Amanda Brittany - Tell the Truth - Or they’ll tell it for you…

Her eyes were glued on me as I spoke, and her car veered to the right. ‘Keep your eyes on the road or you’ll kill something,’ I cried, although I felt sure it would be us if we didn’t reach our destination soon.

I was relieved when she indicated and pulled onto a sweeping drive, lit by white lights. She manoeuvred into a space in front of Mulberry Hall. I hadn’t been here since it became a spa.

As she pulled on the handbrake, I picked up my bag from the car well, unzipped it, and rummaged for my phone. I found myself constantly checking for missed calls from the care home. My mum had nobody but me. She’d never been one for making friends – a bit of a recluse in many ways – and my grandparents had died before I was born in a car accident. She’d never been close with them anyway, she told me once.

There were no missed calls, only a notification on Facebook. I clicked on the app. ‘Ooh, I’ve got a friend request.’

Zoe glanced over. ‘Well it can wait, can’t it?’ she said, getting out. ‘We totally need pampering.’

I slipped my phone back in my bag, and jumped from the car, eyes scanning the prestigious Victorian building. Both the spa and the luxury apartments had once been an insane asylum, and later a psychiatric hospital.

‘I fancied buying one of those apartments when I moved this way,’ Zoe said, nodding towards Mulberry Hall. ‘But allegedly it’s haunted by old patients.’ She wiggled her fingers and made a howling, ghost-like sound.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Zoe.’ She looked amazing in a red three-quarter-length coat with a fur trim, over tight-fitting leggings and expensive trainers. She was tall, slim, elegant; whereas I was small, and a whisker away from chubby when I’d been on a chocolate binge. A flash of memory came and went – Lawrence telling me that ‘with a bit of effort’ I could look as good as Zoe.

I zipped up my hoodie and hunched my shoulders against the cold, my teeth chattering.

‘They used to do awful things here in the late 1800s,’ she said, her eyes skittering over the building. ‘What a terrible time to have lived if you showed any signs of not fitting the mould.’

‘Mmm.’ I glanced at the towering building. ‘Put in asylums for no good reason half the time.’

‘I know. You could have been admitted for anything from novel-reading to nymphomania – so that’s me admitted.’

‘I didn’t know you read novels.’

‘I don’t.’ She burst out laughing, and I laughed too. ‘Seriously though,’ she said, sighing. ‘They would even admit poor souls for grieving.’

‘It’s hard to believe now how terrible the mental health system was back then.’

‘The treatments were awful. They would immerse patients in ponds until they were unconscious, or tie them naked to a chair and pour cold water over them.’ She looked about her and shivered. ‘I wouldn’t want to be out here alone,’ she said. ‘There’s something spooky about this place, don’t you think?’

I shrugged. It was quiet, yes – but it seemed peaceful, and the apartments were stunning. Anyway, I didn’t believe in ghosts. Truth was, I was more scared of the living.

‘I saw a ghost once,’ she said. ‘When I was a child, I slept with my arm dangling out of the bed. I woke one night feeling certain something cold had touched my hand.’ She shuddered. ‘A girl in blue stood by my bed.’

‘A dream?’ Tingles crawled up my neck, despite my determination not to believe in the paranormal.

‘It must have been. Although I never slept with my arm out of the bed after that.’ She laughed. ‘Let’s go inside before we freeze to death.’

I looked over my shoulder, trying to imagine lost souls looking down from the many apartment windows. And despite only seeing the stunning apartments, lit by what I imagined were happy dwellers, I couldn’t help wondering what secrets the walls held.

As we walked, Zoe nodded towards the lower building we were heading for, built from the same mustard-coloured brick as the apartments. ‘Apparently the swimming pool is where the morgue used to be,’ she said, reaching the door.

‘Good God,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I’m actually glad I don’t swim.’

‘Hello, ladies,’ said the man behind the counter as we approached, his Irish accent charming. He was in his early forties, with a sprinkling of grey in his dark hair.

‘I’m the manager, Connor Mahoney.’ His eyes drifted to Zoe, a look of appreciation on his face. Men seemed to like her.

‘Zoe Marsh,’ she said.

While he glanced at his computer screen and tapped on his keyboard, I studied Zoe’s perfectly made-up face, her blemish-free skin, her full lips, and her perfect eyebrows. I tended to hide my brows under my fringe. I’d never got the hang of plucking, and now power-brows were the in thing, and I hadn’t got the first clue how to shape and fill them. I’d been a bit of a tomboy when I was a kid, so never acquired the skills to be feminine – but it had never bothered me.

Zoe owned a salon in Islington, so knew ways to highlight her beauty, and make men notice. ‘Come along to my salon sometime,’ she’d often said. ‘I could do your colours.’ I never had. I suppose I was happy as I was, with my boxed hair dye, and my cheap-as-chips make-up.

We’d met at a yoga group about six months ago and hit it off. I’d seen her a few times before we finally got chatting, and admired how she’d managed to make all the moves look so graceful. Whereas I’d made the mountain pose look more like a molehill. I was quite sporty – fastest in my class at the hundred-metre sprint when I was twelve – but elegant yoga poses, I struggled with.

‘So you’re both booked in for a facial in an hour,’ Connor said, looking up from the screen.

‘I don’t suppose you could book me in for a full-body massage,’ Zoe said. Her words were tangibly flirtatious.

‘Sorry, we’re fully booked,’ he said, his eyes locking with hers. There was an instant chemistry, and I suddenly felt like a ham sandwich at a vegan wedding.

He handed us robes and towels, and gestured for us to go through the frosted-glass doors. ‘We’ll just take some details and then you can enjoy your evening.’

As we headed towards the hotbeds, Zoe smiled. ‘He’s rather nice, don’t you think?’

‘I guess so,’ I said, and then whispered, ‘But what about Hank?’

She stopped suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand, her chin crinkling.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I said, stopping, and two women walked into us. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as they skirted round us, rolling their eyes and muttering. ‘We should have brake lights,’ I called after them, but they didn’t look back. ‘What’s wrong?’ I repeated, my attention back on Zoe, whose eyes had filled with tears.

‘We broke up.’ She removed her hand from her mouth, and slapped the tears from her cheeks. Straightening her back, she carried on walking.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I was going to tell you earlier, but didn’t want to ruin the evening. I still love him, Rach. Always will. But I can’t handle it any more.’

‘The drugs?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve tried so hard. You know that, right?’

‘I know you have, lovely,’ I said, linking arms with her and pulling her close, so we walked as one.

‘He’s never going to listen. The other day I found him so out of it, I thought he was dead.’

‘Oh God, Zoe. You can’t live like that.’

‘I know.’ She sniffed, her eyes still watery. ‘It was the final straw. I can’t bear to think that one day I will find him dead.’ She dashed another tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.

‘Of course you can’t.’

I’d only seen Hank a few times. He would pace the pavement some distance away, while waiting for Zoe to finish yoga. And even from across a busy road, I noticed his skin was far too pale, his clothes dishevelled, and his whole demeanour agitated.