Tell Tale (27 page)

I shake my head. ‘No. You know the site I want.’ I glance at the door. ‘Can you hurry?’ Several teachers pass by, glancing in through the square of glass. If Mr McBain comes in, there’ll be questions that no amount of fainting will disguise.

‘OK,’ Fliss says, nudging Jenny. When the terminal is ready, Jenny brings up an internet window and types with lightning speed. Her fingers dance their way to an unknown website, where she enters usernames and passwords and then, suddenly, a log-in screen resolves in front of us.

‘You’re going to need an account,’ Jenny says, sighing. ‘That means you have to think of a nickname for yourself and enter lots of details. It’ll take time.’ The girls are already fidgety.

‘Can you log in to yours, so I can have a look around?’ I assume they have an account because I saw them on it before. If this works, then I know I’ll want to make one of my own, somehow find a way to come back to the site often. I rein in my anticipation, trying to keep my breathing quiet as I lean close to the monitor.

‘Sure,’ Jenny says and again her fingers slide swiftly across the keys as she enters her username and password.

‘Oh my God,’ Fliss shrieks, and suddenly it’s as if I’m not there. ‘Look, he left you flowers.’

‘I adore him
so
much,’ Jenny replies, blushing the same colour as the bunch of roses that are on her virtual doorstep.

‘They cost a whole load of credits. He must really like you.’

I watch the pair immersed in their oh-so-real world that doesn’t exist outside of their minds. To Jenny, the flowers mean as much, if not more, than if the boy in question had hand-delivered the bouquet. I watch as she clicks to accept the gift. A messenger boy character asks if she would like to send a gift in return.

‘Oh, make him wait,’ Fliss advises. ‘Play hard to get.’

I clear my throat and they turn to me. ‘Is it possible to find someone specific?’

‘Sure. There are lots of search options.’ Jenny wiggles the mouse pointer over the flowers. In another two clicks, they are in a vase in her pink virtual bedroom.

‘But you can’t be that person’s friend unless they accept you. It’s a safety thing.’

I nod, smiling, willing away the tears. ‘That’s good.’

Fliss looks at me oddly then pulls a packet of tissues from her blazer. ‘Take these, miss.’ The girls eye each other warily, feeling sorry for me. Jenny brings up an advanced search form.

‘Do you have a username to search for?’ she asks.

I think hard, blowing my nose. ‘No, I don’t.’ Is that it then? I wonder. A brief glimpse into another world; a world with a lure so strong, I can feel the tug in every cell of my heart.

‘You can still search using a real name. But if you’re looking for a Jane Smith, then expect to trawl through hundreds of results.’

The girls are being kind, yet I sense their impatience. Jenny’s fingers are poised above the keys, the cursor blinking in the box. I look at each of them, wondering if their mothers are thinking about them at this particular moment, hoping they are enjoying school, that they are eating properly, that they have friends, that they are doing their homework, that, most of all, they are happy.

‘Why don’t you phone your parents later?’ I suggest. ‘Tell your mums that you love them.’ Jenny and Fliss don’t actually laugh although I can tell they want to spray out a giggle. But deep within them, I see a glimmer of thought, as if maybe it’s not such a stupid suggestion.

‘Mine’s on holiday in Florida. She won’t be up for hours.’

‘And my mum’s always in meetings. She’ll get really mad if I interrupt her.’ Fliss picks at her nails. The varnish is coming off.

‘I bet they love you so much,’ I say wistfully.

‘Miss, we don’t want to be rude but if a teacher comes in . . .’ Jenny pulls a face. ‘Do you have a real name I can search for?’

‘Yes. Yes I do,’ I say, standing up and leaning over Jenny
to get a better view of the screen. This is it, I think. This is the moment when the past catches up with the present, when everything I’ve been holding back becomes real. I hold my breath, close my eyes. Then, with my lips close to her ear, my voice not much more than a warm whisper, I say, ‘I want you to search for a Josephine Kennedy.’

Nina did the washing-up twice. She scrubbed the table and swept the floor. She rummaged in the cleaning cupboard until she found polish that made the dining table shine and the windows gleam. She took the rubbish to the dustbin, emptied the dishwasher for the second time, vacuumed the living-room carpet and the upholstery, as well as swiping away fine threads of cobwebs from the ceiling with a feather duster. She took to the door handles with brass cleaner, and bleached and cleaned the downstairs toilet. She put the tablecloth and linen napkins they had used at dinner into the machine and put them on a boil wash.

