Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

  lately, so when I saw her this morning I called her over and had

  a few words. She said she’d be interested to look round, for old

  times’ sake.’

  Mum dunks her breakfast things in the washing- up bowl. ‘I

  was in a bit of a hurry to go out, though, so I said she could

  drop by next time she was passing.’

  ‘Bet you wouldn’t have said that if she’d been a man. You

  want to be careful. She could be anyone.’

  Mum stares at me. ‘What do you take me for? A fool?’

  ‘No, of course not. But there are some desperate people out

  there.’

  She gives me a level look. ‘You think I don’t know that?’

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  ‘I was expecting them to be good, but not this good,’ Josh says, peering over his dad’s shoulder. ‘I’ve never seen such intricate

  sketches. They’re works of art in themselves.’

  My cheeks flush at the compliment. ‘Don’t be daft. They’re

  really rough. I’ll do better ones if you’re happy with these

  designs.’

  ‘Happy?’ Richard says. ‘I’m delighted. So when can you start

  the painting?’

  Josh shoots him a look. ‘Don’t you think you should ask her

  if she wants to first?’

  Richard lifts his glasses up and wedges them on top of his

  head. ‘Astrid, I’d very much like to commission you to produce

  this painting for me. Would you please do me the honour

  of accepting the job? You’ll need to tell me what it will cost, of

  course.’

  Even though I’ve been expecting this, I’m still tongue- tied.

  Agreeing to do privately commissioned work isn’t something

  I’ve ever done before. I’m not even sure I can competently exe-

  cute a trompe l’œil. Will I really be able to create something that stands up to daily inspection? I mean, it’s one thing painting a

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  backdrop in a theatre which the audience views from a dis-

  tance. Their attention is focused on the forefront of the stage,

  on the actors and the play itself. The words, the music. But tak-

  ing on something like this, something Richard Carter will have

  to look at every day of his life, something that will, by its very

  nature, be scrutinized by guests and visitors – it couldn’t be

  more different.

  ‘I’ll need to have a think about the cost. I’d probably paint it

  on to canvas first, then transfer the image to the wall once

  you’re happy with it. I’ll need to see if I can find an easel from

  somewhere.’

  ‘No need.’ Richard says. ‘There’s one in the attic.’ He looks

  at Josh and the room stills. ‘It used to belong to my wife – a

  hobby she never quite took up. In fact,’ he says, now bright and

  jolly again, ‘Why don’t I give you some cash for the materials

  right now?’

  He puts his hand in his pocket and draws out a fat wallet.

  ‘Will a hundred and fifty do for starters? Get the best paint you

  can buy, and whatever else you need. I’d recommend the new

  art shop on Flinstead Road.’

  I stare at the wad of notes he’s thrusting towards me. I know

  I should be more professional about this and tell him to wait

  till I’ve done an estimate, but my brain is all scrambled. I can’t

  think straight. I’m meant to be a freelance set designer, for

  God’s sake. I should have got my act together yesterday and

  worked out some figures.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Josh says. ‘Dad wouldn’t be flinging money at you

  if he didn’t trust you.’

  Richard is still holding the notes out in front of me. It seems

  too much, but if he wants top- quality paint, that doesn’t come

  cheap. I’ll need some new brushes too. It might not even be

  enough. I take the warm bundle of notes and zip them into my

  coat pocket.

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  ‘You’re not going yet, are you?’ Josh says. ‘You’ll stay for coffee?’

  Richard holds out his hand again, this time for me to shake.

  ‘Welcome to the Carter family decorating team.’ His hand is

  warm and dry. He smiles and the skin round his eyes crinkles.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Pilates class to go to. All

  this decorating does my back in.’

  Josh makes coffee in a cafetière. He presses the plunger down

  with the flat of his palm.

  ‘It’s decaff, I’m afraid. Dad usually gets proper coffee in for

  guests but the tin’s empty.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Decaffeinated coffee. Salad lunches. Swimming. Pilates. Bot-

  tles of wine that last more than one day. It’s like an advert for

  healthy living. I don’t belong here.

  So why do I feel like I do?

  I don’t know whether I’m three or four sips in when I’m

  aware of Josh looking at me over the rim of his mug. Those

  kind green eyes drinking me up. Except it’s not kindness I’m

  seeing now. It’s desire.

  ‘Let’s take our coffee upstairs,’ he says.

  His skin has its own perfume – sweet and warm and dry. I

  stand, my back against the white wall. He faces me, his hands

  pressing into the wall so that I’m caged between his arms. I see

  the shape of his muscles through the thin cotton of his T- shirt.

