The Rose Petal Beach

by Dorothy Koomson

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"Every love story has a dangerous twist. Tamia is horrified when her husband, Scott, is accused of something terrible - but when she discovers who his accuser is, everything goes into freefall. Backed into a corner and unsure what to think, Tamia is forced"

Release date: August 9, 2018

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

 

This is where my life begins.

Not thirty-six years ago in a hospital in London. Not seventeen years ago when I moved out of my parents’ house to live in a smart but compact bedsit all on my own. Not fourteen years ago when I moved to Brighton. Not twelve years ago when I married my husband. Not even nine years ago when I had my first child. Not seven years ago when I had my second child. My life begins now.

With two burly, uniformed policemen, and one slender plainclothes policewoman standing in my living room, about to arrest my husband.

Five minutes ago

Five minutes ago, Cora, my eight-year-old was on her hands and upside down. She was showing her dad what she had done at school that day in gymnastics. ‘I want to go to the Olympics one day,’ she’d said, her curly hair, folded into two neat plaits, hung on each side of her face while her almost concave stomach strained as her arms trembled with the effort of being upside down for so long. Anansy, our six-year-old, was cuddled up in the corner of the large leather sofa, wearing her pink, brushed-cotton sheep-covered pyjamas, while telling a knock-knock joke.

Scott had finally laid aside his mobile and BlackBerry, both of which he’d been on since he walked in the door, all during dinner, and now in the minutes we had together before the girls were meant to head upstairs to bed. I had been tempted by that point of the evening to calmly walk over to him, take both his phones from his hands and then just as serenely put my heel through the screen of each of them. Maybe if I broke the link, severed his connection with the office, he would finally leave work and his mind would join his body in the house.

Three minutes ago

Three minutes ago, I was nearest the living-room door, so when the doorbell sounded, followed by a short, loud knock, and I had watched Cora collapse happily – but safely – onto the floor, I went to the blue front door. I wasn’t expecting anyone because everyone we knew would ring first – even the neighbours who would drop by had been ‘trained’ to send a text or call beforehand – no one turned up without notice any more. I’d walked to the door with anxiety on my heels. I’d seen a single magpie sitting on the fence this morning as I washed up after breakfast. Then another of those black and white birds was hopping around the garden when I came in from the school run.

When I opened the door and saw who was standing there, three people who had no real business being on my doorstep, I remembered the salt I spilt at dinner the other night that I’d simply brushed away instead of chucking a pinch of over my shoulder. I thought of the ladder I walked under last month before I even realised I’d done it. I recalled all the cracks in all the pavements I’d been stepping on all my life without a single thought for what they might do, how they might fracture my world at some undefined point in the future.

One minute ago

One minute ago, I thought to myself, Who’s died? at exactly the same time the policewoman said, ‘Hello, Mrs Challey. Is your husband in?’

I nodded, and they didn’t wait to be asked in, they entered and went straight for the living room as if they’d been there before, as if they regularly came storming into my life and my home without needing an invitation.

Now

And here we are, in the present, at that moment where my life is about to begin. I know it is about to begin because I can feel the world around me shifting: the air is different; the room that is like any other living room with a sofa and two armchairs, a rug and fireplace, and more pictures of the children than is strictly necessary gracing the walls, feels somehow altered now that these people are here. These police officers are here. My life is about to begin because I can feel around me the threads of my reality unravelling, waiting to be re-sewn into a new, unfamiliar tapestry.

‘Mr Scott Challey,’ the policewoman says, her mouth working in an odd fast-slow motion.

Everything has slowed down so it takes me an age to reach Cora and Anansy, to gather them to me, to hold them close while the policewoman speaks. And everything has speeded up, so a second ago the police officers were on the doorstep, now they are taking Scott’s hands and handcuffing him.

The police officer continues, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of—’ She stops then, pauses at the accusation, the crime that has caused all this. She doesn’t seem the nervous or shy type, but apparently she is the sensitive type. She didn’t seem to notice Cora and Anansy before, but now she stops and shifts her eyes slowly but briefly in their direction before giving Scott a look. An intimate stare from a complete stranger that says they share something that does not need to be spoken; theirs is a connection that does not need words. In response, Scott, whose hands are now ringed by handcuffs, whose body is rigid and upright, nods at her. He is agreeing that she will not voice it in front of the children, he is accepting that she does not need to because he already knows what this is about.

