‘You’re a liar,’ he accused with a sneer. ‘No one likes liars.’
Emily was mortified. ‘No, I’m not,’ she had retorted angrily but the damage had been done. She had seen the scepticism provoked by Jordan’s words and soon learnt how easy it was to fall from grace. Her friends had drifted away and she had later been forced to admit that, whilst Molly was real, the stories were made up. Sadly though, no one really believed in Molly herself anymore and Emily quickly realised it was best not to talk about her.
It was fine at home though, at least at the beginning. Her parents had googled ‘childhood imaginary friends’ and then avidly devoured all the advice written by psychologists on the subject. They learnt it was best to acknowledge Molly in all their dealings with their daughter but also to encourage Emily to take responsibility for her own actions. When she said that it was Molly who had made a mess in her bedroom, Emily was told that it was her bedroom and she would need to tidy it. When she had tried to claim that Molly had borrowed Mum’s new nail varnish to paint her dolls’ finger and toenails and spilt most of it on the carpet, it was Emily who was punished. ‘You should have told Molly that it’s wrong to touch Mummy’s things without asking,’ her dad had said. At this point, Emily had begun to wonder if there was any point in having an imaginary friend.
However, throughout her childhood, Molly had always appeared at difficult moments: when she had fallen out with her best friend Jade; when she had split up with her first boyfriend at the age of fourteen; when she was facing a physics exam (Emily just could not get her head around physics whereas all the other subjects came easily to her); her first night away from home at university when everyone else seemed to belong and she did not. She was always just there for Emily to talk to, listening but never speaking, an oasis of calm.
Of course, by now, Emily had realised that Molly could not be real - that she was just a figment of her imagination. She kept expecting to outgrow her, as all the experts said she would, but it had never happened. It was just as well because she did not know how she would have coped, without Molly, when her world fell apart.
◆◆◆
Emily was nineteen and in her second year reading English literature at the University of Kent at Canterbury. Life was good. She was popular and had a great group of friends. People were drawn to her lively personality and mischievous sense of humour. She was also, unlike so many of her girlfriends, happy with her looks and confident in her own skin. She knew she was lucky, having been blessed with a slim build, strawberry blond curls which tumbled around her shoulders, unusual green eyes and a killer smile. Her friend Ellie had said that when Emily switched on her smile, boys swarmed around her like bees around a honeypot. Indeed, recently she had started going out with the best-looking boy on campus, a third-year social sciences student named Connor, much to the envy of her friends. What was more, she thrived on the academic side of university life. She loved her course – she had always been a passionate reader - and, at the moment, was on course for a first-class degree. As yet she had not completely decided upon a career but one of her friends was studying journalism and Emily was drawn to the idea of seeking out stories and writing them for a living. She had not told her parents but she had already been researching journalism courses. This was typical of Emily, her friends all agreed. She had always been a planner, someone who liked to be in control of things. In the meantime, she was studying conscientiously, partying when she felt like it and generally having a good time.
It was a bright, warm day in early May which saw Emily returning to campus after a reading week reluctantly spent back at home with her parents. She had been desperate to get back to Canterbury, mostly because she hated being apart from Connor, but also because the buzz of university life had made time at home seem staid and boring. All of her school friends were also away, studying assorted subjects in various educational establishments around the country, and her parents, now in their sixties and retired, were so pleased to see her it felt claustrophobic. Her mum kept trying to feed her massive portions of all her favourite meals whilst her dad had kept reminding her of different things she had said or done when she was younger. It was exhausting. On the train on her way back, she had texted Connor, ‘Made my escape. Remind me not to get old. Cu later xx’.
Surprisingly, but to her delight, Connor was waiting for at the station. She did not immediately notice that he was not alone. He stood, white-faced and unsmiling, as she leapt off the train and flung herself into his arms. ‘Wow. I didn’t expect you to meet me. You must have missed me.’
He hugged her briefly, a little awkwardly and then stood back. ‘Em … there’s been an accident … I’m so sorry …it’s your parents.’
Time seemed to stand still. She stared at him in horror while the world as she knew it tilted away from her.
‘What do you mean? Are they ok?’
Inside her brain was screaming; she felt as if she was falling, spinning out of control.
‘I …,’ Connor turned helplessly to the two police officers who were standing beside him.
‘Let’s get you into the car,’ a young policewoman said kindly, putting her arm around Emily.
She was ushered by the officer off the station platform and steered into the rear seat of a waiting panda car. Connor remained outside
