STEPHANIE

Weekends at Chappell and Black are busy, so we run a rotation on reception. I work Saturday mornings only, something I negotiated several years ago with Leonardo. He said I didn’t have to explain—that my work spoke for itself. I can’t say how much that meant to me.

Saturday afternoons are the highlight of my week. After work, I walk down through town, buy magazines, pick up treats for the girls—lip glosses, accessories—and pastries from the deli. Dan works till late; Saturday’s his busiest day. So, in the winter, the girls and I light the fire and chat, the magazines fanned out on the carpet. In the summer, we drink prosecco on the patio and give ourselves pedicures.

That said, they aren’t always available now, especially Vivian. And Georgia is beginning to drag her feet. Rosie will always be there, especially if there’s food and wine. My biggest critic, yet the least likely to leave my side.

This morning, work is typically hectic. I’ve noticed that one of my colleagues has booked Shelley Fricker in for deep cleaning at one o’clock, but I’ll be gone by then.

My phone buzzes the arrival of a text, which I read on my lap underneath the counter.

There isn’t a good time. I’m still feeling offended because of the housewife comment. It will take more than a kissy text from her to make me forget it.

I press send, slip the phone into my bag and turn to the booking screen just as a client arrives. And I’m looking at him, at his protruding teeth, which he’s showing me, when I realize that I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have told her where I was.

I spend the rest of the morning worried she’s going to show up, watching the door, my heart skipping each time I hear footsteps ascending the stairs.

By the time twelve thirty arrives, my nerves are so bad I’m jumping whenever the phone rings.

“Are you okay, Stephanie?” My colleague Ali goes to touch me on the arm before thinking better of it. I’m not tactile and most people know that.

“I’m fine, thanks.” I’m trying to leave and making a mess of it, the strap of my bag caught in the wheels of my chair. Bending over, I’m untangling myself when I hear a familiar voice.

“Steffie, that you down there?”

Freeing my bag, I stand up, straightening my blouse, looking straight at Shelley Fricker. She’s hitching up her leggings, grinning at me.

I glance around the crowded waiting room. It’s as though she does it deliberately, waiting until the finest selection of coats is seated, with the best-cut suits and lowest voices, so she can ring out loud and clear exactly who I am and how she knows me.

“How you getting on? All right?”

She couldn’t sound any coarser. And to top it all, Leonardo is heading this way.

I give her a tight smile. I can’t be rude to a client, not in front of him. “Hello, Shelley. I was just leaving...”

She cocks her head at me. “Bit early, innit? Hope you’re not slacking off.” She laughs, flapping her hand. “Not that I’m saying you ever did that at school, mind!”

I’m making my way out from behind the desk, but Leonardo has caught the tail end of the conversation. “Do you two know each other?” he asks, leaning against the counter, a faint look of amusement on his face. I think he finds me a little uptight; he’s enjoying this.

“No, not really.”

“Oh, we go way back, don’t we, our Steffie?” Shelley nudges me. “We were at school together, down Nor’on.”

Leonardo frowns. Then his expression clears. “Midsomer Norton?”

“That’s right,” she says proudly.

Why stop there, Shelley? Why not tell him about the sanitary pad in the school bathroom? Why not tell everyone how my ex-husband used to grope women while waiting for the number 173 bus to Bath?

“I didn’t know you were from there, Stephanie?” Leonardo lifts an eyebrow.

Picking up my coat, I busy myself with putting it on. But to my relief, Leonardo’s too busy to linger and is returning to the treatment room. I mutter goodbye and leave Shelley for Ali to see to.

Outside, it’s refreshingly cold. I’m checking my messages, so I don’t see Jess right away, not until she’s standing in the middle of the pavement, blocking my path.

“Hi, Stephanie.”

I press my lips together in frustration. “Why are you here?” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder. “I said I was busy.”

“Sorry, but I really do just need five minutes. Please?”

There’s not a lot I can do about it. I can scarcely say no and cause a scene right outside work. “What is it?” I ask resignedly.

Directing me to the railings at the side of the pavement, she glances around her before pulling a tote bag from her rucksack. “I need you to do something for me. I need you to take this.”

“No.”

She laughs as though I’m outrageous. “You can’t just say no! It doesn’t work like that.”

I don’t reply.

Touching my hand, she looks at me earnestly. “Look, I know we’re different, Stephanie. Chalk and cheese. But we’re in each other’s lives now and have to try to figure this out.”

