I Know Who You Are(48)

I tell myself that as I walk into the department store and as I ride the escalator to women’s fashion. I tell myself again as I select a size-ten black dress from the rack and take it to the fitting rooms. And again, when I ask the shop assistant to remove the tags because I want to wear the dress now. I ignore the puzzled look on her face when, after paying for my purchase, I pass her the clothes I had been wearing before and ask her to put them in the bin.

I am not crazy.

When you plait truth and lies together, they can begin to look and feel the same.

Back on the ground floor of the department store, I stop at my favorite cosmetics counter and pay for a makeover.

“Look up for me,” says the woman applying black liner to my eyes. “Do you know you look just like that girl in that TV show … anyone ever tell you that?”

“All the time.” I tell my face to smile. “Wish I was!”

“Don’t we all. Look down.”

I stare at my feet and notice my trainers. They don’t go with the rest of my look, so once my face is taken care of, I hurry to the shoe department. I start to feel a little paranoid that other people might recognize me now that I’m all dressed up like the on-screen version of myself. I stare at the endless rows of footwear and spot some red shoes on the shelf, outshining everything around them. They remind me of a pair I wore in a school play once. I’m fairly sure they don’t go with the black dress, but I try on the display shoe anyway, standing like a flamingo in front of the mirror. It’s perfect.

While I wait for the assistant to bring me my new shoes, I observe the hordes of shoppers, all hoping to score their next consumer high. I feel sure that people are staring at me now. Who knows how many of them might have read Jennifer Jones’s online article or, even worse, whether the news has leaked about Ben and what he accused me of. When the assistant finally returns, a queue of people are waiting, accompanied by a chorus of tutting and synchronized rolling of eyes. She apologizes for the delay and retreats back to the stockroom before I’ve even taken the lid off the box.

I slip the brand-new red shoes onto my feet and take another look in the mirror. Something about them delivers a sense of comfort I can’t explain, then I think of Ben again. He knew how much I loved shoes and bought me a designer pair every birthday and Christmas we were together; something I could afford, but could never justify spending on myself. He would always choose a pair that I had secretly wanted, he knew me so well. It was kind and thoughtful, and he delighted in watching me unwrap them. Every marriage is different, and no marriage is perfect. It wasn’t all bad between us.

I snap back to the present, see the enormous line of people snaking behind the tills, and again feel the eyes of others on me, like a weight on my chest making it difficult to breathe. I take one last look at my reflection, then swallow my fear down inside me like a pill. I decide to do something I’ve never done before, and walk out of the shop without paying, leaving my trainers and that version of me behind. If I’m about to be accused of murder, a little shoplifting can’t hurt me too much. I’m terrified of the police and what the future has in store for me, but that woman I just saw staring back at me in the mirror, she’s not afraid of anything or anyone.

All I have to do is remember to be her from now on.





Thirty-nine


Essex, 1988

“You just have to remember who you are,” says Maggie.

She holds my hand tight the whole time the police are in the shop, as if she is scared of letting me go. I was worried that maybe everything was my fault because I opened the back door when I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I only wanted to help the man find his dog. I didn’t know that he didn’t really have one.

Maggie wears her kind face the whole time the police are here, even if it does look a little bit broken. She said before they arrived that we all had to act a little bit, and that it was very important for me to learn my lines. She made me say them over and over in my best English accent.

I had three to learn:

1. The bad man tricked me to open the door.

2. The bad man had a gun (not a knife) and pointed it at me.

3. Dad (John) gave him the money, but the bad man still wouldn’t let me go, so they got in a fight and the gun went off.

I’m not allowed to say anything else at all. I have to say I can’t remember, even though I can. I must not talk about Michael, the man who says he is my uncle; I don’t know why they think I would. I must not say that the gun was Maggie’s, or that she was the one who shot the bad man. John said it was important to “stick to the script” because of Maggie’s record. I don’t know which one he means, she has lots; she likes listening to music.

The police have been here for hours. The lady who asks me questions says that I’m a “very brave girl” and gives me a lollipop, but I don’t want it. I don’t feel brave, I feel scared. Maggie’s kind face seems to follow them out the back door, no matter how much I wish that it wouldn’t. I don’t know what time it is when they leave, but it’s dark outside, and I know it is late. I wonder if we’ll still have dinner, and I wonder if it will be something with chips. But then I remember that we don’t have a Deep Fat Fryer anymore, not after what happened to Cheeks. Maggie threw it away.

She picks me up, carrying me through the shop, with my legs wrapped around her waist and my arms wrapped around her neck. She smells of her number five perfume and it makes me feel safe. The screens in the shop are still on, but the volume has been turned right down, so that silent horses are racing and jumping over fences like secrets. Looking over Maggie’s shoulder, I can see that there is litter all over the shop floor, but she doesn’t tell me to sweep up tonight; instead she carries me all the way upstairs to the flat, through the kitchen, into the green bathroom, and puts me down in the bath.