  Their strength. He leans forward and brushes his lips against

  mine. A light, feathery sensation. When I feel the heat of his

  tongue inside my mouth, I close my eyes, lose myself in the

  rhythm and intensity of the kiss.

  Our coffee grows cold on the windowsill.

  Josh is deliberate, thorough. Gentle. Insistent. I thought he’d

  be shy to start with. Tentative. I thought I might be the one to

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  take the lead and coax the lover out of him, the one he’s always

  dreamed of becoming, but I’m much too late for that party.

  He manoeuvres me on to the middle of the bed, my legs

  dangling over the end. Something about the stillness of the

  white room and the way the duvet billows up around me and

  the quality of the light from the uncurtained bay window

  makes this seem more like a dream. Maybe that’s why I’m just

  lying here, waiting, uncharacteristically submissive.

  Now he’s pulling off my trainers and peeling down my jeans

  and knickers, tugging them over my ankles. He’s pulling my

  legs gently so that my bottom is right at the end of the mattress,

  and he’s kneeling on the floor and he must have seen my flame

  tattoo by now, but of course he’s not going to say anything

  about it because we can’t speak now.

  He can’t speak now.

  Josh insists on walking me home. ‘You’ve got all that cash,

  remember?’

  How could I forget? It’s like a living thing in my pocket, rus-

  tling and vibrati
ng against my right hip. The sooner I can turn

  it into paint and brushes, the better.

  We’ve reached the cottages now. ‘I can’t ask you in,’ I say.

  ‘Mum’s a bit . . . anxious around strangers.’ Heat surges into my cheeks. ‘Not that you’re a stranger, but . . .’

  ‘It’s fine. I understand.’ He rests his hands on my shoulders

  and kisses me on my forehead.

  ‘I promised Dad I’d help him sand some floorboards tomor-

  row,’ he says. ‘I’ll text you when we’ve finished. It’s a pity it’s not warmer or I’d suggest you join me for an evening swim.’

  ‘I haven’t swum for ages. I don’t even know if I’ve still got a

  costume.’

  ‘I know a place where you can swim naked,’ he says, holding

  my gaze. ‘It’ll be bloody cold, though. Cold enough to put that

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  flame out between your thighs.’ And before I have a chance to

  reply he gives me the sexiest wink I’ve ever seen, turns on his

  heels and jogs away.

  I watch him till he reaches the end of the road and turns the

  corner, one hand raised in a backward wave, then I float up

  the path to the front door, still smiling like a lovestruck teen-

  ager. Josh might be the most sensible, middle- class man I’ve

  ever hooked up with, but when he stood at the end of that bed

  naked, he might have been Michelangelo’s David made flesh. If anything’s going to expel Simon from my mind, it’s having sex

  with Josh. And I feel safe when I’m with him. Safe and cher-

  ished and turned on all at the same time. I’ve never felt anything

  quite like this before. Simon turned me on all right, but safe?

  Nothing about our relationship was safe. It always had a danger-

  ous edge to it. I found it exciting at first. Exhilarating. Someone

  kind and gentle like Josh wouldn’t even have been on my radar.

  But after what happened . . . Besides, I’ve seen another side to

  Josh today. A stronger, passionate side.

  Just as I think this day can’t get any better I see a brown enve-

  lope lying on the porch mat. My benefits letter. At last. I bend

  down to pick it up but, as I turn it over, I see that it’s not at all what I’m expecting. This isn’t an official DWP envelope, it’s an

  ordinary one with my name and address in green biro in

  strange, curly handwriting I don’t recognize. Who would be

  writing to me here? Apart from the staff at the rehab centre and

  the local GP surgery where I registered last week, and the DWP

  of course, nobody knows where I am.

  I slide my thumb under the flap and tear through the top

  of the envelope. With trembling fingers, I draw out a photo of

  Simon. It’s one I’ve never seen before. It’s black and white and

  he’s leaning against some railings and smiling into the camera.

  There’s nothing else in the envelope. No letter. No note. Just

  this one black- and- white photo.

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  I turn it over in my hands and the world tilts. Someone has

  cut out a small picture of a woman’s hand dripping with blood

  and glued it to the back of the photo.

  My stomach twists with fear. Thinking I’m being haunted by

  my dead boyfriend is one thing, but unless ghosts can use scis-

  sors and glue and buy stamps, this is far, far scarier than that.

  Someone knows. Someone knows I killed Simon.

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  pa rt t wo

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  13

  I can’t look at the photo again. I mustn’t. But I do. Of course I do.

  He looked like this the day I bumped into him in the park. I

  hadn’t seen him for months, not since we’d split up. He’d never

  looked so healthy. His skin glowed. Sobriety suited him.

