  ‘It’s about the same size as my mum’s living room,’ I say.

  A fleeting look of discomfort passes over Richard’s face. He

  must think I’m making a point, and I’m not. It was an observa-

  tion, that’s all. This is my problem. I blurt things out without

  thinking.

  ‘But her room’s much sunnier,’ I add. ‘And why would you

  want to be in here when you have all those other lovely rooms?’

  Now I’m making it worse. Rubbing his nose in the fact that

  he’s lucky enough to have this huge place while some people

  have to muddle through in poky little rabbit warrens. What’s

  wrong with me?
/>   ‘So what I was thinking,’ he says, ‘is that I could turn it into

  a piece of art instead.’

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  ‘What sort of thing do you have in mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. A window, maybe? Or is that too clichéd?’

  My eyes sweep round in an arc. ‘A trompe l’œil only really

  works from one point of view.’ I take a step back. ‘So in this

  case, you’d need to paint something on the wall that faces

  you as you come through the door. This one here.’ I pat it with

  the flat of my hand, enjoying the feel of cold plaster on my

  palm.

  ‘You’re the expert,’ Richard says.

  ‘Hardly. But I have painted a couple in the past.’ The dim and

  distant past, but he doesn’t need to know that. ‘To work best,

  the deceit needs to fit into the setting exactly.’ Heat floods my

  cheeks and I’m glad the room is dark. How would they react if

  they knew that I was deceiving them right now? That, just like

  a trompe l’œil, I’m one big, fat lie.

  ‘I mean, there’d be no point painting a range of mountains,

  not when you live in one of the flattest counties in Britain.’

  Richard and Josh laugh.

  ‘But if, for instance, you had a picture of an open door lead-

  ing on to an old wooden jetty and a boat bobbing on some

  water, then that would match the existing landscape. Shall I

  play around with some ideas? Do some sketches?’

  I can’t believe I just said that. Art takes practice. It’s like a

  muscle that needs to be worked. I haven’t done anything like

  this for years. What if I’ve lost the ability to draw? And now that

  I’ve offered to do some sketches, there’s every possibility he’ll

  ask me to do the painting as well. Oh God! What have I done?

  And yet there’s a small throb of excitement I can’t deny. I felt

  it almost as soon as I entered this room.

  Richard pushes his glasses up his nose and smiles. ‘Would

  you? That’d be fantastic!’ He glances at Josh and I sense their

  silent communication. ‘Are you staying for supper, Astrid? We

  could get some fish and chips if you like.’

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  He’s looking straight at me now, his pale blue eyes unnerv-

  ingly intense.

  ‘I’ve got a rather nice bottle of red we could have with it,’ he

  says, and for one heart- stopping moment I have the feeling

  he sees right through me. All the way to my rotten core.

  And now I’m mumbling something about having to leave.

  I’m stuffing my arms in my coat and retracing my steps through

  the house, aware of the shocked silence behind me, how odd I

  must seem to them, how rude and ungrateful. But I can’t stay

  here any longer. I just can’t.

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  She’s in a real state – look at her.

  I wait till she reaches the top of the lane before I set off in the same direction. Long, purposeful strides like I know where I’m going, like I’ve got some place to be. By the time I turn on to the main road, she’s way ahead of me, waiting for a gap in the traffic.

  Why doesn’t she just step out? That would really be something,

  wouldn’t it? I can almost hear the screech of tyres and the sickening thwack as her body wraps itself around the front of an SUV. See her shoot into the air then land on the tarmac like a broken doll, skidding along, her limbs sticking out at weird angles, her head all smashed in.

  Better still, I’d be the one behind the wheel. The one who couldn’t stop in time, who didn’t even try. For one intense second, I’d see the look of horror in her eyes. Then she’d bounce off the windscreen with a dull thud and I’d drive straight over her. Hear the crunch of her bones.

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  7

  ‘As soon as he mentioned the wine, I just mumbled my excuses

  and left. God knows what they think of me.’

  I stare at my lap. I never intended to tell them any of this, but

  that’s what happens at AA. It’s like a mutual bloodletting.

  ‘I know I did the right thing, but I still wish I was there and

  not here.’ A fat tear lands on my knee. ‘That’s it. That’s all I want to say.’

  David smiles. ‘Thank you for sharing that with us, Astrid.’

