The Accident (6 page)

‘What is it?’ Now I’m worried too. ‘You can tell us anything, Oliver. You know that, don’t you? We won’t judge and we won’t be angry. I promise.’

Well,
I
won’t be angry. Brian is sitting on the very edge of his chair, his elbows on the table, his eyes fixed on his son’s face.

‘I …’ He can’t meet his dad’s gaze.

‘Please,’ I say softly. ‘It might help.’

‘Okay.’ He sits back in his chair and drums his thumbs on the table, his head down. ‘Okay.’ He pauses again to clear his throat and I think I might explode if I have to wait one second longer. ‘She asked me if I’d pay for a hotel room for her and Liam.’

‘She WHAT?!’

‘She said she didn’t want to lose her virginity in a car or the playing fields behind the school like everyone else and—’

‘A hotel room?!’ The back of Brian’s neck is puce. ‘She’s fifteen, for fuck’s sake. What the hell was she thinking? If you bloody—’

‘I didn’t do anything, Dad!’ Oli holds up his hands. ‘I swear. I wouldn’t.’

I can tell by the horrified look on his face that he’s telling the truth.

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ I ask.

‘Why would I?’

‘Because your FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD SISTER was planning on having sex with her seventeen-year-old boyfriend in a hotel room!’ Brian is halfway out of his seat, his hands splayed on the table, the tips of his fingers white.

‘Brian.’ He doesn’t so much as look at me so I say his name again as he continues to rant. Then again. ‘Brian, stop it! Stop shouting. It’s not Oli’s fault.’

Both men look at me in surprise. I don’t think either of them have heard me raise my voice before.

‘Sorry.’ My husband’s voice is gravelly as he sinks into his chair and rubs the back of his neck, his eyes closed. He opens them again and reaches for my hand. ‘Sorry, Sue.’ He looks at Oli. His chin dimples and he presses his lips together in contrition. ‘Sorry, son.’ Oli shrugs but says nothing. He’s smarting, I can tell. ‘I just find it all so—’

I put my hand over his. ‘I know.’

Brian’s eyes search mine. ‘You don’t seem surprised by all this.’

‘I’m not.’ I squeeze his hand. ‘I’ve read Charlotte’s diary. I know how she felt about Liam.’

He frowns. ‘She’s got a diary? When did you find it?’

‘This morning,’ I lie.

Brian sits up straighter in his chair. If he
is
somehow responsible for Charlotte’s accident he doesn’t look worried by the fact I may have had an insight in our daughter’s most private thoughts.

‘Does it …’ He leans forward, ‘Does it reveal why she might have wanted to …’

He can’t bring himself to say the words ‘tried to kill herself’. He refuses to entertain the thought that our daughter may have been so unhappy she chose to end her life rather than share her unhappiness with us. I can understand why he’d feel that way, completely understand.

‘No,’ I say and he visibly deflates with relief.

It’s another lie of course but I can’t share the truth about the diary until I know for sure if he played any part in ‘the secret’ that weighed so heavily on her. Right now I don’t know what – or who – to believe.

‘Can I see it?’ he asks.

When I raise my eyebrows, he shakes his head.

‘No, you’re right, of course you are. She still deserves her privacy. But …’ his eyes flick back to Oliver who’s observing the two of us with a curious expression on his face. This is the first time we’ve been open about Charlotte’s accident in front of him. The ‘everything is fine’ façade has finally dropped.

Brian shakes his head and slumps back in his seat. We lapse into silence and I find myself staring at the pile of crumbs in front of Oli. I wasn’t surprised to read the entry in Charlotte’s diary about how much she wanted to lose her virginity to Liam and how excited and scared she was. I didn’t think much to it. I certainly didn’t wonder whether it might be connected to ‘the secret’ Charlotte mentions on her final entry – I assumed that was to do with Brian – but now that Oliver has brought up this hotel business …

I tear my eyes away from the biscuit crumbs and glance at Milly who’s half asleep at my feet. We need to take a walk – to Liam’s house.

Saturday 30th September 1990

James told me he loved me last night – four weeks to the day after our first date.

