Follow Me Back (6 page)

The girl makes an unconvincing ‘Mmm’ sound, and then, after a strange stilted pause, she says, in a lower voice, ‘Have you heard anything about
your sister?’

Cheska looks up, and her eyes fill with tears under her thick false eyelashes. ‘No,’ she says, in a hoarse whisper. ‘We’re all so worried. It’s all I can think about.’ Right on cue, a tear rolls down her face, leaving a pale track mark in her make-up.

‘Annnnd cut,’ someone says. The woman with the clipboard, who I guess must be the producer, says, crossing off something on another
list. ‘That’s great, thanks, Cheska.’

Cheska instantly lets go of the girl’s hand, which flops down to the table with a thud. ‘Cool,’ she says, standing up and shrugging off her pale pink overall top to reveal a tiny little strappy thing. ‘I’m heading out for a bit.’

Even though she hasn’t looked up once, hasn’t acknowledged me, she heads right for me and slots an arm through mine. ‘Let’s
go,’ she says, brightly.

Up close, she smells like coconut and something biscuity. Her perfectly curled long hair doesn’t even move in the breeze outside. It’s blonde like Lizzie’s, except not like Lizzie’s – her hair is bright and fake where Lizzie’s was soft and darker.

Why do I keep talking about Lizzie in the past tense?

We walk down the high street, Cheska’s heels clacking on the cobbled
pavement.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she says.

‘No problem.’

‘Guess it’s kind of exciting to see behind the scenes, right?’

I glance at her. ‘Not really.’

She either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to, and instead beams and waves at two girls across the street taking photos of her on their phones. ‘You’re friends with my sister,’ she says in a low voice, and it’s not a question.

‘Yeah,’
I say, because it’s simpler than saying ‘I was’ or ‘I don’t know’.

‘I heard the police wanted to talk to you.’

‘They’re talking to a lot of people,’ I say, thinking of the police taking over our headmaster’s office. Wondering if they’re looking in the right place.
Lizzie.

‘She said things about you.’

These words go through me like sharp stabs of a whispered knife. That Lizzie would talk
to Cheska, who she argued with constantly, about anything personal, is a shock. That I was important enough for her to talk about is worse.

‘What kind of things?’

Cheska looks sideways at me with a little smirk. ‘You had a thing, right?’

‘No. Not exactly.’

‘Don’t be shy…’ We’ve reached the riverfront, the part where all the posh little tearooms and wine bars are. A low, grey wall runs
along the edge of the bank, and Cheska perches on it and pats a spot beside her. ‘Sit. Tell me everything.’

I stay where I am. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

She shrugs and flicks her hair over one shoulder. ‘Whatever.’

‘Is that all you wanted to meet me for?’

‘Aid,’ she says, as if we’re old pals, and as if ‘Aid’ is a normal nickname for someone, ‘my sister is missing. The least you can do
is talk to me.’

This would do a lot more to convince me if it was delivered with even the slightest hint of emotion, but it isn’t. We could just be talking about the weather or what she’s having for dinner.

She looks at me, eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know?’

‘I don’t know anything,’ I say. ‘I wish I did.’

She laughs. ‘Just checking. No need to get so defensive.’

I don’t reply. I’m
too shocked. I can’t believe she can act so relaxed, can laugh and joke, when Lizzie’s out there somewhere. On-camera is one thing, but off…

‘Look,’ she says after a while, tipping her head back to look at the sky, letting her hair trail prettily behind her. Like this is a photo shoot. ‘I know you want to help Lizzie. So let’s help each other.’

I sit down beside her. ‘And how exactly do you
want me to help?’

‘I’m still working on that,’ she says, airily. ‘But I need to know that I can count on you. That
Lizzie
can count on you.’

My mouth feels dry. ‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ She straightens up and looks at her watch. ‘Better get back. I’m supposed to be having an argument with Aimee outside the salon.’