Two tourists are approaching—a young couple, the boy’s hand in the back of the girl’s jeans pocket. I stand aside for them, giving Jess a look of caution. She waits for them to pass by.

“Please. Take this.” She presses the tote into my hand.

There’s a giant tea-colored stain on the bag. “What is it?”

“The diary.”

I look at her in surprise. “And you’re trusting me with it? What if I destroy it?”

“I don’t think you’ll do that. Besides, I’m willing to take that risk because you need to read it. We won’t move on unless you do. And I’m hoping it’ll change the way you feel.”

“Then I definitely don’t want it.” I try to return the tote, but she steps back, hands in pockets.

“It’s yours now. Let me know when you’re done. And then we can meet and discuss a way forward.”

The couple are on their way back again, the girl pausing for a photograph of the Circus, fluffing her hair, giving a toothy smile, the dental practice aptly in the background.

“You don’t seem to understand,” I say, still holding the tote out for her. “Nothing in here is going to change anything for me. So, if you don’t take this bag, I’ll hang it on the railing.”

She smiles pleasantly as though I’ve just agreed to water her houseplants. “Thanks, Stephanie. Call me when you’ve read it, okay? See you soon.” And she turns on her heel, walks away. I have no choice but to take the bag, concealing it within mine.

“Sorry, Mum, I thought you’d be cool with it.” Georgia isn’t even looking at me, is playing on her phone. “I can cancel... But Daisy will be here in five to pick me up.”

I’m setting the wineglasses on the living room table, dusting the crystal, holding it to the light. “I see.”

She glances at me. “I don’t think you should bother with any of that. You might wanna check with the sibs, but I think they’re out too.”

I examine the inside of a glass, wiping away a fleck of dust. The girls could have told me sooner, before I bought pastries and nail polishes. But I won’t show how upset I am. They have their own lives to lead. It’s just disappointing, that’s all.

Upstairs, Rosie’s booming music stops and then a door slams shut.

A few moments later, she enters the room wearing a skull and crossbones sweater, and camouflage miniskirt as though off to a protest rally. She doesn’t get her dress sense from me.

“Right, I’m off to—” She gazes at the pastries, claps her hand to her head—an affectation. We’ve been doing this every Saturday for years; she couldn’t have forgotten. “Shit! Will you be all right if I go out, M? Only Scarlett’s asked me over to her place...”

“That’s fine.” I smile, but it’s an effort.

In truth, I’m not feeling wonderful today. I get good days and bad days, depending on how I’ve slept: night sweats, palpitations. Dan keeps urging me to seek different medical opinions, but I find it too upsetting. They always ask how my mother’s menopause was, and I have to explain all over again that she never made it that far—not by a long stretch.

“Are you sure, M?” Rosie’s going through her purse, counting notes, mumbling to herself.

“Yes. It’s fine. Vivian will be here to keep me company.”

“Uh. Yeah, about that...”

I set the glass down on the table. “She’s not staying either?”

Rosie smiles sympathetically, closing her purse, setting her bag on her shoulder. She carries a satchel like the one our milkman used to use in the seventies. Ugly, leather.

“Sorry,” Rosie says, hitching down her skirt. “But Viv’s at Tom’s. Didn’t she text you?”

“No. I don’t think so.” I pick up my phone, drumming my nails on the counter. Sure enough, there’s an apologetic message from Vivian, full of emojis. “Well, I’ll just have to drink this on my own, then,” I say, picking up the bottle of Rioja.

Outside, there’s a car horn. “Oh, that’ll be Daisy.” Georgia kisses me hurriedly on the cheek, barely touching my skin, before darting to the hallway. “Her mum’s bringing me home at six,” she calls over her shoulder. “Save me a pastry, won’t you?”

I follow her in my fluffy slippers, wondering what I’ll do with myself, with the sudden free time. “Look after yourself, won’t you, darling?” I tell her. “Don’t talk to any strangers in town.”

Rosie’s looking for her boots in her usual agitated style, kicking the shoe rack. “Where the hell are they?”

At the door, I tuck Georgia’s hair behind her ears, who shakes her head to put it back the way it was. She looks sweet, like a peppermint, in a green-and-white sweater, faded jeans. “Be safe, darling. There are a lot of—”

“Weirdos, pedos and pervs?” Rosie says, wrinkling her nose, sitting on the floor to put on her boots. “You’re even starting to sound like him now.”

“Like who?” I ask, watching Georgia go down the driveway, giving a little skip in her excitement. She’s half-girl, half-woman; the hardest age.

