The Truth About Celia Frost (13 page)

Celia breezed into the flat, late again. She’d done the same for the past three weeks, ever since she’d met Sol, and she didn’t care. She wanted Janice to
suffer. She was humming something that had lodged itself in her head: one of the R & B tunes on Sol’s iPod – catchy but nowhere near as good as her stuff.

I must introduce that boy to some decent music
, she thought.

Janice rushed in from the balcony, a cigarette in hand. Her eyes flitted over Celia’s body, searching for any cuts or bruises.

“Don’t inspect me every time I walk through the door,” Celia snapped.

“I’m not, love, honest. I was just thinking how well you look.”

This wasn’t a complete lie. Over the last few weeks, Janice had noticed a transformation in Celia. She still possessed her inevitable gawkiness, courtesy of her long, gangly limbs, but
instead of walking around with her head bowed and shoulders bent, she now held herself up to her full, impressive height. The sparkle of her pale blue eyes was visible now they were no longer
clouded by anxiety. Her skin had erupted in freckles from the exposure to the sun, giving it a warm, healthy sheen. Everything about her seemed stronger, more confident, as if at last she was free
from fear and comfortable in her skin. Janice noted all of this and felt her stomach knot.

“I got us fish and chips,” Janice said with a desperate cheeriness. “I waited so we could have it together. I’ll heat it up. I didn’t think you’d be back so
late.”

“I keep telling you not to wait for me. I can sort myself out,” Celia said flinging her bag down and heading for the bathroom.

“Will you be long?” Janice asked, biting her lip.

“I’m having a shower. Do I have to ask your permission?” Celia shut the door on her.

Janice waited until the shower had been running for a few minutes before picking up Celia’s bag and rifling through it. She pulled out suncream, an empty Coke can, a purse, keys, and the
new mobile that Celia refused to answer whenever Janice rang. Janice tried the phone and groaned with disappointment. Celia had locked it, her texts and address book safe from intruders’
eyes. Next, Janice pulled out a damp towel. Wrapped inside it were wet shorts and a T-shirt.

What’s going on
?
She couldn’t have been swimming. She can’t swim and there isn’t even a pool around here.

Janice felt at the bottom of the bag and pulled out a hardback notebook.

“Bingo,” she whispered triumphantly. She’d been regularly searching Celia’s bedroom for a diary and now she thought she held it in her hands. She opened it hurriedly,
hearing the squeak of the shower control being turned and the water stopping. But inside, instead of all of Celia’s exploits and innermost thoughts, she found delicate sketches of dozens of
birds, with sightings dated next to them and details of nests and hatched eggs. Janice was confused; some of the dates went back over two years.

These couldn’t have been drawn by Celia
.

She flicked through the book and there, on the last pages, two portraits stared back at her. The first was unmistakably of Celia. But it wasn’t the face that she allowed Janice to see.
These days, when Janice looked at Celia, all she saw was disdain and contempt. But this portrait captured a luminous quality in her; carefree and happy, so happy. Janice had almost forgotten what an
incredible mile-wide smile Celia possessed. The second portrait wasn’t as skilful as the first, but it drew the observer in with the boy’s cheeky grin and mischievous eyes.

Janice was so engrossed in these pictures that she didn’t hear the bathroom door open.

“What are you doing with my stuff?” roared Celia, charging towards her in a dressing gown, a towel wrapped around her head.

Janice immediately went on the attack. “Who’s this boy?” she demanded, holding the notebook aloft as Celia tried to grab it.

“No one. None of your business,” she hissed.

“What’s all this about? Why have you got wet clothes in here? Where do you go?”

Celia ignored her questions and, snatching the book and her phone, she stormed into her bedroom, shouting through the door, “I’m not telling you anything and if you
ever
go
through my stuff again you’ll never see me
again.
Do you understand?”

“Don’t do this, Celia,” Janice pleaded, “you’re torturing me. Staying out all day, coming in late. I can’t stand not knowing where you go, if you’re
safe. It’s cruel of you!”

There was a stony silence from the other side of the door and Janice knew it was going to be a long, tense night. She made a beeline for the kitchen cupboard, breaking the seal on the bottle of
gin by unscrewing the top. She’d decided to buy it for emergencies only; for those times when she desperately needed to stay calm and relax. Now, definitely felt like one of those times.