She gets up and smooths down her way-too-small top.

‘Wait,’ I say. ‘What
do you mean, you’re still working on it? Do you know something about Lizzie? Do you know where she is?’

She’s already walking away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Aiden. I just wanted to meet you. I want us to be friends.’

‘But why me?’ I call after her, and she glances back at me.

‘Like I said,’ she says, flicking her hair again. ‘She said things about you.’

And she winks.

I
TOSS
AND
turn all night thinking about Lizzie. I manage some sleep at about three, but even then it’s full of weird half-dreams, bits of conversations mixed up and repeating themselves in my head. Picturing Lizzie online, alone, late at night, sharing her secrets. I have to do something. I have to find her.

At 5:45am, when I hear Kevin’s alarm go off – even on a Saturday,
especially
on a Saturday
(yoga is best for your health when you have to sacrifice a lie-in to do it) – I roll onto my stomach and text Marnie.

Meet me at Café Alice at 9.30.

And then I roll onto my back and do something I’ve never done before. I open a text to Doug and lie my way out of training.

Up all night with food poisoning.

The first half is at least true. And I do feel poisoned. I feel wrong all over, sick
and weird. I send the text and stare at my words on the screen.

Now I feel even worse. There’s no chance of getting any more sleep, so I slide out of bed and pull some shorts and a t-shirt out of a drawer and shrug them on. I slip the band I use for my iPhone up my arm and stick one bud into my ear as I flick through tracks. Oasis. ‘Rock ’N’ Roll Star’. They’re one of my dad’s favourite bands
and this song is exactly what I need right now. I click the volume up to full and slide the phone into place. Heading down the stairs before Kevin can emerge in his yoga gear, I retrieve my running shoes from the drawer that pulls out from the lowest step, perfectly concealed. I tug them on, grab a bottle of water from the fridge – I’m still not used to that; what is this, a hotel? – and then I’m
out, running.

The air is cool and feels good on my skin, my feet pounding against the pavement. The neighbourhood is deserted at this time in the morning; just me, the birds, and a million 4x4s, parked in their pristine drives like sleeping pet elephants.

I turn the corner of our street and make for the main road, which winds round the edge of town in a curve and heads down past the river.
There’s a grass verge with a footpath the whole way, the open countryside beyond a pleasant distraction from the big, bloated houses that line the road. I can lose myself in the rhythm of the tracks my iPod lines up, the fields thudding past.

Or I would lose myself, if it wasn’t for the fact that every song seems to remind me of Lizzie.

A car drives past me, way too fast, speakers blaring,
and I glare after it, a bright yellow little convertible thing. I only notice the licence plate just before it rounds the corner.

CH
35
K
4

Cheska.

It’s not even 6:30 on Saturday morning. An early shoot, maybe? That’s the only thing I can imagine she’d get out of bed for.

I keep running and even though I try not to, I keep thinking about that first year here, those first conversations with
Lizzie.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
and weeks of rehearsals, weeks of hanging around waiting for our scenes; playing Candy Crush on her phone, scribbled rounds of Hangman and Noughts and Crosses in the back of our school books. And that time, a month before the end of term, when I finally got up the nerve to sort of ask her on a date.

I wish we could go back there.

The road drifts a bit further
from the houses – or maybe it’s just that the gardens get bigger – as I get into the quietest part of town, where most of the properties have huge gates and long driveways. Aimee Burton, one of the original cast members of
Spoilt in the Suburbs
and Cheska’s arch-rival, lives in one of these houses. I only know that because sometimes when I’ve gone for runs after school, I’ve seen girls waiting
outside, wanting to see her or speak to her. Young girls, like twelve or thirteen, acting like she’s a movie star. It’s all so weird, how someone can become famous just by letting a camera follow them around. How people want to watch other people just doing ordinary things, how they can idolise or hate someone just for their wardrobe, their relationship, their friendships. Like somehow it sets these
people apart, just putting that stuff out there. Maybe it does, I don’t know. Maybe it’s brave, opening yourself up like that. The abuse Lizzie got online about the show was bad enough; I wonder what sort of stuff Cheska gets sent on a daily basis. Is it worth it? Her whole life is a role now, she has to play this character she’s created.