He took me to a fabulous Mexican restaurant in Camden – all low lighting, intimate tables, flickering candles and not a cactus in sight. I was trying to eat my fajita without it flopping all over the place but the harder I tried to angle it into my mouth the more food fell out the end and the more I laughed. When I looked across the table at James he had a terribly serious look on his face. I glanced behind me to see if he was reacting to some terrible accident out in the street but cars and people were streaming past as normal.

I put down my fajita. I suddenly didn’t feel very hungry any more. ‘What is it, James?’

He shifted in his chair. ‘You.’

‘What about me?’

‘You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met in my life.’

His eyes were fixed and unblinking, his mouth set in a straight line, his hands folded neatly in his lap. It was like he was looking beyond my flowery red dress, black beads and curled hair and peering straight into my head.

‘I love you, Suzy,’ he said. ‘I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you and it terrifies me, loving someone this much. I can’t sleep, eat or think because of you. I can barely act. I’ve lost control of who I am and that scares the shit out of me but I can’t run away because I love you so much. I can’t ever be without you.’

He searched my eyes, looking for a reaction. I’d never seen him look so worried. I smiled, desperate to relieve his discomfort, and reached across the table for his hands. He unfolded them from his lap and held my fingers.

‘I love you too, James but I’ve never felt more scared or vulnerable in my life. I’ve got no defences left, nothing to stop you from hurting me if you wanted to.’

‘I’d never hurt you Suzy-Sue.’ He let go of one of my hands and reached across the table so he could cup the side of my face. ‘Never. I’d rather hurt myself than see you in pain.’

There were tears in his tears but he brushed them away brusquely.

‘Let’s just go.’ He took a handful of notes out of his wallet and threw them down on the table. ‘Let’s go back to yours, put on a record, crawl into bed and block out the world.’

I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do.

Chapter 6

I didn’t go to Liam’s house last night. Just as I was about to announce my intention to take the dog for a walk Brian shot out of his seat and disappeared into the hallway. When he returned a couple of minutes later he was wearing his jacket with Milly’s lead dangling from his hand. He said the briefest of goodbyes to Oliver and then he was gone, out of the porch door like a shot.

Oli raised an eyebrow. ‘Not like Dad to take Milly for a walk.’

I said nothing. Instead I offered him another cup of tea and more biscuits but Oli shook his head, said it was getting late and he needed to get back to Leicester.

I glance at the kitchen clock. Brian left for work ages ago and it’s still only 8.50 a.m. If Liam is anything like Oliver was as a teenager there’s no way he’ll be awake at this time during half term. I should visit Charlotte first and then go and see him. I put down my cup of coffee and stand up. But what if he goes out for some reason and I miss him? Better to try and get hold of him first and
then
go and see Charlotte. Maybe if I take the long route to his house he’ll be awake by the time I get there. It’ll be at least 9.30 a.m. if I go through the park.

No, I change my mind again as I step into the cloakroom and reach for my coat. I should ring first. Or maybe I should text. That way I won’t disturb his family. But I don’t have a mobile number for him, just a landline.

Charlotte would though.

I fly up the stairs and head for her room, then pause in the doorway. Where’s her mobile? I haven’t seen it since before her accident.

I didn’t touch Charlotte’s room for two weeks after she was hospitalised, not one thing – not the mascara-stained makeup removal pads strewn across the dressing table, the dirty bras and knickers kicked under the bed or the magazines scattered across the floor – nothing. I thought that if I tidied up I’d regret wiping all traces of her personality from her room if she never woke up. It sounds ridiculous but I was in shock. How else could I have failed to notice that her phone wasn’t in the clear plastic bag of her things that the nurse handed me? It contained all the normal things she’d take out with her – purse, keys, makeup and hairbrush – but no phone. Why? Like most teenagers she was umbilically attached to her mobile.

Three weeks after her accident, my shock finally dissipated and with it my insistence that Charlotte’s room remain untouched. Instead of seeing the mess as a sign of normality it became a morbid shrine. My daughter wasn’t dead – she was just ill – so I tidied up, ready for her return. And that’s when I found the diary.

