Читать книгу Her Name Was Rose: The gripping psychological thriller you need to read this year - Claire Allan, Claire Allan - Страница 12

Scott’s Dental Practice operated out of shiny bright offices on Shipquay Street, one of the city’s main thoroughfares.

The old Georgian façade had been updated – it was now glass fronted and everything inside was decorated in soft white tones, from the comfy sofas to the reception desk and the calla lilies in their clear glass vases on every table. With light marble floors and soft music piped through the room, it felt more like a hotel lobby than a dentist’s waiting room. Except, that is, for the unmistakable smell of dentists – a kind of minty disinfectant smell mixed with sheer fear.

I’d had my hair done that morning. Asked the hairdresser to slip a few blonde highlights into my otherwise mousy brown hair. I had spent money I could ill afford on a nice suit – a pencil skirt, blazer and a soft silk blouse – which I wore with a classic pair of nude patent heels. I had taken extra time applying my make-up. I had seen enough pictures of Rose Grahame and her colleagues to see that they were all the well-groomed type. Contoured, plucked and preened – and of course with glistening white smiles – they looked as if they spent their days in the boutiques of Milan rather than in a busy dental surgery, answering phones, making appointments and staring down the throats of countless patients.

If I was to fit in – and I wanted to fit in – I had to look the part. I had to be Rose, mark II. And I wanted to be Rose, mark II. Although it had been three weeks since her funeral, I had not yet beaten my addiction to her Facebook page. People hadn’t stopped posting on it – even though she had been laid to rest and the news columns had largely moved on. Except for the occasional appeal for information about the car’s driver, Rose Grahame’s tragic demise had become yesterday’s news. Except to those who loved her. People still shared pictures. They still expressed their shock. They still wrote about how they missed her.

Cian posted almost every day – pictures, love quotes, messages that would take tears from a stone. Sometimes he sounded so utterly lost that I found myself wondering if anyone was there just to give him a hug and tell him that it was going to be okay. Sometimes he sounded angry – not at Rose of course – but at the injustice of the situation. At other times there was an underlying fatigue behind his words, as if he was tired of waking up every morning and realising, once again, that she was gone and not coming back.

I read every word. Facebook had become my window on the outside world – a world I was starting to feel like I could become a part of again. Ben’s Facebook request still sat in my inbox but it didn’t scare me the way it had. I’d heard nothing more from him and reassured myself that all reports still had him living in England. I reminded myself what my counsellor had said to me over and over – to deal with the facts and not catastrophise every situation.

So I focused on what I knew. I lost myself in what decent men were like. Men like Cian, who wasn’t afraid to share his vulnerability and grief. His posts garnered him a host of responses, ‘likes’ and words of comfort. I hoped he listened to them and I hoped they helped. I wondered how the girls at Scott’s Dental Practice felt, as I was waiting for my job interview. Were they too still wading through the metaphorical mud of each day, trying to make sense of their grief? Certainly, the bright (dazzling, definitely paid for) smiles on the faces of the two ladies at reception would con a person into thinking no sadness had ever visited them in their lives.

But it was when I was brought through to a small staff kitchen and offered a cup of coffee while I waited for Owen Scott that I saw evidence of a workplace in mourning. On a small table by another white wall sat a framed picture of Rose, a candle lit in front of it along with a small posy of flowers. The receptionist who had let me through the kitchen must have spotted that I was gawping at the picture.

‘That’s Rose,’ she said. ‘She died a few weeks back. She left very big shoes to fill.’

The receptionist sniffed slightly. I put her in her mid-forties; her auburn hair was swept back in a glossy ponytail, make-up perfect, dressed in her white tunic and trousers, which helped show off her perfectly applied fake tan. I could see her eyes filling. I tried to think of something to say but I was caught in the moment of looking at the picture of Rose, here in her workplace where her presence and her absence could be keenly felt.

‘I read about that,’ I stuttered. ‘It was awful.’ I decided not to tell her I had actually witnessed the moment the life had been knocked right out of her on the cold tarmac.

I watched a tear slide down her cheek, leaving a trail through her foundation. She reached in her pocket for a tissue and dabbed her eyes with it. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m giving you a really bad impression. We knew today would be tough – having people in interviewing for her post. We wanted to wait a bit longer but we’re busy and we can’t afford any downtime. You must think I’m an awful bitch – all that big shoes to fill stuff.’

I shook my head. I didn’t think she was a bitch. I knew Rose Grahame wasn’t far from sainthood.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, rubbing her arm. ‘It must be very hard.’

The woman nodded. ‘I’m Donna,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. Thanks for your understanding.’

