The Rose Petal Beach Page 21

  I am staring into the face of Mirabelle.

  Is this what happens when you are taken away too soon, too quickly, before what should have been your time? You slip back almost straight away and take up in the body and face of someone else?

  ‘Hello. Sorry. Hope you can help me,’ she says, sounding nothing like Mirabelle at all. She is from London and the accent is branded all the way through her speech. ‘My name is Fleur Stuminer. Are you Mrs Challey?’

  I nod, cautiously.

  She sticks out her hand, and I unthinkingly take it. We shake three times.

  ‘I’m Fleur Stuminer,’ she repeats.

  ‘Yes, you said that.’

  The smile drains away from her face and she looks down, crestfallen and embarrassed. ‘Oh,’ she says quietly. ‘She didn’t tell you about me.’

  I shake my head, pretty sure ‘she’ is Mirabelle but not certain.

  ‘If she was going to tell anyone, I’d have thought it’d be you. Clearly not.’ She sticks her hand out again. ‘Hello,’ she says politely, but a little more cool and businesslike. ‘I’m Fleur Stuminer. I’m Mirabelle’s daughter.’

  Fleur

  From The Flower Beach Girl Blog

  Things I’ve been thinking about today:

  Why do people lie? Do they want to hurt you or protect you? Why?

  It always ends in tears. Always.

  Gah!

  Just gah!

  Just when I’ve convinced myself that I mean something to her, meant something to her, things like this happen. I get a two-cheek slap to remind me that I was her dirty little secret.

  And she lied to me. She told me that she had told her closest friends about me. Why do I let it hurt? Every time. I am truly stupid.

  I remember sitting beside her in my car once as she was going over the driving lesson route we were going to take when a friend of hers spotted us. She waved at us and then came round to the passenger side to speak to her.

  ‘Hi!’ her friend said, all bright and breezy. ‘Fancy seeing you up here in Kensington? I thought you never left Brighton.’

  ‘Ah, you know, got to visit the Big Smoke now and again,’ she, Mirabelle, replied. I was smiling, making eye contact, waiting. Waiting.

  ‘Oh, yes, I could have told you that.’

  ‘You already tell me too much,’ she said.

  And then her friend was waiting, too. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for her to turn to me and say, ‘This is Fleur, my daughter.’

  ‘So, who’s this?’ her friend eventually asked because it’d got to that embarrassing point where she either had to walk away or ask.

  ‘Oh, um, this is Roza,’ Mirabelle said. ‘My cousin’s daughter. I’m giving her a quick driving lesson as, um, a favour to my cousin.’ It was so easy for her to lie. It just came out of her mouth. Roza is my middle name, her cousin does have a daughter my age – not that I ever see any of that side of the family – and she was indeed teaching me to drive as a favour. The truth ran like a jagged vein through what she said, but it was jagged because it was all mixed up, it wasn’t in the right order, it wasn’t completely true.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Roza,’ the lady said.

  And I smiled. Just smiled. I couldn’t say anything, could I? I couldn’t add to the lie by saying hello or nothing. I wasn’t a liar like the woman sitting next to me.

  The lady smiled a bit more, then she said, ‘Well, see you next week,’ and walked off. The woman looked back a couple of times, but Mirabelle didn’t start speaking until the woman was out of sight.

  She stared out of the windscreen and so did I because I couldn’t look at her.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. ‘I panicked. I’m not really ready to share you with other people. I feel like I’ve only just found you and I want to keep you to myself. You understand, don’t you?’ She put her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Course,’ I said. I soooo understood. I so understood I was her dirty little secret.

  Mrs Challey puts my coffee down on the side table by the sofa. She actually assumed that I drank coffee, like I’m a grown-up. Dad and she, Mirabelle, never offered me coffee if they were making or buying a drink. They allowed me to drink tea, but coffee – noooooo, that’s an adult drink and Fleur is a kid. Always a kid. FOREVER!

