A group of students had gathered on the sofas near the window. I added my bottle of vodka to the table, knowing that it would be gone by morning, and walked towards them. A girl with light-brown skin, dark make-up and bright pink hair stood up, swaying slightly, and moved towards me. ‘Hey, I’m Meg.’
She gave me a quick hug. She smelt of strawberries. It reminded me of the products I used to buy from the Body Shop, before my friends introduced me to Clinique.
‘Holly.’
‘Guys this is Holly. From?’
‘Lancaster.’ I thought it sounded more sophisticated than Morecambe.
‘I’m Kristóf,’ a guy with olive skin, black hair and intense brown eyes stood up to shake my hand. Kristóf was wearing skinny black jeans and a faded Jack Daniels t-shirt. He was tall and thin and sported a goatee beard. I could see that he was handsome, but I preferred my men with more muscle.
The other boy didn’t stand up, but lazily held out his hand. He looked like he had just stepped off his father’s yacht: sun-kissed skin, sandy curls and preppy clothes. His hands were soft, and his nails looked manicured. He introduced himself as George in a posh accent that I thought was sarcastic but turned out to be genuine.
‘So, what’s the plan tonight?’ I asked cheerily, trying not to sound nervous.
‘Well we’re supposed to meet at the Union bar at seven,’ Meg said in a strong Geordie accent that I was struggling to understand. ‘But there’s plenty of time. We don’t want to get there first, like a bunch of saddos.’
I poured myself another drink, trying not to think of the empty calories I was pouring into my body; I would make up for it tomorrow. I perched on a kitchen stool as we exchanged personal information. Kristóf and I were the only ones studying the same subject: English Literature. We chatted a bit about our favourite books, but his tastes were more highbrow than mine and I soon felt out of my depth. Meg was an engineering student and had won a scholarship on the back of a solar-powered device she invented in sixth form that was being used by the Red Cross in Africa. She played it down, saying it was just common sense, but I was impressed. George was taking Business Studies.
‘Keeping my parents sweet until my inheritance kicks in,’ he declared, to Meg’s obvious disgust. ‘Of course, they wanted me to go to Cambridge like my older brother, but I didn’t get the grades.’
By the time we reached the Union bar, it was heaving with students making the most of the free shots on offer. Meg grabbed four plastic glasses filled with unidentified neon liquid and handed them around.
‘Here’s to a night to remember!’
Kristóf and Meg downed their shots while I sipped mine cautiously. It tasted of lime and it went down OK, but it was sickly sweet and probably filled with sugar. I had to be careful drinking shots. I didn’t want to puke on my first night. I noticed George surreptitiously abandon his on the table behind him.
‘I’m going to get a proper drink,’ he shouted in my ear. ‘Coming?’
I followed him, pushing through the crowd of students at the bar. He ordered a whisky for himself and a glass of prosecco for me and paid for them with a £50 note. None of the boys at home would have done that. They thought they were flash if they paid with a tenner. The bar man handed him his change and he slipped it into his wallet without even counting it.
Going into Leeds was like being sucked into a hurricane. There were more shots, more bars, more bodies pressed against me as we made our way around the city centre. I was accustomed to seeing groups of students act like this in Lancaster: self-assured, noisy, oblivious to anyone who wasn’t part of their world; but this was the first time I had actually been part of it. It was exciting and scary at the same time. The alcohol had anaesthetised my nerves and I found myself chatting to random strangers, asking them where they had come from and what they were studying. Most of the time I couldn’t hear their responses over the loud music, but it didn’t really matter. I bumped into the man I had watched getting dressed earlier that evening. He was very drunk and trying it on with every woman in the group. You had to admire his tenacity in the face of so many rebuffs. There might have been a time when I would have let him snog me, pathetically grateful for his attention, but there were so many gorgeous men here that I could afford to be picky. I didn’t want to get a reputation. George and Meg were in their element, taking selfies and organising rounds of drinks. Kristóf was more reserved. All evening he remained aloof, watching us from a distance like an anthropologist observing an intriguing tribe. He looked so out of place and miserable in this crowd, I wondered why he had bothered coming.