My mind whirled. Donna. Probably Donna O’Connor, who posted on Rose’s Facebook to say that no day would ever be the same without her smile. I didn’t have a visual to go by – as almost all of Rose’s friends had since changed their profile picture to one of their deceased pal in some bizarre act of solidarity.

‘Were you very close?’ I asked.

Donna laughed, then sniffed back more tears. ‘We were the closest. I called her my work wife. She was the person I could always go to when I had a tough day, or was tired, or the kids had kept me up all night and I was on my last nerve.’

‘It must be so hard,’ I soothed, watching this perfectly put together woman unravel in front of me. ‘I can’t imagine,’ I lied, because I had clearly spent much of the last three weeks imagining.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, taking a long, shuddering breath to settle herself. ‘You don’t think things like this actually happen. You hear of it, but you don’t think it will happen to someone you know. It’s just wrong. Everything about it is wrong.’

Did it make me a bad person that as I watched this woman deal with her grief in front of me, my primary thought was that here was a woman who could use a friend and I could be that friend to her? I could walk in here and work with someone who had already confided in me, who I had seen at her most vulnerable, and we could bond. Maybe I could be her new work wife? Maybe she would come to me when she’d had a tough day? Maybe we could go for drinks after work (I’d be good, I promise!) and take selfies to fill my poor, neglected Facebook page with? A bubble of excitement started to fizz in the pit of my stomach. I pushed it down. I wasn’t there yet. I had to impress the man who made the decisions.

*

Owen Scott was not a man I recognised from any of the group pictures on Rose’s Facebook. He was the kind of handsome that creeps up on you. At first glance, I saw this slightly greying, craggy-faced man, with a dimpled chin and a mild look of irritation on his face. He looked uncomfortable as he took a seat behind a messy desk in what must have been the practice’s admin office. He swore quietly under his breath as he rifled through some paperwork to find just what he was looking for, and my confidence from just five minutes before started to fade.

I clenched my fists at my side, rubbing my fingers across my palm to fight off the clammy sensation I was feeling. I tried to steady my breathing. Reminded myself that it was okay. I could do this.

I looked at the top of his head, the sprinkles of salt and pepper colour through his dark locks, which really could have done with a trim. Watched him run his hands (no wedding ring) through his hair before he sat upright and looked at me, taking a deep breath.

‘I should have been more prepared,’ he said. ‘Things have been a bit difficult here lately.’ He looked tired and I nodded.

‘I spoke to Donna. She told me about Rose. I’m very sorry for your troubles.’

With sad, grey eyes he nodded. ‘Rose kept things running fairly smoothly here – I’m afraid we’ve all kind of let things go a bit since … well, since.’

‘That’s understandable,’ I said. ‘It must have been a great shock.’

He nodded again, but didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The shock was written all over his face.

He took another deep breath, cleared his throat and pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘Now, Emily D’Arcy?’ he began.

I nodded.

‘Obviously I’ve looked at your CV. It’s been a while since you worked directly with the general public, but your qualifications seem to be in order. This is a very busy practice, we rely on people who can work well, and under pressure at times. We value good organisational skills – how can you sell yourself to us?’

I had rehearsed my answer carefully. ‘I’m hard working and diligent. Yes, the last few years have been spent helping people remotely, but I believe if you can deal with sometimes irate callers, while timed and on script, you can deal with almost anything. I also like to think my age is an asset in circumstances such as these. I bring a certain maturity and appreciation of what being a good team player means with me.’

He nodded, looked down at the sheet in front of him and back up at me. He sighed, and I clenched and released my hands by my side to ease the tension creeping through my body.

‘And your last job? Why did you leave?’

I tried to keep my face non-expressive. Now was not the time for an exaggerated eye roll or badly timed grimace. ‘I craved working directly with the public again. Doing something to help people. I found CallSolutions wasn’t really offering me a challenge anymore. I decided to take a leap of faith. I mean, you never really know what’s ahead of you, do you? And I thought I could stay there and continue to feel uninspired and demotivated or I could push myself into making a change by making a big gesture and hoping it paid off. So I quit – and I took a chance because sometimes in life, you just have to take chances.’

I knew I was being horribly, terribly manipulative. I had anticipated this question because I’m not totally stupid, and I had decided to play on the recent tragedy in Owen Scott’s life, which may just have focused his mind on the whole ‘life is too short’ thing. I was playing dirty, but my intentions were from a good place.

It was almost imperceptible but I saw something in Owen’s eyes after my answer. Something that made his features soften, his face look less worn, his handsomeness creep up on me a bit more.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know this must be a very difficult time for everyone here and it can’t be easy having someone come in to take over a job that was previously held by someone you all clearly held in such very high esteem. I can’t imagine how you are all feeling right now – but if you give me a chance, I promise you won’t regret it.’