But then I guess that’s not so different to the rest
of us.

The only person I pass in the next ten minutes is another jogger; a woman of about my mum’s age, though it’s not that easy to tell right away – she’s wearing a bright pink tracksuit, with perfect hair and perfect make-up, and a brand new iPhone strapped into the pink holder round her arm. She’s jogging slowly, more like a power walk, and as I pass her, she flashes me a Hollywood white
smile. Apart from that, the only people I see are the ones who speed past in cars.

Before the road reaches the river, it passes over a little brook, and at this point the footpath splits off and crosses the fields, ending up at the big car park on the outskirts of town. I push myself hard over this stretch, running at my absolute limit, and it feels good, my heart hammering against my chest
even as my breathing regulates itself. I love this part of training; my body adapting, my muscles remembering this feeling, this pain. Maybe it’s a bit sadistic, but it’s a pain that’s not really a pain. It’s like proof that you’ve worked, proof that you’ve
done
something, that you’re getting better. Stronger.

I’m so in the zone as I cross the wide, yellowing fields that it’s not until I’m about
a hundred metres from the car park that I see something
very
yellow. Cheska’s car.

I don’t know why, but something makes me stop. Something makes me leave the path and work my way around to the side of the car park, to a little straggly copse of trees. And from there, I can see through the driver’s side window; the back of Cheska’s head, her mass of blonde fake hair bouncing about, like she’s
laughing. No – after a few seconds, it’s not like laughter. From the way she shakes her head, pauses, bobs it again – it’s like she’s arguing with someone. I see her hand flare up from the wheel and then slap it. Definitely arguing. But then she stops, like she’s listening, and then she leans forward – kind of like… I dare to take a step or two closer and then I’m sure. She’s kissing someone. Someone
whose hand creeps up into her hair, pulling her closer.

Interesting. And not a camera in sight.

I’ve turned to make a move – I don’t even know why I’m spying on her like this, hiding in the trees like a pervert – when I hear a car door open and close. I glance back at the car, expecting to see Cheska getting out, or Thomas Jay, her on-again off-again boyfriend, and hoping it’s not to ask me
why I’ve been watching them get it on.

But it isn’t either of them who get out of the car.

It’s Deacon Honeycutt.

I have a quick shower at home and head out again in time to meet Marnie at Café Alice. It’s a nice little place, quite plain and therefore much quieter than the fancy tearooms along the riverfront that all the yummy mummies and ladies who lunch like to go to. I keep thinking
about Deacon and Cheska – are they a thing? I thought he was back with Lauren, but then there are plenty of rumours about what the two of them get up to behind each other’s backs. Not that I care about Deacon Honeycutt’s lovelife… But I can’t stop thinking about how weird it was for Cheska to contact me out of the blue… and how maybe it’s Deacon behind it, trying to get at me, or find stuff out, or
– I don’t know.

Jeez, paranoid much, Aiden?

I’m five minutes early but Marnie’s already there, at a table by the window. She looks younger than normal, with no make-up on and pink cheeks like she’s fresh from the shower. She smells like it too when I pull up the chair next to her – a nice, soapy smell, vanilla-y.

Err, focus, Aiden.

And stop talking to yourself.

‘How are you?’ I ask,
glancing at the menu; a little laminated sheet on a plastic stand.

‘I’m okay.’ She glances up at me. ‘There’s no news.’

The waiter comes over, a tall guy a couple of years older than us who speaks in a voice not much louder than a whisper. I order a pot of tea, Marnie a coffee.

‘Want to share a cake or something?’ I ask. Her face looks pale and hollow, like she hasn’t eaten in days.