  This woman asked if I wanted tea or coffee or water or juice. And I’d said coffee, not just because I drank gallons of the stuff but also to see if she’d disapprove or ask me if that was really what I wanted. ‘Sorry,’ she’d said, ‘I can’t face getting that stupid machine in the kitchen to work, it’ll have to be instant.’

  She’s shaking. She hides it well, but I can still see her trembling hands as she holds her coffee cup and sits down in the armchair. Is she a boozer? She doesn’t look it, but then who goes on what you look like these days? On the outside you might look good, but on the inside you could be a secret drinker or heavily into weed. Or have so many secrets you can’t keep up with who you’ve told what.

  Mrs Challey has bloodshot eyes like a boozer, but that could be from crying or not sleeping. She’s dressed all right, though. She’s wearing skinny jeans like she isn’t an old lady. And she isn’t that old, only a bit younger than Mirabelle was. And her white sleeveless top with the bow at the front shows off her arms. They aren’t big or nothing, not skinny like mine and like Mirabelle’s. I suppose she’s kind of normal. Her body, her long twists, her clothes, she’s kind of normal. A bit like I thought a mum would be, not like Mirabelle and certainly not like my stepmother. The nail polish on Mrs Challey’s toenails has badly chipped off – she’s like my friends’ mothers, she doesn’t have time to do those things ’cos she’s too busy being a mum.

  I’m not looking at the walls in this room on purpose. There are pictures of the children – everywhere. Dad has a couple of me on the mantelpiece in the living room, but this is way beyond that. They’ve had their photos professionally blown up. Their daughters laughing, the younger one sitting on grass examining a daisy, the older one lying on grass laughing her head off. The older one dressed in a pink tutu for ballet class, the younger one grinning as she sits on top of a red and blue plastic slide. It’s like nothing their children do escapes the notice of their camera, and isn’t worthy of adorning the walls.

  ‘This must be so hard for you,’ Mrs Challey says to me. ‘I can’t imagine what it feels like to lose your mother. Both my parents are still alive. Both as mad as a box of frogs and still disapproving of everything I do and say in that way that African parents seem to master, but I still have them.’ She gives me a genuinely sad smile, it makes my heart feel funny in my chest. It’s like this is the first time I’ve understood what dead means. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  My heart hurts.

  ‘It’s OK. I didn’t really know her,’ I say. ‘Not really. She left when I was six.’

  ‘Six?’ Mrs Challey says like she’s going to cry or something. ‘That’s so young.’

  ‘I suppose. I don’t really think about it because I don’t know any different. I sort of remember her. Bits of her. Like that story she used to tell me every night. I think I knew that story off by heart before I could even speak. After she left, I remember I couldn’t sleep for weeks because I didn’t hear the story and my dad didn’t know it.’ Dad did know it, he just wouldn’t tell it to me because he was angry with her.

  ‘The Rose Petal Beach story?’ Mrs Challey asks.

  ‘Yes. Have you heard it? Did she tell you it?’

  ‘Kind of. She told it to my daughters a few times and I overheard. I asked her about it and she elaborated.’

  She left because of that story.

  ‘I feel like I know you. She talked about you so much whenever I saw her. She never actually said it but you were her best friend. I could tell.’

  Mrs Challey is going to cry. I’ve said something wrong and she’s going to break down. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in, trying to calm herself.

  ‘Thank you, for saying that,’ she says on
ce her eyes are open again. ‘You’re so very sweet trying to offer me comfort at a time like this.’

  Is that what I was doing? I thought I was being honest. ‘I really genuinely thought she’d tell you about me. I must have meant less to her than I thought.’

  ‘That’s not at all true,’ she says, putting down her cup and coming over to sit on the sofa beside me. ‘Mirabelle was so complicated. She told me that she’d got married because she got pregnant. And she said it didn’t work out, and I assumed she meant she’d miscarried. If I’d pushed her, if I’d asked what she meant, she would have told me, I’m sure she would. It was me making assumptions that stopped her. I mean, why would she tell a mother of two that she’d left her daughter?’ Mrs Challey rubs my shoulder, and it’s nice. Makes me feel cared for. ‘And you know, she told me recently that she’d tried to go home but your father said no. And that it was for the best. Because at the time she was doing it for her and she was being selfish. She also told me that she was trying to be a better person and was going to put right the things she’d done wrong. There are all these things she told me over time that I thought I understood, but piecing it all together I now understand what she was saying.

