Her

Wednesday 21:00

Christ, I need a drink. I can’t remember the last time I went this long without one.

After a non-stop day of broadcasting – seemingly endless two-ways outside the school, then at the police station, as well as filming and packaging for various outlets – I am longing for my bed. I call to find out what time early bulletins want us on-air tomorrow, then scribble the requests down with a black felt-tip pen I found in my handbag. I don’t remember where I got it from, but it’s come in handy more than once today.

I’m cold, and my feet are killing me from standing for so long. I think I’ve got a little too used to presenting the lunchtime bulletin, sitting behind a desk in a nice warm studio. I don’t really understand where the day has gone – one hour rolling into the next, like a series of mini reruns stitched together. Life sometimes seems like a hamster wheel we can only step off if we know to stop running.

Time has changed too, and turned into something I can no longer tell. It started the night my daughter died. As soon as I left Charlotte – asleep in her travel cot at my mother’s house – it felt as though I had been separated from her for hours, not minutes. I didn’t want to leave her there at all, but Jack insisted we should go out for my birthday. He didn’t understand that after what happened on my sixteenth, celebrating a birthday was something I’d never really wanted to do again.

He kept insisting that I needed to get out of the house, something I hadn’t been doing too often since Charlotte was born. Motherhood doesn’t come with a manual, and it was a shock when we first brought our daughter home from the hospital. I’d read all the books they tell you to read, been to all the classes, but the reality of being responsible for another human being was a heavy burden, and something I wasn’t prepared for. The person I thought I was disappeared overnight, and became this new woman I didn’t recognise. One who rarely slept, never looked in the mirror, and who worried constantly about her child. My life became only about hers. I was terrified that something bad would happen if I ever left her alone, even for a minute. I was right.

Since she died, time stretches and contracts in ways I can’t fathom. It feels like I have less of it somehow, as though the world is spinning too fast, the days falling into one another in an exhausting blur. I was not a natural mother, but I tried to be the best I could. Really tried. My own mum said that the first few months were always the hardest with a baby, but those were all I had.

People use the expression ‘heartbroken’ so often it has lost its meaning. For me, it was as though my heart actually broke into a thousand pieces when I lost my daughter, and I haven’t been able to feel or really care about anything else ever since. It didn’t just break my heart, it broke me, and I am no longer the same person. I’m someone else now. I don’t know how to feel anything anymore, or how to return affection. It is far easier to borrow love than it is to pay it back.

Richard has had to drive me everywhere today, as a result of the police holding on to my car. Although it’s completely normal for a correspondent and cameraman to spend this much time together, I don’t like it. Something feels strange between us. A little off. I don’t know whether it is because Jack told me about his criminal record, or something else.

I had some free time in the afternoon, when the engineers insisted on having yet another proper meal break – there was talk of the union as soon as I raised an eyebrow – but the truth was, I didn’t mind skipping a slot. There had been no new developments in the story since early that morning. I knew that the News Channel could easily rerun my live from the previous hour, giving me almost two to myself.

I was secretly glad when the rest of the team drove off in search of food. We had been doing lives from the woods for hours, and I needed some time by myself. I told them that I wanted to go for a walk. Richard offered to go with me, but I didn’t want to be alone with him in a secluded corner of the forest, or anywhere else for that matter. Eventually he got the hint and went with them.

Once they were gone, I took a familiar footpath through the trees towards the high street. All the other roads and footpaths in Blackdown spread out through the woods from there, like the veins of a twisted leaf, with the high street for a stem. The whole town seems to exist beneath a canopy of leaves and unspoken lies, as though the oaks and pines that make up the forest clawed or climbed or crawled out from under its boundaries at night, stalking the people that live here, and setting down roots outside each and every home in order to keep watch over them.

I found myself standing behind the house where Jack now lives with Zoe. I never saw eye to eye with my sister-in-law, and my husband never knew the real reasons why. He doesn’t know her the way I do. Families often paint their own portraits in a different light, using colours the rest of us can’t quite see. Zoe was dark and dangerous as a teenager, and probably still is. She was born with the safety off.

When Jack and I met as adults in London, I was a junior reporter, trying to get on-air with a story about a murder he was investigating. I didn’t remember him at first, but he knew me instantly, and he threatened to make a formal complaint to the BBC about my conduct if I didn’t have a drink with him. I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered by his flirtatious blackmail at first. I found him attractive – as did all the other female reporters – but men came second to my career, and I had little interest in relationships.