  For a second, he looks as though he might offer me some words

  of comfort. I can tell he wants to, but he’s sticking to the rules.

  People like him always do.

  ‘Does anyone else want to speak?’ he says.

  The tearful woman with the red shoes from last time, only

  tonight she’s wearing boots, folds her arms then unfolds them

  and clasps her hands in her lap. Will she pass again? It’s her

  prerogative; of course it is. No one’s forcing her to share – there are more than enough people at these things who enjoy the

  sound of their own voices almost as much as they used to enjoy

  a drink or twenty – but at some point she’ll have to, or why

  come at all?

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  I try to send her a telepathic message. For Christ’s sake, just get it over with.

  ‘My name is Helen,’ she says.

  Damn, I’m good.

  Her voice is stilted, robotic. There are big red blotches on her

  neck. Come on, love. Can’t you feel the waves of goodwill radiating towards you?

  ‘And I’m an alcoholic.’

  The words tumble out in a rush. We all exhale in unison, or

  maybe it’s just my own breath I hear. ‘Hello, Helen,’ we all

  chant back. One or two heads make those encouraging nodding

  movements. The woman with eyes like marbles (sixty- three

  days sober, had a ‘major setback after losing her son, but back

  on course now, God- willing’), makes a self- conscious little clapping gesture. Thank God we’re not in America or we’d all

  be whooping. As it is, that woman from the charity shop is

  smiling her stupid fucking smile. Rosie. The name doesn’t suit

  her. Too sweet and girlyish for a sixty- something alcoholic.

  I cross my ankles and focus on my Doc Martens.

  ‘Alcohol has stolen everything from me,’ Helen says. More

  nodding. I know what’s coming next. It’s the same old story.

  The blackouts. The hangovers from hell. The revolving- door

  cycle of A&E visits. We’re all just variations on a theme.

  She’s crossed her arms again and is rocking backwards and

  forwards in her chair. I want to tell her that sharing gets easier

  the more times you do it, but we’re not allowed to interrupt or

  give advice or talk over people. Discussions so easily veer out of

  control, turn into disagreements, arguments. AA isn’t the place

  for all that. It’s a place to share, to listen.

  ‘I’ve lost my home,’ she says. ‘My career.’ The rocking stops.

  ‘And the only man I’ve ever loved.’

  I squeeze the ball in my right pocket so hard I think it might

  split.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  It happened again, on the way here. The smell of his after-

  shave in the air. More subtle this time – the merest trace – but it was there just the same. I’m losing it, I must be. How would

  he know where I am? I never brought him here. Not once.

  I try to focus on Helen’s share, tell myself it’s just my subcon-

  scious warning me not to get involved with Josh and his dad,

  reminding me that I’m damaged goods, that I don’t do normal.

  Certainly not ‘middle class, posh house, one room as a fucking

  art installation’ normal.

  ‘He was everything to me,’ Helen says. ‘I loved him so much.’

  My throat burns. That’s what Simon used to say, in the begin-

  ning, that I was everything to him. ‘I love you heart, body and

  soul, Astrid Phelps,’ he’d say, and then he’d grin and follow it

  up with: ‘Your body, especially.’

  How could I ever have thought I could leave him behind?

  He’ll never let me go. Never. Wherever I go from now on, what-

  ever I do, he’ll follow me. I know he will.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.’ There’s

  a catch in Helen’s voice and for a second I think she might start

  crying, but she doesn’t. She’s found her voice at last. Except it’s

  my voice too. It’s as if she’s tapped into my brain and down-

  loaded all my demons.

  ‘I can’t function without alcohol. Not properly. I don’t know

  what to say, what to do.’ She twists her fingers in her lap. ‘It’s

  like I’m endlessly treading water, wearing myself out just trying

  to stay afloat while everyone else is effortlessly swimming

  length after length after length.’

  I stare at her. That’s it. That’s exactly how it is.

  ‘I don’t like the person I become when I’m drinking,’ she

  says. ‘But at least that person doesn’t have to think, or feel.’

  She looks up then and I nod, my lips clamped together. If I

  open my mouth, I’m scared I’ll make some kind of noise.

  ‘At least I don’t have to face the fact that I’m a complete and

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  utter failure, that I’ve ruined every good thing that’s ever hap-

  pened, every chance I’ve ever had of leading a normal, happy

  life.’

  Our eyes meet. She might be older than me and dress like a