The Orchid Girls Read online

  How can I get Grace back on my side? She’s got to help me understand.

  Charlotte’s Diary

  Wednesday 14th August 2002

  I knew Molly and Grace were up to something and today I found out what. Belinda will die when I tell her. Since the party I’ve been going to the beach on my own. Jason still flirts with me so he can’t be that into Grace really. He was probably drunk. When I tell him what I found out today, he’ll see what a slag she is. This afternoon the sun went in and when Grace and Molly left the beach I followed them to Molly’s uncle’s cottage. I waited a while and then went round the back. Through the windows I could see photographs laid out on the table, with cameras and equipment and a tripod thing in the corner. The curtains were drawn across the next room and I could hear giggling. I peered through a gap and nearly fell over when I saw what they were doing. Grace was lying on the sofa, stretching her tanned legs across the seat. Molly came in with two glasses of what looked like lemonade and I moved back fast, but she was totally focused on Grace, not seeing me. She put the drinks down on the table and Grace pulled Molly down on top of her. She slid Molly’s vest strap down and I couldn’t look any more. Now I know for sure. What I need next is proof. Jason will be so grateful to me.

  On the way back the sun came out and I was walking so fast to get away, it made me feel sick. Grace’s dad needs to know about this. He’s already made clear what he thinks about that kind of thing, she’d be in so much trouble. That would pay her back. All I need is to wait for the right moment.

  Thirteen

  GRACE

  Running water wakes me. Richard’s in the shower and I stretch my arms out, groaning when I see how early it is. Since his decision to stand as London Mayor, lie-ins are a distant memory. As soon as my eyes flick open, thoughts crowd in. Molly, Charlotte, the photo. But at least Richard knows – it’s dealt with. For now.

  ‘What time are you back tonight, honey?’ I ask as he steps out from the en suite, a pale blue towel slung around his defined waist. My gorgeous husband stands in front of me, yet it’s Molly who’s on my mind. Thoughts of her don’t belong in my life now, and I try to ignore them, noticing that the tan he picked up in Croatia four months ago has completely faded. Holidays have also been put on hold.

  ‘Around eight, I reckon. What are you thinking?’

  I sit up, tucking the sheet under my arms. It’s been weeks since he’s tugged the covers away from me and risked being late for work. The other night doesn’t count. He’s made his views on starting a family perfectly clear, and I’ve given up pestering him. ‘Not while you’re establishing your brand, Grace.’ Now I have to push my yearning for a child back where it won’t catch me unawares. I try to convince myself there’s plenty of time yet. For now it’s our relationship that matters. Our relationship and my career.

  ‘I’ll cook us a nice dinner. Something special. Let’s get dressed up and have a date night.’ It’s exactly what we need, a cosy night in with just the two of us, to help me reinforce the message that everything is under control. But why does it feel as if it’s not just Richard I have to convince?

  ‘Have you been reading one of those magazine articles that tell you how to keep your marriage alive? Got some sexy lingerie stashed in the drawer?’ Richard’s mouth twitches. He’s mocking me, making me wish I wasn’t so transparent.

  ‘Shut up!’ I toss the towel he’s left on the bed at him, smiling. ‘And put that in the bathroom, where it belongs.’

  My meeting with Simon Farrer is short but efficient. He’s excited about my ideas for the project range, and I come away feeling relieved that I had the extra time to get ready. I can’t believe I almost jeopardised that. One more day and I’d have missed the meeting and Richard would have found out. I mustn’t let anything get in the way of my work again. Especially not Molly.

  Afterwards I go to the supermarket and stock up for the next few days. Today I’m making what is supposed to be a simple butternut squash, barley and feta bake, but I spend hours poring over ingredients and trying out different combinations. A memory flashes: me perching on a high stool in the kitchen, Mum with rosy cheeks flushed from the oven. A stab of pain. Lunchtime passes but I work through, thoughts of the anonymous text niggling at me. What if Molly is telling the truth? What if someone has found out what happened?

