go back to how we were. We can start all over again, only this
time there’ll be no more lies.
By the time I reach the turn- off to the Carters’ house, night has
fallen. The quiet country lane is unusually full of parked cars
tonight. I’m halfway along when I realize why, but still a part
of me clings to the hope that I’ve got it wrong, that all these
people are, in fact, visiting someone else.
The hope gutters and snuffs out like a spent candle as I
approach the familiar curved driveway. Music, light and laugh-
ter spill out into the surrounding darkness. Richard’s sixtieth
birthday-
cum-
housewarming party is in full swing, and I
haven’t been invited. What with everything that’s happened,
I’d forgotten all about it. I’ve never felt so lonely.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
I shrink back into the shadows of the large shrubs and watch
the bodies move about inside. Then I grow braver and step a
little closer to the house. Nobody can see me out here. The
windows at night will be mirrors. It’s like watching actors on a
brightly lit stage. Revellers in a party scene, oblivious to all but their own chatter and laughter.
Most of the noise is coming from the back of the house so I
presume the French windows must be open and people are tak-
ing the party into the garden. I have an overwhelming urge to
look, to seek out Josh and Richard in the throng, even though I
know I shouldn’t. I should turn round and go straight home
before one of them sees me and it’s too late. I couldn’t bear to be
spotted like this, to see the awkwardness and embarrassment in
their eyes. The uninvited guest, spying on them from the bushes.
I move stealthily up the driveway and round the side of the
house by the garage. If I stay close to the boundary hedge and
don’t venture too far, I’ll be all but invisible. Why am I doing
this? It’s absurd. An act of pure masochism. And what am I hop-
ing to see? A forlorn and lonely Josh, sprawled on a deckchair,
nursing a beer and resisting all attempts to join in the merri-
ment? Maybe it would be better if I saw him laughing and having
fun, chatting up a pretty girl. Leading her into the shadows at the
end of the garden. At least then I’ll know where I stand.
The garden looks magical, meltingly beautiful, as if it’s host-
ing an open- air production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. All twinkling fairy lights and candles in Mason jars hanging from
trees. There are people sitting on wicker chairs with cushions, or
milling about with drinks and cigarettes. There are even a couple
of sofas on the lawn. A glamorous black woman is sinking into
one of them now, stretching out her long legs and tapping away
on her phone while Nina Simone sings ‘My Baby Just Cares for
Me’. A couple in their forties are standing close together, swaying
gently in time to the music right in front of her.
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I hear Richard’s voice before I see him. The deep baritone
boom of it, resounding in the still, balmy night. He’s exactly as
I imagined he would be in this kind of milieu. The charming,
magnanimous host. The life and soul. Then I see Josh.
I exhale slowly. He’s in earnest conversation with a rather
beautiful woman who reminds me of one of those pre- Raphaelite
models, all flaming hair and bright red lips. I think of the red
lipstick on the brandy glass and crumple against the hedge. I
wanted to see sadness in his eyes. To know he’s missing me as
much as I’m missing him, but he’s smiling. Laughing. Touching
her arm.
More guests fill the garden. The music gets louder. I must
leave before I do something insane, before I walk over to Josh,
fling my arms round his neck and bawl my eyes out. But just as
I’m about to creep away Richard approaches the two of them, a
tray of nibbles in his hands. Josh helps himself to whatever is
on there, then slips away and gets swallowed up by a group of
happy, shiny young people. His cousins, maybe? The ones he
couldn’t wait for me to meet?
Richard rests the tray on a table and whispers something
into the redhead’s ear. She throws back her neck and laughs
prettily. Now I see that she’s older than I thought, in her forties
or early fifties, even. Richard’s hand rests gently in the small of
her back. He leans in towards her and, for one brief moment,
their foreheads touch. Now his hand slips a little lower. All of a
sudden, Josh reappears. Richard grabs hold of the tray and dis-
appears into the throng of guests.
Back in the darkness of the lane things fall into place. What
I overhead Richard saying on the phone the other day, about
not having told him yet and that he would do, soon. At the
time I’d been so paranoid I thought he was referring to me,
that he’d found out about my past and was waiting for the right
moment to break it to Josh. But maybe he was talking to this
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
woman, discussing when to tell Josh about their relationship.
I’m no expert on body language, but they’re clearly much more
than good friends.
The bottle of brandy in the beach hut. The red lipstick on
the glass. The discarded bikini. It all makes perfect sense now.
