Читать книгу Traces of Her - Amanda Brittany, Amanda Brittany - Страница 22

My eyes are closed, but I’ve barely slept, my mind far too busy with thoughts of Willow – the nips of guilt that I should already be in Cornwall waking me on the hour, every hour; the heat of the night making it difficult to drop back off.

I reach across the bed. I know Aaron isn’t here, but I imagine he wraps his hand tightly around mine, and wallow for a few moments thinking of him, before prising open my eyes and pulling myself to a sitting position.

My mouth is dry from the fan whirring on my bedside table. I click it off, knocking a photo of Aaron to the floor. I pick up my phone, and rub sleep from my eyes, trying to focus. It’s 6 a.m.

I grab the glass of water that’s been standing on my bedside table all night and swallow a gulp of the warm liquid before trying to call Willow. It goes straight to voicemail.

‘Hey, Willow,’ I say into the phone. ‘Can’t wait to see you later. Call me as soon as you can.’ I end the call, trying not to worry. She’s a late riser. That’s all.

I need coffee, always my go-to first thing in the morning. And then we need to get going as early as possible.

But still I sit, my eyelids drooping.

The sun’s fingers reach in through a gap in my flimsy pale-blue curtains, picking out Becky’s life so far in photos that jostle for space on the far wall. My daughter is beautiful. I wish she could see what I see when she looks in the mirror.

My eyes fall on a study of Willow at sixteen, her naturally curly hair straightened to shiny sheets of gold – the face of an angel.

She was spotted by a scout and picked up by a big modelling agency at sixteen. In no time her beautiful face was bounced from magazine cover to magazine cover. Her tall, slim body shuttled from fashion show to fashion show.

At first she revelled in it. Enjoyed the attention. Her eyes sparkling as cameras flashed. Although thrilled for her, it was strange seeing her face everywhere – from billboard posters to national newspapers – not looking quite like the Willow we knew and loved. We were worried too. Worried about the effect it was having on her.

‘I wish I looked like Willow,’ Becky would say, just nine years old at the time.

Willow was almost seventeen when I took one of my monthly trips by train to London to meet up with her. She was renting a huge apartment with three other models, which looked out over the River Thames.

We met in an Italian restaurant in Leicester Square, and as we hugged hello, I felt how dangerously thin she was, noticed how sallow her cheeks were, how the sparkle had disappeared from her eyes that now rested on dark cushions of flesh.

‘So how’s it going?’ I said, trying for upbeat as we studied the menus.

‘Great,’ she said, not looking up.

‘You look tired, Willow.’ I reached across the table, rested my hand on hers.

‘I am,’ she said. ‘I barely sleep.’

‘Have you tried lavender?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve tried everything from hypnosis to sleeping tablets. Nothing works.’

‘Then take a break? Come home for a bit.’

‘I can’t, Rose. They’ve got so much lined up for me over the next few months. Anyway, I love it. I love everything about it.’ Her words didn’t match her lifeless tone. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’

She barely ate that day, and it was a couple of weeks later she disappeared. It was all over the tabloids. We were in such a state.

She was found a week later in a motel in Scotland. A wreck. A mess. Addicted to prescription drugs. Suicidal. The whole experience had been too much.

I cried so hard when we got her back, holding her tightly, never wanting to let her go. Blaming myself that I hadn’t done something when I’d seen her last. That despite spotting how dreadful she looked, I’d done nothing.

She gave up modelling and came home, and seemed her usual upbeat self far too quickly, but there was something different I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then she took off again, refusing to tell anyone where she was – saying she needed to escape, needed time out. It was the first of many escapes. Something we’ve got used to over time. It’s what Willow does.

Even now I sometimes Google her name and they are still there – thousands of images of Willow Winter. I want to rip them all down. Stop people ogling. Tell them to leave her alone. Leave her in peace.

*

Once we have showered and dressed, Becky and I load our holdalls into the boot of the car, and climb in.