We ended up in a grungy club where they sold tequila shots for £1. The floor was sticky and the music reverberating from the speakers made my ears ring. I felt over-dressed and self-conscious under the gaze of the older men who were standing around the dance floor appraising us like farmers at an auction mart. Where had all the gorgeous men disappeared to? My chances of finding Mr Right here were diminishing by the second. I was tired, my feet hurt, and I wanted nothing more than to go to bed, but I didn’t want to be the first one to call it a night. I wasn’t even sure how I was going to get home.
I found a seat in one of the few booths that were not occupied by snogging couples and took out my phone to message Gemma, but there was no signal. It was past two o’ clock and I wondered when the club closed. Surely then we would head home. Meg shimmied over.
‘What’s up?’ she shouted. Her breath stunk of cigarettes and beer. She slumped in the seat next to me and placed her head on my shoulder.
‘Just taking a breather.’
‘Here, try one of these. Got them from that guy at the bar.’ She held out her hand. Nestling in her palm were two small yellow pills. I had never done drugs. I wasn’t prudish about it, but I didn’t like the idea of not being in control. I reminded myself I didn’t know Meg that well, and I definitely didn’t trust a random stranger in a bar.
‘No thanks.’
‘OK, your loss.’ She took one and washed it down with my bottle of water. I instantly regretted my decision. I was at university now; I needed to live a little.
‘Oh, go on then. Why not?’ She smiled and handed over the pill. I hesitated again – picturing the headlines in the media, Mum and Dad identifying my body, the memorial page on Facebook – and swallowed it.
Fifteen minutes later, I was back on the dance floor, jumping up and down to the music without even thinking about what I looked like. An hour later, I was declaring my love for everything about the club. The lights were painting everyone yellow, red, blue and pink. It was all so pretty. I told Meg that she was my new best friend and tried to pull Kristóf on to the dance floor. A man who looked old enough to be my dad taught me how to moonwalk. George picked me up at one point and twirled me around, making me dizzy. It was the best night of my life and I didn’t want it to end.
The next day my phone was full of messages and Facebook updates. I seemed to have made a lot of friends overnight. I checked through the pictures I had been tagged in and was relieved to see they were all fine. There was a lovely one of the four of us, Meg pulling a V sign above my head. I didn’t look like I was off my head, thank God. I swore that was going to be the first and last time I took drugs. Gemma had posted some pictures of her night out and I liked them and privately messaged her to check she was OK.
I took a long shower and deep cleansed my face. I spent ages on my make-up and straightened my hair before I ventured sheepishly to the kitchen. I could smell bacon cooking and my stomach growled but I had consumed so many calories last night, I was determined to stick to black coffee for breakfast. Meg was sitting at the kitchen table, still wearing her pyjamas. She looked younger and prettier without all the heavy make-up. George was frying strips of bacon while Kristóf popped slices of bread in the toaster with one hand and gulped down a cup of tea with the other.
‘Oh my God, you’re actually dressed and wearing make-up!’ Meg said. ‘That’s just not normal!’
I could have taken it as an insult, but it wasn’t meant that way. It really didn’t seem to matter to any of them what I looked like. George placed a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea in front of me before I could decline. I took small, delicious bites as Meg relived the evening, laughing at the funny parts and making plans for the rest of the week. We were a disparate bunch, but I had a feeling we were going to become the best of friends.
CHAPTER FIVE
I can’t sleep, thinking about the message and who might have sent it. It wasn’t my sister. I checked and she isn’t even on Snapchat so someone must have created a fake profile using her name and picture and, like an idiot, I fell for it. The photograph has obviously been taken from my Facebook page – it was my cover image for most of my first year – but I changed it a long time ago. Is someone from uni trying to get back in touch? But why bother setting up a fake account?
I haven’t been in touch with anyone from university since I left. I decided to draw a line under what happened and move on with my life. I assumed the others had done the same. I think about responding but I don’t know what to say. In the end I block the sender and switch off my phone.
But the memories won’t stop flowing. It’s as if a room inside my head, that has always been firmly bolted, has been unlocked and my past is spilling out. Good memories that I had forgotten about; bad memories that I haven’t. I try to push them back in the room, lock the door behind me, but there’s nothing I can do except endure it.
