Her Name Was Rose: The gripping psychological thriller you need to read this year. Claire Allan
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rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_ae397056-96a6-5a39-85ae-2b77980b9d20">Chapter Six
Scott’s Dental Practice operated out of shiny bright offices on Shipquay Street, one of the city’s main thoroughfares.
The old Georgian façade had been updated – it was now glass fronted and everything inside was decorated in soft white tones, from the comfy sofas to the reception desk and the calla lilies in their clear glass vases on every table. With light marble floors and soft music piped through the room, it felt more like a hotel lobby than a dentist’s waiting room. Except, that is, for the unmistakable smell of dentists – a kind of minty disinfectant smell mixed with sheer fear.
I’d had my hair done that morning. Asked the hairdresser to slip a few blonde highlights into my otherwise mousy brown hair. I had spent money I could ill afford on a nice suit – a pencil skirt, blazer and a soft silk blouse – which I wore with a classic pair of nude patent heels. I had taken extra time applying my make-up. I had seen enough pictures of Rose Grahame and her colleagues to see that they were all the well-groomed type. Contoured, plucked and preened – and of course with glistening white smiles – they looked as if they spent their days in the boutiques of Milan rather than in a busy dental surgery, answering phones, making appointments and staring down the throats of countless patients.
If I was to fit in – and I wanted to fit in – I had to look the part. I had to be Rose, mark II. And I wanted to be Rose, mark II. Although it had been three weeks since her funeral, I had not yet beaten my addiction to her Facebook page. People hadn’t stopped posting on it – even though she had been laid to rest and the news columns had largely moved on. Except for the occasional appeal for information about the car’s driver, Rose Grahame’s tragic demise had become yesterday’s news. Except to those who loved her. People still shared pictures. They still expressed their shock. They still wrote about how they missed her.
Cian posted almost every day – pictures, love quotes, messages that would take tears from a stone. Sometimes he sounded so utterly lost that I found myself wondering if anyone was there just to give him a hug and tell him that it was going to be okay. Sometimes he sounded angry – not at Rose of course – but at the injustice of the situation. At other times there was an underlying fatigue behind his words, as if he was tired of waking up every morning and realising, once again, that she was gone and not coming back.
I read every word. Facebook had become my window on the outside world – a world I was starting to feel like I could become a part of again. Ben’s Facebook request still sat in my inbox but it didn’t scare me the way it had. I’d heard nothing more from him and reassured myself that all reports still had him living in England. I reminded myself what my counsellor had said to me over and over – to deal with the facts and not catastrophise every situation.
So I focused on what I knew. I lost myself in what decent men were like. Men like Cian, who wasn’t afraid to share his vulnerability and grief. His posts garnered him a host of responses, ‘likes’ and words of comfort. I hoped he listened to them and I hoped they helped. I wondered how the girls at Scott’s Dental Practice felt, as I was waiting for my job interview. Were they too still wading through the metaphorical mud of each day, trying to make sense of their grief? Certainly, the bright (dazzling, definitely paid for) smiles on the faces of the two ladies at reception would con a person into thinking no sadness had ever visited them in their lives.
But it was when I was brought through to a small staff kitchen and offered a cup of coffee while I waited for Owen Scott that I saw evidence of a workplace in mourning. On a small table by another white wall sat a framed picture of Rose, a candle lit in front of it along with a small posy of flowers. The receptionist who had let me through the kitchen must have spotted that I was gawping at the picture.
‘That’s Rose,’ she said. ‘She died a few weeks back. She left very big shoes to fill.’
The receptionist sniffed slightly. I put her in her mid-forties; her auburn hair was swept back in a glossy ponytail, make-up perfect, dressed in her white tunic and trousers, which helped show off her perfectly applied fake tan. I could see her eyes filling. I tried to think of something to say but I was caught in the moment of looking at the picture of Rose, here in her workplace where her presence and her absence could be keenly felt.
‘I read about that,’ I stuttered. ‘It was awful.’ I decided not to tell her I had actually witnessed the moment the life had been knocked right out of her on the cold tarmac.
I watched a tear slide down her cheek, leaving a trail through her foundation. She reached in her pocket for a tissue and dabbed her eyes with it. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m giving you a really bad impression. We knew today would be tough – having people in interviewing for her post. We wanted to wait a bit longer but we’re busy and we can’t afford any downtime. You must think I’m an awful bitch – all that big shoes to fill stuff.’
I shook my head. I didn’t think she was a bitch. I knew Rose Grahame wasn’t far from sainthood.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, rubbing her arm. ‘It must be very hard.’
The woman nodded. ‘I’m Donna,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. Thanks for your understanding.’
My mind whirled. Donna. Probably Donna O’Connor, who posted on Rose’s Facebook to say that no day would ever be the same without her smile. I didn’t have a visual to go by – as almost all of Rose’s friends had since changed their profile picture to one of their deceased pal in some bizarre act of solidarity.
‘Were you very close?’ I asked.
Donna laughed, then sniffed back more tears. ‘We were the closest. I called her my work wife. She was the person I could always go to when I had a tough day, or was tired, or the kids had kept me up all night and I was on my last nerve.’
‘It must be so hard,’ I soothed, watching this perfectly put together woman unravel in front of me. ‘I can’t imagine,’ I lied, because I had clearly spent much of the last three weeks imagining.
‘Thank you,’ she muttered, taking a long, shuddering breath to settle herself. ‘You don’t think things like this actually happen. You hear of it, but you don’t think it will happen to someone you know. It’s just wrong. Everything about it is wrong.’
Did it make me a bad person that as I watched this woman deal with her grief in front of me, my primary thought was that here was a woman who could use a friend and I could be that friend to her? I could walk in here and work with someone who had already confided in me, who I had seen at her most vulnerable, and we could bond. Maybe I could be her new work wife? Maybe she would come to me when she’d had a tough day? Maybe we could go for drinks after work (I’d be good, I promise!) and take selfies to fill my poor, neglected Facebook page with? A bubble of excitement started to fizz in the pit of my stomach. I pushed it down. I wasn’t there yet. I had to impress the man who made the decisions.
*
Owen Scott was not a man I recognised from any of the group pictures on Rose’s Facebook. He was the kind of handsome that creeps up on you. At first glance, I saw this slightly greying, craggy-faced man, with a dimpled chin and a mild look of irritation on his face. He looked uncomfortable as he took a seat behind a messy desk in what must have been the practice’s admin office. He swore quietly under his breath as he rifled through some paperwork to find just what he was looking for, and my confidence from just five minutes before started to fade.
I clenched my fists at my side, rubbing my fingers across my palm to fight off the clammy sensation I was feeling. I tried to steady my breathing. Reminded myself that it was okay. I could do this.
I looked at the top of his head, the sprinkles of salt and pepper colour through his dark locks, which really could have done with a trim. Watched him run his hands (no wedding ring) through his hair before he sat upright and looked at me, taking a deep breath.
‘I should have been more prepared,’ he said. ‘Things have been a bit difficult here lately.’ He looked tired and I nodded.
‘I