Page 59 of Forgive Me Not
Andrea’s face crumpled. ‘And I love you too. Always have. You’re my little sister.’
‘So why can’t we try to resolve this?’
Clenching her hands together, she looked Emma straight in the eye. ‘Because I can’t ever forget.’
4 months before going back
Emma loved her new flat. It consisted of three basic rooms, it was on a main road, and she could have sworn it had tap dancers for neighbours. But it was hers, and it was safe. Slowly she personalised its blank canvas. Working in the charity shop gave her access to beautiful but affordable features, such as the tasselled Indian silk scarf she hung across the bed. In each room she placed a fragrant candle from the pound shop, including white musk in the bedroom.
Small things made a big difference.
White musk was supposed to smell sexy, she thought, walking home after her shift. Today was Valentine’s Day and her thoughts strayed to Joe. She still missed his smile, which could warm up the frostiest winter day. She’d loved the banter between them. They used to laugh that they could read each other’s minds. Was it any surprise that the old Emma had wanted more than he could provide?
Back at the flat, she switched on the kettle and sat on her small sofa in the dark. She had been the worst kind of friend to Joe. Heat swamped her neck as she recalled giving him a Valentine’s Day card he hadn’t wanted.
On the way home, she’d treated herself to a bar of chocolate – Beth’s favourite Twix. Had Beth stayed sober? Was she back living with her kids? Emma drew the curtains and sat down again. The silence exacerbated the discontent she’d felt since her due date in January. She leant forward to the fake mahogany coffee table and turned on a small second-hand radio.
Her time at recovery services had ended now. The volunteering and AA were her lifelines – and her doctor. He’d agreed she wasn’t quite ready to go back to work and had signed her off for a while longer.
A song came on. Emma stopped chewing. It was ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’ by Queen. That had been her and Bligh’s song. A joke at first – he’d sing it affectionately. She recalled their first ever Valentine’s Day together. He had taken her out for a romantic dinner in Manchester’s Chinatown. He’d rung ahead to ask for red roses and candles. Bought her favourite perfume and written a poem inside her card. Emma bit into the chocolate bar again and thought back to that night of making love. She’d been drunk. Bligh had taken a glass of water to the bedroom for her. She’d given him his present – a humorous pair of furry handcuffs. Why hadn’t she been more thoughtful?
Unable to finish the chocolate, she paced around the lounge with a growing sense of unease. She tried to meditate. Lit a joss stick. Skim-read part of the Big Book. Valentine’s Day had raised all sorts of unsettling questions. Bligh… Joe… they were the two big loves of her life. But neither relationship had been real.
Her mind went into overdrive, playing over and over again the turning-point scenes from the last couple of years. Her first night on the streets, sleeping with Joe, losing Josephine… And she tried to block out memories of that morning she’d woken up in the luxury hotel. It would do no good remembering. Yet the scenes came back in minute detail. It was as if someone had Photoshopped her life from matt to glossy, with the room’s plush decor. That was if you ignored the condoms on the carpet. She’d woken up on the freezing floor and had eventually seen the splats of latex, wet and sticky…
Her hand rose to her throat and she squeezed her eyes tight, hoping to somehow destroy the memories, but the dried blood stuck to her dress flashed into her mind and a wave of nausea rose up her throat as she recalled the panic. She had pulled the material away from her body. Had she been stabbed? No. Thank God. There was no wound. Did that mean she’d injured someone else?
The radio played another song and she returned to the present. She picked up the chocolate bar again, praying the past would stay where it was meant to. But it came back as she shivered, thinking back to the sickly fear that had crept over her as she’d sat in that hotel room, desperately trying to remember what had happened the night before. Eventually her mental fog had cleared. That was it – Bligh had asked her if she’d bothered buying Andrea and Mum a Christmas present. Of course, she hadn’t, so to spite him, she had taken both of the debit cards from his wallet. She’d got all dressed up and driven the family car into Manchester, where she was due to meet friends for a bar crawl. She knew the PIN code of one card and had withdrawn cash up to its limit. The other card was contactless.
In the end, she’d decided to skip the shops and met her friends at the hotel instead. She’d insisted on buying all the drinks. What happened after last orders had been a blur, and when she’d woken on the floor, her mind was a blank. She’d gone to the window. It was still dark. Six o’clock. Ice everywhere. Someone had knocked sharply on the door. It was the assistant manager. She’d handed over a receipt.
‘This is your bar bill. The security guard who escorted you back to your room said it fell out of your hand but you wouldn’t take it back.’
Security guard? Bar bill? She’d studied the slip of paper and her legs felt shaky. ‘Almost fifteen hundred pounds? That’s not possible, just for one night.’
‘Two,’ the woman had said sharply.
That meant it was now Christmas Eve. Emma couldn’t believe it.
‘Your guests left in the early hours yesterday morning, and last night you were quiet,’ the assistant manager said. ‘Otherwise we’d have been forced to ask you to vacate too. We only let you stay on as a goodwill gesture, seeing as you… didn’t feel well. But it’s my duty to tell you that you aren’t welcome here again – whoever your boss is. And I’d now ask you to leave within the next hour.’
Emma had slammed the door shut and headed straight for a half-full bottle of champagne. Her boss? What a joke. She wondered what else she’d made up.
She’d taken out her phone and, ignoring the texts from Andrea and Bligh, gone onto Instagram. Ah ha! There she was dancing. Taking selfies. People were using empty bottles as pretend microphones. It looked as if she’d had the best time ever. But then she watched the videos she hadn’t posted.
Someone had knocked over the TV and tried to pick up the shards of glass. They’d cut their arm badly and fallen against her. That was where the blood had come from. The room had emptied apart from an older man and two young women on the bed who couldn’t have been much more than eighteen. Disgust had lifted the champagne to her lips once more. Something about him had seemed familiar. She couldn’t get a close look but reckoned he was old enough to be their grandad.
The screen then went black, but an hour later she’d recorded again. It was just her now… No, wait… another person was sitting on the bed. Legs with thread veins and saggy knees hurriedly pushed themselves into trousers. She couldn’t see his face but sensed it was the familiar older man. She was shouting that she’d report him – that he’d lose everything. The screen had then gone dead again.
Buoyed by more champagne, Emma had shrugged off the confusion and sense of unease. She’d got dressed and sauntered through the lobby. Having already paid the huge bill she’d gone outside and withdrawn cash with Bligh’s debit card again – well, she might need money for New Year’s Eve. She’d climbed into the car. The dashboard said it was six forty-five and minus one outside. Somehow she left the crowded car park without scraping another vehicle and half an hour later was on the outskirts of Healdbury, listening to her music.
The road began to wind as she approached the Christmas tree farm. Humming, she opened the Instagram app on her phone and every now and again glanced across at her friends’ photos. Suddenly her body was thrown forward as the car hit something and skidded. Emma struggled to keep control of the steering wheel, but at last the car slowed. She thought maybe she’d hit a fox or a badger – although it had felt heavier than that. Perhaps a big sheep.
When she reached Foxglove Farm, she cleaned the blood off the front headlight to avoid any boring questions, then opened the back door, hoping to go straight to bed.
She hadn’t counted on the welcome party…
Emma jolted back to the present day and her flat. The chocolate bar had fallen from her hand. She felt sick. Afraid. Ashamed. Disgusted. Her pulse raced as she picked up her phone and clicked into WhatsApp.