  ‘She was telling me that she regretted not taking you with her and that she was going to find a way to make it up to you. You meant the world to her, and she was trying to do the right thing.’ She rubs my back, probably how she does to her daughters, probably how she reminds them that she’ll always be there for them. Everywhere she strokes diffuses warmth, spreads it throughout my body and it eases the aching of my heart. Not completely, but a little. Enough to make a difference. I wonder if she even knows she’s doing it.

  ‘You’re all right, Mrs C,’ I say to her. ‘Sorry, Mrs Challey.’

  ‘Call me Tami, everyone else does.’

  Again, treating me like an adult. ‘Tami,’ I say, testing it out a bit like you test a new swearword. It feels so weird! Saying the first name of someone older just like that. Just like that! ‘You’re all right, Tami.’

  ‘So are you, Fleur, if I may call you Fleur.’

  ‘You may.’ Before I can stop myself, I start doing that thing I do. I can’t help it.

  When I meet a woman old enough to be my mother, I wonder what it’d be like to be her daughter. I wonder if she’d be strict or fun, if she’d make me clear my plate or if she’d let me eat as much as I liked of whatever I wanted. And would she sit me down and do the birds and the bees talk or would she just hand me a book and tell me to ask any questions? Would she want to know if I went on the Pill and if I had a serious boyfriend? Would she snoop in my room and read my diary and go mental if she found something she didn’t like or approve of? Would she be my friend first or my mother first? And, most importantly, would she abandon me to chase the lover who first told her the story of The Rose Petal Beach?

  With Mrs Challey, Tami, I have a feeling she would be strict but with some fun. She’d encourage me to clear my plate most of the time except when she could tell I really didn’t want to. I know she’d shout at me if I was naughty and tired but would feel guilty about it. She’d tell me all about sex and would try to make it sound natural but would also try to make it sound dull so I wouldn’t go rushing in to try it. She’d try to talk me out of going on the Pill and sleeping with anyone until I was old enough to handle it. She’d probably be tempted to snoop, but would only do so if she was seriously worried by my secretiveness. She would go radio rental if she found cigarettes or condoms, but would sit me down afterwards and explain that, while it was my life, she knew it was tempting to rush into these things but to take my time, think about what I was doing and above all have the respect for myself to take care of myself – physically and emotionally. She would say to me, ‘You’re my best friend, but I’m still your mother.’ And being my mother would trump all roles and would mean she’d make the hard decisions and mete out punishment if it was necessary, but she would also love me unconditionally even if I hurt her.

  And she would never leave me. No matter what, no matter who, she would never leave me if she didn’t have to.

  I have played this game A LOT. And Tami has been the best so far. I want her to be my mother. That role is open in my life again.

  My heart aches.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could help me to organise the funeral?’ I ask her. I want to ask her question after question after question about what the police have said. I want to ask if she has any idea who might have killed her, Mirabelle. I want to ask, too, what Mirabelle meant when she said to me a few weeks ago that she was in trouble. Did she mean this? Did she mean that trouble would end up like this? But I daren’t. I can’t come in here and start playing detective. It’s not as if Tami even knew I existed before I showed up on her doorstep. All those questions will keep. It’s not as if I’ve got anything to rush back for. It’s not like I’ll be able to concentrate at uni. I have time, I have time. ‘I have no idea where to start. I’ve seen some funeral people down the road but I don’t know if I can, you know, just turn up. Or do you have to ring first. And how do you pick stuff? Like the, you know, thing she goes in. And the flowers. And which church? Do you think she wanted a church? There’s so much and I don’t know how to do any of it.’ I turn and look at her. ‘Will you help me?’