Dragging myself out of bed and into the bathroom the next morning, I groan at the sight of the huge bags underneath my eyes and my pasty white skin. I use my most expensive foundation, the one I usually save for special occasions, and take my time over my make-up, meticulously crafting the mask that will need to stay in place all day. I put on a pretty floral dress and some leggings and look in the mirror. It’s one of my favourite outfits but today it looks childish. I get changed into some black trousers and a cream silk blouse. Then I worry the kids will splash paint on it, so I change again. I eventually settle for a navy dress and team it up with a scarlet scarf Rhona bought me for my birthday. I put on heels even though they will be killing me by lunchtime. I look older, more professional. I may look fierce, but my stomach is churning, and I can’t face any breakfast.
A light drizzle coats my face as soon as I step out of the door. It is colder than I was expecting, and I wish I had thought to put on my gloves. The mist is hanging low over the hills, obscuring the landscape. My tiny cottage is in a beautiful location at the edge of the village with picturesque views of the Dales, but it’s secluded. My parents bought it as an investment and charge me a minimal amount of rent. Either side are holiday cottages which are only occupied in the summer months, and occasionally over Christmas and half-term. There are no streetlights along the path which leads from my house into the village centre and it’s still not light, so I have to be careful not to step in any dirty puddles, or worse. Walkers regularly use this route to access the moors and they don’t always clean up after their dogs.
It’s taken me a while to get used to living in a village. I’ve had to adjust to the more sedate pace of life and the proclivity for gossip. As the first new teacher to arrive in several years, I attracted a lot of attention and plenty of invites to community meetings and groups. There was much speculation about my marital status and which of the eligible bachelors from the neighbouring farms would snap me up. It was like stepping into a Thomas Hardy novel.
At first, I felt a bit isolated. It was my first job after graduating from teacher training college and I didn’t know anyone in the village. After a while though, I started to feel part of the community. I got friendly with Rhona and her husband, Rob, and they introduced me to everyone and now I have Tom. It may not have much in the way of nightlife or high street shops, but the village is friendly and safe, and everyone looks out for one another. I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave.
As usual, I meet Rhona outside the pub. She is checking her phone and smoking a cigarette. She waves enthusiastically as I approach.
‘You’ll never guess what happened yesterday,’ she says, launching into the latest tale about a boy in her class who she has nicknamed ’Orrible Oliver. He is the bane of Rhona’s life. A precocious ten-year-old with a gob the size of Yorkshire and an ego to match. ‘Brought in a box of matches. Trevor caught him trying to set fire to the blinds. He told him it was a science experiment. Can you believe it?’
‘What did Trevor do?’
‘Oh, you know our illustrious master. Doesn’t like to deal with anything that might get back to the governors. Confiscated the matches and gave him a verbal warning. He should have expelled him, the little shit.’
I smile sympathetically. I’ve managed to avoid having Oliver in my class, but the other teachers are always moaning about him. It sounds like he’s more trouble than half my five-year-olds put together.
‘You’re looking a bit peaky. Are you OK?’
‘Didn’t sleep that well.’
‘Oh aye. Tom wearing you out, is he?’
I wink at her. ‘A lady doesn’t tell.’
Rhona likes to tease me about Tom. She was with me when we first met and has taken a keen interest in our relationship ever since.
‘Still going well though, is it?’
‘Yeah, I think so. I just wish we didn’t have to keep it a secret. I mean we’re not doing anything wrong.’
‘Give it time.’ This is Rhona’s favourite phrase, as if giving anything time has ever made it better. I know that Tom doesn’t want to announce our relationship to the whole village yet, and I understand why, but I think there’s also a part of him that wants to continue to play the wounded husband, the long-suffering partner of a cruel wife who walked out on him and their child. He doesn’t want people thinking that he’s moving on too quickly. Besides, I have reasons of my own not to broadcast it. Rhona said the last head would have turned a blind eye, but we’re both pretty sure Trevor would have a fit if he found out I was screwing one of the parents.
‘Still up for a walk at the weekend?’