At 2 a.m., Nina sat on the edge of a cane chair overlooking the garden. The garden lights leading down to the studio were still on.

‘Hey, what are you doing up?’

She turned. Mick was beside her, wearing only his check pyjama shorts. His face was puffy with sleep. She welcomed his closeness yet wanted to shove him away. Nina’s thoughts spun as fast as the washing machine. It had been the worst evening of her life –
nearly
the worst – and she hadn’t a clue
what she should do. Her priority was to keep her family safe.

‘I’ve been clearing up.’ Nina didn’t recognise her own voice. Cleaning like a whirlwind was her way of blocking out what was happening. What had always been going to happen, if only she’d stopped to think about it. She’d been wearing a blindfold, conning herself, her husband, her daughter.

‘But we already did the washing-up. I heard noise.’ Mick glanced around the spotless room and frowned. ‘You’ve been cleaning at this hour?’

‘I wanted to get rid . . .’ Nina turned and stared back out of the window. ‘I wanted to get it done.’

Mick caught her chin with his finger and turned her to face him. He squatted beside her chair. ‘Are you upset about something?’ His breathing was on a similar precipice to hers – jerky, shallow, tight.

Nina shook her head. She couldn’t look into those eyes, the same ones that had watched her transform from young woman to mature businesswoman and mother. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Just tired.’

‘It was too much for you tonight.’ Mick sighed. ‘I wish I’d never agreed to the stupid meeting in the first place.’ He stared down the garden, following Nina’s gaze. Then he turned and left a kiss on her cheek. It was slow, vaguely sorrowful, loaded with regret. ‘If it’s any consolation, I have to do some paintings for him.’

‘Oh!’ Nina’s cheeks flushed. ‘Well . . . that’s great,’ she added, feeling guilty that Mick was trying to play down his success. This was terrible news.

‘He says he has clients lining up to buy artwork that’s, well, a little different.’ Mick shifted and folded his arms. ‘He’s asked me to do some paintings that will fill a gap in the market.’

‘That’s great,’ Nina said flatly. She didn’t want to sound too downbeat, but this was the worst possible outcome. Explaining to Mick was not an option. Normally, she’d sleep on problems, but this time there would be no restful separation of night and day, no recharging, no bright-eyed decision-making while consulting the rest of the family. How dare Burnett use Mick to get to her. He was gutless as well as deranged.

Mick hugged her – a tight, close embrace that to Nina symbolised both the end and the beginning. Tears made her vision blur, obliterating the very centre of the life she adored. ‘Oh Mick,’ she said, hiccupping back a sob.

‘What is it, love?’ He held her at arm’s length. Nina saw a window of opportunity, a moment in their lives when she could be totally honest with her husband. Did he sense her despair?

But Nina remained silent, unable to utter a single word to describe how she felt. She was flotsam on the tide, heading inexorably to a whirlpool that would suck her down into the darkness. She knew she was about to drown. She knew she would have to go alone.

‘Come to bed. I won’t sleep properly knowing that you’re downstairs. I’m sorry tonight was stressful.’ Mick stood, pulling Nina up with him. His hands trembled as he guided her towards him.

‘Mick, there’s something I have to tell you.’ Nina was cold in his arms. Her back was rigid, and her eyes glassy and staring.

‘Go on.’

Nina sighed. ‘You’re going to kill me but . . .’ She pressed her hands over her face. It had to be done. There was no room for emotional leakage. ‘It was an accident and . . .’ She let out a sob, not entirely forced. ‘When I was showing Karl your work down in the studio, it was dark and I stumbled and knocked over . . .’ Nina prised apart her fingers a little, so her voice wouldn’t be muffled. She didn’t want to have to say it twice. ‘I knocked over the beautiful painting you did of me and when I tried to save it, my foot went straight through the canvas.’ Further sobs joined into one cry. From the heart. ‘Oh Mick, I am so sorry. I didn’t want to ruin the evening by telling you earlier.’

‘Nina, Nina, Nina.’ Mick pulled his wife to him and held her as tightly as he could. He felt her ribs strain against his arms as she breathed. ‘That explains why you came back from my studio looking as if you’d seen a ghost. For a moment, I thought that Karl had said something to upset you or even made a move on you.’ Mick was almost laughing with relief. ‘And for heaven’s sake, don’t worry about the canvas. I can repair it so you’ll hardly know it happened.’ He kissed her neck and told her not to be silly, not to worry, that everything was going to be all right.

