The Orchid Girls Read online

  Deep into the night a noise wakes me and I sit upright, heart racing. I’m back on the Dorset cliffs, sea pounding in the background as the waves thrust forward, threatening to take her away. Back in the irreversible moment that changed everything. The moment I’ve spent my life running from has finally caught up with me.

  Molly is back.

  Four

  MOLLY

  My bicycle creaks and my legs ache as they push against the pedals – this last stretch is a steep hill. The evening shift in the pub has killed me. The dim evening light makes me scrunch up my eyes but all I can see is Grace, the girl who has been stuck in my head for years. What happened back then, the last time I saw her, was a lifetime ago, but we’re still linked, always will be. She’s different, but also as I expected. Smart, bright, confident. Everything I’m not.

  Most of the houses are in darkness, lights off, when I wheel my bike the last few yards down my street. A rustling sound from some bushes startles me. Probably a fox. When a figure steps out there’s a thud in my chest. It’s Jodie.

  ‘You’re late,’ she says, as I wheel my bike into the alleyway beside the house.

  ‘You know how it is. Some nights it takes longer to clean up than others. How come you’re here, anyway?’ I chew my lip to stop myself from asking why she isn’t at home with her girlfriend.

  ‘It wouldn’t take you so long if you didn’t spend so much time flirting with customers.’

  ‘As if.’ I frown as I fumble around in my bag for my keys, noting the edge in her voice. The last thing I need is Jodie in a bad mood. Never mind the fact that she’s the one with the live-in girlfriend. I open the door before turning to face her. ‘Don’t I get a kiss?’

  She presses her lips to my forehead and places her hand on the small of my back as she follows me upstairs. As I lead the way into the flat, her arm slides around my waist, pulling me towards her for a kiss. A proper one. She pushes me onto the sofa but for a split second it isn’t Jodie that I’m holding, but a softer, paler body is pressing into mine, different lips are sharing secrets with me. I blink the image away, focusing on Jodie, whose mouth tastes of whisky and cigarettes. I try but the moment is gone and I push her off me, hoisting myself back up and pulling my knees to my chest.

  Jodie helps herself to a couple of beers from the fridge and takes a swig, her dark eyes narrow.

  ‘What’s up?’

  She hands me a can and I take a mouthful. Tomorrow, I won’t drink. Tomorrow. ‘Nothing. Tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Something’s bothering you, I can tell. I know you, Molly.’

  No you don’t.

  She takes her tobacco tin out of her pocket and rolls a joint. The beer relaxes me, and Jodie blurs a little at the edges. Maybe she’ll understand. Maybe I can open up to her after all. The need to talk roars inside me and smoke curls up towards the ceiling.

  ‘Had a shock, yesterday. I saw an old friend of mine on TV.’

  ‘Crimewatch? Armed robber, is she now?’ She chuckles to herself.

  ‘Hardly. She’s a food blogger. Married to an MP.’

  ‘So why was it a shock?’

  I wish I’d never said anything now; I want to keep Grace to myself and the past in the past. But it’s too late now. ‘I was gutted when we lost touch. Our parents made friends when we were at primary school together, then she moved away, but she used to stay with us in the holidays when her mum was ill. She had breast cancer, although they didn’t tell us what it was at the time. We did everything together. We were close, more like sisters. I wrote when she moved away but she never replied.’

  I light a cigarette, inhaling enough smoke to control the nerves that thinking about those unanswered letters set off.

  ‘Sisters, eh?’ Jodie blows smoke towards the ceiling. I watch it rise. ‘So. Unfinished business.’ She grinds the joint end harshly into the ashtray. I press my back against the sofa, wishing I could take the words back. ‘You fancy her, don’t you?’ she says, a brittleness to her voice.

  ‘Shut up.’

  The real reason I want to see Grace is like poison running through my veins. Even Jodie would run a mile if she knew what I’d done. How everything that happened back then is my fault.

  Jodie looks at me for what seems like ages, nodding her head, then holds her hand out. ‘Come here.’ She pulls me to her and I snuggle into her, feeling her cold hands on my back. ‘Forget her.’ I stop her smile with my mouth, trying to focus on the moment. But Grace is in my head now and everything is different.