‘Definitely.’ I’ve always enjoyed walking in the countryside, it helps me clear my head. Dad used to take me to the Lakes when I was a kid and we’ve tackled most of the peaks together. I was less familiar with the Yorkshire Dales when I moved here but over the past three years, I have covered the major climbs and discovered a few more off the beaten track. Surrounded by rolling hills and limestone pavements which date back to the Ice Age, this area is a walker’s paradise. I used to go walking on my own, but since Rhona got a Fitbit for her birthday, she’s been joining me to get her steps up. It’s nice to have her company, although she’s hopeless at reading maps and we’re constantly getting lost and having to climb over barbed wire fences to get back on track.
‘Rob says he’s coming in later. You know, to give them the talk.’
Rhona’s husband Rob is what the local newspaper calls a ‘bobby on the beat’, the last bastion of community policing. His patch covers a collection of villages in a largely rural area with a very low crime rate, apart from the odd burglary and a few drink drivers. He likes to visit at the start of each school year to meet the kids. ‘Catch ’em early before they get into trouble,’ he says, although I suspect it’s more because the children hero-worship the emergency services at this age and treat him like a celebrity.
‘Yeah, it usually goes down well.’
Rhona stubs out her cigarette before we reach the school gates. She doesn’t like the kids seeing her smoking. As we turn the corner, there are already some parents waiting to drop their children off early before they go to work. Rhona greets them with a cheerful hello. She is far friendlier than I am; I keep my head bowed and try to sneak through the crowd unnoticed. Parents always want a ‘quick word’ about their child’s progress.
I spot Phoebe’s mum among the throng. She is bending down and fastening her daughter’s bright pink coat. I speed up, hoping to get away from her, but she looks up as I place my hand on the gate and makes eye contact.
‘Ah Miss Metcalfe, have you got a minute?’ Phoebe’s mother places great emphasis on the word ‘Miss’. She is a tall woman with a sharp black bob and the hint of crow’s feet around her eyes. I would guess she’s about forty. I fake a smile and walk over.
‘Good morning, Mrs Abbott. Hello Phoebe.’ I can see that a lock of her hair has been cut and pinned to one side: a visual reminder of what a terrible guardian I am.
‘Phoebe told me that she had glue in her hair yesterday. And that one of the other children deliberately stuck it there.’
This is blatantly untrue. I look down at Phoebe who stares back at me, wide-eyed and innocent. I’m impressed; not many five-year-olds are that accomplished at lying.
‘I’m afraid Phoebe did get glue in her hair, but I’m not aware that any of the other children were involved.’ My voice is steady and calm even though my heart is beating fast. Will Mrs Abbott make an official complaint? Will I be sacked over a little girl’s lies?
‘Well, perhaps you need to be a bit more aware of what is happening in your classroom, Miss Metcalfe. After all, isn’t that your job?’
I bite my tongue and swallow my temper. Rhona is always complaining about parents who treat teachers like glorified babysitters.
‘I can assure you that the children are very well supervised, Mrs Abbott. Which is why I am one hundred per cent certain that no other pupil was involved.’
‘Phoebe doesn’t lie. The other children may well be jealous of her intelligence.’
‘I agree that Phoebe is a very intelligent little girl; which is why I was hoping that I could chat to you at some point about ways we can keep that creative imagination of hers channelled. Perhaps you would like to make an appointment to discuss the matter?’
Mrs Abbott flushes and looks at her watch. ‘Well, I am rather busy at the moment.’
‘I totally understand. I’m sure it must be very difficult with two little ones to manage. How old is your son now?’ I nod towards the baby boy tucked up in blankets and fast asleep in the pram beside her.
Her face softens. ‘Six months.’
‘That’s a nice age.’
‘He’s absolutely no trouble at all. To be honest I think Phoebe may be a little jealous of the attention he’s getting.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable.’
Phoebe, sensing her moment in the spotlight is over, releases her mother’s hand and runs off to join her friends in the playground and no doubt complain about her unfair treatment.
‘Honestly, that child will be the death of me,’ her mother says under her breath. ‘Do you have children yourself?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, take my advice and enjoy your freedom while you have it!’
I breathe a sigh of relief as she turns the pram and walks away. I feel a bit better now about the day ahead. Surprisingly, handling Phoebe and her mother has given me the boost of confidence I needed. If I can handle her, I can handle anything.
