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The Accident. C.L. TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.

The Accident - C.L. Taylor


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Like You” by Adele.’

      ‘Great.’ I’ve actually heard of that song. They play it on Radio 2 all the time. ‘Anyone else?’

      She shrugs. ‘That’s her favourite but she likes “I Love the Way You Lie” by Rhianna and Eminem, “Money” by Jessie J. Oh, and “Born This Way” by Lady Gaga. We used to dance to that in my room before we’d go out to Breeze, to the under-eighteen night,’ she adds quickly.

      Her whole demeanour has changed. She’s not a young woman propping up the doorway with her legs and arms crossed and a defiant look on her face anymore. Instead she looks like the little blonde five-year-old I found Charlotte hand in hand with in the playground at the end of their first day at school.

      ‘You could see her,’ I say softly, ‘if you’d like. I could give you a lift to the hospital. I’m sure Charlotte would appreciate it.’

      ‘No, she wouldn’t.’

      A scowl has fallen over Ella’s face, all traces of vulnerability and tenderness gone.

      ‘What makes you say that?’

      ‘She just wouldn’t.’

      ‘Is this about Keisha?’ I venture. A look of surprise crosses her face at the mention of the other girl’s name. ‘Is that why you’re angry?’

      ‘It’s none of my business who Charlotte hangs out with. She can do what she wants.’

      ‘But you’re her best friend. Surely you—’

      ‘No, I’m not.’

      ‘You’re not?’ I feign surprise. ‘What happened?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Well, something must have—’

      ‘Nothing happened, alright! Just leave me alone and stop asking me—’

      ‘Everything okay here?’ Judy appears in the doorway, alerted by her daughter’s raised voice. ‘Ella? Are you okay?’

      ‘No.’ Her daughter feigns a pained expression. ‘Sue’s hassling me and I haven’t done anything wrong, Mum. I was just—’

      ‘Have you been hassling my daughter?’ Judy attempts a frown but too many Botox injections prevent her.

      ‘No!’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘Of course not. I was just asking her why she and Charlotte aren’t best friends anymore.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘According to Ella, nothing happened.’

      Judy glances at her daughter who shrugs as if to say ‘that’s what I said’.

      ‘If Ella said nothing happened,’ she says, looking back at me, ‘then nothing happened.’

      ‘But it must have. Those two have been friends since they were—’

      ‘Nothing happened, Sue!’ Ella screams. ‘Okay? We just stopped being friends.’ She looks at her mum. ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’

      ‘Okay, darling.’ Judy puts a heavily manicured hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Go back to your room and—’

      ‘Please.’ I beg. ‘Judy, please. I need to know what happened. It might help Charlotte. Did you know that she’d split up with Liam or that—’

      ‘Mummmm,’ Ella looks at her mother with beseeching eyes. ‘Mum, I really need to get back on with my revision.’

      ‘Okay darling, off you—’

      ‘Please.’ I grab hold of Ella’s wrist. ‘Please. You need to help me.’

      ‘Get your hands off my daughter!’ I feel a sharp sting on my forearm and four white stripes appear on my skin from where Judy swiped at me with her false nails. ‘Now.’

      I’m so shocked I instantly let go.

      ‘Thanks, Mum.’ The smallest of smirks crosses Ella’s face as she ducks out from the doorway and takes the stairs two at a time. Judy looks back at me.

      ‘I’d like you to leave now please, Sue,’ she says in a measured voice.

      ‘Judy, look. I’m sorry if I overstepped the mark but—’

      ‘Leave.’ She takes a step back into the hallway and begins to close the front door.

      I press my hand against it to stop it being slammed in my face. ‘No, Judy, wait. Listen!’

      ‘No! You listen!’ The door swings open again. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to Charlotte, really I am but it’s not my fault and it’s certainly not Ella’s. Perhaps you should look a bit closer to home instead.’

      I stand on the doorstep open-mouthed. And not just because Judy slammed the door in my face.

       Sunday 15th October 1990

       James and I had our first argument this evening. He and the rest of the theatre group popped by the bar, as they do every Sunday after rehearsals, and James took up his customary stool at the end. I said hello, got him a pint, gave him a kiss and got on with my job, just as I always do – having a bit of banter with Maggie and Jake, catching up on gossip with Kate and taking the piss out of Steve – but I could sense that something wasn’t right. Whenever I looked across at James, instead of reading his script or his book, he was staring at me with a sour expression on his face. I shot him a smile then pulled a face. When that did nothing to crack his frown I went over during a quiet spot to ask what was wrong.

       ‘You know,’ he said.

       ‘Know what?’

       ‘I shouldn’t have to tell you because you already know.’

       ‘If I knew I wouldn’t be here asking!’

       He shrugged like I was an idiot and, thoroughly pissed off, I went off to serve someone else.

       The next time I turned round to look at James he’d gone. I asked the others if he’d been in a bad mood during rehearsals. Far from it, they said. He’d been in fine form, practically bouncing across the stage.

       ‘I think someone’s in love,’ Maggie had winked.

       I thought he was too; he’d been hugely affectionate this morning and had insisted on shagging me not once but twice before he’d let me get out of bed to have a shower. He’d even replied ‘soon’ when I’d asked him when we were going to spend an evening in his place instead of mine.

       So what had changed?

       I couldn’t wait for kicking-out time so I could put all the glasses in the dishwasher, wipe down the tables and get home to ring James. He didn’t pick up for eight rings and then:

       ‘Hello.’ His voice was devoid of emotion.

       ‘James, it’s Suzy.’

       ‘Hello Susan.’

       That stung. He never called me by my full name.

       ‘Why were you so off with me in the bar tonight?’

       ‘You know.’

       ‘Actually no,’ I fought to keep the hurt out of my voice. ‘I don’t. That’s why I’m ringing because I’d like you to tell me.’

      


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