  Jodie’s left after telling me she won’t be around this weekend. She doesn’t tell me where she’s going and I don’t ask. On my phone I’m watching Grace, who is baking some sort of custard in her fancy kitchen – sugar-free, dairy-free, some crap like that. Custard takes me back to school dinners and the Grace I used to know telling the cook it looked like cat sick and getting detention. The new Grace is different. Her kitchen is all chrome like in posh magazines, with one of those island things in the middle. I look around my studio, where the kitchen is at the end of my bed, tiles chipped and loose, with a tap that wobbles. Grace wouldn’t be seen dead in this place. She always did like nice things. Her snobby ways used to make Mum laugh – until she stopped laughing because of what I’d done. Because of us. It’s been months since I called Mum, and shame curls inside me. I haven’t seen her since Dad’s funeral.

  I left home when I was sixteen, sick of being stuck in my poky bedroom, where I wrote letters to Grace in my round, bubbly teenage writing. Nobody would tell me where she’d gone, or if she’d ever come back. Agonised, I waited for answers which never came. Mum’s normally rosy face had lost its spark. She slammed drawers in the kitchen and made the pots and pans shake whenever I mentioned Grace. Dad just kept out of the way, busied himself with his gardening – he was passionate about wild flowers. He hated raised voices, and I hated seeing the disappointment I put in his eyes. With Mum, I soon learned to shut up. She didn’t want to hear about Grace, and I wondered what she knew about us. My cheeks flushed whenever I thought about it. Living by the sea soon became impossible. The cliffs closed in on me and the sea air choked me. I was glad to get away, taking one long, last look at the ocean and leaving, no longer able to stand the guilt.

  Birmingham was the longest place I stayed, two years in total, trying so hard to forget. I kept away from London because I thought Grace would go there. But I knew I’d end up here one day, no longer able to fight the urge.

  As I walk downstairs I notice the lace on my boot is tangled and I yank it so hard it breaks. Another thing I need to replace. Rain threatens so I wear my hoodie, managing to secure my boot. Mrs Bird from downstairs is gathering letters from the hallway mat, one hand on her back as she stoops over.

  ‘Let me do it,’ I say, bending down to help. There’s a lot of post today, fingers crossed no bills for me, I’ve already got a drawerful upstairs. There’s a postcard for the bloke upstairs, a sunny Majorca beach on the front, and it’s enough to conjure up the seafront at Lyme Regis. I wonder if Grace got the postcard, whether she showed it to her husband. I should have guessed she’d be married – that could be a problem. Mrs Bird has one letter, and there’s nothing for me, thank God. She takes the envelope from me, both of our hands trembling. She has age as an excuse. Feeling ashamed, I shove my hands in my pockets, and set off for the canal, wondering how Grace could choose to live by water after everything that happened.

  At the canal, the water is a gloomy green and beer cans float in the scum. I look straight ahead. Underneath Grace’s flats there’s a Costa coffee shop and I work out I’ve got enough points on my loyalty card for a free hot chocolate. I stand on the canal-side looking up at the shiny glass windows, trying to imagine what Grace is thinking about the postcard. I bet she knows it’s me. She won’t know what to do. Why didn’t she answer my call? Is she avoiding me? Perhaps she’s scared her husband will find out and she’s waiting for him to go out. That must be it. I’ll keep trying.

  My ho
t chocolate doesn’t last long and I stamp my feet to warm myself up. An elderly woman stops outside the flats and I watch as the door opens and she speaks to the man who is exiting the building. He’s tall and wearing a suit. Good-looking. It’s him. I flatten myself back against a wall and stare down into the chocolate slime in the bottom of my cup. There’s a whoosh of air as he passes, close enough to touch, and I want to run after him and tell him who I am. He goes into the cafe and I watch as a woman at the table in front of the door whispers to her friend and points to him. The man behind the counter seems to know him and they exchange a few words. He’s wearing a blue suit, carrying an expensive-looking case. He comes back out and I have the urge to chase after him. I’ve got nothing better to do, so I follow him.

