Читать книгу The Girl Who Lied: The bestselling psychological drama - Sue Fortin, Sue Fortin - Страница 14

Seahorse Café has been steady all week and after being here for over two weeks, I feel I’m getting into my stride. I can definitely manage the early-morning breakfast rush now. Kerry and Joe don’t come in every morning, but when they do, I can’t deny it makes the morning much more pleasant. The only fly in the ointment is Roisin.

I debate whether I should, in fact, just leave matters. Should I start poking the hornets’ nest? Or should I leave it? Maybe she’ll grow bored and go away? However, my next thought is that I know Roisin too well. She won’t let matters drop, especially as she has that photograph. She must be biding her time for a particular reason.

I decide I need to take the initiative rather than wait to dance to Roisin’s tune.

With the mid-afternoon lull now upon me, I idly wipe down the counter and rearrange the contents of the chiller cabinet, moving the colder bottles to the front of the refrigerator and the more recent additions to the rear. I wonder what she’s planning. She can’t possibly know the significance of that photograph. It may give her a clue, but it’s only half the story. And even if she did suspect the truth, she has absolutely no way of proving it. I hold onto this last thought.

The door to the café opens, breaking my thoughts.

‘Hello, Erin! Remember me?’

I smile hesitantly as another ghost from my past resurrects itself. This ghost, however, is probably a more pleasant apparition. Perhaps because Bex is a year younger, she had never got involved with the teasing and tormenting I endured. As teenagers we had been friendly rather than friends, the crossover of groups unavoidable in a small place like Rossway.

‘Hi, Rebecca, how are you?’ I say, trying to assimilate the old memory of Rebecca the teenager with the up-to-date version: Bex the adult, wife and mum.

Bex certainly is rather boho, as Kerry had said. I take in the long, sinuous dark hair with streaks of indigo running through, matched by an equally flowing skirt that nearly reaches the ground. Bex’s purple Dr Martens boots kick out from under the fabric as she walks and she appears to be carrying some sort of multi-coloured cloth bundle in front of her. I realise this bundle is, in fact, tied round Bex and snugly tucked inside is the baby.

‘Kerry said you were here, so I thought I’d come and see you.’ She smiles warmly at me. ‘And no one calls me Rebecca these days, not even my mum. It’s Bex.’

‘Sorry, I’m a bit out of touch with everything. Although, I do know about your little one. Congratulations. How’s everything?’

‘Really good, thanks. Come on, Storm, you sit here.’ She pulls out a chair for her son and then, adjusting the baby bundle slightly, seats herself on the opposite side of the table. ‘There, she’s fast asleep now. The fresh air obviously did the trick.’

I nod and give a courteous look at baby Breeze nestled peacefully in her fabric cocoon. Immediately, the familiar feeling, something akin to fear and regret, flits through me as I admire the tiny features of the baby and see the tender look Bex gives her daughter.

‘She’s lovely,’ I say, then standing back, take out my order pad and pen. ‘Now, what can I get you?’

‘Black coffee for me, please, and a vanilla milkshake for Storm.’ Bex looks at the menu. ‘Think I’ll treat myself to a toasted teacake and Storm can have a cookie.’

I jot the order down on my pad. ‘Okay, I’ll get that sorted.’

‘How’s your dad?’ asks Bex. ‘I heard what happened.’

‘No change,’ I say, touched that she has asked. ‘He’s being kept in a medically induced coma. They’re waiting for the swelling on his brain to go down. They’ve given him a scan, but can’t tell from the results. They said he needs to rest and this is the best way. Also, his breathing is affected. They’re using a ventilator to give him a hand. They don’t think he can manage on his own.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Bex. ‘It is nice to see you, though, despite the circumstances.’

I smile. I’m taking to Bex already. ‘Thanks.’

‘What did you do when you left here? I heard you went to London?’ asks Bex.

I’m grateful for the change in subject.

‘Yes. I went to live my sister, Fiona. Went to college and did a beautician’s course, worked in a couple of places before ending up where I am now, at a health and fitness spa.’

‘This is a bit of a change for you.’ Bex grins as she indicates the café with a slight nod of the head.

‘You could say that. I’m only helping out while my dad’s not well. I’ve been given some time off from work, but I’m not sure how long they’ll be so understanding.’

‘You don’t fancy moving back for good?’

There’s something about Bex’s easy manner that doesn’t seem to challenge my departure from the village. It’s a nice change from the usual reaction I’ve been getting from customers once they realise who I am. It’s almost like an accusation when they refer to my leaving.

‘Moving back? Not really.’ That’s an understatement. ‘I don’t think village life, well Rossway life, is for me.’

Bex nods, as if understanding. ‘No, it can be a bit claustrophobic at times, I must admit.’

