The Visitors(63)

She had dropped twenty pounds in weight. The puppy fat had melted away, her skin was clearer, her hair glossier, and she felt great.

‘It’s all thanks to you,’ she’d told Geraldine as they enjoyed a fruit and vitamin juice breakfast on the patio.

‘You’re the one who’s done all the work,’ Geraldine had said generously, but Holly knew the routine too well to be fooled.

‘But I’d never have thought of embarking on a fitness routine unless you’d suggested it,’ she’d said dutifully. ‘You’ve changed my life, Geraldine. Thank you.’

‘Oh sweetie, stop.’ Geraldine’s face had glowed with something that resembled satisfaction more than humility. ‘I just gave you a little encouragement is all. It’s important to me that you be the best you can be. And I do care about you, I hope you know that.’

‘It’s really nice of you to say so.’ Holly had smiled and touched Geraldine’s hand. ‘But I really am so grateful.’

It was true that Holly had to play the game, letting Geraldine get her own way and saying the right things all the time, but was it really such a high price to pay?

Everyone had complaints about their work, stuff that got on their nerves, stuff they wished they didn’t have to do. Like working a twelve-hour shift on a boring production line, getting up at five in the morning for a two-hour commute, working August bank holiday weekend in a stifling, overcrowded call centre.

In Holly’s opinion, these would have been things to complain about.

Complimenting Geraldine, ordering healthy food off the menu, following workout advice and shifting a bit of weight… these were duties that Holly felt able to fulfil.

Geraldine had talked a bit about her own past and had confided guiltily in Holly that she had come from a privileged background. She’d never been short of money or affection as a child or an adult; had gone from Daddy taking care of her to Brendan providing a very nice life.

Yes, Geraldine had been spoiled. Yes, she often complained relentlessly about things like running out of her favourite yoghurts, or Patricia not toasting her breakfast bagel quite long enough.

But Holly had believed her when she’d said she cared about her.





Chapter Fifty





David





I call it my other life, the one before I met Della Carter. The life before it happened.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been the sociable type, never been the sort to play footie with the lads on Saturday morning and pile into the pub to drink beer until teatime.

But I did have a life of sorts that suited me and wasn’t based on fear.

Now, my days are a fine balance between routine and necessity.

Don’t go out after dark, stay away from people (especially the ones you don’t know), do the same things at the same time so there are no surprises, take your medication as advised, and most important of all: don’t get yourself into a fix again.

I try to live by these rules every day, although I have to admit that recently I’ve once again felt the swell of uncertainty and disruption. There are still occasions when life catches me out and I have to try and avoid them to keep myself on the level.

And fixes are hard to avoid when you’re not so good at recognising the warning signs.

Sometimes things get the better of me, like when Mother persuaded me, against my better judgement, to attend the local church’s spring fayre last year.

I stood holding the cups while Mother went to the cake stall to find something sweet to have with our tea. The fayre was well attended and there were lots of people milling around.

The hum around me grew louder, the squeals, laughter, clattering… it all began to reverberate in my ears like I was back in the white room with no furniture.

A twisty feeling started up in my gut as I stood there frozen to the spot with sweat running down my face, the teacups starting to rattle in their saucers.

‘Let me take those for you a moment,’ a kind voice said. A man in a dog collar took the cups and put them on a table, and I said thank you and breathed out. ‘They can be very taxing events, these fayres. Jolly noisy, too. Would you like me to get you a chair?’

‘No. Thank you but I’m fine.’ I was aware that people were already looking. ‘I was just waiting for my mother, she’s buying cake.’

‘Ah, I see.’ He nodded, smiling his understanding.

We stood for a moment without speaking. Him in his long black cassock, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands clasped behind his back, surveying his flock. And me frantically mopping my face with my handkerchief and trying to remember to breathe.

Then people – women mainly – started to gravitate towards us.

Oh yes, Father – no, Father – oh it’s a marvellous event you’ve put on here, Father…

On and on they droned. And when he eventually left to draw the raffle, they didn’t go with him. They started talking to me instead.

It was a prime example of how I get lulled into a false sense of security where I start to trust strangers, and the same thing happens again and again no matter who I’m with or where I am.

Someone seems friendly enough and I start to talk and forget what I’m saying, and I don’t know if it’s the nerves or what, but soon I see their faces start to change.