I come to on the floor of the porch. One of my cheeks is pressed against cold tile, and the other is strangely damp. I glance up to see Milly standing above me, her big, brown eyes fixed on the empty dog bowl in the corner of the porch, her tongue dripping with drool. She senses me looking at her and smiles down at me before enthusiastically licking my cheek.
“Hello, Milly Moo.” I sit up slowly, gingerly checking my body for injuries. Nothing appears to be broken, though by the way my left temple aches, I think I’m in for a pretty impressive bruise. For a split second, I assume I tripped and fell, but then I spot the postcard on the floor beside me and it all comes flooding back again. The image on the front shows James Stewart sitting on a step, smiling a goofy smile while behind him, a shadow of an enormous rabbit is projected on the wall. It’s an image from the film Harvey. The postcard could so easily be innocuous—a simple hello from one friend to another—only there’s no chatty text on the other side of this postcard. There isn’t even an addressee. There’s just a stamp, postmarked Brighton, and an address, my address.
This isn’t someone forgetting to write a postcard and slipping it into the postbox with a handful of letters by mistake. That’s the explanation Brian would come up with if I told him about it. He’d give me a look, the look, the one that says, “You’re going to have another episode, aren’t you?” and then he’d throw it in the bin and tell me that everything’s fine and I’m safe. Only I’m not safe, am I? Harvey was James’s favorite film. I lost count of the number of times we watched that film together.
Milly startles as I kick out at the postcard, sending it spinning and scuttling under the shoe rack. If I can’t see it, then maybe I won’t think about it. Maybe I’ll be able to ignore the fact that, twenty years after I left him, James has finally tracked me down.
***
I try as best I can to forget about the postcard, but it’s like trying to forget how to breathe. Whenever my mind pauses, whenever it’s free of thoughts about Charlotte, Brian, and what to cook for dinner, it returns to the porch, peers under the shoe rack, and pulls out the postcard. No matter where I am in the house, it haunts me from its dark, dusty corner. I want to visit Charlotte but I’m too scared to leave the house. What if James is waiting for me? If he’s been watching the house, he’ll know I’m home alone, but all the doors and windows are locked—I’ve checked three times—and there’s no way for him to get in. I’ve got my mobile phone in my hands, primed and ready to call the police if I hear the slightest noise.
There won’t be time to call for help if I leave the house and James attacks me. If he’s hiding in the bushes opposite the front door, he could get me as I get into the car, or if he’s in a car down the lane, he could follow me to the hospital and attack Charlotte. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I last saw her, and I’m already consumed by fear and guilt because I haven’t seen her today. What if, deep in her subconscious, she knows I haven’t been to visit, and it makes her retreat deeper into her coma? What if she wakes up and I’m not there? What if she dies?
For the next couple of hours, I don’t know what to do with myself. I jump when the phone rings and start when the wind rattles the letter box. When there’s a knock on the front door, I run up to Brian’s study and peer down from behind the curtain, only to discover the electricity man pushing a “I called to check your meter” card through the letter box. What am I doing? I’m allowing the memory of James to terrify me, to stop me from visiting my own daughter. I am not “Suzy-Sue”—I haven’t been her for a very long time.
I return downstairs and fish the postcard out from its dusty hiding place with the fire tongs and burn it in the fireplace in the living room. I sit on the sofa, watching as the flames lick at the corners, dance across James Stewart’s lolloping smile, and then envelop him. When he and his strange rabbit sidekick have turned to dust, I sweep them up.
As I pour the ashes of the postcard into the kitchen bin, a new thought occurs to me. What if the postcard was meant for Oli from one of his university friends? What if they were too stoned to notice they hadn’t put his name or a message on it and I just burned it? What if he asks where it is? How do I explain what I just did without sounding certifiable? My hands shake as I reach for my car keys, and I steady myself on the kitchen table. I drop my head to my chest and inhale slowly—one, two, three—then out again. I do it again—one, two, three—then out again. I need to be calm. I need to think clearly; otherwise, I’ll have another episode. This is how they start; this is how I go from normal, sane, rational Sue to neurotic, paranoid “I’d better lock Charlotte in her room for the weekend because Brian is away at a party conference and BBC news has a report about a child abduction in the next town” Sue. One, two, three. One, two, three. Slowly my breathing returns to normal.
