The Girl No one Knew

CHAPTER ONE

There’s a woman sitting at the next table I know I’ve seen somewhere before. I’ve been watching her for thirty minutes from the corner of the cafe. Every time she reaches to tuck the threads of her champagne-blonde hair behind her ear, I try to get a better look.

Her eyes are a jewel blue, and she has a small, arched nose, like the pink nose of a kitten. Her entire outfit is cream, from her spotless shirt to her high-waisted trousers.

It’s as if she wants to blend in with the frosting of January snow outside, to not be noticed.

I busy myself surveying the rows of festively dressed shops on the high street outside the café window, as she turns the page of her book and momentarily searches the room in thought.

The café we’re sitting in, Le Petit Café, is the social hub of an exclusive community in the village of Edenham, Surrey, and it’s not like any other regular high street café. It seems more like an expensive perfumery or a boutique.

The café prides itself on their giant macaroons, which are as big as saucers and wedged like rainbow jewels in the shop front window - duck egg, tiffany blue, petal pink, chocolate brown. They cost fifteen pounds each and taste like they were freshly baked in a Parisian bistro.

I’ve travelled an hour on foot to reach the café from my home in a decaying town east of the Surrey village. It feels like months since I’ve seen any semblance of colour. I’ve been living inside a monochromatic filter, treading the dull grey streets near my home, surrounded by ugly betting shops and grimy off licences, littered streets and graffitied walls. The grey. The insipid, unrelenting grey.

But within cosy Le Petit, I feel my mind being transported to a chalet buried somewhere in the Swiss Alps. There are lights falling like fireflies, a giant fir tree, fur blankets draped over chairs and ceiling to floor veils flowing like cream. The café practically drools an Après Ski charm.

The miserable slog of the January blues doesn’t seem to have reached Edenham, instead they exist inside some type of ‘winter wonderland,’ complete with Narnian-esque décor and winter cocktail menus.

Within Edenham’s quiet, manicured streets lies a world of elite schools and country homes, Lamborghinis roaring through the leafy lanes and a golf course fringing the hills beyond, complete with a £100,000 a year joining fee.

There’s a plethora of roads crawling with mansions, where housewives play tennis in the morning on their private courts, order lunch in one of the chic cafés then congregate to the local pub to sip a Martini as the sun sets, nanny and children usually in tow.

I notice the woman making a note in the book she’s reading. She’s married. I know this because a man in a smart navy suit swung by a few moments ago to the café.

I only saw the back of him, but I noticed he dropped a book off to her table, leant in to place several kisses on her diamond studded fingers and then strolled back out the doors, disappearing into the crisp, January mist, where the spitting of a sports car could be heard in the distance.

He left a cloud of peppery, Oud cologne in his wake, and I spied a snapshot of his face as he strode speedily past the window.

Steely, self-assured eyes below a flop of dark hair, with the glow of a fresh tan on his cheeks, causing his eyes to blink in a frosty, blinding blue.

There are no other words for it. They are a beautiful couple, the type of couple you can’t help but stare at. And as I sip the last cold dregs of coffee, I wonder what the man’s life must be like.

I see golf clubs in the hallway. A suitcase still half un-packed from his most recent getaway. Lazy weekend shopping trips in London where they peruse Bond Street and then take tea at Harrods. I imagine he and his wife just shared Bellinis on Christmas morning. He probably bought his wife a diamond necklace for Christmas, and she opened it under a ten-foot tall Christmas tree.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ I hear someone ask in a frothy, private-schooled accent. A honey-blonde, teenage barista attends the woman’s table, tidying her empty cups, then hovering expectantly.

I survey the barista’s glossy-lipped smile, her thick mane of hair, raked up into a swishing ponytail, the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed glow behind her eyes.

The woman reading closes her book and places it neatly on the table. She smiles faintly at the barista, the kind of smile that seems embarrassed to be of any trouble.

‘No thank you Emily. I need to get back to work soon.’

The woman’s voice sounds soft and breathy, well-spoken but not over-enunciated.

At this moment, a trio of twenty-something women burst through the doors and crowd the display window, selecting from the shiny puffs of giant macaroons.

One of the girls suggests a photo and they each enact a pose, identically reapplying lip gloss and fluffing their hair, before leaning against the macaroon shop front, frozen smiles directed to the lens.

They are just like the women in the photos on the café’s Instagram account. Hair freshly styled despite the weather, fur coats draped over shoulders, sunglasses perched on noses.

Vibrant, busy women, with birthday parties to arrange, girly weekend trips to schedule – booked calendars.

While the group of women chatter excitedly, I smooth the frizzy crown of my straw-like, blonde hair and rub a crust of dirt from my coat.

‘Let me know if you need anything, Arosa.’ The barista purrs and disappears behind the barista bar.

Arosa? I steal another glance at the woman.

Arosa. It’s Arosa Carrington. There’s a spark of exhilaration as I realise that I’ve cracked it. A decade ago, she was an infamous society girl. She was once named in the press as the ‘English Paris Hilton.’

She even appeared on a reality TV series called ‘Society Girls of London,’ before being infamously fired.