Of course he knows what this is about. In the unfolding nightmare, in the girls clinging to me, in trying to comfort them while attempting to take in everything that is happening, I have missed Scott’s reaction to this: his face is anxious, unsettled – but not horrified. He is not responding like the rest of us are because he knew it would happen.

What is going on?

My fingers are ice-cold as I try to turn Cora’s head into my body; Anansy, who has been terrified of the police since I told her if she stole something from the corner shop again they would come and take her away, has already buried her face in my side, her tears shaking my body.

‘You do not have to say anything,’ the policewoman continues, her eyes focused on my husband. ‘But it will harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.’

Will this really get to court? Surely it’s a mistake? Surely.

‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Scott’s impassive eyes watch her as she speaks.

‘Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?’ she asks. Scott replies with a half-nod, then his eyes are on me. He knows what is going on, he knew this was coming and he didn’t bother to warn me.

Why? I think at him. Why wouldn’t you tell me this was going to happen?

He doesn’t reply to my silent question, instead he looks away, back to the door through which they are about to lead him.

When they have gone, I lower myself onto my knees and pull Cora and Anansy closer to me, bringing them as near as I can to make them feel safe, to make me feel safe, to protect us from the world around us that is unravelling so fast I cannot keep up.

This is where my life begins: with the sound of my daughters crying and the knowledge that my life is coming undone.

 

Twenty-five years ago

‘What are you here for?’ Scott Challey asked me. I wasn’t the sort of eleven-year-old who was usually to be found waiting in the corridor to see the headmaster, so it wasn’t a surprise that he asked me that.

‘They want me to be on the team for something the school is taking part in for the first time ever. It’s a great honour.’ I was a swot. I had friends who were swots and I was in all the top sets at school. I didn’t mind being a swot, it was just the way things were. ‘What about you?’

‘Same,’ he said, shrugging and looking away.

Scott Challey was not a swot. I knew that about Scott Challey. He was clever and in all the top sets, but he was a Challey, and everyone knew the Challey family. My mum always made sure none of us left the house without an ironed uniform, perfect hair and a bag of books filled with neatly completed homework. Scott’s parents thought their job was done because he was often seen at school and the letters they got home about his behaviour were proof that he went there at all (Mum said).

Whenever Mum or Dad saw one of the Challeys in the street they’d talk about them quietly afterwards but not so quietly we didn’t hear. We knew that they were people you crossed over the road to avoid. But you had to pretend that wasn’t why you crossed the road – they’d do you over if they thought you’d done that. They’d do you over for most things, I’d heard, but definitely for that because, I’d heard, you’d have made them work – i.e. cross the street to get you – to give you a beating, rather than just give you the beating you might have got from simply walking past them.

I wasn’t sure if I believed that the school would really ask Scott to do this. He was always in trouble. Like, last week in physics Mr McCoy asked Scott to answer a question in front of everyone on the blackboard. When Scott did it, Mr McCoy said that he’d got it wrong. A few people had snickered and Scott, with his eyes all wide and wild and angry, turned around and glared at us all. Everyone stopped laughing straight away. I hadn’t laughed because I knew Scott was right and Mr McCoy was wrong. When someone else put up their hand and said so, Mr McCoy had been embarrassed and said sorry to Scott. But Scott, now with his eyes narrow and mean, said, ‘If you ever do that to me again, I’ll cut your heart out with a spoon and feed it to my dog.’ Mr McCoy didn’t say or do anything. If it’d been anyone else he’d have shouted or sent them to the headmaster’s office but ’cos it was Scott, he knew that Scott would do it if he got him into trouble. And if Scott didn’t do it, he had a family who would.

‘Have the school really asked you to do this thing or are you joking with me?’ I asked him.

‘They really asked me. What would be funny about that?’

I shrugged. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to do it.’

We stood in silence, listening to the voices on the other side of the headmaster’s door. ‘Why did you say that spoon thing to Mr McCoy?’ I asked Scott. I couldn’t help myself. I had to know why someone would say such a thing.