‘Thanks, Mick,’ she whispered into his shoulder, knowing that it wouldn’t.

She must have slept because she didn’t remember it getting completely light. She’d seen the first streaks of dawn push through the sides of the curtains, heard the milkman hum and clink down the street, and felt the bed rock a little as Mick prised himself from under the duvet. When he didn’t return, Nina assumed he’d got up early to work.

Then she remembered.

The grace that a couple of hours’ sleep had provided slid from her as quickly as the down quilt. She got up and went into the bathroom. She turned on the shower and stared into the mirror while she waited for the water to heat up. Gradually, her face disappeared as steam filled the bathroom.

‘Gone,’ she whispered, opening the glass door and stepping into the hot flow.

Nina allowed the water to flood over her, soaking her hair, flattening it on her shoulders. She dragged her hands down her face – an attempt to wash away the grainy tiredness. It didn’t work.

Last night’s food – not that she’d eaten much – sat heavily in her stomach. She thought she might be sick. Nina pressed her hands against the tiles and leaned forward. She stared down at her feet, just letting the water flow over her.

Afterwards, she stood wrapped in a towel, dripping, staring into the steamed-up mirror. Gradually, the surface cleared. Gradually, Nina saw her face reappear. Gradually, as if she were being reborn, Nina forced herself to imagine it was a different person staring back.

In the library there are paintings, and in the paintings there are faces. The cold eyes stare down at me as I walk along the length of the wall, studying them, whispering to them, wondering if they’ve seen as much as I have.

‘Some of them are meant to be valuable.’

I don’t turn round, even though my instinct is to be startled, to spin round wide-eyed, to gasp, make an excuse, tell him I’m busy, apologise for my sudden exit.

‘Mr Palmer is an avid art collector.’ Adam stands behind me, a breath away from my back. My neck prickles from his closeness. I don’t move.

‘It takes a good while, you know, to appreciate a painting properly.’ It wasn’t what I’d meant to say. I was going to scuttle off with my pile of laundry.

‘Go on,’ Adam says as if he’s teasing an answer from a student. He doesn’t realise how hard it is for me to talk to him now. I am learning that the past runs faster than the present – way faster than me. Eventually, it becomes the future.

‘I just meant that they take a long time to paint. Therefore, looking at them should be a slow process too. To
really appreciate what the artist did.’ Slowly, not knowing exactly how close Adam is, I turn round. I find myself pressed against the wall, face to face with him.

I burst into fits of laughter, even though it feels so wrong. ‘What on earth do you look like?’

He pulls a dejected face; the face of a sad clown with a daubed-on smile. ‘You don’t like my outfit?’

‘It’s not that I don’t like it. I’m just curious to know why you’re wearing yellow tights, a pink stripy tunic, and a blue fuzzy wig.’ My hand half hides my face. ‘And silly shoes.’

‘These are my normal shoes,’ he replies, joking. ‘Don’t you know anything, Miss Gerrard? It’s the school fun run today. Didn’t you get the email that was sent out?’

‘No. Why would I? I don’t have an email address or a computer.’

‘How long?’

‘What?’ Adam keeps me confused.

‘How long do you think it took for the artist to paint these portraits?’ His mind switches between past and present like mine.

‘For a start, there’s more than one artist here.’ I scan the line of ten or twelve portraits. ‘There are four different styles. That last painting is unique. I love it. It’s very Matisse. You can tell by the colours, the composition, the lighting. If I ever invested, it would be in something like this.’

‘Your knowledge is impressive, but there are five artists.’ Adam’s square features speak earnestly from beneath the face paint and wig.

‘I don’t think you’re—’

‘And you do have an email address. Everyone who works at the school has one. It will be your initials followed by your surname at the school’s domain dot net.’

‘It will?’ Bright colours spill from Adam, dazzling me. His slightly crooked nose looks even more prominent under the dark eyeliner he has whizzed around his eyes. His broad jaw sets a wide expression on the clown’s painted mouth.

‘Checking your email regularly is important at Roecliffe. Just think, if you had read your emails, you could be dressed like this too, and preparing to run, walk or crawl five miles around the village for charity.’ He adjusts his wig. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to beg you to come with me, would I?’