  I trace the contours of his face with my fingertip. Those sharp

  cheekbones and intelligent eyes. The small bump on the bridge

  of his nose. I’d give anything to have him back. A tear rolls

  silently down my cheek and splashes on to his clean- shaven

  chin. Oh, Simon. What did I do to you?

  I force myself to turn the photo over, praying that somehow

  the picture on the back won’t be there, that I’ve imagined the

  whole thing. But there it is. A woman’s hand, dripping with

  blood. A spike of fear runs through me.

  I rack my brains to see if there’s anyone who might somehow

  have got hold of this address. The only people I’ve told anything

  about my past are the people I met in rehab – the counsellors

  and the other residents. But they all had their demons. Why

  would any of them do something like this?

  I know I should tell Mum what’s happened, but I can’t.

  Because then it won’t just be about Simon any more. It’ll be

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  about Dad too, and I can’t face that. I can’t face seeing it in her

  eyes. No, there’s only one thing that will make this go away.

  I pick up the coat I’ve thrown on to the end of my bed and

  unzip the pocket, take out Richard Carter’s money, the notes

  like old cloth in my hands. Ten pounds, that’s all I need. Half a

  bottle of vodka, just to take the edge off my nerves. He won’t

  even know. No one will.

  My heart thuds with anticipation. My palms sweat. A couple

  of mouthfuls, that’s all I’ll have. I can tip the rest away. The

  nanosecond it hits me, I’ll be able to think straight. None of

  this will matter.

  The stairs creak as I tiptoe down them. Mum’s in the kitchen

  and the blender’s going. She’s making one of her wholesome

  soups – I saw the recipe book open earlier and couldn’t help

  noticing the 275 millilitres of dry white wine in the list of

  ingredients. I suck my tongue and swallow. She’ll have substi-

  tuted something else for that.

  She won’t hear me go out, but still, I can’t take any chances. If

  she knows I’ve gone, she’ll be on the lookout when I come back.

  She won’t have me in the house if I’ve been drinking – she’s

  made that patently clear – and I’ve nowhere else to go. Not any

  more. No more sofas to crash out on. No more favours to call in.

  But this time it’s different. This time I’ll be okay. I’ll know

  when to stop.

  Outside on the street, the wind is picking up. It’s behind me,

  like a helping hand in the small of my back, propelling me for-

  ward. Vodka. Vodka. Vodka.

  Whoever sent that picture is right. There’s blood on my hands

  as surely as if I’d plunged a knife through Simon’s heart. Some-

  body out there knows it. Just when things are finally working

  out. With me and Mum. With Josh. I know it’
s early days yet,

  but it’s real, this thing between us. It means something. I know

  it does. I’ve even got the chance to start painting again.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  A car swooshes by. A dog barks. The Co- op is just round the

  corner. I’ll be there in three minutes.

  I stop dead. This is insane. If I don’t turn back now, it’ll be

  too late. I’ll be walking into the shop. I’ll see the bottles behind the counter and I won’t hear this voice any more. My body will

  be screaming for that drink. It already is.

  No. No. No! I force myself to turn round and head back for

  the house. The wind’s in my face now, pushing me back, but

  I’m running into it. Gasping for breath. I snatch the key from

  under the front of my T- shirt, almost ripping the chain off.

  Now it’s in the front door. I’m falling into the hall, lurching up

  the stairs, back to the four walls of my bedroom.

  I stuff the tenner in my coat pocket with all the rest and zip

  it up. Then I hurl it on top of the wardrobe and fling myself face

  down on my bed.

  Down in the kitchen, I hear Mum singing.

  ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things

  I cannot change,

  The courage to change the things I can,

  And the wisdom to know the difference.’

  The meeting ends, as usual, with the serenity prayer. I haven’t

  told the group what’s happened. My aborted trip to the Co- op.

  I just couldn’t find the words. I didn’t want to come here in the

  first place. Someone is deliberately targeting me and, for all I

  know, they’re following my every move. It would certainly

  explain that weird sensation of being watched I’ve had lately.

  But missing AA isn’t an option, not unless I want Mum giving

  me grief 24/7, and I don’t. Not on top of everything else.

  I make a conscious effort to breathe slowly and deeply, try to

  overcome the shaky feeling that’s started up in the pit of my

  stomach. How dare someone send that vile picture through the

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  post? How dare they mess with me like this? A horrible thought

  takes up residence in my mind and spreads like a stain. What

  else might they know?

  Helen tilts her head towards the door. I give a quick nod and

  follow her out, glad of the distraction. Rosie’s clocked us, but