‘He made everyone laugh at me.’

‘Not everyone laughed. I didn’t laugh. Loads of people didn’t laugh. More people didn’t laugh than did laugh.’

‘It felt like it.’

‘But why did you say that? It’s horrible.’

Scott shrugged. ‘Something I heard my brother say.’

‘But it’s horrible.’

‘So’s my brother, I suppose.’

‘OK.’

We didn’t say anything again for a long time. Then I said, ‘Just because your brother’s horrible, doesn’t mean you have to be.’

Scott stared at me. ‘Doesn’t it?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘You can be nice if you want to. Or you can be not horrible. Like, see, my sister loves teddy bears, even though she’s miles older than me. I don’t have to like teddy bears because she does. You don’t have to be horrible because your brother is. You can be whoever you want.’

He frowned at me for ages like I’d spoken to him in another language that he didn’t understand. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yeah, course.’

We didn’t say anything to each other for ages and ages then I said, ‘Are you going to do this thing then?’

‘Dunno. Depends what my parents say. Are you?’

‘I don’t know, depends what my parents say.’

‘So you’re doing it then,’ Scott told me.

‘Yes, I suppose I am. And you’re not doing it then,’ I told him.

‘No, I don’t suppose I am.’

The sound of chairs moving on the other side of the door stopped me from leaning against the wall and to stand up straight instead. Scott Challey didn’t, he kept leaning against the wall, because he didn’t care what anyone thought of him and what he did. As the door handle turned, I saw from the corner of my eye that he pushed himself off the wall. He took his hands out of his pockets, tucked in the front of his off-white shirt, which had been hanging out like a tongue, and he stood up straight.

‘Oi,’ he said.

I looked at him.

He tipped his chin up at me.

I grinned at him in return. He was all right. For a Challey.

Call me Beatrix. All my friends do. Some of them call me Bea, of course, but that’s only when they’ve known me a while and we’ve only just met so if you don’t mind, I’d like you call me Beatrix.

It’s amazing the amount of people who’ll shorten your name without so much as a by your leave when they’ve only just met you. It’s a bit of a liberty, wouldn’t you say? Not that I think you’d ever take liberties like that. I simply want it to be clear that right now, I’d prefer if you called me Beatrix. Once we get to know each other, you can shorten my name, or lengthen it – but I probably won’t answer if you call me Trixie. (My best friend in school, Eilise Watford, had a dog and they called it Trixie, so you can understand why I won’t be answering to that.)

This is what I’m going to say to the man opposite me if he slips and calls me Bea. Although, out of all of the men I’ve met online, he’s the best so far.

Yes, I’m internet dating. Well, dabbling in it. No, it’s not really worked out for me. Yet. I’ve met four men after ‘talking’ to loads: one turned out to be twenty years older than he claimed to be (he’d sent me an old picture, too), one decided to tell me on our first date that he was addicted to visiting prostitutes but was sure the love of a good woman would help him to kick the habit, one claimed to be single but hadn’t bothered to cover up the pale band of skin where his wedding ring usually sat, and the fourth is sitting opposite me.

Never thought I’d be doing this still, to be honest. Even after my husband ran off with somewhore – I mean some one else – I thought … I don’t know, I just didn’t think I’d still be doing this.

This man opposite me seems normal. When we ‘met’ online he’d been witty, he hadn’t started any sex talk and had completely understood when I asked for a picture of him with a copy of that day’s newspaper. I also quizzed him relentlessly about his marital status and he’d been honest enough to say he’d been married and divorced and would bring the paperwork with him if necessary to clear up any ambiguity.

This is our first ‘in real life’ date, and in the flesh, he’s pretty hot.

We’re in a very expensive restaurant in Brighton – I’m not a name-dropper so I won’t tell you which – and this is the truly impressive part, he’s got us a booth. You have to know people to get a booth, especially at such short notice, so kudos goes to him for that.

‘So, Beatrix, tell me about yourself,’ he says.

And I smile at him, knowing I’m going to do anything but.

 

I’m still shaking.

It’s been two hours but I’m still shaking.