‘Not enough that it ever drove you away, then?’

‘For a bit, but only as far as Cork. You can’t really call that a life-changing move.’ Bex chuckles as she takes the salt and pepper pots away from Storm, who looks like he’s about to attempt to lick them. ‘Once myself and Joe became serious there really wasn’t any debate about where we would live. He’s very close to his family and, of course, working for his dad.’

‘Have you been with Joe a long time?’ I ask. I don’t know why this idea surprises me. I hadn’t pictured Joe as the childhood-sweetheart type.

‘Oh yeah, since I was eighteen and he was nineteen.’

‘Good for you,’ I say.

‘It’s not always been easy, don’t go thinking that,’ says Bex. ‘We’ve had our ups and downs. We called off the wedding once and I went away with my sister. Thought it was all over. But it was all sorted out in the end and that was a long time ago. We don’t count it. Not when you look at the big picture. We’re love’s young dream.’ Bex grins and although she’s laughing at herself, I can tell she is obviously very happy, courtesy of Joe. Maybe he does have some redeeming features after all.

‘Look, I’d better get your order before the baby wakes up,’ I say, although I actually think Storm needs distracting by way of his milkshake as he now seems intent on squeezing tomato sauce out of the plastic bottle and onto the table.

When I come back, Bex is in the middle of what looks like a game of chess. As she moves one item away from Storm he reaches over to grab another.

‘There you go, Storm,’ I say cheerily. ‘Lovely vanilla milkshake and a biscuit.’

‘What do you say?’ prompts Bex.

‘Thank you, lovely lady,’ pipes up Storm.

Bex laughs out loud. ‘Oooh, cheeky! Where did that come from?’

‘Don’t worry. Kerry taught him that.’

Bex raises her eyebrows. ‘Did he now? Actually, he did tell me he had invited you to the barbecue we’re having at the weekend.’

I nod. ‘That’s right. I’m sorry, though, but my boyfriend is coming over from the UK.’

‘Bring your man along too,’ says Bex. ‘We’d love to see you there. I’ll make sure Joe behaves himself, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

I try to smile confidently. I’m not quite sure how Bex is so perceptive. In a strange way, I find it reassuring. Maybe it would be a nice thing to do. ‘Okay, I’ll see how it goes,’ I say.

After Bex leaves, I find myself clock-watching. I’ve decided to confront Roisin and sort this business out once and for all. I don’t want it hanging over me any longer. I close up the café at four-thirty and spend the next half hour clearing things away and setting up for the next day.

Locking the door, I hurry round to the doctors’ surgery. The car park is virtually empty, except for a handful of cars, which I presume are staff vehicles. I spot a black Mini and something tells me it’s Roisin’s car. I wander over to it.

I don’t have to wait long before I see her emerge from around the corner. She has her head down, looking in her handbag. She pulls out a bunch of keys and looks up towards the Mini. I was right, it is her car.

Her step slows as she sees me. I remain leaning back against the car.

‘I hope you haven’t damaged the paintwork,’ she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and picking up her stride again. ‘Wouldn’t want to have to get Kerry to send you the bill for a respray.’

I wait until she reaches the car before I move off. ‘I thought I’d have heard from you by now,’ I say, ensuring there is no concern attached to the words.

‘Getting jittery, are you?’

‘Jittery? No. Not at all. More like bored.’

Roisin gives laugh. ‘Well, you should be,’ she says. ‘Getting jittery, that is.’

‘Over a photograph. I don’t think so.’ I’m holding my nerve so far in this game of brinkmanship.

‘Yes, but this isn’t any old photograph, is it? No, this is a very special photograph. One that my brother hid away because if anyone saw it and read what was on the back, then your sordid little secret would be out.’

The word ‘sordid’ is the trigger.

‘There was nothing sordid about me and Niall.’ I’m crowding her space, but she doesn’t flinch. ‘We loved each other.’

‘Oh, please. Do me a favour…and yourself.’ She takes a step closer. We are inches apart. ‘You were a couple of young teenagers. It was puppy love. Do you really think my brother was going to stay with you once he had gone off to university?’ Her smile, full of derision, turns to a sneer. ‘Did you really think getting pregnant on purpose was going to keep him?’

‘You’ve no idea what you’re talking about. What do you want, Roisin?’

The smile returns and her shoulders relax. She side-steps round to her car, blipping the remote to unlock the car. ‘Ah, now we’re getting to the point.’ Opening the door, she drops her bag onto the passenger seat, closes the door and turns to face me. ‘I want to know the truth about what happened to that baby.’

I wonder how much she knows and how much she is fishing for. I study her while I decide how to answer this.

‘There was no baby,’ I say, after a few seconds.

