The Girl I Used to Be(61)

“I had so many meals at your house when I was a kid,” said David. “She was a great cook.”

“All that went straightaway,” I said. “I can hardly remember it now.”

But I could. If I let myself, I could remember walking home with my friends that last year of junior school, the summer before Alex died. I’d say good-bye to them at the end of my road and run up to my house. I’d come panting into the kitchen, my face red, excited to see my mum, and I’d find her listening to the radio, our dinner in the oven. She’d look up when she heard me at the door and I’d run over to hug her. I can still remember my face against hers, feel the softness of her cheeks, smell her perfume. I’d sit with her and have a biscuit and some milk while we waited for my dad and Alex to come home. We wouldn’t eat dinner until they were there. And when Alex came in, she’d leap up to greet him. I noticed that even as a child: I ran to her and she ran to him.

He grimaced. “And your dad couldn’t help?”

“He’d gone by then.” I think I made it clear I didn’t want to talk about him again.

“That’s terrible, Rachel. Really terrible.”

“I still really miss Alex,” I said. “Every day.”

“I know, babe. I do, too.”

“And do you know what?” I asked. “There’s one person to blame for this.” I jabbed my finger at his chest. “Just. One. Person.”

“Your mum?”

“No,” I scoffed. “She couldn’t help it. She just had one long fourteen-year breakdown.”

“You don’t mean Alex, do you?”

“No.” I drank some more wine. I’d had too much to drink but it was one of those days when it seemed I couldn’t have enough. “I mean Gemma Brogan.”

“Who? Do you mean that Gemma?”

I saw his hand grip his glass and I knew he was thinking of her, the woman who’d ruined my brother’s life.

“Yes, the one who accused Alex.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten her. How could I? But I thought she was Gemma Taylor.”

“She was. Brogan is her married name. I’ve been keeping tabs on her. She’s married now, with a little boy. She’s got a business in Chester and she’s doing very well for herself.” I poured myself another drink. “Very well indeed. But not for much longer.”

He gave me a questioning look.

“I intend to do something about it,” I said.

He laughed. “What? What are you planning?”

Full of bravado, I blurted out, “I want to stop her happy little life in its tracks, just as she stopped Alex’s.” I saw him looking at me and stopped, embarrassed. “Sorry, you must think I’m mad.”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “Alex died because of her lies. That bitch needs bringing down.” He raised his glass and clinked it against mine. “Count me in, Coco.”





FORTY-SIX


    GEMMA




Present day

FOR A MOMENT neither of us said anything; her accusations rang in the air. I could hear our breathing, high and fast in the empty room. We were both panting, both furious.

Rachel’s face was so pale. She was staring at me as though she couldn’t believe what she’d said. I’d never really thought about the impact this had had on other people’s lives. Just one action, one accusation, and wham, everyone’s life changes.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I see things differently,” I said. “I’m sorry Alex died.” For the first time since it happened I realized it was true. I wondered whether his death had been an accident, or whether he’d felt guilty because of what he’d done. Whether he was too ashamed to live. “Whatever happened, for him to be in such a bad way that he took his own life is really awful.”

Her mouth twisted and I knew she couldn’t speak. I wouldn’t have been able to, either. I took a new bottle of water from my bag and passed it to her. She hesitated and I thought she’d refuse, but she took it from me and drank some of it.

“I’m not sure he meant to do it,” she said heavily, “but what do I know? I was only eleven at the time. It was as though I didn’t know anything anymore. But my mum . . . well, she thinks . . . she thought he’d done it on purpose.” She glared at me. “You have no idea what it was like for me after he died. It’s all she could talk about. All she could think about.”

“You can’t blame her,” I said quietly. “He was her child.”

“And so was I! And I was alive and needed her. And she begrudged that. Hated me for it. Every single day I was made aware of the fact that I wasn’t him.”

“Don’t think that, Rachel,” I said. “Of course she didn’t hate you.”

“What do you know? You weren’t there. I was, day after day, with all her memories.” She grimaced and I could tell she was trying not to cry. “What about my memories? I learned to say nothing, though. There was no point.”

She took some tissues from her bag and scrubbed at her face. Rachel’s makeup was usually perfect, her hair glossy and smooth. Now mascara was smeared over her face, her hair tangled where she’d knotted it with her hands. She clutched the tissues now and crouched down by the wall. Suddenly she looked exhausted.