  Trailing him is kind of fun. It’s easy to slip in behind him, with my music on and the sun peeking behind the clouds. He walks at a steady pace, not too fast as he holds his coffee in front of him, stopping every now and then to take a sip. It’s funny watching people pass him by. The ones who recognise him turn around, foreheads creased as they try to work out where they know him from, or nudge their partner, trying to be discreet. Until last week, I’d never even heard of him. But the mayoral election has put him right smack in the public eye. On the high street he stops outside Waterstones, so I stop too, lighting a cigarette, my eye on him. He takes a photograph of the window, turns and he’s off again. He sticks his arm out and disappears into a black cab. In a matter of seconds he’s gone, so I wander over to the bookshop to find out what grabbed his attention. It’s a poster for Grace’s book, prominently displayed in the window, with a large photo of Grace wearing an apron and holding a wooden spoon. I’m rooted to the spot. It’s the lettering on the poster that draws my eye, advertising her book launch, in the main store in Piccadilly, this week. Tickets available.

  Inside the shop an assistant is sorting out piles of books, another is serving a customer. It’s years since I’ve been in a bookshop. When I try to read, words wriggle about like black ants trying to escape the page. The stationery section catches my eye, pretty notebooks and diaries. My mind strays back to the past. We kept diaries as teenagers, and it hurts me, deep in the gut, when I remember the words I wrote – I don’t want the memory. Everything went into my diary, and I drew little pictures when I couldn’t find the words, kept it locked away in a drawer so nobody could laugh at the thoughts that harassed me. Eventually I destroyed it, although I tried to remove the orchid pressed into the back pages, but it crumbled into purple dust, my emotion crumpling with it. I thought if I burnt my diary to cinders it would take my feelings with it, cleansing me, but it didn’t work. Guilt gnaws at my gut, always has done, knowing what I’m responsible for. After destroying my diary, not being able to relive what we went through was worse, and I started to forget. Not her, never her, but the details, the little things I’d written down so that I would remember them.

  All around the bookshop there are posters of the face I’ve been hunting for years. Suddenly my head feels light. I notice that the bookshop assistant has left her stool and I sink down onto it, my head in a spin.

  ‘Are you alright?’ The shop assistant is back, with a concerned look on her face and a pile of books resting effortlessly in the crook of her left arm.

  ‘Yeah, dizzy spell. Can you tell me how I book a ticket for this talk?’ I nod towards the poster, keeping my eyes on the ground. I daren’t look at that face any more, those blue eyes with so much to tell me.

  ‘Sure, you stay put and I’ll sort it out for you.’

  ‘The name’s Charlotte Greene.’

  The name pops out of nowhere and I instantly regret saying it. The shop assistant adds me to a list, handing me a ticket which I tuck into my pocket. Ever so simple. She has no idea of the emotions running wild in me, the guilt that grips me and won’t let go.

  Charlotte’s Diary

  Tuesday 23rd July 2002

  This is going to be such a cool summer!! I’ve met this guy, Jason. He’s older, must be at least eighteen. He works at the kiosk on the beach so I’m buying a LOT of ice cream and Pepsis. A one-month break from gymnastics is heaven and I’m making the most of it. Me and Belinda have found our own sunbathing spot on the beach – right opposite Jason’s kiosk – and we’re making sure he notices us. Jason is tall and tanned and really fit. He knows our names already. Bel knows I fancy him and she’s cool with it cos she’s going steady with Harry. Today we were hanging out there and Belinda nearly choked on her ice cream. Bloody Molly Conway was coming out of the sea. Her hair was wet and straggly and she was wearing a black swimsuit. I feel bad whenever I see Molly. It was so much easier when she moved schools. If Belinda hadn’t been forced to sit next to Molly that day in Geography none of it would have happened. Bel’s face – I nearly died laughing. Me and Belinda hated being in Year Seven – the rest of the class were all like little kids with bows in their hair and swapping sweets at break – they even still called it playtime. We used to put our hair up and wear make-up, we looked so much older. And we’d make Molly do things for us, it was just a bit of fun. Molly had tight curly red hair and freckles and enjoyed PE lessons – enough said!! She even dressed like a boy.

  I saw Molly’s mum once – a larger version of her – imagine knowing you’re going to grow up to look like that. I’d kill myself.