  She looks like she’s going to cry all over again. Don’t know how I’ll cope with that, to be honest. I’m not good at the crying thing – with me or other people. Maybe I should call Noah, get him down here right now. He was good at that sort of thing the other time. Me, not so much.

  ‘The thing is, Fleur,’ Tami says and my stomach starts churning. ‘I don’t want to upset you any more, you’re going through such a hard time, but I can’t lie to you: Mirabelle —your mother and I had a major falling out just before she died. And—’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ she says. Then she catches herself. ‘Actually, do you know, it’s not that complicated at all. I found out that my husband was having an affair with your mother.’

  Really? Really? ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. It was a bit more complicated than that because the police got involved on another matter, which I don’t think you should hear about right at this second, but yes, that’s the main thing. I’m sorry I’ve had to tell you. I really wish I hadn’t had to, but, we weren’t even speaking when—And that weighs heavily on my mind and soul, but I can’t pretend it was OK between us. I wasn’t going to go to the funeral let alone help …’ She stops talking, closes her eyes really tight, then scrunches her hands up really tight, and then her whole body goes tense. ‘I’ll help you. Of course I’ll help you. It’s not your fault what happened. And what sort of a person lets a bereaved young woman do something like that on her own when she doesn’t even live in this city? I’ll make some calls, make appointments, and I’ll come with you and help you as much as I can. You make all the decisions, I’ll come along as moral support.’

  I get to make decisions? No one has ever let me make major decisions on my own before. I’m not allowed. I’m too young. Not even she, Mirabelle, let me make my own decisions. She acted like she was the Anti-Dad who gave me freedom, but she just listened to a problem then solved it for me, never actually bothering to ask, you know, what I actually wanted to do. Like the driving thing. I tell her Dad won’t let me learn to drive so what does she do? She buys me a car and decides to teach me. She didn’t think to say, ‘Well, here’s the money for lessons, and let me know what car you’d like and I’ll try and get you one.’ I loved the Mini, it was a cool car, and it was a nice colour, but what if I wanted a Jeep or decided a Micra would fit my life better? I never got the chance to make the decision for myself.

  The first time I get the chance it’s about this. About things to do with her. Isn’t that ironic?

  ‘Are you sure, Mrs Challey? I mean, Tami. I don’t want to upset you any more.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. You can’t do it alone, I’ll help you in any way I
can. And I’ll pay for it, so don’t worry about costs.’

  ‘Thanks, thanks so much.’

  ‘It’s OK. I don’t want you to have to worry about anything more than you have to.’ She rubs my back and a little more of that heart hurt slips away. Only a little. ‘Do you want another cup of coffee?’

  I shake my head. I don’t. Now that it’s being offered to me ’cos it’s, like, something I’m allowed, I really don’t want it. What if that happens with everything? What if, now that I’m not at home and I can do whatever I want out in the open I don’t like it any more? Like, smoking? Or sex.

  I fumble around in my bag. ‘Is it OK if I smoke?’ I ask Tami.

  ‘No, sorry, not in the house. You can go outside, but not in the house.’

  Oh, God. I actually don’t want this cigarette now. What if I lose the taste for it?

  ‘But you shouldn’t smoke,’ Tami says. ‘It’s a really bad habit. You really should think about giving up.’

  I can almost taste the smoke as it fills my lungs, that sweet, sweet release of tension as it goes down. I am so going to enjoy this cigarette, so so much.

  I put down my bag and look at Tami again.

  ‘There’s something I don’t get,’ I say to her. ‘You said your husband had an affair with her, Mirabelle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Why?’

  Mrs C, Tami, starts to shake again. It’s anxiety. I don’t think this is the right time. If I want her help, this is probably the worst time to tell her this. ‘I, erm, I just didn’t think she’d do that to a friend,’ I say.

  ‘Me either,’ she says as her eyes fill up with tears.

  It’ll keep. What I have to tell her will keep. And I suppose, me doing that does make me a bit like my mother after all.