  It’s late afternoon by the time I make the final preparations for my bake. I won’t let my fears ruin our evening, and I take a shower, shivering despite making the water as hot as I can bear. Dark grey clouds cover the sky and my mood plummets along with the temperature as I wrap myself in a thick towel. My thoughts drift to Richard, trying to recapture my enthusiasm for this evening. We used to arrange date nights more often, a different restaurant each time and cocktail bars after, but these days people recognise us and it’s hard to relax. It’s easier to do them at home. But everything has to be right.

  I choose from my range of little black dresses, adding a simple gold necklace and sweeping my hair up into a French pleat, which looks effortless but takes me ages. I’ll add a final spritz of perfume once I’ve completed the meal. Selfie snapped, posted online and instantly liked.

  Half an hour later the table is set, a salad is in the fridge and a hearty smell wafts out from the oven. I light candles, dim the lights and put some music on, Greek bouzouki music which evokes the ambience of the hot evenings of our honeymoon. The balcony windows are pushed open and candles flicker on the table outside but I stay inside and sip my wine, mindful of the shadowy photo taken from the canal. The alcohol rushes to my head and I try and relax. My mobile is silent and, if I persist with my strategy, Molly has to give up. I’ll tell her what she wants to hear, but keep her distant. She’ll soon get bored and move on. She hasn’t mentioned a partner, and I doubt she has someone in her life when she’s obsessing about me. If only she could move on from the past, as I have. How could she not be over it?

  Richard is only five minutes late. He leans into me for a lingering kiss and runs his hands over my shoulders. I hope this means he’s forgotten my wobble the other day.

  ‘Something smells delicious.’

  We kiss again and my stomach feels warm as I watch the way the light falls on his face, highlighting his stubble and the set of his jaw. So different from Molly. God, why do I keep thinking about her? I push the thought aside.

  ‘Shall we venture outside?’ He takes the bottle and I join him on the balcony. There’s no need to be anxious now he’s with me. But each time a burst of conversation filters up from the canal, or feet run past, I try not to jump.

  He sits opposite me and drinks some wine.

  ‘This is good,’ he says, inspecting the label on the bottle. ‘Grace’s organic choice, of course.’ He loosens his tie, rolls up his sleeves. ‘I can’t be bothered to get changed, I’m knackered. You don’t mind, do you?’

  I wipe a speck of dust off the table, feeling disappointed. He always used to make an effort.

  ‘Have you heard any more from that woman?’

  ‘No, and I don’t think I will. How was your day?’

  ‘Meetings and more meetings. The dinner the other night was a success, publicity-wise. Marianne’s polling slightly less than me at the moment.’

  ‘Not bad, considering you don’t have a huge party backing you like she does. But slightly less isn’t good enough, I want you to beat her by a landslide,’ I say with a laugh.

  He grins. ‘How was Simon?’

  ‘Great, he loved my packaging ideas. He’s full on, isn’t he? Talks as if he’s trying to catch himself up. You can see he’s the kind of person that gets things done. He’s going to do the designs for the cereals first, then move on to the drinks later. The colour scheme is to die for. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with. And we talked about developing a range of boxed meals to cook – they’re the latest thing, especially among young people.’

  ‘That sounds like a great idea. Try one out next time I’m away.’

  Richard’s
phone trills and he stops to take the call. I sip from my wine glass, welcoming the slight fuzziness that descends. He rolls his eyes and I can tell it’s his mum who’s talking.

  ‘Of course, I’ll tell her.’ He listens some more, waves his glass at me for a refill. This time my hands are steady.

  ‘OK, Mum, see you soon. And try not to worry, OK?’ He hangs up.

  ‘Mum says to thank you for booking the hotel. They loved it. Especially the breakfast – even Dad was impressed, and you know how hard that is. Not that he would say as much, but Mum can tell… They’re still helping with the search for Emily. The police have been interviewing her friends, trying to work out what happened before she went off.’

