I Am Watching You(25)
Looking back, Sarah knows, as she knew deep down at the time, that this wasn’t OK at all. But she was in such complete shock. Had no time to process the situation.
And so she did the most terrible thing and also the only thing. She let him look. She let him feel whether she was grown up enough. And then he said, No – probably not suitable for tampons. Not yet. That he would pop to the shops and get something else for her. No need to be embarrassed.
She had sat on her bed with tissues stuffed in her pants to soak up the blood – frozen. Unable to move. Just sat there in this terrible silence. It was as if her whole life had shrunk suddenly into this tight, tight ball that hurt as much as the pain in her stomach.
And the problem is, she still doesn’t know what to do or what even to think. She still hasn’t told her mother. Or anyone else. Not Anna. Not anyone.
The pin is still in the grenade.
When her parents separated very suddenly, she just refused to go and visit her father, which made both her parents very angry.
‘You didn’t drink your tea.’ Her mother is moving the cup on the locker to set out the grapes, removing the cellophane wrapping.
Sarah looks at her. She looks at the cup of cold tea in her hand.
And the worst thing now? She cannot get out of her head how her father was always saying how very beautiful Anna was. At school concerts. At parent evenings. Everyone said that, to be fair, but Sarah has been thinking, with all these hours stuck in the hospital with nothing to do but think, that her father said that a lot more than most. Certainly more than felt comfortable.
She is very lovely. Your friend Anna. Very lovely girl.
‘Anna’s mother, Barbara, phoned to see how you’re doing. Everyone sends their love. Apparently the vigil went very well. It was on the local news. And the gang was wondering if they could come and visit? Cheer you up?’
‘The gang?’
‘Yes. Jenny and Tim and Paul. They’re very worried about you and would love to pop by.’
‘No. I don’t want that. Not yet.’
‘Right. Well. If you’re not feeling up to it. But it would probably be good for you. Barbara seemed very keen. You know how fond of you she is.’
‘I said not yet. OK? When I’m home. Maybe when I’m home.’
Sarah cannot think about that now. She is suddenly thinking about a lot of other, more important and confusing things.
How she hasn’t told the police the truth about what happened with Anna in the club.
And she hasn’t told anyone about the text from her dad that night.
CHAPTER 15
THE WITNESS
Sometimes people ask me, Why flowers, Ella?
The truth is I cannot remember when life, for me, wasn’t about flowers. Right from when I was tiny and I used to collect wild flowers on walks with my gran, mesmerised by the colours and the scents and the way you could make the whole impact and mood change by combining them in different ways. The simple, joyful sunburst of a huge fistful of primroses, then the softening and mellowing effect if you added in just a few bluebells for the surprise, the contrast. The hint of the Mediterranean, with the blue and the yellow together.
I would so love it when my mother let me pick flowers from the supermarket to put in vases at home, experimenting with the way they fell. Learning how tulips only look right if you put them in precisely the right height of vase so they weep over the rim. Not too much. Not too little.
I have never forgotten the joy of learning to revive roses with fresh water and cutting the stems super sharp at an angle. The miracle of them lifting up their heads again as if saying thank you.
It was no surprise that when I was old enough for a Saturday job, I knew precisely where I would try first. There was a small florist in the town I grew up in. I passed it every day on my walk to school, always stopping to examine the buckets of daffodils outside in the spring, glancing at the window displays. It wasn’t especially inspirational, to be honest: standard bouquets, standard displays and too many carnations.
But I have never been more proud than when I was offered my regular six-hour Saturday shift. Up early to help sort the new stock, breathing in the heavenly scent of it all. The shiny ribbon. The rustle of tissue and cellophane. I learned very quickly to respect the popular tastes – the horror of those carnations and the ugly ferns. I was careful not to offend, biting my tongue at first. But as my confidence and my knowledge grew, I started to make little suggestions to our regulars. How about sunflowers? Or lilies? Something a bit different for a change?
And it wasn’t long before the manager, Sue, allowed me to order in new things, and to make up my own little set-price bouquets.
You have a really good eye, Ella. You’re a natural . . . You should do a course.
So I did. A basic course for starters, then a second, more advanced course for wedding flowers, and a third for contemporary design. After that I entered a competition and made the local paper by winning a regional award.
The prize was a week working with a top florist in London, visiting the flower markets at the crack of dawn. Scary. Exhausting. Exhilarating. Heaven . . .
And then the unimaginable. After I had finished A levels, I did a year at college: floristry and business studies. During that year, my grandmother died, leaving an unexpected legacy to be shared between her five grandchildren. Go travelling, said my friends. Blow it on a car. Or a world trip.