Ghosted: She’s always there for you...until she vanishes, page 1
ghosted
je rowney
©2020 All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also by this author
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Derelict
PROLOGUE
Have you ever had a friend who you do absolutely everything with? Do people refer to you as ‘joined at the hip’ or wonder if your relationship runs to more than just friendship? She’s been married for five years and you have a long-term boyfriend, but people like to talk.
You were her bridesmaid of course. She had the perfect wedding, while you had a series of unfortunate relationships before meeting The One. She reminds you that he is not actually The One, and on some level, you suspect she may be correct. You discuss this less often than you used to because you work shifts as a midwife and she’s a high school teacher now. Grown up jobs. Sometimes you can’t quite believe it.
Even though you feel she is more successful than you, with the perfect home, perfect family, you’re not jealous. How could you be? She’s Zoe. She’s your best friend. You’ve known her for twenty-two years, and as you’ve only been alive for twenty-five years, that’s going to be hard to beat.
You’re Violet and Zoe. Your names can’t be combined in one of those cool ‘Brangelina’ ways, but you have been friends way longer than that relationship lasted, and you spent many nights over many glasses of Prosecco, gossiping about how you always knew he should have stayed with Aniston. Ziolet. Voe. Neither works. On paper perhaps your friendship shouldn’t work either.
She’s a petite redhead whose parents were quite something in the 1960s. You have a vague idea of what that means. You know it involved being in the right place at the right time with the right people, hanging with the in-crowd, taking too many drugs. It doesn’t appear to have done any damage to anyone.
Meanwhile, your parents are a forklift truck driver and a sales assistant at Wilko. At least your dad was a forklift truck driver last time you heard from him but that was eight years ago. You inherited your work ethic from your mother and your gangly legs and mud-brown hair from your father.
Zoe tells you that she wishes she were as tall and exotic as you are, but you fail to see much exotic about having grown up on a council estate in Creekmoor. You were the first from your family to go to university, and you scraped by with a 2:2 while you watched Zoe graduate with a first-class degree. You knew that she would, and you’re proud of her, but she is just as proud of you. She knows about the relationship you went through while you were trying to study. She knows about the guy who seemed so perfect, but ended up being anything but. She knows how much it means to you that you managed to get through university at all. She knows that you don’t want to talk about him, that you don’t even want to think about him now that you have moved on to better things.
You are Violet and Zoe. You don’t know what you would do without her. Without Zoe, you are ‘Violet and’. You are missing a piece. When you ask her “What would I do without you?”, she tells you that you’ll never have to be. But what if that’s not true? What if one day she’s just not there anymore?
CHAPTER ONE
“If you don’t want to go...”
Adrian cuts me off before I get the end of the sentence.
“How do you think it makes me look if you message half an hour before we are supposed to be there and say we aren’t going?”
“I can say I have a migraine. Or...”
“You used that one last time. Zoe isn’t stupid. Do you think she’s stupid? Is your friend stupid?”
He drags the word out in a protracted drawl. Stooopid. It curdles in the air between us.
“Of course not.”
I’m trying to get ready whilst having this conversation. Adrian is sitting on our bed, still dressed in the jeans and lame cartoon print T-shirt combo that he’s been wearing all day. We are mismatched. I thought I’d wear something special, even though it’s only dinner and drinks at my best friend’s house. Opportunities to dress up don’t seem to come around often enough. I chose a black jersey cotton knee-length dress, plain and pretty. I suppose it’s casual enough to match his outfit, if I don’t wear the pendant necklace and I tone down my make-up. I’ve paused in front of the mirror while I consider these things.
“Is this okay?” I ask, turning over my shoulder to look at him. He’s lying back on to the bed now, not even looking at me.
“You look fine,” he says robotically, still staring at the ceiling.
I think about asking him if he’s going to get changed, but we only have ten minutes before we need to set off, and that’s not long enough for an argument.
“We can leave early.” It’s the best I can think of.
He waves his hand, as though swatting away a fly that’s irritating him.
I spray a little grapefruit cologne onto my pulse points, and head over to join him.
“I hate that one,” he says, shuffling away from me as I curl in next to him.
“What?”
“That perfume. I hate it.”
“It’s the Jo Mason. You bought it for me.”
I see his face change momentarily. There’s a tiny flicker of recognition, and I know that he knows I’m right.
“Not that one,” he says. “I wouldn’t have bought you that. It smells slutty.”
It’s a £100 bottle of perfume. It was a present from Adrian to me on our eighteen-month anniversary, which was only two months ago. It’s not cheap, and I believe it’s widely agreed that it is not slutty. How does something even smell ‘slutty’ anyway? I can’t ask, and I know that pointing out his mistake won’t lead to anything good, so I say, “I must be wrong.” I’m careful to keep my tone flat and genuine. I know it could come across as sarcasm if I don’t keep myself in check.
I put my arm around him in a placatory gesture, but he wriggles further away, petulantly.
“You must be,” he says. “Wash it off.”
I look at my watch. I’m one of those old school types who likes to wear a wristwatch even though I carry my phone everywhere. It’s almost time to leave.