  Molly’s mother, Aunt Caroline, led the search in Dorset. As soon as Mrs Greene rang to say Charlotte hadn’t come home, she sprang into action. She was in her element, out organising everybody, taking charge. Spending all her free time with Mrs Greene, trying to keep the hope alive. Providing cups of tea at the community centre for all the volunteers. I hate remembering.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep reminding me.’

  He looks intently at me.

  ‘Mum knows her, it’s not just some random schoolgirl. Why does it bother you?’

  I’ve said the wrong thing again. I wipe a drop of wine from the side of the bottle, stopping it inching its way down to stain the table. Richard is so careless.

  ‘There was an incident when I was at school, one of our friends went missing.’

  Concern flickers across his eyes. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t like talking about it.’

  ‘You always do that.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Change the subject when I ask you anything about your past. We’ve been married for over a year. Surely you trust me by now?’

  A hint of a burning smell catches my attention and I jump to my feet, making a dive for the oven. But even before I pull the door open and retrieve my bake I can see the black spikes of burnt cheese. In my haste to get the dish out my arm grazes the side of the oven and I bite down a cry as my skin burns. Cold water does nothing to soothe the pain. Being so anxious must have made me forget to set the timer and I swear under my breath. Richard drinks outside, oblivious.

  ‘Richard! Couldn’t you smell burning? The food is ruined.’

  ‘It’ll taste great, I’m sure.’ He plonks his glass of wine on the table and large red drops splatter the tablecloth.

  ‘Oh, why don’t you mess up the table as well! I’m supposed to be taking photographs of this. It’s ruined now.’ Alcohol gives me courage to stand up to him.

  ‘Chill out, will you?’ He swipes at the wine with a serviette, his movements exaggerated, making a messy red-coloured stain.

  I serve the food onto plates, biting down on my tongue to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret.

  ‘Bring another bottle over, will you?’ His voice is loose and I force myself not to slam the bottle down in front of him, a less fancy one this time. No point wasting it on him. He’ll crash out later. How romantic.

  Richard takes a small mouthful of food, and I sip my wine, trying to gauge his mood.

  ‘You realise you shouldn’t be drinking that.’

  ‘Why not?’ Maybe he’s changed his mind and wants me to get pregnant after all. But after a second he dashes my hopes.

  ‘The Daily Tribune are calling you the “Queen of Clean”.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not. Do your fans know you drink alcohol?’

  ‘Of course. I’m all about quality, moderation. Obviously I wouldn’t go out getting drunk, falling out of nightclubs, that would be stupid.’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  He pours more wine, takes another mouthful of dinner, picks at the salad.

  ‘You don’t like it, do you?’

  ‘It’s good, I had a big lunch, that’s all.’ His fork clatters as he drops it onto the plate.

  ‘I told you I was cooking.’

  ‘You know how work meetings go, I was hardly in a position to say no.’ He covers his mouth as he yawns, pokes at his plate some more.

  I want to scream in frustration. ‘So I’ve completely wasted this afternoon. Why didn’t you let me know? I’ll have to do the whole thing again tomorrow.’

  The fridge buzzes into the uncomfortable silence now the music has finished. My hope of recapturing the ice-blue sea and pale golden sand of our honeymoon, when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, no longer seems appropriate, so I zap the music player off. By the time I return to the table Richard’s chin is slumped on his chest. Rage grips me and I imagine dropping the uneaten food onto his head, clumps of soggy cheese messing up his perfect hair. I wouldn’t dare, but fantasising is good. Doesn’t he realise people clamour for my food and my book is flying off the shelves? My editor emailed me earlier this week to tell me it went straight into the top ten of the non-fiction charts.

  Richard pushes me to do well and then he doesn’t take me seriously. I work fast to clear the table around him until the dishwasher is stacked and all traces of the meal are removed. I’m about to go upstairs when my phone rings. I freeze: what if it’s Molly?

  But it’s Angela.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Grace, it’s about your father.’