  Anyway, on the beach today Molly saw us looking at her and stopped dead, staring right at us. The sun must have gone in at the same time cos I couldn’t stop shivering. I wish Belinda wasn’t going to Spain tomorrow. The beach on my own won’t be much fun. I hope I don’t see Molly again, we didn’t mean it really. It was just a bit of fun.

  Five

  GRACE

  Richard snaps my necklace into place and spins me around to face him.

  ‘It reminds me of last summer when you wear this.’ For a moment we’re back on our honeymoon in Greece, the simple stall in front of a cave, exquisite silver and turquoise jewellery laid out on the rocks. ‘You look gorgeous.’ He smells of citrus from the shower and I breathe him in, pressing myself against his chest. His hands are firm on my soft skin as he looks into my eyes. ‘What is it? You’re not nervous, are you? On TV the other day you were so composed. But you seem unsettled lately. Are you OK?’

  Our faces look back at us from the mirror. Richard’s dark eyes never fail to move me and I put my arm around him, admiring how good we look together. The shiny blue of my dress shimmers as I reach for my Chanel N° 5, a present from Richard – ‘to reward my success’, he said. Fifty thousand followers. The light spray feels cool on my skin and my mind races ahead to this evening. The guests, the speech, the reading I’ve planned from the book. Sometimes I wish his expectations of me weren’t so high, but tonight adrenaline fires me, and I can’t wait.

  ‘Nothing’s the matter. And I’m not nervous, I’m excited.’ I rest my hand on his arm. The buzzer downstairs breaks into the conversation. ‘Come on, that’ll be the cab.’

  The launch is at a central London bookshop, and the upper bar area is decked out for the occasion. It’s already dark and lights from the rooftops form a backdrop outside, as though all of London is twinkling and listening in. My face is everywhere on the strategically placed posters, and copies of the book are stacked up on a long table, where people are milling around. Julia spots us the moment we step out of the lift and sashays through the crowd, her ample figure clad in her trademark black with a silky shawl draped over the top half of her body. Richard puts his hand on my back as we hand our coats into the cloakroom and I catch sight of the evening’s guest list. Excitement fizzes inside me as I recognise high-profile celebrities along with friends and Richard’s family. But then my stomach drops as I read the name Charlotte Greene and I grab at a stone pillar for support.

  ‘Whoops, steady,’ Richard laughs. ‘You haven’t had any champagne yet.’

  I force a smile back and watch the crowd part as Julia walks us through the room. I feel Richard’s light touch on my shoulder as
he whispers, ‘Do us proud,’ in my ear.

  I will my pounding heart to settle, my mind to focus, and push the murky fear away, telling myself it’s a common name. Julia stops at the drinks area where a waiter immaculately dressed in black and white holds a tray of champagne. She takes two glasses and leads me to my publishing team, who hover around the book table, their casual office jeans and jumpers swapped for slinky dresses and heels. I spot Richard’s parents in the corner and wave to them. Jean’s face is radiant as she nudges Des, who is pointing at something outside, no doubt acquainting her with London landmarks. Knowledgeable about everything, just like his son. They will have already checked into the hotel and Jean will be loving this special occasion and spotting the odd familiar face, grabbing Des’s arm and whispering as she recognises a model or an MP. Des, on the other hand, is unimpressed by celebrity culture. Richard joins them and Jean’s face lights up once more. The champagne fizzes straight to my head, quelling my fears and I smile at Julia, feeling a pang of affection for Richard. He’s right about putting a baby on hold. We both need to concentrate on our careers for a few years before we start thinking about raising a family. ‘Build a brand,’ as he says. Richard’s always right. A twinge of anxiety takes me by surprise, and I swallow some champagne.

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’

  ‘It’s a great turnout.’

  We both look around the room; the bar is packed. Lots of strangers, but also many people I recognise. Several wide-eyed, unfamiliar individuals clutch copies of my book and I guess these are the real fans. One of whom happens to be called Charlotte Greene. The thought leaves a lump in my throat. Different pockets of conversation buzz into a background hum and Julia has to tap a spoon against her glass to get the attention of the crowd.