***
I feel calmer and happy when I return from the hospital. I felt better the second I stepped into Charlotte’s room and saw that she was still safe, warm, and being cared for. There was no change in her condition, and the nurses reassured me that she hadn’t had any visitors since Brian and I were with her yesterday. There is no reason to think James has found me. The blank postcard is just that. An innocuous blank postcard, sent to us in error or mistakenly delivered by the postman. I’ve barely slept since Charlotte’s accident. I can’t sleep at night for trying to work out why she did what she did. It’s no wonder my mind goes into overdrive sometimes.
For the second time today, I attach a leash to Milly’s collar and lead her out of the house. She smiles up at me, delighted to be out in the fresh air again. We only tend to walk her early in the morning and late at night, so an afternoon sojourn in the spring sunshine is an unexpected treat.
***
Judy opens the door with a scowl.
“Sue?”
I force a smile. “Hello, Judy. How are you?”
“Fine.”
I wait for her to ask what I want. Instead I am subjected to a long, slow eye sweep that starts at the top of my head with my gray roots, pauses at the wrinkles and dark circles that line my unmade-up eyes, flits over my best M&S coat, and settles, unimpressed, on my comfy brown Clarks slip-ons. Judy and I were good friends until we fell out when she took both girls to get their ears pierced for Ella’s thirteenth birthday without checking with me first. In retrospect, I may have overreacted, but we both said some pretty ugly things and the time for mending fences is long past.
“Great,” I say as brightly as I can manage when really I want to bop her on her sneering Chanel-smeared nose. “I don’t suppose Ella’s in, is she?”
“Ella?” She looks surprised.
“Yes. I’d like to talk to her about Charlotte. If that’s okay with you.”
Judy’s eyes narrow and then, just for a split second, a look akin to compassion crosses her face. I imagine she’s heard about the accident.
“Okay,” she says after a pause. “But keep it brief because she’s supposed to be studying for her exams.”
When I nod my assent, she turns back toward the hallway, pulling the front door toward her so it’s only open a couple of inches, and then shouts for her daughter. There’s a muffled cry in reply and then the door slams shut in my face. A minute or so later, it opens again. Ella peers out at me.
“Hi.” She looks at me suspiciously, just like her mother did.
“Hi, Ella.” My face is aching from smiling so widely. “I was wondering if we could have a chat. About Charlotte.”
Her expression changes lightning fast—from suspicion to anger—and she crosses one skinny-jeaned leg over the other. “Why would I want to do that?”
First Liam, now Ella. I only have to mention my daughter’s name for a black cloud to descend. It doesn’t make sense. When her class made their yearbook at the start of their sophomore year and predicted where everyone would be in five years’ time, Charlotte was voted “girl everyone would stay in touch with” and “girl most likely to be successful.”
“Because you’re friends,” I say. “Unless…” I study her face. “Unless you’re not friends anymore.”
Ella raises a thin, penciled eyebrow. “Correct.”
“I see.” I pause, trying to decide how best to continue. From the set of her jaw, I can tell Ella’s as keen on communicating with me as Liam was and yet…
“Charlotte’s still in a coma,” I say.
“I know.” She raises the eyebrow again, but the flash of light in her eyes betrays her. She’s interested. She wants to know more about her ex-best friend.
“She’s breathing on her own now. She’s still having oxygen through a mask, but her lungs are getting stronger, which is a very good sign.”
Ella says nothing.
“We’ve tried everything to try and help her wake up,” I continue. “I’ve talked to her about the family and what we’re all doing. Brian reads her articles from the newspaper—”
“Grim. She’d hate that.”
“I agree.” I suppress a smile at the look of disgust on her face. “I suggested he read out Heat magazine instead but he wasn’t keen. I don’t think he’s as big a fan of celebrity gossip as Charlotte is.”
Ella pulls a face, like the mental image of my husband reading Heat magazine repulses her.
“So anyway,” I soldier on, “Oli came up with the idea that we should play Charlotte her favorite song. He said he’d seen people do that in films and that it helps wake someone from a coma.”