  Her voice is loud and I hold the phone away from my ear. I sit down at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It was something his niece said.’

  A car alarm goes off in the distance. ‘He doesn’t have a niece.’

  For a moment all I hear is Angela’s breath down the line as she takes this in.

  ‘Well, she said she was his niece. Said her name was Molly.’

  I lean back against the bannister, feel the hard wood press into my side.

  ‘Do you know what she said to him?’

  ‘No, I was in the other room.’

  My fingers go white as I grip the phone. I can’t believe Molly’s done this; I thought I’d got through to her.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’ A stab of pain reminds me how much there is at stake here, and I swallow down my fury. Would Michael have recognised her? ‘What is he upset about?’

  ‘No idea. He keeps talking about sin. You know how he gets. But he’s quiet now, reading his Bible. I’m so sorry, Grace. I asked her to wait but by the time I’d finished settling Michael she had gone. Maybe you could come over?’

  I mentally scan my diary. Tomorrow morning I’m supposed to be working on the ideas from the meeting while they’re fresh in my head. I can’t get behind with my work again. Added pressure from the Daily Tribune headlines, and now this. A headache threatens.

  ‘I’ve got a busy week. I’ll be over as soon as I can.’

  I hang up, glaring at the phone, then look up. Richard’s eyes are wide open now.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Angela.’

  ‘Is Michael OK?’

  ‘He’s getting muddled again. She wants me to go over.’ I stretch my arms out, making out I’m tired. ‘I’m going to bed.’ I escape to the bathroom and lock the door. My legs feel wobbly and I collapse on the side of the bath, my head in my hands. I can’t bear to think about Molly and Michael. What would they have talked about? Surely she wouldn’t have said anything about us? My stomach heaves and I throw up the wine, a deep pink stream of liquid, and a memory surfaces: Molly leaning back against a tree, sipping a bottle of strawberry milkshake. I’d taken the bottle from her hand and sipped some of the thick pink drink. Then I put the bottle down and pressed my lips onto hers. We both tasted of strawberries. Gently I pressed my tongue against her top lip and then the bottom one, then parted her lips with mine. I breathed into her and she breathed back. Her tongue met mine and I pushed her hard back against the tree.

  ‘Strawberry kiss,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t stop.’

  I feel sick at the unwe
lcome memory, sick that she won’t leave me alone, sick that she’s digging everything up. My stomach cramps. I haven’t got time to chase around after Molly; I need to follow up from the meeting today. My electric toothbrush whirrs in tandem with my mind, but unlike my thoughts, the toothbrush can at least be turned off. I get into bed, knowing another restless night awaits me.

  Fourteen

  MOLLY

  No word from Jodie, which is a relief. But it’s still bugging me that she mentioned the journalist. I’ll kill her if she’s given him my number. This is my story, and I want to deal with it in my way. Not because some lowlife journalist wants to cash in with a racy title and use my secrets for a scoop.

  Unusually, Grace wasn’t online yesterday, but there’s activity on her Instagram now.

  She’s making an appearance at an organic cafe in a department store today, giving a live cookery demonstration. That’s exactly what I need. Beans on toast for breakfast is the best meal I’ve made myself for ages, not quite Grace’s style but it’s progress. Mum often made us beans on toast on a Saturday and Grace’d cut the toast into neat squares and eat the beans separately. That was before she got all snobby about food. It’s probably being in France that’s done that: frogs’ legs and snails, God knows what else they eat over there. I’ve never even been abroad.

  The demonstration is in one of those posh stores, where you can spend more money than I’ve ever earned in a week on a watch or a designer bag. Those things never mattered to me. It’s people that count. People like Grace.

  I’ve got a plan today; I’ve brought my phone and I’m going to take some cracking shots that she’ll wish she could use on her fancy website. But when I get there I see there’s a bearded man with a camera hanging around his neck – he’s not part of my plan. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a bright yellow jumper. One of those hipsters. Struts about arrogantly.