“Oh my God! Steffie Chivers?”
I lower my reading glasses as I look up. A woman is staring at me over the reception desk, out of breath from taking the stairs.
“I don’t believe it! You haven’t aged at all!” She hitches up her leggings with a wiggle. “We were at school together—Shelley Fricker...used to have long hair?”
I gaze at her, pursing my lips.
She smiles. “Don’t you remember me, Stef?”
No, I don’t. Leave me alone.
The door to the consultation room opens and one of our new specialist endodontists appears, talking to his client—a tall lady in a beautiful rose trench coat.
“Do you have an appointment?” I ask Shelley Fricker.
She gapes at me in surprise, denied the expected Midsomer Norton camaraderie. A poky town ten miles away, everyone knows each other’s business.
“Yep, two o’clock,” she replies. “Gotta get in and out quick to pick up the kids. You got kids, Steffie? You don’t look like you do, mind. But then you always were immaculate, like a Barbie doll.”
Her voice is so loud, everyone in the waiting room is looking at us. I’m embarrassed; this is the Circus—a ring of historic town houses, a renowned masterpiece of Georgian architecture—not a fish market.
I stare at the screen, pretending to be looking for her booking in the system, even though it’s right in front of me. “Ah. Yes. Please take a seat. Dr. Fitzpatrick will be right with you.”
She leans over the counter toward me. “I’ve never been in a building at the Circus before. Fancy, innit? Makes the dentists down Norton look a right dump! You worked here long, then, Stef?” She rubs her nose vigorously with the palm of her hand as though it’s itching.
We get National Health Service referrals from time to time; that’s why she’s here. If I ignore her, she’ll soon get the message.
I keep my eyes on the screen. The endodontist is heading back to his room, smiling at me. I return the gesture fleetingly, in case Shelley Fricker thinks it’s for her. She’s waiting for an answer to her question. Thankfully, the phone rings and I turn away. “Hello, Chappell and Black. How can I help?”
When I hang up, she’s still there, rubbing her nose. “You turned fifty yet? I did, last month... I honestly can’t believe it—you look exactly the same, Steffie!”
I’m not Steffie. No one calls me that anymore. I’m not Chivers either. I’m Brooke.
Standing up, I smooth my skirt flat, tugging my cardigan straight.
The new endodontist has reappeared from his consulting room and is handing me a client file. I take it with a little nod and go to the filing cabinet, ensuring that Shelley notices my elegance. Maybe then she’ll realize we’re not from the same drawer after all.
I take longer than usual with the paperwork, running my tongue discreetly over my teeth. I always wear a red lipstick, and black clothes more often than not. I don’t like to stand out, but nor do I like to be dismissed.
All of which Shelley will have taken in. And sure enough, when I turn around, she’s moved away, hovering in the corner by the fish tank.
I sit back down at my keyboard, acrylic nails tapping soothingly as I type. I love working here, where everything is clean and orderly. I’ve been Chappell and Black’s main dental receptionist for ten years, and in all that time, I’ve never seen anyone from school...until now.
It feels as though someone’s outed me, but I’m not sure from where or what. The thought troubles me, and then I’m distracted by Shelley, who’s going into the treatment room.
As she hitches her leggings again, she glances sideways at me, grinning as though we’ve both been given after-school detention.
I look away.
I’m listening to the stereo on low as I wait for Georgia. I like old soul—Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Gladys Knight—back when things were graceful, dignified. I’m the first to admit that I’m old-fashioned. I overheard my sister-in-law telling someone at my wedding to Dan that I looked like an eighties throwback. I could have killed her for saying that, but I never let on that I heard. Besides, she got it wrong. If anything, I’m a sixties girl.
I tap my nail on the wheel to a Randy Crawford song, watching the girls approaching down the school driveway, muddy legged, hockey sticks over shoulders. True to form, Georgia’s last, looking at her phone, not concentrating on where she’s going. She has splashed through two puddles already and has a giant leaf stuck to her sock.
She doesn’t look up until she’s right on top of the car, checking she’s not getting into the wrong one.
“Hello, darling,” I say.
She chucks her sports bag and rucksack onto the back seat and clambers in beside me, smelling of cold air and perspiration.
“Did you have a nice day?” I start the engine and pull away. I’m a slow driver. I can’t understand people wanting to dash around like maniacs. It’s so stressful, and stress is so aging. I make a conscious effort not to encourage wrinkles and don’t even laugh unless something is really funny, which isn’t often in the normal run of things.
“Whatever,” Georgia says into her collar, slumping in her seat.
“Sit up straight, please.” I turn on the windscreen wipers as a handful of rain hits the screen.
“Why? Not as if it matters.”
“What doesn’t?” I’m not sure what she’s referring to.