Becky plugs her earphones into her ears, and her thumbs tap her phone screen. I start the engine, but before I pull away, I notice a voicemail on my phone from Willow. She must have called when I was getting ready.

I listen to her strangled voice. ‘Rose. Rose. Pick up, please.’ A pause. ‘I know who killed her. I know who killed my real mum. I’ve worked it all out.’ The message ends, and despite the warm day, my body goes cold.

I try to call back, but it goes straight to voicemail. ‘Willow, I got your message. Is everything OK? We’re on our way now but call me when you get this. Please.’

‘What’s up, Mum?’ Becky says, pulling free one of her earbuds.

‘Nothing,’ I say. Deciding not to worry her, I put the car into gear with a shaky hand and pull away.

*

We are halfway to Cornwall, when I pull into a service station. My head is throbbing and although I’d rather keep driving, I know I have to take a break, have something to eat to up my sugar level. Becky’s feet are up on the seat and she’s cradling her knees, listening to music. I find a space and kill the engine.

I take off my sunglasses and put them in the well between us. The sun has disappeared behind fluffy white clouds, after streaming through the window for most of the journey. The tell-tale zigzags and blurs of a migraine niggle. I’ve no doubt it has partly been brought on by the stress of Willow’s call.

‘Shall we have some coffee?’ I say, nudging Becky, who removes her other earbud, and looks up at me.

‘What?’

‘I said, shall we get a drink or a cake or something?’

Becky straightens up in the seat and lowers her feet to the floor. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘But no cake for me, I’ll have some fruit or something.’

Once we’ve collected a cup of coffee and a chocolate muffin for me, an apple and a bottle of mineral water for Becky, we find a table in the corner. Once seated, I give it a quick clean with a wet wipe, and take a couple of migraine tablets.

‘Are you going to be OK to drive, Mum?’ she asks, as I massage my temples. ‘You’re, like, really white.’

‘Once the tablets kick in, I’ll be fine,’ I say, leaning over the table to twirl a straying curl over her ear. She bats me away with her hand and I laugh. ‘Are you looking forward to seeing Willow?’ I ask.

‘Yep. You?’

‘Of course.’ It’s true, but I feel jittery about the photos, and her message is playing in a loop in my head.

Becky smiles, and a dimple forms in her cheek, disappearing as quickly as it came. ‘You know I still can’t get my head round Willow sending you those photos,’ she says.

‘Nor me. I’m hoping she’ll explain more when we get there.’

She pushes sugar granules across the table with the tip of her finger, her earphone back in, and hums a tune I don’t recognise. I realise how glad I am that she’s with me, and watch her, trancelike, for several moments, before saying, ‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’

She looks up. ‘Mega worried about Willow, is all. You don’t think she’s in danger, do you?’

‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I say, trying not to think about her last voicemail. ‘It’s Willow, don’t forget, we know what she’s like. And we’ll see her in a couple of hours, won’t we? She can tell us everything.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’ Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it from her pocket. Her face lights up. ‘It’s Dad,’ she says, answering it. ‘Hey, Dad.’

Her eyes sparkle, and I know already what he’s telling her. He called me a few days ago to let me know he was getting married. That he wanted to tell Becky himself and would ring her soon.

‘Oh my God!’ Becky squeals into the phone. ‘That’s fantastic.’

Her dad has been serious about his latest partner Jack, a lawyer from Florida, for a while now, and I smile. They are good together. I’m happy for them – but my head is spinning.

‘Do you think he’ll let me be their bridesmaid?’ Becky says, once the call has ended, her face lit up by a wide smile.

‘Of course,’ I say.

‘Will he let me wear my DMs, do you think?’

‘Probably.’ Becky could wear a sack and he would let her get away with it.

‘We should get going.’ I glance at my watch, a sense of urgency bringing me to my feet.

She rises too, and links arms with me. As we head across the café I glance back at her uneaten apple.