The things i didnt do, p.1
The Things I Didn't Do, page 1
The Things I Didn’t Do
Charlotte Barnes
Copyright © 2022 Charlotte Barnes
The right of Charlotte Barnes to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-914614-70-5
Contents
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I. Erica
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
II. Prue
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
III. After
The Things I Didn’t Do:
The Things I Didn’t Do:
The Things I Didn’t Do:
The Things She Did
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
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I
Erica
Chapter One
I didn’t give the agency my real name.
On the morning she was due to arrive, I got up earlier than usual. The world was just about yawning awake by the time I was ready for my second cup of tea. I’d saved my cigarette for this. I waited for the kettle to whistle; lined up teabag with spoon with Mayfair Superking. I only allowed myself one cigarette a day; I was going to get my money’s worth. While the water boiled, I studied the black packaging of the cigarette box, still sitting on the windowsill. It would tempt me throughout the day. There was a small foetus and a tagline on the dangers of smoking. I’d had this warning more than any of the others and I always wondered whether the assistants serving me my vice picked the label deliberately; as though my wisps of grey weren’t signal enough that child-bearing years were behind me. Even if they weren’t, though, the threat of infertility didn’t bother me – that’s what the other flavours of warnings were for. Still, I turned the foetus away and then I checked the time – again. It was, I estimated, the length of a cup of tea before she was due.
The email that had been forwarded over was signed Prue. But at the bottom of the non-disclosure agreement she’d signed Prudence: Prudence S. Carr. In the days since, I’d been wondering what the S might stand for, whether I might be able to tell when I saw her in person. I’d googled her, of course, at the advice of my solicitor. Though I hadn’t made specific requests when we’d approached the agency, only that they supplied a woman, Colin had suggested I check her over digitally before committing. Prue had a safe and sound internet presence though; one that said, quite loudly, I don’t share my personal life here. Although she had shared awards, collaborative projects, qualifications, client testimonials. She was a walking advertisement for herself.
‘She looks to take herself seriously,’ I’d said to Colin, my mobile pressed between ear and shoulder so I could continue to scroll, make notes, scroll, make notes…
‘We’ll see how serious she is when we suggest two NDAs.’
I didn’t like his tone.
‘Are you expecting her to have a problem with it?’
He hesitated. ‘I think… I think we need to be prepared for her to be nervous.’
‘About the project?’
‘Yes, Erica, about the project.’
He spoke to me how my husband might have done if he were irritated with me over something. I’d put up with it then – that’s marriage – but I wouldn’t put up with it from someone who I was paying hard-inherited money to speak to. ‘The NDA protects me, doesn’t it, whether she’s nervous or not.’
‘Yes,’ he’d answered plainly, as though he thought I was being sincere. ‘But, Erica–’
‘But nothing. Send the drafts over to the agency. If she signs, she signs. If she doesn’t then I’m sure they or somewhere else will have someone on their books who’s less… nervy.’
The kettle blew time. I splashed water in the mug and added equal parts milk and sugar. My phone was connected to the kitchen’s speaker system, so the ring would be loud enough for me to hear in the garden. Cigarette, lighter, fresh tea in hand I ventured outside, where trace amounts of Otis Redding could find me and blend with birdsong. I looked back into the kitchen, though, and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windowpane there. My curls hadn’t yet been tamed by a hairbrush nor my bags filled in with foundation, or cosmetic concrete. But I wondered whether it was necessary, even, for a sit-down conversation with an employee; a would-be employee. Did I need to look perfect so I could sit opposite her and give her a rundown of my most imperfect experiences? I snorted at the thought, and a small puff of smoke rushed through my nose and scratched my throat all at once. My lungs struggled while I coughed away the amusement.
‘That’ll teach me to make myself laugh,’ I said to a nearby blackbird, pecking furiously at a food tray that would need to be topped up again by late morning. ‘Everyone is always so greedy around here.’ I smiled and took another thirsty inhale of smoke. The neighbours were mostly quiet but in a small village everyone knew everything – or at least they thought they did. But they were always hungry for more. I wondered whether anyone would notice my visitor later in the day – whether anyone would catch her for a chat, even. The blackbird chirruped as I turned back from exhaling smoke away from him. He tilted his head, stared at me and chirruped once more. ‘Everyone is chatty around here, too, aren’t they?’ I asked but he said nothing that time.