I was able to put it to one side while I held the girls and kissed them and told them it was OK. I was able to hide the shaking and confusion and the fear as they clung to me, sobbing and whimpering at what they had witnessed.

They let me take them upstairs and put them in the big bed, and they sobbed and clung to me a while longer as I sat between them, stroking both their heads until slowly, carefully, the sobbing stopped and then they drifted off to sleep.

I used to love this happening when they were littlies and neither of them would sleep through the night: we’d all end up in the big bed, a tessellation – complex and delicate – of bodies needing sleep. Scott hated having to sleep on the edge of the bed but I secretly loved it. Yes, I could never allow myself to fall into a deep sleep in case one of them rolled over or crawled off the bed but we were all together, all close, all sharing our time together even though we weren’t awake.

After climbing out of the space between them, I sat on the top step, where I haven’t moved from, my mobile on one side of me, the house phone on the other, shaking. I curl my fingers into my palms to stop my hands trembling, but the rest of me is still at it.

I don’t need to glance down at either phone to know that Scott hasn’t rung or texted me. I don’t need to, but I do, in case I’ve missed something, in case I didn’t hear.

The look on his face as they led him away … There was something on his face, in his eyes, latticed in the language of his body. My mind won’t settle long enough for me to decipher what it was, but it was there and it should not have been there. The Scott I knew, loved, married, had children with would not have had that look. My brain is racing ahead, racing back. Whizzing and popping, too much, too fast for me to keep a single thought for too long. This is too much. I unfurl my hands, watch them quiver in the half-light of the hallway.

I need to do something. Anything. Sitting here, waiting, is going to cause my mind to implode. The trembling stops when I pick up my mobile and log onto the internet, find the number for Brighton Police Station. There are two, one in Hove, the other in Brighton. Where would they have taken him? Hove is nearer but Brighton is bigger.

Distance wins over size. The shaking returns, though, as I dial the number. It increases as the person who answered the phone checks to see if he’s there. He’s not. He must be at Brighton. I call the other number. They can confirm he’s there. I cannot speak to him. They will not tell me why he was arrested, they will not let me know if he has been charged. They cannot tell me when or if he’ll be released. The only thing they’ll tell me is that he is there. I need to know more.

Should I go down there? is the punctuation to every heartbeat. They won’t be able to ignore someone who’s right in front of them.

It’s late, there are only two people near enough who can sit with the girls at such short notice. Beatrix, the one they’ve known the longest and who lives at the diagonal opposite side of our bottle-shaped road, is out on a date tonight. I’ve tried her phone anyway on the off-chance her date’s been cancelled or she’s come home early, but it keeps saying her phone is switched off and you can’t leave a message. If she was here instead of me and the girls woke up, they’d be fine. They’ve known her all their lives, they call her Bix, she’s Anansy’s godmother and they both miss her when she’s not here. I’d have no worries about not being here if she was.

The other person is Mirabelle. The girls love her, in a different way to Beatrix. They call her Auntie Mirabelle but she’s only been in their lives for two years, since she and I became friends. She works with Scott and spends time here with the girls, but never without me somewhere nearby. I’m not sure how they’d react to her being here if they woke up, nor how she would react to having to comfort them at a time like this.

The silent phones continue their passive mocking of my ignorance. I have no choice. If I want to know what’s going on, I’m going to have to go down there. Maybe the shaking will stop if I find out more – if I do something.

I call up Mirabelle’s number on my mobile, then press dial. The phone rings out and then, ‘Hi, this is Mirabelle, leave me a message.’ I hang up. Then try again. Nothing. I try again. Nothing. The fourth time, her distracted voice answers, ‘Hello?’

‘Mirabelle, it’s me,’ I say, so relieved tears cram themselves into my eyes. ‘Thank God, you’re there.’

‘Tami?’ she asks cautiously. ‘What’s up?’

The familiarity of her voice causes tears to overwhelm my vocal cords, my words, my ability to speak. It’s replaying on loop in my head: the handcuffs on his wrists, the police officers leading him away, the look on his face I cannot name. ‘I, erm, I need your help,’ I say, trying to control myself, trying to bury the fragile, fractured, almost broken tone in my voice. I want to be stronger than this. I want to take charge and show no weakness.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asks carefully. I can imagine her light hazel eyes narrowing in the dark skin of her face as she awaits my answer.