‘Sure.’ She gives another weak smile. ‘Why not?’

I order us a toasted teacake and when the waitress has gone, Marnie slides her laptop out of her bag and opens it on the red-checked tablecloth.

‘How’re you?’ she asks as it boots up.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, but that sounds wrong. ‘I mean – I don’t… It’s weird,’ I finish. Lame.

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I know.’

‘I saw Cheska yesterday.’

Her eyes
widen. ‘Really? How come?’

‘She asked me to meet her.’

‘What for?’

The waitress struggles over with our order, and we wait in silence as she unloads my cup, a teapot, the teacake, and then almost spills Marnie’s coffee across her soft grey dress. When she’s gone, I shrug. ‘I honestly don’t know. She said she wanted us to be friends. She said something about wanting to know if she could trust
me, if Lizzie could trust me.’

Marnie’s face darkens. ‘What the hell did she mean by that?’

I shake my head. ‘I really don’t know. You don’t think… Lizzie told her something, do you?’

‘You mean Lizzie might’ve told her she was leaving?’ Marnie considers it, frowning. ‘No. No, I don’t. Lizzie hated Cheska, you know that, right? Cheska’s the last person she would’ve told.’

I sigh. ‘Yeah,
I know. But I don’t get why she asked me there.’

‘She’s just playing games with you! That’s what Cheska
does
. I hate her. My dad says she’s the worst one of them to work with. A total nightmare.’

It’s my turn to frown. ‘Your dad works with Cheska?’

She glances away, looking embarrassed. ‘He’s the executive producer on
Spoilt in the Suburbs
. He hired her.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’ She looks at me,
her eyes hard. ‘Obviously I try and keep that quiet. Otherwise everyone would be on at me to get them a part. You know what the girls are like at school.’

‘And the boys,’ I say, and she actually laughs; just a small, sad laugh, but at least it’s something.

‘Yeah. And the boys.’

We drink our drinks in silence for a while, rain pattering at the window.

‘I can’t stop thinking about her,’
I say, softly.

Her voice is barely more than a whisper. ‘I know.’

‘There must be something we can do,’ I say.

‘I just don’t know what.’ Marnie turns to her laptop and opens a new page. My heart lurches when I realise what it is: Hal and Lizzie’s conversation.

‘Where did you get this?’ I ask. ‘I thought the profile had gone?’

‘I saved a version of it,’ she sighs. ‘I had a feeling that
might happen.’

‘That was smart,’ I say, but I’m already looking past her at the screen. I skim through it; all their smalltalk, all their flirting – I can’t bring myself to do more than glance at the words as they flash by.

It’s all the
same – stuff about their days, their plans for the evening, stuff about things they like and things they don’t.

‘They never arrange to meet,’ I say. ‘He always turns her down.’

‘On here,’ Marnie says, shrugging. ‘Maybe they arranged it somewhere else.’

I scroll right down to the bottom, the first message. From him.

Using Harry Potter to get to her. Of course.

It’s as easy as that. The conversation starts there, and it goes on and on, with Lizzie revealing more and more about herself as the days go by. So trusting. So happy
to chat, so interested in what he has to say.

The more I read, the more ‘Hal Paterson’ starts to annoy me. He’s so over the top, it’s sickening. Desperate.

‘Why did she like this stuff?’ I ask, my face twisting. Marnie shakes her head.

‘I don’t know. He’s such a sleaze.’

I grit my teeth. I have
to force myself to ask the next question. ‘You said there were others?’

She nods. ‘I’m pretty sure. Maybe she deleted them.’

‘Why delete them and not this?’ I ask, pushing the laptop away. I don’t want to look at the things that were said any more. The things she said to
him
.

‘Maybe she
wanted
us to think it was him,’ I say. ‘Maybe it’s, I don’t know, like a diversion or something.’ The
Lizzie I knew would never play games with people like that. But then maybe I never really knew her at all.