“Like the arsehole we call Dad now.”

“Don’t call him that!” I hiss at Rosie. “Have some respect for him when you’re living under his roof. You owe him that much while he’s paying the bills.” I close the door slightly, worried that Daisy’s mother can hear this conversation. She’s outside in the car, window down, waving at me. “I mean it.”

“God, you’re so conditioned. You don’t even hear it anymore.”

I turn to point at her. “I’m not arguing with you, young lady. These are the things you should be discussing with your counselor—trying to manage your anger.” I open the door again to wave at the car, smiling.

Rosie is skulking off, wheeling her bike down the driveway. “Where’s your helmet?” I call after her.

“Fuck’s sake. It’s, like, a five-minute journey.” And she’s off, up the road, long hair flailing behind her.

Closing the door, I inhale, listening to the silence.

In the living room, I look at the empty glasses, the pastries, the new nail polishes. Pouring a glass of Rioja, I sit down on the sofa, my eye falling on my work bag.

I’m halfway through the glass of wine before I move. Even then, I sit with the grubby tote beside me for a long while before reaching into it.

Saturday, December 29

A church bell was ringing somewhere in the city as they appeared, jovial, eager for their next drink. I was struck by how much they were the same, how nothing had changed for them.

I caught them just as they were about to knock on the door. They didn’t recognize me without my makeup. We need to talk about what happened, I said.

Jack touched my shoulder in concern. Everything okay, Nicky?

I yanked my arm away. Don’t touch me! I shouted.

Shush! Lee glanced around the square. What’s wrong? Are you ill?

You know full well what’s wrong! You raped me!

Wooahh! Jack held up his hands. Now wait a minute... He led me to the side alley, near the tradesman’s entrance. I stared into the gloom between the buildings, my heart racing. This wasn’t the cool entrance at all, the one they normally used. It was the one for me—for people like me.

What’s this all about? he asked, as though he really didn’t know.

Inside my coat, my hands formed fists. You raped me, I repeated.

Raped you? That’s not how I remember it.

Are you kidding me? I shouted.

Hush now. Lee lit a cigarette. Obviously, there’s been a misunderstanding. We had too much to drink and things got...interesting. Maybe you regret it and feel ashamed, but that doesn’t mean you can change the facts.

Not to mention that you were using us to get into the club, Brooke said, looking me up and down. I mean, come on! How else would you have ever got in?

That’s a bit harsh, Jack said. I don’t think we need to be chucking accusations around.

Why not? She is.

That’s because you did it! I said. You know you did!

Look... Lee’s voice was kindly, sympathetic... I think you think you’re telling the truth, Nicky, but we know differently. And it wasn’t rape.

My anger left me then, my eyes filling with tears. You really believe that?

Jack nodded. It’s the truth.

How can you treat me like this? I asked Lee, searching his face for a glimpse of regret, shame. If anyone was going to break, give way, it would be him, I felt sure.

I’m sorry, he said. Truly. But I can’t admit to something I haven’t done.

All hope left me then and I felt airless, weightless.

I guess there’s no more to say then, I said.

Guess not, Brooke said.

Wednesday, January 23

Lucy and Kim come and go, the only sign that days are beginning and ending. Kim says if I don’t go to classes soon, they’ll throw me out of the course. Like she’s the faculty dean. What does she know? Lucy comes in to see me, brings me messages saying that Mum’s phoned again. Other than that, nothing happens.

Saturday, March 16

Something strange happened. When I woke up, I had to run to the bathroom to retch. I haven’t been eating much lately, can’t think what’s upset my stomach.

Sunday, March 17

Same again.

Thursday, March 21

Just realized that I haven’t had a period since December.

Saturday, March 23

I waited for them underneath the sycamore tree tonight, freezing to death. There was snow on the ground and I didn’t have enough on—wasn’t thinking straight, wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and sneakers. I haven’t left the flat in so long, I hadn’t realized how cold it was. Lucy and Kim have gone home for Easter so I knew that two of the boys would be home from university too.

It took them even longer to recognize me this time. Jack looked shocked. What are you doing here?

You’re shivering. Lee went to take off his coat for me, like he did the first time I met them. It stunned me, the act of chivalry. Even now.

I dropped his coat into the snow. I need to talk to you.

Brooke rolled his eyes. The subtlest of movements, but I caught it.

I’m pregnant.

Jack ruffled his hair. Really?

For God’s sake... Brooke muttered.

