‘Have you actually met Dad?’ I say to her.
‘I’ve known him longer than you,’ she states, her voice much more clear now that she obviously has the dress on.
‘Well, Con and I might have a theory that would explain how that’s not actually true because I’ve known him all of my life – you know, twenty-four years – which is actually one hundred per cent of my existence; while you’ve known him what, twenty-nine years? And that works out to be about . . . umm . . . sixty per cent of your life? One hundred outweighs sixty.’
Mum’s reply is a big sigh. ‘OK, you win. You’ve known him longer, but he will still want this. I promise you.’
Because it’s what you want, I want to say to her. Dad will say he wants it because you want it. And what you want, you get, no matter what, right?
My body floods with red-hot shame. That was awful. Truly awful. I look around in case the shop assistant has approached and heard what I said inside my head, or anyone else with telepathic powers has wandered into the shop and is now disgusted at the awful thing I just thought about my mother.
Thankfully, the shop is still empty, the music pulsating from the speaker by the door thrumming out a constant, half-hearted beat. I hang my head. This can’t go on, I tell myself sternly. You’re going to have to tell her that you know. You’re going to have to talk about it. Because if you keep thinking things like that . . . they’re eventually going to come out of your mouth. Then it’ll be too—
Mum suddenly whips back the curtain, making me jump, step back and nearly trip over my feet. For a moment, from the look on her face it’s clear she knows. She knows what I was thinking, she knows what I’ve been doing, and she knows that I’m probably the worst daughter a woman could possibly have.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks, watching me struggle to right myself.
‘Erm, yeah, yeah,’ I say. ‘I mean, of . . .’ My voice drains away when I properly see her. ‘Wow, Mum,’ I state. ‘That dress looks amazing on you.’
She looks down at herself. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Absolutely.’
She puts her arms around her waist, hiding the main part of the dress. It’s elegant, a demur scooped neck, fitted bodice that eases down into a full skirt.
‘I’m not sure,’ she says.
I step aside to let her have full access to the looking glass behind me. She takes a tiny step forward so she is framed by the full-length, brass-edged mirror.
She does look incredibly beautiful in this dress. In this yellow dress.
She stares and stares at herself, and with every passing second I can see the anxiety, the fear, the spectre of yesteryear growing in her eyes.
I don’t know why she picked it up. It’s not like she’s ever worn anything yellow over the years. We didn’t have yellow clothes growing up, and we certainly never had anything yellow in the house. It’s the sort of thing you only notice when you know.
She takes a step back as the horror starts to stain her face and sharpen her breathing. Maybe she thought she was ready. Maybe she thought she could handle it. Maybe this is something she’s done many, many times over the years, only to realise when she’s actually got it on that she can’t be wearing a yellow dress.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask her.
She shakes her head, trying to release the past’s hold on her, I guess. At the same time she says, ‘Yeah, yes. I’m fine. I’m fine.’ She steps back again, still fixed on her reflection. ‘I, erm, would you be a love and see if there are any other colours of this, please, love?’ she says without looking at me.
‘Yeah, sure. Any particular colour?’
‘I don’t mind. I don’t mind. Any.’
‘Cool,’ I say, and pocket my phone.
‘But not pink,’ she adds, just as I’m about to move away.
‘Not pink,’ I repeat. ‘Got it.’
Like a lot of things with my mother, you only really understand why she does the things she does and avoids the things she does when you know the other thing about her.
You only really understand my mother when you know that she was once an Ice Cream Girl and on trial for murder.
March, 2019
This guy ordered double espresso in a teeny-tiny cup. He actually drank it, too. He didn’t do what I usually did, which was order a drink and then let it sit there while it slowly went cold and end up remonstrating with myself for the waste of money.
The café I’d persuaded him to come to was small and wannabe intimate. Unfortunately, there was something so dispassionate about its design – its wooden benches had just the right amount of cracks and whorls and uneven areas; the industrial, metal-topped stools and chairs were on the wrong side of comfortable; their crockery was faux vintage and, to be painfully cool, they mixed up the patterns and designs so your order was often served in a mishmash of styles – that it ended up coming across as clinical and cynical. The staff, who could probably have made the place welcoming despite its austere feel, could not look more disengaged with the whole process of serving coffee and dry, stale-tasting pastries.
‘Can you start at the beginning?’ I asked. I picked at a flake of almond that sat like a burnt fingernail on top of the miniature croissant I had paid £3.50 for. If Con were here, he’d have been calculating how much each bite cost and sniggering at my craziness in paying that much. I don’t know why I bothered to buy it when my whole body was clenched so tight that swallowing saliva was difficult, let alone food. ‘I mean, what you said is a whole universe of info to process and that was just two lines. So could you start at the beginning and tell me why you think my mother was involved in a murder and who this Poppy person is, besides your sister, and how she connects to my mum and, yeah . . . can you start at the beginning?’
He sighed heavily. ‘What’s your name, Serena’s daughter?’ he asked instead of starting at the beginning. His words were shot through with a snide, sinister venom that was like a snake’s bite and it chased a smattering of goosebumps across my forearms and down the centre of my spine.
‘Verity,’ I replied. ‘What’s your name, Poppy’s brother?’ I didn’t have the same poison in my voice, but there was enough of a tinge of it that would tell him how he sounded, and how unnecessary it was. It wasn’t like I’d called him a liar. In fact, I’d done the opposite by bringing him here and buying him expensive coffee and pastry.
He heard and understood what he’d done because his whole demeanour softened a fraction. ‘Logan, my name is Logan Carlisle. Poppy is my sister. My big sister. And over thirty years ago, she went to prison for a crime that your mother committed. And I need your mother to confess to that so my sister can finally get on with her life as an innocent woman.’
I accidentally snapped the almond flake I had been playing with in half. ‘You’re very good at the big, dramatic statements, Mr Carlisle,’ I said. ‘I’m surprised there isn’t a big, dramatic “duh-duh-duhhhhhhh” every time you open your mouth.’ That wasn’t fair, but it was true. Because come on. Murder? My mother?
‘How much do you know about your mother’s history?’ he asked.
‘She met my dad, she got pregnant, they got married. Had another child. Yes, they’ve tried to pass off my conception as a honeymoon thing, but come on, no one is that naïve.’