He’s been meeting this woman in private, keeping their rela-
tionship a secret. Hardly surprising, considering Josh’s reaction
when I made a joke about his dad being a bit of a catch. All
that stuff Richard said about not wanting Josh to get hurt
again. I thought he meant hurt by me, but he must have been
worried I’d seen the brandy and the two glasses in the beach
hut. And didn’t I see him talking to a redhead once on the
street? He was trying to warn me not to say anything. Of course
he was.
I’ve been such a fool, doubting Josh. He really was serious
about me and now I’ve gone and fucked it all up. First by lying
to him all this time, and then by trying to justify it by accusing
him of being some kind of player. No wonder he didn’t want
me at his dad’s party.
How I don’t get knocked down as I stumble home in the dark-
ness I don’t know. There are no lights on these country lanes
and, whenever a car whizzes by at what seems like death- defying
speed, I shrink into the hedgerows in case their headlights don’t
pick me out. I’ve forgotten to charge my phone, so it isn’t long
before it dies, and with it the torch function I’ve been relying on.
The only good thing about having to blunder along, half blind,
is that all my mental resources are focused on keeping myself at
a safe distance between the dangerous part of the road and the
ditch at the side.
But
I’m exhausted from the effort and soon my focus disin-
tegrates. All this time I’ve been trying to convince myself that I
don’t care, that losing Josh isn’t the end of the world and that
I’m better off on my own, but now that I’ve seen him there in
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the garden I know I’m just fooling myself, because I want him
more than ever.
By the time I smell the aftershave, it’s too late. The footsteps
are right behind me. My heart thuds painfully in my chest. I’ve
been so consumed with self- pity I’ve pushed all thoughts of my
stalker to the back of my mind. I’ve let my guard down, and in
the worst possible place. I’m all alone in the middle of a coun-
try lane in the dark.
I brace myself for the thrust of a blade somewhere soft and
unexpected. In the periphery of my vision I see a shadow, but
when my eyes dart to the right it’s gone. I reach into my pocket
for my house key, gripping it by my side like a small, sharp
knife. It could be used as one. A jab in the face. In the eye.
My jaw clamps tight. My whole body stiffens. This has gone
too far. I won’t be bullied like this. I won’t. I’ve got nothing to lose any more. Nobody gets to scare me like this. Nobody gets to send
me fucking death notices and poke around my room and steal
my things. Nobody gets to terrorize me on the street at night.
I spin round, still clutching the key. ‘What do you want
with me?’
My voice slices into the night air, shrill with rage. It’s her, the
girl in the puffa jacket. She freezes, like a startled deer. Her face is moon- white, her eyes like dark saucers. She visibly shrinks
under the glare of my gaze. Her hands, I now see, are empty.
My breath returns.
I step forward to exploit my advantage, but she’s already
rearranging the features of her face. There is a condensed fury
about her that threatens to erupt at any second. My fingers
tighten round the key.
‘Astrid Phelps.’ She spits my name out as if it’s the worst kind
of insult.
I stand my ground. ‘Who are you ? Why are you following me?’
She glares at me. ‘Because I have something to say to you.’
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39
She’s smaller than I thought, but I have the impression that
behind that little- girl façade are nerves of steel.
‘Well, get on with it, then.’ My voice sounds a hell of a lot
braver than I feel.
‘I know all about you,’ she says. ‘The things you’ve done.’
I step back. So I’m finally face to face with the person who’s
been tormenting me all this time, the person who knows things
about my past that nobody else should know.
‘Who are you? Why did you go to the house? Why did you trick my mother into letting you in?’
She narrows her eyes. ‘We were going to get married, Simon
and I. Did you know that? We were childhood sweethearts.’
I stare at her, my brain tying itself in knots, trying to process
her words. This must be the girl who had a crush on him, who
wouldn’t take no for an answer. The girl he finished with when
he met me. She’s lying. She must be.
A small laugh explodes in my mouth. ‘Married? No, I don’t
believe you. He only went out with you for a few weeks. You’re
lying.’
She smiles, but there’s nothing friendly about the shape of
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her mouth. ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. He came back to
me, when he gave up drinking. When you wouldn’t. I took him back.’
‘Took him back?’
‘Didn’t he ever tell you about me?’ She gives a bitter little
laugh. ‘Of course he didn’t. You only knew him when he was
drinking. He was a completely different person when he was
sober. That’s when he contacted me again. We used to be an
item back in the day, before you turned up.’
