Chapter Fifty-Nine
Fifty-Nine
‘I really love what you did with your hair,’ the woman said, using the tips of her fingers to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Mary’s right ear. ‘It really suits you.’
They were sitting in Mary’s living room, sharing a bottle of Chateau Haut-Brion.
‘I like yours too,’ Mary said back. ‘I’ve always loved you with long hair.’
‘I prefer it long as well,’ the woman agreed, hooking her hair with her hand and throwing it over her left shoulder, mermaid style. ‘But it desperately needs a trim. Can you see the split ends?’
Mary leaned closer to have a better look. ‘Barely, but I can easily do that for you. I’m great with hair – you know that.’
‘I do.’ The woman smiled. ‘That’s why I mentioned it.’
Mary’s stare stayed on the woman for several unblinking seconds before refocusing on a neutral spot on the ceiling.
The woman was quick to notice the change.
‘OK, sis, what’s wrong?’ she asked.
Mary’s eyes went back to her, the look in them dead serious. ‘What’s wrong?’ She broadly gestured at the two of them sitting side-by-side in her living room. ‘This, Julia… what the fuck are you doing here?’
Julia, which was the woman’s real name, not Candice, looked back at Mary with the same serious expression. ‘First of all, you know I hate it when you call me Julia. My mother called me Julia, and I hate that bitch.’
‘OK, so what name are you using now, Jules?’ Mary asked.
Mary used to call her ‘Jules’… when they were kids… back in England.
‘Denise,’ Julia replied. ‘Denise Johnson.’
Mary pursed her lips as she nodded. ‘Denise Johnson… I like it.’
‘So do I.’
‘OK,’ Mary continued. ‘So let me repeat the question, Denise – what the fuck are you doing here?’
‘What do you mean… Grace?’ Denise gave it back as good as she got.
Grace was Mary’s real name – Grace Mitchell – not Mary Smith, not Samantha Stewart, not even Samantha Chambers.
In fact, her full name was Grace-Kelly Mitchell – named after the actress – as Grace’s mother had been a huge fan.
But as far as she knew, Denise was the only person who knew her real name and where she had really come from.
Her mother had died years ago. She’d never known her real father and Mary had never told a soul who she really was.
‘Don’t call me that,’ Mary said, her tone flipping from tender to firm. ‘You know I don’t like it. No one calls me that. No one.’
Since Mary and Denise had left England, they both decided that their real names, Grace-Kelly and Julia, were dead to them. They would never use them again and they would never tell anyone about them.
‘Well, you called me Julia first.’
‘And I’m sorry. OK? I was just caught completely by surprise here.’
Denise had another sip of her wine. ‘Apology accepted.’ She bit down on a sarcastic smile. ‘So, you decided to go with Mary Smith… really? A little common, is it not?’
‘That’s the idea, Denise. Now would you please stop dodging my question?’
‘What question is that?’
‘What are you doing here?’ Mary repeated the question for the third time.
Denise frowned at her. ‘What do you mean – “what am I doing here?” – you called me, sis, remember? Asked me to come?’
For the second time that morning, Mary felt her heart falter inside her chest. ‘I did what?’