I was surprised to find I actually meant what I was saying. Even more surprised to feel a lump form in my throat and tears spring to my eyes. I hadn’t cried since Rose Grahame died. I didn’t think I had a right – even though what I had seen had been traumatic and awful and sometimes when I woke in the night I could still see her eyes staring right at me.

But there, sitting across from Owen – noting that small, tiny change in his demeanour – the softness in his gaze, the realisation that I really, really did want and need to change my life hit me. That, far from this being just a speech I was giving to earn me a job where Rose had been happy, I realised this was a place I could be happy. I willed the tears to stay where they were. I took a slow breath in, and then, shuddering just lightly, I exhaled.

Owen was looking at me. I wasn’t actually sure if he had spoken after my emotional outburst or if he was, like me, wondering what on earth to say next.

‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered, reaching for my bag.

‘For what?’ he said, looking genuinely baffled.

‘For getting a little emotional,’ I lied. ‘It was unprofessional of me.’

But what I really wanted to say was that I was sorry that it was me, and not Rose, who was sat in front of him. That I was sorry she, and not me, had died.

‘We’re all a little emotional around here these days,’ he said softly, a small, comforting smile playing on his lips. ‘We get the whole life is short thing. And we get that some people need second chances.’

*

Second Chances. I almost wrote a blog called that. A secret blog that I wanted to start when it all went wrong. It would be private, anonymous. It would be a therapy of sorts. No one would need to know about it. Not even Maud. Maud would have thought it was a spectacularly bad idea. It would have made her worry. I didn’t want to worry her anymore.

That’s maybe why I decided against it, in the end. That and the fear that things always get out. We share too much, you know. All of us. Even those of us who swear we don’t. We let it out in our behaviour. What we like. What we don’t. The pages we follow. The clothes we wear in our pictures. Our inspirational quotes. Our lack of inspirational quotes. The music we share. The things we write when we’re tired. Or emotional. Or drunk.

The life we let people see. The life we let ourselves believe. It’s strange how we can convince ourselves our Facebook life is our actual life – because we want it so desperately to be. I did anyway.

I found my Facebook life, where things were good and glossed over, very difficult to let go of when it all ended because I knew people – who I had perhaps done my best to make jealous – would enjoy some sort of Schadenfreude when it all went tits up.

That expression flashed through my brain again. No one to blame but myself.

I had been too open. Believed too much in sharing. Believed the world to be a good place. Believed people had the same motives as I had. I had believed in the power of love. I had believed I could make him love me as much as I loved him. That I could change him. No, not change – fix. Heal. Heal him with love.

I tolerated so much because I believed, in my heart and in my soul, that Ben Cullen was a good person. A damaged soul. A bit battered, but I could soften his rough edges. I could love him into being the person I knew he was beneath his thorny, gruff exterior.

Beneath the outburst – the angry ranting, the occasional hand to my left cheek, the pinching of skin, twisting it so it turned white, blanched of blood, before his grip loosened and the purple of a bruise started. Upper arms. Upper thighs. Hidden bruises from a misunderstood man. He was hurting too; I was sure of it. Even when his anger shifted gear – when he became lazy about making sure the bruises could be hidden so easily, or when his tongue loosened a little too much in company. Not that we kept much company. We enjoyed ‘another cosy night in together’ too much – well, according to my Facebook posts we did.

But I loved him. I did. I adored him. I wanted so badly to make it better for him, for both of us. I believed with all my heart that I could.

Then I got a message on Facebook from someone I didn’t know. Someone who had a picture of the man I so smugly, desperately, passionately, soulmate-ingly loved with his tongue down another woman’s throat and his hand up her skirt. If there was any doubt it was him, the second picture, one which showed his face twisted in orgasmic ecstasy as the object of his affections knelt in front of him, did away with all of that.

I knew the shirt he was wearing. I had bought it for him for Christmas. The last Christmas we were together. The first Christmas we had been an engaged couple.

He had betrayed me. My soulmate. The man who I had tried to help. Who I had let take his rage out on me in the hope that one day he would be spent of it all. But he had betrayed and humiliated me – although I knew the worst of the humiliation was still to come when the news spread. When people started talking. Leaving ‘supportive’ messages on my Facebook page. Inspirational quotes. Songs. When I unpublished the dream wedding Pinterest board and the beautifully filtered Instagram pictures of us walking along the beach. When I realised, or accepted, what a lie it had all been.

When I knew that it had been my fault for wanting it as much as I did. For letting him do to me what he did. Because I thought we could be happy. I had no one to blame but myself. Those words were so true.

And of course, I’d love to say those moments – that night and the days that followed when I dismantled my real life, along with my virtual existence – were the lowest I sank. But they weren’t, of course.

The worst would come later.