A car whips by and we shrink into the hedge as it passes.
‘Come on,’ she says, and before I can gather my thoughts I’m
doing as she says and walking alongside her. How did I let this
happen? How has she managed to reassert herself so fast, to
take the upper hand?
‘He was doing so well,’ she says. ‘Until he met you again.’ Her voice is icy. Unforgiving. ‘You were a selfish, drunken bitch.’
I don’t say anything in my defence, because there’s nothing I
can say. She’s right.
‘I knew who you were as soon as you answered his phone.’
I stop walking and stare at her. ‘What do you mean? I don’t
remember anything about that.’ Except now that she’s said it I
realize that I’ve had that memory before, seen the image of his
phone vibrating in his shirt pocket. Did I really answer it?
There’s that bitter little laugh again. ‘Well, you wouldn’t,
would you? You were off your head. Who do you think called
the ambulance? It took me ages to get any kind of address out
of you.’ She pauses. ‘Not that it made any difference in the end.’
Tears spring to my eyes. I thought that calling the ambulance
was the one good thing I managed to do in that whole sorry
episode and now it turns out that I didn’t even do that.
‘What do you want with me?’ My voice rings out louder and
more aggressively than I intended. I mustn’t aggravate her. I
don’t know what else she’s capable of.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
‘If it was up to me, I’d have nothing whatsoever to do with
you. I’m doing this for him. For Simon.’
‘What do you mean? Doing what? Simon’s dead.’
She stops and eases her arms through the straps of her ruck-
sack. She puts it on the ground in front of her and crouches
down to undo the buckle. At last she finds what she’s looking
for and draws out a long brown envelope.
My knees begin to tremble. What else can she possibly taunt
me with?
She straightens up and looks at me, the envelope still in her
hand. There’s a strange wistful expression on her face. ‘Can’t
believe I’m finally handing this over. So many times I nearly tore
it up, but something always stopped me. I guess it was the thought
of him watching me from wherever he is and hating me for it.’
I stare at her, bewildered by the sudden change in her behav-
iour, her voice. Maybe it’s all some horrible trick to lull me into
a false sense of security. Maybe this envelope she’s still clutch-
ing as if she can hardly bear to pass it over contains something
so terrible I’ve wiped it from my memory.
‘Deep down, I knew he didn’t love me. Not the way he
loved you.’
Her voice is so quiet I have to strain my ears to hear her.
‘I kept thinking he’d get over you and that he and I wou
ld . . .
I don’t know, live happily ever after.’ She laughs, but it’s not the bitter little noise she made earlier. ‘Like that was ever going to
happen.’
‘I don’t understand.’
She stuffs her things back in her rucksack and stands up with
the envelope. She holds it out towards me and I see my name,
the familiar slope of Simon’s handwriting. ‘Then you’d better
read this.’
For a few seconds we’re each holding one end of the enve-
lope. I can’t bring myself to take full possession of it and she
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can’t bring herself to release it. Eventually, her fingers loosen
and the envelope is mine. My heart is racing. Can this really be
a letter from Simon? A letter to me?
‘I think it’s what’s commonly known as a suicide note.’ She
looks away. ‘I know I shouldn’t have opened it, but I couldn’t
help myself. I had to stop reading after the first couple of para-
graphs. It was too painful.’
She tilts her head back and sniffs.
‘I’ve been trying to give it to you for ages, but every time I came
anywhere near you I changed my mind. I didn’t want you to read his lovely words. I was jealous of you, don’t you see? All I ever
wanted was for Simon to love me the way he loved you.’ She sniffs
again. ‘You were the one he was thinking of, right up to the end.’
I stare at her, open- mouthed, my mind still trying to catch
up, to recalibrate. Is this what it all boils down to? All these
weeks of wondering who the hell has been stalking and perse-
cuting me like this, thinking I’m in real danger, thinking my
own mother might be at risk. I feel like grabbing hold of the
wretched girl by her collar and shaking her.
‘Is that why you’ve been trying to freak me out all this time?
Because you were jealous?’
She pinches her lips together. An angry little frown puckers
her forehead.
‘I wasn’t just jealous, I was angry with you. Furious. Still am,
if you must know.’
She’s walking away from me now, striding off towards the
main road. She’s picking up speed. No, she doesn’t get to walk
away from me that easily. Not after everything she’s put me
through. I’m the one who should be furious.
‘Laura, come back!’
She stops and turns, her face streaming with tears. She wipes