Her image was everywhere. She appeared on every trashy magazine and newspaper in the country - one of those women who fly high for a glimmer of time only to be torn to shreds by the press and fed to the sharks. What today they would call being cancelled.

My brain sparks, now tying up loose facts in quick succession. And - her grandmother is Jane Carrington. The iconic 1950’s Hollywood movie star.

I reach for my phone and quickly search for ‘Arosa Carrington.’
Information immediately pours onto my screen. I select the images icon and compare the image on my phone to the woman. It’s unmistakable. Arosa Carrington.

Though, back then she was dressed in ostentatious furs and tight body-con dresses paired with sky-high heels. Now she’s matured, she’s less showy. But it’s definitely her.

There’s a photo of her in the back seat of a black cab, middle finger raised to the camera, other hand pulling down the hem of her dress, trying, yet failing to prevent her underwear being photographed.

Another notable photo of her appears. Her fingers are curved round a glass of champagne, head reclining on a friend’s shoulder, obviously drunk.

I recognise the friend beside her as Arabella Ashford-Lee, someone who worked on the series with her and who went on to launch a wellness empire. After-yoga smoothies, juice cleanse packs and ludicrously expensive yoga- wear, wasn’t it?

Underneath the images, pages of headlines appear.

Arosa Carrington rumoured to have been fired from series ‘Society Girls of London’ for ‘unacceptable’ behaviour.

Arosa Carrington embroiled in heated dispute with co-star Arabella Ashford-Lee.

Fans concerned about Arosa Carrington’s alleged ‘psychotic break,’ caught on camera and rally their support.

Euphoria writhes inside me, freshly exhumed and wriggling with new life.

I sneak another glance at Arosa from across the café floor. Her brows are crumpled, intensely reading, occasionally making notes with a pen on the page of her book.

It’s an odd feeling really, reading about the tragedies of someone’s life, someone you’ve never formally met in fact– while they’re sitting just a few feet away.

I continue to scroll through the headlines to read more recent news.

Arosa Carrington ditches the party scene and marries one of London’s most eligible bachelors Sebastian Whitmoore.

So, the man in the suit was her husband, Sebastian Whitmoore. I know who he is. He’s the son of Richard Whitmoore, a powerful Judge, who was first knighted during his judicial career, then on retirement was elevated to the peerage, making him a Lord.

Quite the transformation. Arosa disappeared into obscurity and metamorphosised herself from a supposed blonde bimbo and reality star reject, or so the tabloids decided, to a seemingly happily married wife in exclusive Edenham, married to the son of a Lord.

I scroll the headlines until the thread ends while Arosa quietly reads. There hasn’t been any public news of her since 2013, but a quick search through her former cast members shows that most of her co-stars are either influencers, podcasters or flogging anything with their name attached, and I can’t help but wonder why Arosa disappeared from the public eye and refused to capitalise on her short spark of fame, like so many do.

I quickly scroll back to continue reading the news stories in more detail, but before I can read any more, Arosa rises from the table, smooths down the wrinkles of her cream trousers and gathers her book and bag, preparing to leave.

As she weaves through the tables and chairs to get to the door, I notice the title of the book tucked under her arm: ‘Healing from Trauma: A Therapist’s Guide.’

Arosa stops in her tracks, seems to be looking back at the table to check if she’s left anything and when she notices my curious stare from the corner of the room, we have a short few moments of blissful eye contact. Arosa’s eyes flick to the phone in my hand and then grazes back up to observe my expression. She has a look of weary defensiveness, as if she’s used to being stared at. Used to being talked about. Used to being judged. And I can tell she’s embarrassed by it all.

CHAPTER TWO

I detect the familiar sounds of my husband this morning, dressing after his shower. I imagine him spritzing cologne on his neck, carefully selecting a suit from his walk-in wardrobe and clipping cufflinks onto his freshly pressed shirt.

I’ve already showered and dressed for my day of appointments. I’m popping bread in the toaster, cutting open an avocado to smother on toast for his breakfast.

I switch on the coffee machine and glance through the French doors of our kitchen. The morning sky is a watercolour blue, sun peeking through cotton wool clouds.

I think I’ll make us breakfast outside today. It’s the first real day of warm weather since an exceptionally chilly winter, a winter with snow and ice and bottomless grey.

The temperature is just warm enough to eat outside, so I open the double doors and begin to wipe the dining set on our patio with a cloth to prepare the place settings.

The garden looks different now that the sun is finally shining. Our wooden, custom-built pavilion where our hot tub sits, once covered in frost, can soon be reopened and used over spring and summer. The flower beds have new plants wriggling beneath the soil and the air smells different today. Earthy yet sweet, like the scent after a torrential downpour.

We designed this garden together, my husband and I, a decade ago when we were once excited newly-weds. There is the tip of a horse paddock I can see from the patio, and beyond that an ocean of rolling hills, now a lush green.

The view is why we ultimately chose this house. After years of fast-paced London living, we decided we needed a dose of calm in our lives. At least, I needed calm, after the catastrophic string of incidents I’d experienced back in London.