Ella’s face lights up at the mention of my stepson’s name. Until recently, she and Charlotte were like shadows to Oli and Danny. I have an inkling the boys may have been the subject of the girls’ first-ever crushes.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” I say. “So I was wondering if you could help. With the song. I haven’t got the first clue what Charlotte was into.”
“‘Someone Like You’ by Adele.”
“Great.” I’ve actually heard of that song. They play it on Radio 2 all the time. “Anyone else?”
She shrugs. “That’s her favorite but she likes ‘I Love the Way You Lie’ by Rihanna and Eminem, ‘Money’ by Jessie J. Oh, and ‘Born This Way’ by Lady Gaga. We used to dance to that in my room before we’d go out to Breeze, to the under-eighteen night,” she adds quickly.
Her whole demeanor has changed. She’s not a young woman propping up the doorway with her legs and arms crossed and a defiant look on her face anymore. Instead she looks like the little blond five-year-old I found Charlotte hand in hand with on the playground at the end of their first day at school.
“You could see her,” I say softly, “if you’d like. I could give you a lift to the hospital. I’m sure Charlotte would appreciate it.”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
A scowl has fallen over Ella’s face, all traces of vulnerability and tenderness gone.
“What makes you say that?”
“She just wouldn’t.”
“Is this about Keisha?” I venture. A look of surprise crosses Ella’s face at the mention of the other girl’s name. “Is that why you’re angry?”
“It’s none of my business who Charlotte hangs out with. She can do what she wants.”
“But you’re her best friend. Surely you—”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re not?” I feign surprise. “What happened?”
Ella clenches her jaw. “Nothing.”
“Well, something must have—”
“Nothing happened, all right! Just leave me alone and stop asking me—”
“Everything okay here?” Judy appears in the doorway, alerted by her daughter’s raised voice. “Ella? Are you okay?”
“No.” Her daughter feigns a pained expression. “Sue’s hassling me and I haven’t done anything wrong, Mum. I was just—”
“Have you been hassling my daughter?” Judy attempts a frown, but too many Botox injections prevent her.
“No!” I can’t help but laugh. “Of course not. I was just asking her why she and Charlotte aren’t best friends anymore.”
“And?”
“According to Ella, nothing happened.”
Judy glances at her daughter, who shrugs as if to say “that’s what I said.”
“If Ella said nothing happened,” she says, looking back at me, “then nothing happened.”
“But it must have. Those two have been friends since they were—”
“Nothing happened, Sue,” Ella screams. “Okay? We just stopped being friends.” She looks at her mum. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Okay, darling.” Judy puts a heavily manicured hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Go back to your room and—”
“Please,” I beg. “Judy, please. I need to know what happened. It might help Charlotte. Did you know that she’d split up with Liam or that—”
“Muuuuum.” Ella looks at her mother with beseeching eyes. “Mum, I really need to get back on with my studying.”
“Okay, darling, off you—”
“Please.” I grab hold of Ella’s wrist. “Please. You need to help me.”
“Get your hands off my daughter!” I feel a sharp sting on my forearm and four white stripes appear on my skin from where Judy swiped at me with her false nails. “Now.”
I’m so shocked, I instantly let go.
“Thanks, Mum.” The smallest of smirks crosses Ella’s face as she ducks out from the doorway and takes the stairs two at a time. Judy looks back at me.
“I’d like you to leave now, please, Sue,” she says in a measured voice.
“Judy, look. I’m sorry if I overstepped the mark but—”
“Leave.” She takes a step back into the hallway and begins to close the front door.
I press my hand against it to stop it being slammed in my face. “No, Judy, wait. Listen!”
“No! You listen!” The door swings open again. “I’m sorry about what happened to Charlotte, really I am, but it’s not my fault and it’s certainly not Ella’s. Perhaps you should look a bit closer to home instead.”
I stand on the doorstep openmouthed. And not just because Judy slammed the door in my face.
Sunday, October 14, 1990
James and I had our first argument this evening. He and the rest of the theater group popped by the bar, as they do every Sunday after rehearsals, and James took up his customary stool at the end. I said hello, got him a pint and a kiss, and got on with my job, just as I always do—having a bit of banter with Maggie and Jake, catching up on gossip with Kate, and taking the piss out of Steve—but I could sense that something wasn’t right. Whenever I looked across at James, instead of reading his script or his book, he was staring at me with a sour expression on his face. I shot him a smile then pulled a face. When that did nothing to crack his frown, I went over during a quiet spot to ask what was wrong.