In the end, I agreed to one date – thinking I might get some insider information – but instead I woke up with a huge hangover and a detective in my bed. Knowing who his sister was, and what she was capable of, almost put me off seeing him again. But what I thought might be a one-night stand led to another date, which led to a weekend in Paris. I sometimes forget that Jack used to be spontaneous and romantic. Being with him made me happy, and loving him made me dislike myself less.

Zoe did a bad job of hiding her feelings about our relationship. She’d avoid eye contact with me at all family gatherings, and was the last to congratulate us when we got engaged. She didn’t come to our wedding, either. She sent Jack a text saying she had norovirus the day before, then posted pictures of herself in Ibiza the day after. When our daughter was born Zoe sent us lilies, a well-known symbol of death. Jack said it was an innocent mistake, but there is nothing innocent about his sister.

I stared up at Jack and Zoe’s house, filled with loathing and disgust for the woman inside it. Then I noticed that the kitchen door was slightly ajar.

A little later, back on track but having lost some time, I walk past all the familiar shops and quirky old buildings which make Blackdown so unique. I hurry along what is often described as one of the UK’s prettiest high streets, knowing that I’m running out of time to get the things I need. I make a quick pit stop at the cheap-and-cheerful clothing store that has been here since before I was born. Thanks to my missing overnight bag, I need something to wear tomorrow. I grab an inoffensive white shirt and some very unfashionable underwear, then pay without trying anything on. Clean clothes aren’t the only thing I’ve run out of, and I need a drink now more than ever after my visit to Zoe’s house.

The supermarket doors slide open – as though the place has been expecting me, just waiting to swallow me inside – and the air-conditioned aisles aren’t the only thing to make me shiver. It feels like I’m walking down old familiar lanes, and the alcohol section looks exactly as it always did. There are no miniatures sadly, but they do sell mini bottles of wine and whisky, which I hold up against my handbag, trying to decide how many I can fit inside and still close the zip.

I add a small box of mints to my basket at the checkout, and when I look up, to my slight horror, it becomes clear that the cashier recognises me. Her face expresses a judgement I cannot afford.

People get preoccupied with the fiction of truth.

The lives we lead need to be gold-plated nowadays, a series of varnished truths for the sake of how we appear on the outside. Strangers who view us through a screen – whether on TV or social media – think they know who we are. Nobody is interested in reality anymore, that’s something they don’t want to ‘like’ or ‘share’ or ‘follow’. I can understand that, but living a make-believe life can be dangerous. What we won’t see can hurt us. In the future, I expect people will long for fifteen minutes of privacy, rather than fifteen minutes of fame.

‘A small gift for my cameraman and engineers after working so hard today,’ I say to the cashier, before slipping my purchases straight into my bag as soon as she has scanned them.

She is a little older than me. A potato-shaped woman, with well-worn skin and argumentative eyes, the kind that let you know with just one look how much they dislike you. Her blotchy face attempts a smile, and I see that she has a gap between her front teeth, big enough to slot a pound coin in.

‘Have you seen your mother lately?’ she asks, and I try to suppress a sigh. Everyone knows everything about everyone else in this town. Or thinks they do. It’s one of the many things I can’t stand about the place. The woman doesn’t wait for a reply. ‘She’s been found wandering the streets late at night a few times now, your mother. Lost in the dark, crying, not knowing where or who she is, wearing nothing but a nightdress. You’re lucky that husband of yours stepped in. She needs someone to look after her. Should be in a home, if you ask me.’

‘Thanks, but I didn’t,’ I reply, handing her my credit card.

I’ve always been more sensitive about my failings as a daughter than my weakness for a drink. I look over my shoulder, to see if anyone else in the shop heard what she said, relieved to see that they all seem content to mind their own business. If only that were true of everyone. I still remember the first time I bought alcohol in this supermarket, all those years ago.

Rachel said I couldn’t have a birthday party without drinks. I was surprised that she still thought I should invite Helen – given how much trouble our clever friend had almost gotten us into – but it also made me happy. I thought that Rachel’s decision to forgive her was another example of her kindness. I think that’s what made me invite someone else along; it was meant to be my party after all, and I wanted to be kind too. It was also why I made friendship bracelets for everyone who was coming.

Rachel laughed when she saw them.

‘Did you make them yourself?’

I nodded and she laughed again.