“If we are late, we are late,” he says. I know he doesn’t mean it. If we are late, he will be livid.
Without arguing, I push myself up off the bed and head to the bathroom. I run a flannel under the tap and feel the warmth of the water on my hands. The woman in the mirror above the sink looks at me.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “It’s only perfume. It’s fine.”
Her expression tells me that she doesn’t really think it’s ‘fine’. I look away, squeeze out the flannel and press the cloth to my neck, wiping away at the place where I sprayed the sweet citrus scent. The cotton feels good against my skin, like a warm kiss. I rub gently, right round to the back of my neck, massaging away the pent-up tension. Mirror-me watches.
“Remember when he used to kiss you there?”
I touch the place where my artery pulsates. I remember. The woman looks at me with the sadness of someone who has lost something important but isn’t quite sure what it is. I look away to wash my hands, clean my wrists, make myself more desirable. Less undesirable. I’m not sure which.
I hadn’t planned on drinking tonight but maybe I’ll have a glass of wine or two.
“Are you ready?”
Am I? I’m not even sure of that.
We arrive at Zoe and Luke’s house at five past eight. I’m not usually bothered about exact timing when it’s just me and her, but Adrian is anal about punctuality. If we say we will be somewhere at a certain time he gets twitchy if we are late.
“Sorry,” he says to Luke, before Zoe’s husband has time to say hello. “Missy here was dragging her feet, couldn’t decide what to wear. You know how it is with these girls.”
Girls. Sometimes when a man calls you a ‘girl’ it’s a compliment, or you can choose to take it as one. It’s a marker of youth. Arguably it’s a marker of immaturity. My dad used to refer to mum and me as ‘you girls’ and it felt like she and I were a team, a little unit. It was a bonding term, and the feeling that I got when he spoke those words was warm, like a hug. Until things started to sour between my parents, that is. Once their relationship began to crumble, the semantics of our family also fell apart. ‘You girls’ became a criticism, a caution. ‘You girls’ are lazy. ‘You girls’ should try harder. ‘You girls’ are a waste of my time. Eventually, of course, he left us girls, and we were, in our isolation, we girls. When Adrian says ‘these girls’, I know it’s the sour, not the sweet. It feels more like sandpaper than silk. But Zoe and I are a unit, just as mum and I were, as mum and I still are on some level.
I smile dumbly, and say hello, give a little half hug and kiss to the cheek.
“Alright,” Luke says to us both. “No damage done. Come on through. Drinks guys?”
Adrian asks for a beer and I work out that I’ll be the designated driver tonight. It’s fine. I hardly drink when I’m out with him. That wine that I wanted can wait.
I nod at him and say that I’ll have a diet cola. All good. Much better for me. My choice earns me a gleaming smile from Adrian. Much better for me.
Zoe makes a little excited squeaking noise when she sees me, and I notice Adrian rol
“You look amazing,” she says. “I should have made more of an effort. I’ve been in the kitchen all evening though.”
I believe her. She always goes so over the top about these dinners. Three courses, all homemade from scratch, always incredible. I wave away her compliment.
“You don’t have to. You’re always spot on, Zo.”
She’s wearing a green tunic dress, about two tones darker than her eyes. She bought it last time we went shopping together in town. She’s one of those women (you girls) that knows exactly what suits her and never has to even try anything on in the shops. I go from store to store collecting armfuls of outfits, none of which end up being any good. I’m too misshapen, too awkward, too insecure in my own skin. Zoe is effortless.
“Do you need any help with anything?”
The men have gone through to the lounge, while we stand in the hallway between entrance and kitchen. Rich meaty aromas float from the oven. I didn’t know how hungry I was until the scent struck me. Now I’m near drooling.
“I’m fine, everything is under control. Come and talk to me while I finish up. Unless you’d rather...” She gestures through the living room door, where I can see Adrian taking control of the remote and browsing through to the football.
“I’ll come with you, thanks,” I say, and I take a seat at the breakfast bar.
She kicks the door shut and we have a few minutes of seclusion away from ‘the boys’.
“Everything okay?” She speaks to me in a low whisper, as though we are inmates hatching a plot against our gaolers.
“Yeah. Sure. Nothing new,” I say.
“Hmm. That’s not necessarily a good thing.”
“Everything is fine. At the moment.”
She knows how it is. God knows we have talked about it often enough. Over wine, over latte, on the sofa, in bars, in coffee shops. We have talked and talked. Sometimes I just don’t want to talk any more.
“What about you?” I ask. I know I’m deflecting, and so does she, but she raises an eyebrow and answers.
“Actually, I...”
But then our quiet time ends abruptly. The door judders open. It’s Luke.
“Drinks,” he says. “I forgot. Adrian’s acting like his throat’s been cut.”
He sticks his head in the fridge and clatters the bottles.
Whatever Zoe was going to say is now lost, the moment has passed. She waves the thought away and prods at whatever is in the pan. I throw her a questioning look, but she shakes her head and gestures towards the fridge, to Luke. You know what these girls are like with their secrets.