At the back of the garden stands my pride and joy. My therapy lodge. I call it: The Retreat. Built with Scandinavian wood and varnished to perfection, it’s gorgeous and glossy against the green of the grass.

I finish wiping the clouds of old rainwater from the table and walk over to the lodge to take another look inside, just to be reminded of my safe space. A space that in the tense last few months I’ve found myself regularly sheltering inside, away from the rumbling tension hidden in the walls of our home.

Inside, I have a large Chesterfield therapy couch, a marble diffuser, puffing lavender-steam and a little kettle to make tea for my clients.

It still smells new inside, of fresh paint and raw wood. To the right is my meditation nook. It’s a comfy cove layered with cushions and in the corner a giant Himalayan salt lampglows maple against the wood.

This is where I teach my clients meditation, sometimes I practice breath work with them. And often, I come here in the mornings and evenings to practice yoga and prepare my mind for my role as a therapist.

On the side of that, I’m also a certified meditation and breathwork healer. Anytime I mention this part of my job to my husband Sebastian, his lips curl into what I can usually detect as withering amusement.

He owns a fleet of private psychiatry practices, two in Harley Street and one in Surrey. He completed his medical degree, much to the insistence of his parents, but instead found he could make much more money running his own practises, and luckily, his businesses are thriving. Although Sebastian wouldn’t have it any other way, my husband has an insatiable drive to make money.

It was what initially bonded us, our shared interest in psychology, that and some very strong gin and tonics. He saw something different in me nobody else wanted to see, even back then. Even though we met in a throbbing West End bar and I had been sloppily drunk. He didn’t even flinch when the press at the time declared me as a tragic Paris Hilton knock-off.

Back when we met, stories had been circulating for weeks delighting in my demise. It’s funny how savagely a person in the spotlight can be disposed of, how unsteady the terrain of celebrity is.

As my husband and I were enjoying the clumsy-yet-intoxicating first dates of our relationship, the press had already finished idolising me and were hungrily feasting on my bones. One minute, I was being interviewed by journalists about my diet and skincare regime, the next I was poison ivy. There should have been a sign taped to me with: Don’t Touch - Toxic.

But when I met Sebastian, he didn’t see me as a trashy society-girl-turned-reality-star, and the supposed beauty that caused pages of glossy magazines to once gleam with my image wasn’t important to him. And for someone who was battling with bulimia, caused by the pressure and scrutiny of the media, it was exactly what I was looking for. I’d finally found something authentic in a sea of superficiality.

When we decided to marry and move to the quiet village of Edenham, away from the buzz of London, I chose to leave the shame of my past behind me once and for all.

Then, after years of filtering out the black spots of grief and despair that have appeared in my life, I decided to study for my master’s degree in psychotherapy, and finally, I opened The Retreat four months ago.

My husband has reminded me countless times that I don’t need to work, and for many years of our marriage, I didn’t. But I love what I do. I’m immensely proud of myself for finishing my master’s degree and opening my own practice, proving that the nepo-bimbo label was just a cruel invention, gifted to me from a sleazy journalist. I would never want to waste such hard work.

I adjust the pillows on the therapy couch, making sure they are in the perfect position and return to the kitchento smear the warm toast with avocado. I pause, waiting for the usual echoes of Sebastian talking on the phone before he spills noisily down the stairs to kiss me on the cheek. But there’s no noise. Nothing.

‘Sebastian?’ I call from the foot of the stairs. Silence. ‘Sebastian?’ I walk across the hallway and prise open the front door to glance across the driveway. His black Porsche is gone.

A flutter of unease wriggles in my stomach. Sebastian has never left without saying goodbye. I rack my brains for any reason why he would leave so hastily. An emergency dragged him to work, I muse, or maybe he was late for an impromptu meeting.

But I know the real reason. We’re drifting further apart. Even with all my best efforts, my pained attempts to smooth out the ragged corners of our marriage.

I carry the avocado toast into the garden, my previous elation at the sunny day dissolving as I chew the toast until it’s mush in my mouth. I extract my phone from my pocket and call Sebastian. He doesn’t answer.

At a loss, I walk into my therapy lodge, and try some meditation, but my mind won’t stop spinning. I keep going over the events of last night, trying to see if I did or said anything to cause Sebastian to leave without saying goodbye.

It’s getting worse. The distance between us. We’re getting worse. Ever since I caught him with her, our passion has curled into smoke. He’d kept in touch with her all those years, even after what she did to me.

We used to be so in love. That annoying couple at a dinner party who reminds everyone else that their chemistry faded many years ago.

To stop my mind spinning, I decide to prepare myself for the session with my first customer of the day. I’d called her a few days ago, to complete a telephone consultation and I reach for my laptop, tapping at the keyboard to find her information.

Abby Field. 33. Unmarried. No children.
She’d spoke on the phone about feelings of depression, suicide and isolation. Anytime I see this on a consultation form I think of my sister, Scarlett. I can’t help it, even after all these years.

I think of her face when I last saw her, drained and hollow-eyed, what I’ve come to know as the thousand-yard stare. I’ve never admitted it to anyone, but she’s why I do what I do.