Celia sat crossed-legged on her bed with her phone. She was seething as she deleted the messages between her and Sol and then began to delete the photos that captured their
days at the flooded quarry. It pained her to do it, but she would rather die than have Janice find them.

Celia had spent all those years trapped in the gloomy bubble Janice had made for her, gripped by fear, feeling like a freak, but now she had so many great things to tell: like how, for the first
time in her life, she couldn’t wait for each new day to begin; like how it felt to have a friend, the most amazing friend, a big, soft kid who made her laugh, who taught her how to climb
trees and build campfires, who timed her as she threw herself around their woodland assault course, every day getting faster and faster. A friend who spent hours trying to teach her how to swim and
who, every evening, took her back to the estate, pedalling like a maniac, as she clung onto the back of his bike with white-knuckled hands and a racing heart. Just thinking about him made her
forget how life was before. But she knew that she could never tell Janice any of this. Sol and the flooded quarry were hers,
all hers,
and Janice must never be allowed to ruin them with her
madness and paranoia.

Janice paced the floor of their tatty living room.
What if he’s her boyfriend
? she fretted
. She can’t, she wouldn’t.
She leaned without thinking
on the hot radiator and cursed as it branded a red welt onto her hand.
This bloody place
, she grumbled.
Maybe it’s time to move on. Get her away from whatever she’s up to.
Yes, I shouldn’t push it though. I’ll bide my time, plan a proper move.

Janice waited half an hour before gingerly knocking on Celia’s door.

“Come on, love. You must be starving. Your dinner’s here,” she said coaxingly, peering around the door.

Celia’s stomach rumbled as the smell of fish and chips wafted in. “You haven’t even apologized,” she grunted.

“I’m sorry, really sorry. I shouldn’t have gone through your things. I won’t do it again. I know you’re a good girl. I know that you won’t be up to anything
stupid. Now come out and eat. You can have it in front of the telly; there’s a new makeover show on.”

Janice sat next to her on the sofa and tucked into the food. The atmosphere between them was beginning to thaw. Celia found it too exhausting to stay angry in this oppressive heat.

“This is nice isn’t it?” Janice said, patting her on the knee. “You and me watching the telly together – ‘chilling out’.”

Celia rolled her eyes.

Half an hour later, the woman on the makeover programme had been reduced to tears by the ridiculing presenters and then sliced open by a smarmy surgeon, who sucked bits out of her before
stuffing other bits into her and botoxing her face into an expressionless mask. The finale was unveiling her new look to her husband, who was suitably stunned and declared that she looked nothing
like the woman he married and he was delighted. As the programme finished, Janice hoisted herself up from the saggy sofa.

“Can I get you anything while I’m up?” she asked.

“No thanks,” Celia muttered.

Janice went into the kitchen. Celia switched channels to the news.

“Results published today of preliminary clinical trials on cancer patients point to a potential breakthrough in the fight against the disease. Many in the medical profession are hoping
that we could be on the brink of a cure. A British scientist, fifty-four-year-old Professor Melanie Hudson, has devoted years into engineering a so-called ‘smart virus’ that, when
injected into cancer sufferers, will selectively attack cancerous cells, destroying them, while leaving healthy cells untouched. The virus, which has been named The Saviour Virus, has been shown to
successfully eliminate cancerous cells in many forms of cancer. The report shows that most patients involved in the trial have, so far, remained cancer free. Earlier today our reporter, Nick
Devaney, spoke to Professor Hudson at her London home.”

The image cut to a beautifully furnished sitting room, where a poised, attractive woman sat opposite the reporter. Celia was struck by the impressive figure. Maybe she’d been expecting
some eccentric scientist who didn’t have the time or head space to even brush her hair, but the woman on the screen oozed elegance. Flawless make-up gave her a dewy complexion and enhanced
her fine features. Subtle blonde highlights made her look younger than her years. Her deep brown eyes were framed by dark, arched eyebrows, and her smooth hands, with their manicured nails, rested
on her silk skirt. Immediately Celia’s thoughts turned to Janice and her corroded, dry hands and bitten nails, her worn face and shrunken body.