‘Well, that’s very sweet, but we’re sixteen, not ten.’ She put her hand on my shoulder, and shoved the bracelets in her pocket as though they were trash. It had taken me ages to make the gifts I couldn’t afford to buy. It was impossible to hide how much her words hurt, and she noticed. ‘I’m sorry. I like them, I really do, we’ll all wear them later, but first we need to buy some booze, and for that we are going to need some money. You can’t steal a bit from your mum, can you?’ she asked.

Rachel could see that I was shocked by the suggestion, and seemed to think better of it. We’d stopped at her house on the way to mine, and I watched as she flung open her enormous wardrobe doors, before rummaging around inside. She turned, looking triumphant, rattling her yellow Children in Need bucket in my direction. It was the one she used to collect donations at school. She tipped it upside down onto her bed, before counting the coins that fell out.

‘Forty-two pounds, eighty-eight pence,’ she said.

‘But that’s charity money.’

‘And you’re a charity case, so what’s the problem? How did you think I was paying for all those little presents I gave you?’

I didn’t answer. I was too upset that she was admitting to stealing money from children who needed it far more than we did.

‘Come on,’ she said, taking my hand in hers.

I remember it was the first time I didn’t like holding it.

‘Stop sulking, you’re less pretty when you frown,’ she whispered, then kissed me on the cheek. ‘We’ll swing by the supermarket for booze on the way to your house, a drink or three will cheer you up.’

We walked there in silence.

I watched as Rachel put bottles of Diet 7 Up, tequila and cheap white wine into her shopping basket, and wondered how we were going to buy it when we were both so clearly underage. I had a pain in my tummy as we approached the tills, just the thought of my mother finding out was enough to make me feel physically sick. It felt like I kept letting her down.

But then I spotted Helen Wang. She had already turned sixteen, and had a job at the supermarket on Saturdays. She scanned the alcohol without calling for a manager, and Rachel hid it straight in her bag. No ID required. I was so glad that we were all still friends, despite the incident with the essays.

‘What happened to your face?’ I asked Helen, noticing what looked like a black eye poorly disguised with make-up.

She looked at Rachel before turning back to me.

‘I slipped up.’

I had seen enough of my mother’s bruises when my father was still around to know that Helen was lying. But I also knew better than to ask any more questions. Just like when Mum used to insist she had walked into a door, I knew Helen wouldn’t tell me the truth. I thought she might have a secret boyfriend. A bad one.

‘We’ll see you later. Come straight to Anna’s after work,’ Rachel said to Helen, dragging me towards the exit.

My mother had reluctantly agreed to go out for the evening, but was still there when we arrived. I didn’t need to say anything for her to know I was furious.

‘I’m going, I’m going,’ she said as we put our bags down in the kitchen, the alcohol hidden inside. ‘I got you a little birthday surprise, and I wanted to show you before I left.’

‘What is it?’ I asked, dreading the answer, hoping it wasn’t something childish that would embarrass me in front of Rachel.

‘It’s in the conservatory, go take a look,’ said Mum.

I walked to the back of the house, worried about what I might find there, then saw a small grey ball of fur sitting on my mother’s favourite chair.

‘It’s a kitten!’ squealed Rachel, rushing forward, far more excited than I was.

‘One of the ladies I clean for has the most beautiful cat – it’s a Russian Blue – and when I saw the latest litter I just couldn’t resist bringing this little one home,’ Mum said. ‘Go on, pick her up, she’s yours.’

I had wanted a cat for a long time, but she said we couldn’t afford it. Plus, cats always seemed to be disappearing in Blackdown. Every week a new ‘Missing’ poster would appear in shop windows and on lampposts around the town. There were endless black-and-white photos of lost pets, along with their descriptions, and sometimes rewards. It was the sort of heartbreak my mother worried I couldn’t handle, but I still longed for one of my own. I carefully picked up the kitten, afraid I might break her.

‘You’ll have to choose a name,’ my mother said.

‘Kit Kat,’ I whispered.

I’d already imagined what I would call my cat if I ever had one.

Rachel giggled. ‘Like the chocolate bar?’

‘I think it’s perfect,’ said Mum. ‘Play with her for a bit tonight if you want, but then pop her back in the cat carrier in the corner. The vet said it might help settle her in the first few nights. I’ll leave you girls to have fun now, but I know you’ll be drinking alcohol—’

‘Mum!’

I felt my cheeks turn bright red.

‘… so I’ve left some snacks in the fridge. There are crisps in the cupboard too, so help yourselves and line your stomachs. Have fun and take care of one another, and Kit Kat. OK?’