‘I—I … Can you come over? It’ll be easier face to face.’

‘Well, um, not really, I’m not exactly dressed to go out. Can’t you tell me what’s wrong on the phone?’

‘Um … No. Please, I really need your help.’

‘I … um … Are you alone?’

‘No, the girls are here, but Scott’s not.’ I say his name and crack myself. Break myself into tiny little fragments that glint from their scattered places on the corridor floor. I am sobbing silently, the inhalations of my tears, soft enough not to wake the girls, but strong enough to be heard on the phone.

‘OK, I’m coming,’ she says. ‘Just give me a chance to get dressed.’

I can’t even say thank you as I hang up the phone.

Twenty-four years ago

It didn’t seem fair. I was the only girl in the class to not get a Valentine’s card. Even Kim Meekson who sat at the back of the class picking her nose and eating the bogeys got a card but not me. Genevieve, my sister, had five pushed through the door this morning and Sarto, my brother, had eight. I had a big fat zero. I thought maybe when they opened the red postbox that sat next to my form tutor Miss Harliss’s desk, there might be at least one for me. Nope. Nothing there, either.

After the box was emptied and there was none for me, I looked around, saw that I was different and felt really small inside. My throat got lumpy but I couldn’t let anyone see it mattered. Phyllis Latan, my best friend, who sat next to me, said, ‘You can share mine.’ I didn’t want to, hers was from Harry Nantes who smelt because he didn’t wash his hair, but it was nice of her, so I held the card for a bit then had to give it back because I could tell she thought I was going to keep it.

No one liked me. No one. I didn’t really want boys to like me like that, but I didn’t want no one to like me so I was the only person who didn’t get a card. I was probably the only girl in the whole of the school who didn’t get one.

I dragged my feet going home and as I turned the corner to my road, I knew Genevieve and Sarto were going to laugh at me for weeks and weeks. It was bad enough I was the youngest, this was going to be the worst thing to make fun of me yet.

Scott was suddenly there. He was standing in front of me as scruffy as he always was: I mean, there was no point in him wearing his tie when it was almost off, and his shirt – peeking out from under his school coat – had mud smudges all over it. His red jumper was tied around his waist and his grey trousers were mud-smudged, too.

He didn’t say or do anything for a few seconds, then ‘Here,’ he said, shoving a red envelope at me. I didn’t even get the chance to say, ‘What is it?’ before he took off, his black leather Head bag, slung on his shoulder with football boots tied to the handle, bobbing as he ran. I stood watching him go, and didn’t look down at the envelope until he’d turned the corner at the end of my street.

I opened the envelope and inside was a card with a white bear holding a big red heart on the front. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ the front read. ‘Your secret admirer’ it continued inside.

Scott had neatly written:

You’re all right, you.

I knew what he meant: he didn’t like me like Harry liked Phyllis, he just didn’t want me to be sad and not be the only girl in the world without any Valentine cards.

Coat. Shoes. Bag. Mobile. Purse. Cash. Keys.

Twenty-four years ago

‘What were you doing with that Challey boy?’ Genevieve asked me after dinner.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I saw you, from the bedroom window. He was standing there talking to you. It looked like he gave you a card. What were you doing with him?’

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘Stay away from him, Tami,’ she said.

‘I’m not coming near him. He was outside when I got home.’

‘Did he ask you out?’

‘No!’

‘Look, stay away from him or I’ll tell Mummy and Daddy.’

‘Tell them what you want!’ I said. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘His family are really racist, you know.’

‘Why does that matter to me? I’ve only spoken to him once in my life and then earlier. That’s all.’

‘Tami, trust me, he’s trouble. Just stay away from him.’

I shrugged at her because my big sister knew nothing when it came to this. I didn’t like him, he didn’t like me. We hadn’t spoken since the day outside the headmaster’s office and we wouldn’t speak again, probably. He was just being nice, that’s all. Yes, he was a Challey and yes, they were all – including him – nothing but trouble, but even a Challey was allowed to be nice at least once in their lives, weren’t they?