* * *
‘We’re here to talk about honesty,’ Rob says. ‘Now, who can tell me what that means?’
The kids are gazing up at him in rapture.
Phoebe’s hand shoots up. ‘Telling the truth?’
‘That’s right. Anyone else?’
Jack shyly raises his hands. ‘Not telling lies?’
‘Absolutely!’ Jack beams. Rob is great with the kids, he seems to have no end of patience as they ask him many, many questions. The whole thing is making me feel a bit queasy. I don’t know what it is about Rob, but I always feel flustered in his presence, like he can see right through me. I always feel an urge to confess everything I have ever done wrong in my life when I am around him. He must be great at his job.
‘Do you put people in prison?’ Bilal asks.
‘Only when they’ve done something really naughty.’
‘Nathan’s dad went to prison.’ The room falls silent as all the kids turn to stare at Nathan who is sitting in the back row, sucking his thumb. Liam Whitaker, Nathan and Samantha’s dad, went to jail last year for burglary. It’s not something we talk about in the classroom, but the kids pick up the gossip from their parents. I think sometimes we underestimate how much life experience these kids already have by the time they get to school.
‘Come on kids, have you got anything else to ask PC Osbourne?’ I ask brightly before Nathan gets upset. I can already see him blinking back tears.
Jack saves the day. ‘How fast does your car go?’ Jack is obsessed with cars.
‘Oh, very fast. But only in an emergency and only when I have the blue lights flashing.’
‘How long have you been a policeman?’
‘Do you have a gun?’
I switch off and relax as Rob tells them about how he joined the police after leaving school. I consider pulling Nathan to one side to check if he is OK, but I think that would attract more attention. He’s a quiet, nervous boy at the best of times. The kids seem to have moved on and pretty soon they are pestering Rob to let them ride in his car which is parked in the playground. Finally, he manages to extricate himself from his fan club and says goodbye to the children.
‘Thanks for coming in.’
‘My pleasure. Are you coming over for tea later, or have you got other plans?’ I can’t tell if this is an innocent question or if Rhona has told him about Tom.
The truth is, I don’t know when I will be seeing Tom again. It’s always him that contacts me, not the other way around. I don’t want to seem too needy or desperate to see him. My only plans for tonight involve a ready meal and watching crap telly, but I don’t want Rhona and Rob to know that. If they want to think I have a night of passion ahead with my lover, I’m not going to disillusion them.
CHAPTER SIX
The week passes with no more messages and I convince myself that I over-reacted. Over the years I have learned to get used to these sudden jolts of memory, the little things that send you hurtling back into periods of time you would rather forget. This is no different from seeing someone on the street that looks a bit like Meg or hearing a track that was playing that night. Nostalgia’s a bitch.
On Sunday, I go walking with Rhona. The Yorkshire Dales is usually packed with tourists but now that the holiday season is over, and the bad weather has set in, there are only walkers and mountain bikers using the car park at Malham. I manoeuvre my car into a parking space and we pull on our walking boots and waterproofs. It’s forecast to rain later. At the other end of the carpark, a crowd of teenagers pile out of a minibus, reluctantly put away their mobile phones and set off along the popular route to the cove.
‘Did you see Tom last night?’ Rhona asks, as she double knots her brand new and high spec boots. Mine are knackered and starting to leak but they’re as comfy as a pair of slippers.
‘No, I guess he doesn’t want Jack seeing me around too much and getting ideas.’
‘Fair enough, I suppose.’
I disagree. I’m pretty sure Tom is using Jack as an excuse to take it slowly. Rebecca hurt him badly and I think he’s afraid to commit to another relationship so soon. Her things are still all over his house; her expensive cosmetics cluttering up the bathroom cabinet, her designer clothes hanging in the wardrobe, preserved in dry cleaner’s covers. Sometimes, when Tom is in the shower or downstairs making coffee, I open the wardrobe and look at her dresses. They reflect the taste of an older woman with plunging necklines and beaded detail. They vary in size from an eight to a fourteen but it’s confusing because some of them are from America and sizes are different there. Her shoes are a size six and impossibly high. I tried a pair on once and it was like being a child again, playing dress up in my mother’s heels.