‘Well, you see, Erin, I don’t believe that. And I’m going to make it my business to prove it.’ She opens the door and slips into her seat, pausing with her hand on the handle. ‘By the way, I hope your dad recovers soon from his accident.’ She slams the door shut and starts the engine before I can react.

I bang on the glass. ‘What do you mean by that?’ She smiles, but says nothing, before driving off.

I’m left standing there, watching the car disappear out of the car park, leaving behind a foreboding, which settles around me like a shroud.

The next morning I’m up early and out for a run. I need to burn off the nervous energy that has been building inside me since I came back to Rossway. After the spat with Roisin last night, the reassurance that she can’t do anything to cause trouble evades me.

I breathe deeply as I jog onto the estuary footpath, towards the village, the fresh sea air fills my lungs, the saltiness of it settles on my lips. This is perhaps one of my happier memories of living in Rossway: the freshness, together with the seagulls squawking in the sky and the sound of the tidal river churning in and out of the estuary.

As I near the bike shop, I find myself looking up towards Kerry’s flat. I squint against the glare of the morning sun, realising someone is at the window. It’s Kerry.

He has obviously seen me as he puts his hand up. I jog on the spot, not quite sure whether he is trying to get my attention or just waving. Kerry opens the window and leans out.

‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ he calls. ‘Like staying in bed?’

‘You clearly haven’t,’ I call back, feeling myself smile broadly. ‘Anyway, lie-ins are for wimps.’

‘You saying I’m a wimp?’

‘You’re the one who looks like they’ve just got up. Me, on the other hand, I’ve been up for a couple of hours and now I’m out exercising.’

‘Hmm, a bit of jogging around the village and you call that exercise?’

‘It’s more than a bit of jogging, I’ll have you know.’

‘Pah, anyone can jog!’

‘Oh really? Get your backside down here and let’s see what you’re made of!’ I can’t help giggling. I’m enjoying the banter.

‘I tell you what, you get your backside up here and then I’ll show you what I’m made of.’

I laugh and look away for a moment while I try to think of a suitable reply. ‘I asked first,’ I call back, thinking what a crap response that was. I hope my face is red from running to disguise the blush that I feel race up my neck. Time to go. I look back up at him. ‘Anyway, would love to stop and chat, but I’m a busy lady.’ With that I sprint off, ignoring the cries of ‘chicken’ that follow me.

A pang of guilt shoots through me as I think of Ed. I increase my stride as if increasing the distance between myself and the bike shop will also push thoughts of Kerry away. I cross the road and run parallel with the estuary wall. The water looks calm today, the early-morning sun beginning to stretch its sparkly fingers across the sea with promises of a nice day ahead. A good day for friends, wine and lunches in pub gardens.

Unchecked, my thoughts return to Kerry and the invite to the barbecue tomorrow. Bex had been so easy to talk to the other day it really is a tempting offer. Bex is refreshingly unchallenging and we ended up having a long chat, catching up on the last ten years of both our lives and those of the Rossway folk. It’s nice having a good old girly chat, I’ve been left thinking a few hours in the company of the Wright family might not be such a bad thing after all.

As I consider the prospect, I leave the footpath and head for the woods that cup the edge of Rossway. They aren’t natural woods, but a man-made windbreak, about fifty metres deep, stretching the length of the village. Within ten minutes I’ve reached the end of the trees and, hopping over the stile, I realise I’m now in Corkscrew Lane.

I make my way up the lane past a variety of bungalows and houses scattered along the way. About halfway along, I notice the crystals and lanterns hanging from an apple tree in one of the front gardens. ‘That has got to be Apple Tree Cottage,’ I puff to myself. What had Kerry said? Bohemian? Was this boho chic? That, together with the two motorbikes, an orange-and-white VW Campervan and a battered old blue Fiesta parked in the driveway, means I don’t need to read the sign hanging from the gate to confirm it’s where Joe and Bex live.

Pushing myself harder, I manage to negotiate the uneven gravel track and am thankful to reach the end of Corkscrew Lane, a winding road that curls round the back of the village and into the High Street. I check my watch. I have enough time to have a quick shower before opening the café up at nine.

I have spoken to both Mum and Fiona about the opening times, suggesting that opening later and closing earlier at weekends wouldn’t do the business any harm. The early-morning rush is a weekday occurrence, usually tradesmen on their way to work. None of them came in over the weekend. Neither had protested at my suggestion.

‘Ah, sure, close the café early,’ Mum had said. ‘You need a rest, Erin, and especially if Ed’s coming over to see you.’

I sigh as my thoughts come full circle back to Ed. I really should be excited he’s coming over, but I’m having a hard time convincing myself so. Truth be told, the prospect of seeing Kerry and spending time with the Wrights is rather more appealing.