‘We will, don’t worry,’ said Rachel. ‘You’re so cool, Mrs Andrews. I wish my mum was like you.’

She smiled at my mother, in that clever way that seemed to make all adults adore her. My mother smiled back, before kissing me goodbye.

‘Let’s get this party started!’ Rachel said as soon as she was gone.

She had stayed at my house so often by then that she knew where to find everything she wanted. She immediately raided my mother’s old vinyl collection – Rachel was obsessed with seventies music – carefully slipping a Carpenters record out of its sleeve and putting it on. ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’ was her favourite song. She sang along as she returned to the kitchen, then took two glasses down from the cupboard. I held on to the kitten and we both watched Rachel with fascination as she found the salt, took a lemon from the fruit bowl, and slid a sharp knife out of the block on the counter.

I had never seen or heard of a tequila slammer before, but I liked them. By the time the others arrived, I was already feeling pretty drunk.

‘Did you bring the party treats?’ Rachel asked Helen as soon as she walked in the door.

‘What are they?’ I wanted to know.

Rachel smiled. ‘A nice surprise.’

Zoe was next to arrive. She looked miserable when I opened the door, and rolled her eyes in the direction of the older boy standing next to her on my doorstep.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, staring at the kitten in my hands.

‘She’s called Kit Kat, a birthday present from my mum.’

‘I hate cats,’ Zoe said, pulling a face.

‘I’m Jack, by the way,’ said the boy. He seemed amused by something. ‘My mother wanted me to drop off Zoe and check everything was OK, after what happened last time.’

I didn’t know what that meant. It was still only a few months since I’d joined the school and met them all.

Jack was just a few years older than us, but at that age a couple of years can make someone seem infinitely grown-up. He popped his head inside the door, holding his car keys in his hand. I had no idea what he was looking for, and I don’t know whether it was his floppy hair or the cheeky grin, but I liked him instantly. I wasn’t the only one.

‘Hi, Jack! Why don’t you come in for a drink?’ said Rachel, appearing beside me.

‘No thanks, I’m driving.’

‘Just one?’ she insisted.

I remember hating the way they looked at each other.

‘Maybe just a Coke or something,’ he said, giving in to her charm.

It was strange seeing all these people crammed into our tiny kitchen. My mother rarely let anyone in after my father left, and the house felt too full with them all there. Everyone looked a little surprised when the doorbell rang again, even me. I’d already had enough to drink to forget about the other person I had decided to invite.

They all came with me to the door, and they all look appalled when they saw Catherine Kelly standing behind it.

‘Happy birthday, Anna,’ she said, without smiling.

Everyone just stared.

Then Rachel stepped forward and put her glass in Catherine’s hand.

‘How lovely to see you, Catherine. Have a drink. I promise there is nothing nasty in this one, and you need to catch up,’ she said, pulling the girl inside.

I was so happy that she was being kind. Catherine Kelly was somewhat strange, but I’d wanted to invite her to my party anyway. Something terrible had happened to Catherine the week before. Baby rats were found inside her school desk. Everyone blamed it on all the crisps and chocolate she kept in there, but I still couldn’t understand how they got inside. I felt sorry for her, I knew what it was like to be the odd one out at my old school, and didn’t want anyone else to feel that way. I thought I could help make her happy.

‘Well, as fun as this looks, I’m off,’ said Jack. ‘Mum says home by midnight or else, Zoe. Unless you want to get grounded again.’

Zoe rolled her eyes. She did it so often I worried they might get stuck that way.

‘Wait!’ Rachel rushed over to her bag and took out a new disposable Kodak camera. It was still in its box, and she tore at the cardboard packaging to open it. ‘Can you take a picture of us all together before you go?’

‘Sure,’ Jack said, holding out his hand.

I saw that their fingers touched as she gave him the camera, and felt a stab of irrational jealousy.

‘And I almost forgot…’ Rachel said.

She reached inside her pocket, before arranging us all in a line against the floral wallpaper in my mother’s lounge.

‘… lovely Anna made us all friendship bracelets, and I think we should wear them.’

So we put them on, because people always did what Rachel said to do.

We posed against that wall with our arms wrapped around each other, wearing our red-and-white cotton bracelets, and looking like the best of friends. Even Catherine Kelly, who Rachel positioned right in the middle, was smiling in the photo, her ugly braces, crazy curly white hair, and horrible clothes on display for the whole world to see.

It was the same photo I found yesterday with Rachel’s face crossed out.