I throw open the wardrobe doors and root around in the pockets of some of her clothes. There are several items I’ve never seen before – a jacket that looks like it’s Vivienne Westwood and an expensively cut dress with a VB label. I stare at it for several seconds. What’s Charlotte doing with a Victoria Beckham dress? I push it along the rack and turn my attention to the pockets of a pair of Diesel jeans instead. I’ll have to have a word with Oli the next time I see him.

I close the wardrobe door. The bus driver didn’t mention anything about a mobile phone and neither did any of the other eye witnesses and the police immediately cordoned off the area so if it was lying crushed or broken nearby they’d have found it. So it must be in the house somewhere.

Charlotte must have deliberately hidden it. And if she did that then maybe she had something to hide.

I yank open Charlotte’s sock drawer and root around at the back. Nothing. I tip up the box of folders and school work under her desk and sift through the papers. No phone. It’s not hidden in any of her shoes or boots or secreted behind the novels on her bookshelf. I return to the sock drawer, squeezing each bundle but still find nothing. I search the room for fifteen, twenty minutes, going through every drawer, bag and shoebox but there’s no sign of her mobile.

Where is it?

I reach under the pillow for her diary and flick through the pages. I must have read it ten, twenty times but whatever secret she was keeping, she didn’t share it with her diary. She shared other worries – anxieties about her weight, nervousness about sleeping with Liam for the first time, concern about exam results and indecisiveness about the career she wanted but nothing huge, nothing so terrible she’d consider taking her own life.

I close the book and tuck it back under her pillow. There are no answers here, maybe Liam will have some.

White Street is completely deserted apart from a bad-tempered ginger tom who hisses at us as we walk past. I’ve been to Liam’s house dozens of times but I rarely go in. I normally sit in the car, engine running, as Charlotte rushes in to grab him so I can take them bowling or to the cinema. She never stayed overnight with him and he never stayed at ours but I told her that, if she was still with Liam when she turned sixteen, I’d accompany her to the doctor so she could go on the pill. Then, once it was safe, her father and I would go out for the evening and she and Liam could have the house to themselves. I thought I was being very reasonable (or ‘ridiculously liberal’ according to Brian) but Charlotte told me it was the ‘grossest thing she’d ever heard’ and that, if she wanted her parents to know when she was having sex she’d put an advert in the local paper.

I open the gate of the blue house at number fifty-five. The front garden looks lovely – the beds are awash with colour, not a single weed to be seen. Claire, Liam’s mum, must have been very busy. What I’d give for her green fingers.

I knock lightly when I reach the front door. The curtains are closed in the living room but I can make out the shadowy shape of a person moving about. I knock again, louder this time, and keep an eye on the curtains. A moment later they twitch and a pair of bright blue eyes peers out at me then they’re swiftly pulled shut again. I hear the sound of a wooden floor creaking and then the front door swings open. Liam Hutchinson, Charlotte’s seventeen-year-old boyfriend, stands in front of me in nothing but his navy and white striped boxer shorts. He looks confused, so I smile warmly.

‘Hello, Liam.’

He nods. ‘Mrs Jackson.’

‘Could I come in? I was wondering if we could have a little chat?’

It feels strange to be sitting in the Hutchinson’s living room. I’ve never been in here before and I can’t stop myself from staring around, drinking in the unusual lithograph prints on the walls, the colour-coordinated scatter cushions and the large, expensive-looking rug in front of the original Victorian fireplace. Liam is slumped on the sofa on the other side of the room, his knees spread wide. If he finds this situation odd he isn’t letting on. We’ve been sitting here, sneaking looks at each other, for the last couple of minutes, neither of us saying a word. I rehearsed my opening line dozens of times on my way over but now the time has come to say it, my mouth has gone dry.

‘So …’ I manage at last. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here.’

He shrugs. ‘Something to do with Charlotte?’

‘Yes. Have you been to see her? I’m surprised we haven’t crossed paths.’

‘No.’ He picks at the ivory and gold throw covering his chair, plucking out the metallic threads and then dropping them on the floor. His mother will have a fit when she gets home. ‘I haven’t seen her. I didn’t think I’d be allowed.’

‘Really?’ I sit forward. ‘Because you’re not a relative? That’s fine. Friends
and
family are allowed in and,’ I smile warmly, ‘you’re more than a friend.’