“You know,” he said.
“Know what?”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you because you already know.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here asking!”
He shrugged like I was an idiot, and thoroughly pissed off, I went off to serve someone else.
The next time I turned around to look at James, he’d gone. I asked the others if he’d been in a bad mood during rehearsals. Far from it, they said. He’d been in fine form, practically bouncing across the stage.
“I think someone’s in love.” Maggie had winked.
I thought he was too; he’d been hugely affectionate this morning and had insisted on shagging me not once but twice before he’d let me get out of bed to have a shower. He’d even replied “soon” when I’d asked him when we were going to spend an evening in his place instead of mine.
So what had changed?
I couldn’t wait for kicking out time so I could put all the glasses in the dishwasher, wipe down the tables, and get home to ring James. He didn’t pick up for eight rings and then…
“Hello.” His voice was devoid of emotion.
“James, it’s Suzy.”
“Hello, Susan.”
That stung. He never called me by my full name.
“Why were you so off with me in the bar tonight?”
“You know.”
I fought to keep the hurt out of my voice. “Actually, no, I don’t. That’s why I’m ringing, because I’d like you to tell me.”
“If you don’t know, there’s no point discussing this.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Could you be more exasperating? James, please tell me why you were in such a bad mood or I’m going to put the phone down.”
“Go on then.”
“Fine.”
I slammed down the phone then stared at it, waiting for him to ring back. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. By twenty, I was fuming and snatched the receiver back up.
“Hello.” Same flat voice from the other end.
“What was it? Something I said? Something I did? Someone I talked to?” James sighed and I knew I’d hit the nail on the head. “Who? And if you say ‘you know’ one more time, I’ll never talk to you again.”
“Steve.”
“Steve Steve? Steve MacKensie?”
“Yes.”
“You were in a mood with me because I spoke to Steve MacKensie? That’s ridiculous. Why would you be jealous of him?”
“No one said I was jealous, Susan.”
“Then why—”
“You were flirting with him. I saw you, leaning across the bar so he could look down your top.”
“What?”
“Don’t try and deny it. Everyone saw, and I won’t allow the woman I love to make a laughingstock of me in front of my peers.”
“Allow? What is this, the nineteen thirties? And I wasn’t flirting with him; we were just bantering, like we always do.”
“Then why was his nose in your cleavage?”
“It—” I let out a deep sigh. “This is ridiculous, James. Absolutely ridiculous. We were in bed this morning, lying in each other’s arms after the most amazing sex ever, and I was telling you how much I love you and now you’re accusing me of…” I shook my head. “Forget it. If you think I’d jeopardize what we’ve got, what we had, to flirt with a second-rate Chevalier, then you’re more than a fool, you’re a…” My eyes filled with tears. “Forget it, James.”
I slammed down the phone.
Less than a second later, it rang. I let it ring nine times then picked it up. When I didn’t say anything, James sighed.
“I’m sorry, Suzy-Sue. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I’ve just had a lot on my plate recently. I’ve got a few…personal things…I’m working through at the moment, things I haven’t talked to you about.”
“Well, that’s no reason to take it out on me.”
“I know and I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that. You looked beautiful in the pub tonight. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you in that red top. Your cleavage looks amazing, but it made me angry—when I saw other people admiring you too—because they have no right to ogle you like you’re a cheap piece of meat and—”
“So you don’t want me to wear low-cut tops anymore? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. No. No, that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m trying, clumsily, to say is that it was obvious to me that Steve was flirting with you because you looked gorgeous, your cleavage looked gorgeous, and that made me angry, that your physicality was all that he could see. I’m not just in love with the way you look. I’m in love with the woman inside.”
I said nothing. I was still trying to make sense of what he was trying to say. I think he was finding fault with Steve rather than me, so why did I feel bad, like I’d done something to encourage him by wearing the wrong thing or being overly friendly?
“Suzy?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Suzy?” James said again. “Please don’t be angry. Please don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you. I just don’t understand you sometimes.”
“Let me rectify that.”
“How?”
“Let me take you home. Let me show you where I live.”