I ran a hand through my tangled mess of hair, swallowed tea and smoke again, and leaned back against the outer wall of home. The garden had taken a lot of work but it was a beautiful space in these early hours. From here, I could see straight down to the bottom; the neat grass and the encroaching shrubs and the birds that bounced from one side to the other. No one overlooked the garden, though, and that was perhaps my favourite thing about it. I listened hard to the birds outside, the opening chords of ‘Hotel California’, and the crackle of my cigarette burning down from another slow drag. Not for the first time, then, I wondered why I wanted to tell my story at all. In those quiet moments, with nothing to bother or threaten me, why now?
‘Why does it matter anymore?’
The soft guitar drifting out from the kitchen was undercut by a kerfuffle, somewhere beyond the garden. I heard birds still, but behind the crunch of gravel. Then I lost them entirely to the shrill ring of my mobile through the speaker inside – only one ring, though, as requested. I asked her to let me know when she’d pulled up. I didn’t rush the last of my cigarette – only three decent drags left – and then I exhaled, inhaled, exhaled as though the last of the smoke were the clearest air anyone might taste. I tried to laugh again, then, but the sound got caught in my throat and I drowned it with a drink.
Inside the kitchen the music was louder still but soft, soothing. Only the streaming service that I used always pulled the covers before the classics so I didn’t recognise the singer behind this version. I was a child when the original track came out. Roger always played it; over and again whenever he was upset. Strange, then, that the song always stirred a fondness in me. I turned it off on my way to answer the door though. I was so worried of giving away clues.
Chapter Two
I didn’t try to disguise my appearance.
The woman, who had disturbed the solitude of country living with a car that looked like it had never left the city before, was glancing around my open porchway. There were climbing vines and bursts of colour in full bloom, and she was framed like something from a fairy tale. I watched her for a second through the misted pane in the front door. But I knew I was unlikely to get away with that for long. When she turned her head to catch sight or smell of something nearby, her light blonde hair tumbled in the wind. It was a bob, sho
Still, she started the conversation with a laugh and an outstretched hand. ‘Ruby?’
I matched the gesture. ‘Prudence?’
‘Oh.’ She waved the name away. ‘Call me Prue.’
So that answers that one, I thought as I stepped aside and made way for her to move through the front door. ‘I’m sorry to have made you jump out here. Don’t stand on the threshold. Come in. I’ll make us tea.’ I closed the door and retraced my steps along the hallway, toward the kitchen. ‘Unless you’d prefer coffee.’
‘Tea would be great, thank you.’ She had that faraway tone that comes with distraction. Without looking behind me, I guessed that she was sizing up the place on her walk through it, pausing, even, to stare at pictures pinned to the uneven walls. ‘Could I have a glass of water, too, please? It’s been so stuffy on that journey.’
‘I can imagine.’ I couldn’t, though, because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d allowed myself the luxury of a long journey anywhere. ‘You’re welcome to a walk down into the garden, if you’d like to stretch your legs.’
Prue craned to look out of the kitchen window then said, ‘Ah, you’re a smoker?’
‘One a day, first thing.’ The kettle started to hiss and steam while I ferreted out a clean cup, saucers, accompaniments. ‘Do you have a preference on biscuits?’
‘Anything with sugar.’ She laughed again then, and I wondered whether she was nervous. But she must have done this sort of thing before? ‘May I?’ She gestured to the closed door that would lead her outside and I nodded.
I didn’t like having to repeat myself. But still I answered. ‘Please do.’
When I walked outside minutes later – laden with a tea tray that hadn’t been used for years, on account of the lack of company – Prue was sat at the small dining set in a patch of shade. I lowered the tray and moved a free chair round to a spot of sun before sitting.
‘You’re a sun worshipper?’ she asked.
‘It helps my old bones.’ I lifted the teapot. ‘Say when.’