“Professor Hudson – do you believe that you may be on the brink of one of the biggest breakthroughs in the history of the fight against cancer?” the reporter began.

“Well, we must remain very cautious – these are only preliminary trials – but the results have been encouraging.” She smiled modestly.

“You’ve devoted your entire career to researching a cure for cancer. Was there ever a time when you felt like giving up?”

“Of course there was. Many a time, when I came to yet another dead end, I felt like I couldn’t go on, but then I’d remind myself that the stakes were too high to give
up.”

“And why do you think you have made this breakthrough with your genetically modified virus, when so many other scientists have failed?” he asked.

“I have the utmost respect for my colleagues and their research but I guess that I just had that luck you need with any research. Once I became convinced that I could engineer a virus that
had the potential to eradicate cancerous cells, I persevered, spending years developing and refining it.”

“And what about your children? They must be very proud of you.” The camera zoomed in on a framed photo on the mantelpiece of two handsome identical boys, who looked about ten years
old.

“Oh yes.” She beamed at the photo. “And I’m proud of them too. Being an older mother makes you appreciate your children so much more, but it’s been difficult for
them when their mother always seems to be working. We’ve all made great sacrifices to get to the stage we are at today. But I believe, that if we can make this work, those sacrifices will
have been worth it.”

“I’m sure the world would agree,” replied the awestruck reporter.

From behind, Celia heard the clink of ice as Janice prepared another drink. Celia couldn’t stop herself comparing the two women. This amazing mother of twins on the TV had achieved so
much...and then there was
her
mother: what had her crazy mother ever achieved? What had Janice ever done, apart from clean up dirt and fill her lungs with smoke?

“Mum, you should watch this,” Celia called, determined that Janice took an interest. “This scientist might actually have discovered a cure for cancer.”

“That’s good,” Janice said, coming to look. “But when are they going to discover a cure for wrinkles?”

Janice’s chuckle suddenly became a pained gasp, as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Celia turned around to see Janice’s mouth slack, her drink suspended centimetres from
her lips. Her hand began to shake uncontrollably, the contents of the glass sloshing over the rim. Celia took hold of Janice’s jittering hand and prised the glass out of her grip.

“What’s wrong?” she asked anxiously.

Janice steadied herself, taking holding of the back of the sofa. It took a few seconds before she seemed to come round, tearing her eyes away from the TV. She turned her ashen face towards
Celia, her mouth now forced into a thin smile.

“It’s...it’s nothing... My drink...it went down the wrong way. I’m fine,” she stammered.

Celia took a cautious sip of the clear liquid. “Yack! What is this?! Gin? Vodka? Since when did you start drinking? No wonder you looked like you were having a mini-fit. You can’t go
knocking this stuff back. You’re not used to it, Mum.”

Janice’s eyes darted back to the TV screen. The newsreader was now talking about the heatwave.

“Not since 1976 have we experienced such sustained high temperatures, and around the country it seems most people are enjoying this long hot summer...”

“Mum, are you even listening to me?” Celia scolded as if she was telling off a child.

“I just needed a little something to calm my nerves,” Janice answered meekly.

“You need tranquillizers to calm
your
nerves,” Celia retorted.

Janice turned her agitated eyes on Celia. “Well, maybe if you’d stop running wild I wouldn’t be such a mess, would I? We need to get back to how things were – just you
and me. Safe and sound.”

“Is that what this is all about? You can’t cope seeing me happy; you can’t cope not being able to control me and screw me up,” Celia seethed.

“No! No! But say you hurt yourself, say you bleed?”

“Don’t you dare start that again!”

“Celia, please...if you want to help me get better then promise me you’ll keep safe – always remember what I’ve told you to do if you hurt yourself.”

“How could I forget? You’ve been saying it all my life.” She mimicked Janice’s neurotic tone. “Make sure you cover any injury to try to slow down the bleeding,
Celia. Don’t let people help you without gloves on, Celia. Always use your first-aid kit, Celia.” She paused, anguish swamping her face. “Mum, playing along with your madness
isn’t going to make you get better. When are you going to get the message? You need professional help.”