Ten minutes later and we are sitting at the pine country-kitchen-style dining table. I think Zoe would have been happy leaving town and settling down in a barn conversion out in west Dorset. White cliffs, stormy seas, home-made apple pies and cider. I could see her apron-clad, rosy-cheeked. Smiling. Not that she’s not happy here. We live by the sea, in a town that is full of tourists in the summer, and students and elderly the rest of the year. It’s not a bad place to be.
Zoe has fallen into a perfect relationship with a perfect man. She might not describe her teaching job as perfect, but I’ve seen the way her eyes shine when she tells me about how she’s supporting some troubled kid, about how he’s achieving more than she ever imagined. More than he ever believed. I’ve heard the pride in her voice, and I’ve felt proud for her achievements too. When she succeeds, I feel a glow, not the pangs of jealousy.
I realise I’m staring at her, but at least I’m smiling.
“You okay, Vi?” she mouths, silently.
I nod. It seems like she asks me that a lot recently. Way too often. Not that I don’t appreciate the way that she cares, the way that she looks out for me, of course I do. I appreciate it so much. I appreciate her so much.
Adrian is oblivious to our exchange. He’s focussed on spooning mash onto his plate from the serving dish, heaping high the fluffy, buttery clouds. I’ll just have a little. I’m trying to cut down on my carbs. As I think this, I’m suddenly aware of the way that my belly bulges in this dress when I sit, so I pull myself closer to the table to hide it.
“Looks great, Zo. Thanks for doing this.”
“Tuck in, I don’t want any leftovers, or I’ll just be picking at them when you’ve gone home. Get some of that on your plate.”
She leans across the table and spoons a huge dollop of cauliflower cheese next to my chicken fillet. I think that I’d better skip the mash altogether, but as soon as Adrian puts the serving spoon down, Zoe’s passing the bowl over to me.
“Easy on that, Violet,” Adrian says.
I put my hand onto my belly in a reflex action, feeling the flab, feeling so self-conscious.
Zoe tuts and shakes her head, not even bothering to rise to the comment. It wasn’t aimed at her. Her with her perfect, petite figure. She’s always been a size eight, super slim, petite and perfect. I’ve always struggled to stay at a size fourteen never mind lose weight and be any smaller. I’m a good five inches taller than her, so my weight is dispersed, but…
“Don’t listen to him,” she says. “Enjoy yourself.”
It’s difficult not to listen to something that you hear all the time. A dripping tap becomes more irritating the longer it plink-plinks away. Chinese water torture, that’s what it is. The constant drops of words that fall upon my ears, wearing away at me, eroding my confidence.
I accept a small portion of potatoes, but I’m already planning not to eat them.
We eat, we talk, and we laugh. I relax into the evening, and Adrian is too consumed by what he is consuming to needle me for a while. Of course, it’s short-lived.
“It’s the gin festival at the end of the month, Vi,” Zoe says.
“Oh mate, yes! That’s come around quickly. Bloody hell!”
“A whole year since Knickergate!”
Adrian nudges me.
“What’s ‘Knickergate’? I don’t think I’ve heard about this?”
Zoe starts to tell the story, even though I am shaking my head, signalling at her to stop.
“So, the festival is in Baiter Park, the one near the harbour.”
Adrian nods. He’s stopped eating, set his cutlery down by his plate, giving this conversation his complete attention. It’s already unnerving me.
“There’s all these little stalls with amazing gins. Rhubarb, orange, toffee apple,” she continues, pulling her face at the last flavour. “The idea is that you’re meant to buy some, of course, but they give out loads of free samples, so we were half-cut before we’d even been there an hour. Then this one…” She points at me. “This one decides she needs to pee.”
“We’re eating, Zoe!” Luke says. Adrian gestures at her to carry on with the tale.
“There were these Porta-Potties. Those green plastic disgusting…” She pauses again, looks at the food. “Maybe I’ll tell you about this later instead.” She laughs.
Adrian does not laugh. Adrian’s face is deadpan. “No. Carry on.”
I see Zoe pass a quick glance to Luke, but he’s not looking at her, he’s shovelling mash towards his mouth.
Zoe gives a short sigh and continues, less enthusiastically.
“Violet went into one of them, did her thing, and managed to come out with her skirt tucked into her knickers. She was wearing this really cute red flowery skirt, but it’s all, you know, loose and billowy.” She moves her arms to indicate the flapping of the dress. “The funny thing was neither of us noticed. So this couple were looking at her and nudging each other, laughing, and she was like ‘what the fuck?’ and we were so drunk that we didn’t even…anyway eventually this old guy taps her on the shoulder and I was thinking like ‘uh-oh, here comes some drunk trying his luck’ He says ‘excuse me love’ and points at her bottom. She’s all outraged and ‘excuse ME’. Of course, he’s not at all drunk and he tells her that she’s flashing everyone, and she turns as red as that skirt. Then we laughed and laughed and, oh God, it was hilarious.”
I’m guffawing, trying to hold in the full-blown booming laugh that wants to come out. Then I look at Adrian. He is still stony-faced. I feel like I’ve just swallowed a bowling ball.