Lee rubbed my arm. Poor thing. Do you know who the father is?

I opened my mouth, speechless.

Could be anyone, let’s face it, Brooke said, looking up at the sky as though bored.

Anger ripped through me. I prodded him in the chest. How dare you? It’s yours! I pointed at Jack. Or yours! Then Lee. Or yours! I know your real names, where to find you. You have to help me. I’m miles from home. I don’t know what to do. It’s your problem too, not just mine. If you don’t take some responsibility, I’ll...I’ll...

You’ll what? Brooke stood with his legs astride, teeth bared viciously. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll leave us alone, he said. Christ, I wish I’d never laid eyes on you. Come on. Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this crap.

He thudded toward the club, rattling the knocker, the sound splitting the air. Jack joined him. Lee hesitated. I looked at him pleadingly. I’m sorry, he said. He seemed to mean it.

I lingered, hoping he might do something, anything, but he was turning away.

The door opened, warm light spilling onto the square, the swell of voices, laughter, and I thought of the giant lilies they’d described during that perfect lunch at the White Hart and the champagne piña coladas, the fire that was always lit in the Green Room, the women wearing diamonds, and then it closed and I knew that I was never going to see any of them ever again.

I don’t know how long I sit like that, with the empty glass of Rioja on the sofa beside me, the diary on my lap. When the mantelpiece clock chimes, I look at it in surprise. The room is so dark, it’s a wonder I could see to read.

Returning the diary to the bottom of my bag, I turn on the lights, drawing the curtains, making my way upstairs to run a bath so I can forget all about Nicola Waite.

Naive child. What did she expect? Going into a private club, sneaking upstairs with three men she didn’t know from Adam, as her mother put it. There’s a line, invisible, but we all know it’s there, and there are always consequences if you’re foolish enough to cross it.

She knew they were attracted to her, all three of them. Yet she didn’t clarify which of them she was interested in, didn’t want to burn her bridges before gaining entry into the club. Setting foot inside there was all she really cared about. She said so herself.

Instead of creating boundaries, she drank too much, put herself in danger, kept all her options open. She captured so many details about that night, yet when it came to the deed itself was unable to describe anything concrete. And why was that? Probably because she was ashamed.

Running the bath, I dip my fingers in the water, testing it.

She was using them just as much as they were using her. It’s just that with things being as they are these days, you’re not allowed to say that anymore. Everyone’s a victim. Common sense has gone out of the window.

She wasn’t a victim; she was ambitious. She felt owed, was bitter about her lack of connections, desperate for a passport into the world of Bath’s elite. What was it she called her father? Prick face?

My father was no good too, but I’d never have called him that. He gambled everything away, left my mother destitute. I often saw her crying in desperation, frightened she couldn’t feed us, which was why she taught me to value financial security above all else—to find a reliable life partner who could support me and any future children. She set up my hope chest and told me to be graceful, courteous, and to pay attention to my looks.

It’s hard work doing it that way. I didn’t just get drunk and have sex in a storeroom in the hope of advancing myself socially.

It sounds as though she didn’t put up a fight or tell them to stop. She allowed the situation to be so ambiguous that the boys didn’t even see it as rape. And I believe them too. After all, women like me don’t get caught out like that. Because we keep things clear, on the level. She was playing a game, trying to get what she wanted, using her sexuality to influence them.

You can’t have it both ways. She knew what she was doing, what she was risking.

Taking the glass plunger out of a blue bottle, I pour geranium oil into the water, the scent of lavender and mint meeting my nose. I add more, sitting on the side of the bath, watching bubbles form, then disperse.

I refuse to ruin my life for this silly girl. I’ve come too far, have been through too much.

If Jess thinks the diary changes things for me, she couldn’t be more wrong. I was expecting, I don’t know—something horrific, blatant.

But not this. Not this vague murky account.

The boys were drunk, boisterous, out for a good time, as males that age tend to be. She knew that when she threw herself at them. Even her friends didn’t want to go up those stairs, creeping around in the dark.

I’m adding cold water to the bath, about to step in, when something occurs to me. Going through to the bedroom, I step over Dan’s exercise mat as I approach his bedside cabinet. At the back of the drawer, there’s a small leather box. I flip open the lid, removing the contents.

It’s his military tag. I watch it twirling, catching the light. He’s so proud of it, keeps it by the bedside, a memento of heroism. I’ve always rather liked it.

Suddenly, the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and I put it away again, pushing it to the back of the drawer, slamming it shut.