With drinks poured and cooling, we fell into the awkward silence that often swells between people who don’t know each other, and who don’t know where to begin. Prue filled the space by taking a greedy mouthful of tea followed by a biscuit that I suspect she only ate from politeness. But her quiet demeanour around each act made me wonder whether she thought she already knew something about me…
‘You must have done this before?’ I said eventually. ‘Met someone, to talk through…’
She nodded. ‘I have. But I’m also aware this is a very personal project to you and I’m more than happy for you to take the lead on what I do and don’t know at this point. Counter to that, though, if you have any questions at all for me then I’m an open book when it comes to these things.’ She reached for the slim satchel on the floor near her feet. ‘I’ve brought my portfolio, which is an expanded version of the one available on the agency website, so you can fully browse past materials, too.’ She’d slipped into business mode; her tone a different one now to the one she’d used inside the kitchen. When she finished speaking she flashed me a thin smile, then hurried to free her laptop.
‘A very personal project,’ I parroted. ‘What makes you assume that?’
She looked up. ‘I’ve been a ghost-writer for ten years and I’ve never had to sign two non-disclosure agreements ahead of even meeting the client.’ Her smile loosened from the tight face she’d made before. ‘It must be something quite personal, for that.’
I decided I liked her then.
‘You’ve written books before?’ I poured my own tea.
‘Mostly fiction. My non-fiction usually deals with content writing work more so than memoirs or biographies. Although I’ve done them both before, but on a smaller scale to what I think you’ve requested.’
‘I want a full manuscript.’
‘Then that’s what you’ll get.’ She took another biscuit. ‘If you decide to work with me.’
Prue opened the laptop and speedily typed in what I assumed must be her password. I let the quiet sit between us while she readied things. The sun, already making its way around the garden now, was nearly out of my reach. I was glad of the opportunity to lean forwards into the shifting rays, under the guise of seeing her computer screen.
‘I can give you copies of these, if you’d like to look through them in more detail.’ She leaned back and sipped her tea while I skimmed the titles of her works.
‘This is quite a list.’
‘I’m quite a writer.’ Her tone was relaxed.
Prue’s hair caught in a sudden burst of wind and I noticed the thickness of it again; signs of her health, her youth. Although she spoke like a seasoned professional in her career, which made it impossible to guess her age. If she hadn’t shown me her timeline of works, I would have assumed I had twenty years on her.
‘Are you married?’ Her relaxed expression faltered then, and I could see she was thrown by the question. I laughed. ‘Sorry, it’s not my business. I was trying to work out your age from your stress signs and knowing whether you were married might help.’ I didn’t mind admitting the truth behind my questioning. I’d spent such a long time answering questions in half-honesty, but these days I moved through the desire to pull the wool over people, or wrap it around them. I was of an age when confessing everything didn’t seem fearsome anymore. Still, I added, ‘You don’t have to answer.’
She took the laptop back; clicked and scrolled and clicked. ‘No, I’m not married.’ She turned the machine back to me, and smiled. ‘No spouse, no children, although I do have a cat who I call my child and I believe that’s the closest I’ll get to birthing anything. I don’t have family; I did, of course, but now I don’t. I misplaced them.’ She forced a laugh but I wondered what the comment might be hiding. ‘I’ve been with the same agency of writers on and off since I left university, where I studied English literature with creative writing. Hence,’ she gestured to the laptop, ‘the never-ending portfolio. I haven’t always wanted to be a ghost-writer, but it gives me a good chance to work on lots of different projects which I do enjoy, and it pays the bills well enough for me to work on my own writing. Fiction, crime.’ She dropped back heavily in her chair and fanned her hands as though presenting something. There you have it, her gesture said.
‘You’re a crime writer?’
She raised a finger. ‘I hope to be.’
‘Detective work?’
‘Part detective, part… I don’t know. Something psychological.’
‘I’m hooked.’
She laughed. ‘If only it were that easy.’
‘Have you worked on crime reporting before, in content writing?’
I flickered in and out of listening to her answer. The sun had moved further out of reach and I looked up to scowl at its unwillingness to keep me warm. In the middle of her lengthy response, Prue commented she didn’t follow crime reporting in real time and I wondered whether that was why she was still using my fake name; maybe she really didn’t know. Initially it had felt like the most sensible decision to keep myself secreted away for this first meeting. But I wondered, then, whether life would have been easier had she known from the start; she would have walked through the door with her eyes open, rather than squinting.