Mirabelle arrives at the house sooner than I thought she would. She is in her gold jogging suit I dared her to buy when we were out looking for a new running outfit for me.

‘I have no shame, surely you know that by now,’ she’d said and found her size on the rail.

‘What, you going to get a gold tooth to match that?’ I’d said to her.

‘Don’t tempt me,’ she’d replied.

Over her jogging suit she has tied up her bright red mac and she has grey furry Ugg boots on her feet, her masses of curly hair is pulled up and back, secured with a scrunchie so her hair falls like water from a fountain all over her head. I can tell she’s just washed her face. Probably getting ready for bed when I called.

‘What’s happened?’ she asks. Her concern turns to alarm when she sees I’m in my black mac with my red and white trainers on my feet. ‘Where are you going?’

I have called a taxi instead of driving because I don’t think I could stop myself shaking long enough to get the key into the ignition let alone select the right gear, remember to use my mirror or even recall what to do at junctions.

The taxi draws up outside, and I wave to the driver over Mirabelle’s shoulder. She turns to look at the white-haired man who nods in reply to my wave and sits patiently in the driver’s seat waiting for me.

‘What is going on? Where are you going?’

‘Scott’s been arrested,’ I state. See, if I state things, say them matter-of-factly, they won’t break me.

‘What?’ She draws back. ‘What?’

‘Scott’s been arrested.’ Simple statement. No shattering. ‘I don’t know what for, but I’m going to the police station.’ Simple-ish statement. ‘I need you to stay here in case the girls wake up before I get back.’ Slightly complex statement, but still not falling apart.

‘What? No.’ She shakes her head firmly, decidedly. ‘No.’

‘Please, you have to. I won’t be long.’ I hope. ‘If they wake up, call me and I’ll dash back.’

‘Didn’t you hear me? No. You can’t ask me to do this,’ she says, her bewilderment clear. ‘I don’t want to be involved in this.’

‘Please, there’s no one else. I’ll be as quick as I can. They’ll most likely sleep through. Please.’ I am halfway out of the door. She has to do this for me: I would do it for her in a heartbeat. Friendships grow from small acts of kindness as well as from big favours and we are friends – she has to do this, there really is no one else I would trust with the girls.

‘This isn’t right or fair you know, Tami.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’

I dash down the path and into the taxi before she has a chance to tell me no again. Because if she does that, this time, I may just believe her.

Eighteen years ago

‘Hello, Tamia Berize, you all right?’ he said to me. I was at one of the more pleasant bus stops in Lewisham – there were only two spots of chewing gum on the cloudy, cracked plastic ‘glass’ of the shelter, the seats were only a little drawn on and dirtied, two of the posters were still intact.

My face beamed when I saw him. ‘Wow, talk about a blast from the past,’ I said, my grin growing wider. I hadn’t seen him in years. ‘How you doing?’

‘Good, good.’ Scott Challey, all grown up. I hadn’t seen him since we both finished our GCSEs and I went off to sixth-form college and he stayed on at school. From the little boy who could never stay clean and tidy, he’d grown into a young man who dressed well – smart, navy blue jeans, a white T-shirt and long, black coat. His once-wild hair was now tamed with a stylish long-on-top cut. I’d heard he’d gone to university from my mother who’d said in despair that she couldn’t understand how someone from his family went while I didn’t. I’d heard from other people I went to school with that his family hadn’t wanted him to go. When he’d brought his UCAS form home it’d got thrown out with the rubbish. When his teachers tried to explain that it was an opportunity like no other, they’d been thrown out with a fair few swearwords lining their ears. It was only his grandmother who intervened. She wielded the ultimate power in that family, apparently. When she spoke – which hadn’t been frequently – they listened and they did. ‘Young Scott’s going to university,’ I heard, she’d said. And that was that.

‘You look all grown up. Am quite impressed.’

‘I look grown up? You’re a full-formed adult. I suppose that’s because you’ve got a job and can afford to buy clothes and things.’

‘You’re not exactly naked, are you?’

‘Ahh, but it’s different when you’re working. How did your parents take you not going to university?’

I shrugged. ‘Still haven’t calmed down. I think they’ve convinced themselves I’m going to see how hard it is working and