“Me sitting up straight. I’m in the car. I’m tired. It’s only me and you. Who the hell cares?”
I gaze at the rain on the windscreen, watching the wipers go back and forth. “I care. Posture’s important.”
“Oh, right.” She stares at her phone, her face glowing ice-blue. “The Queen has spoken.”
Silently, I count to ten. She’s thirteen, so I’m trying to be understanding.
I hated being thirteen. I started my period that year and never told anyone at home. My mother would have cried at the extra expense. Instead, I stole sanitary pads from my sister’s room, and when she ran out, I used toilet paper.
“Do you have much homework?” The traffic is moving, at last. I turn down the stereo to hear her answer.
“Fuck knows.”
My mouth falls open. I don’t know how to respond. I’ve never heard her swear before. “Georgia...”
“Don’t start.” She turns away, putting as much of her back to me as her seat belt will allow. “And do we have to listen to this crap?”
I turn off the radio obligingly, and we travel the rest of the way in silence.
Parking the car outside our garage, I leave Georgia to sort herself out and assemble her things, a memory suddenly appearing as I approach the house.
I’m in the school toilets. There is blood in my knickers and I’m petrified, trying to breathe.
There’s a voice on the other side of the door, telling me that everything’s all right. A huge sanitary pad snakes along the floor, underneath the cubicle, edging toward me. It’s gathering dust on that dirty floor, but still, I’m glad to see it and I say thank you.
Don’t mention it, Stef. Anytime. We’re all in the same boat, eh?
That was Shelley Fricker.
It’s dark in the hallway. I’m always the first one home. Dan won’t be here for an hour, enough time for me to clear up and get the dinner ready for when he gets in.
I wait to see if Georgia’s coming inside, but she’s still in the car, looking at her phone. I leave the front door ajar and turn on the table lamp. There’s a cluster of post on the mat, which I take through to the kitchen.
I always do the same thing each night: pour a small gin and tonic, and rest before having to deal with my two eldest girls and Dan. They all come home in a noisy rush. Without my quiet time, I don’t think I could face them.
Georgia’s the only one who knows about this—gives me space and respects it as though it’s a church service with candles and prayers. She may be going through a difficult phase, but she’s still my girl at heart.
I fix my drink and pry off my heels as I sit at the kitchen table, tutting at the amount of junk mail. I almost don’t spot the little envelope nestled between pizza flyers.
Using my thumbnail, I tear it open. As I begin to read, the front door slams; Georgia has come inside at last.
I listen. She’s stomping upstairs. Turning back to the letter, I sip my G&T. I’m only halfway through when my skin starts to goose bump.
What on earth is this? I stare at the signature. I don’t know a Holly Waite, nor any of the other names. What does this have to do with me? If Dan were to see this, he’d hit the roof.
Suddenly the front door slams again, making me jump. “Hello?” Dan calls out. “Stephanie?”
Panicking, I hurry to the cupboard, reaching for my mother’s old cocoa tin. Dented, worthless, it was one of the few personal items I kept when she died. She used to hide things from my father inside the tin.
I’m just shutting the cupboard, when Dan enters the room. “Hello, darling,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting you home yet.”
He approaches, his hair spiky and hard with day-old grooming clay, raindrops trembling on his coat. “I said I’d be back before six.”
“Did you?”
“Don’t you ever listen to me?” He says this jokily, almost as a whisper. Often, his voice is so quiet I have to stop what I’m doing to hear him.
As he kisses me, I picture the letter inside the tin, but can’t say how I feel about it. I always need a long time to think, even about small things like what to wear or cook.
Breaking away, he tosses his smoothie container into the sink. Every morning, he blends a blueberry-and-hemp smoothie—a green concoction with kale and ginger that makes Georgia roll her eyes and imitate a gagging motion.
“Did you have a good day?” I ask.
“Yep.” He smiles. “Sold the new Panamera Porsche.”
“Oh, well done!”
“I knew I was—” He breaks off, scowling up at the ceiling. “For Christ’s sake.” Georgia’s music is blaring, a signal that she knows quiet time is over with the return of her father. Sometimes I think she does it purely to aggravate him. Their relationship is very much a work in progress. “What the hell...?” He leaves the room, coat fanning behind him, feet pounding up the stairs.
I hope a fight doesn’t erupt. There always seems to be someone shouting in this house, and it’s never me.
Finishing my drink in one go, I start preparing dinner, thinking again of the letter inside the tin. No one will ever find it there; the most humble domestic items are always overlooked, especially by men. No wonder witches flew on brooms. Growing up, my mother’s cocoa tin felt magical to me—a surprise weapon of sorts, an unlikely source of power. The secrets that went inside there never came out.