24
I’m lying on Vicky’s single bed. It’s covered in the most hideous, fuchsia-patterned bed cover and everything smells of potpourri and rose oil. Her mother has walked in three times already, at first castigating Vicky for the state of her room that seems spotless to me, then for Vicky’s messy hair which is to be expected at eight o’clock in the morning, and then for her unfinished English assignment that Vicky left lying on the coffee table. Despite her mum’s disapproval of Vicky, she’s been nothing but welcoming and sweet to me as always. Maybe I should start appreciating my mother more because she’s never talked to me the way Vicky’s mum talks to her, especially now that I know my dad is a womaniser.
When her mum finally leaves the room to get ready for work, I rub my eyes and grab a tissue from a box that has been conveniently placed next to me.
As soon as I entered Vicky’s room earlier, I told her about my dad. I shared my fears about Alex turning out to be like my dad. I even admitted Alex has been a little strange the last few weeks and cancelled a few of our plans.
Dressed in baby blue pyjamas, Vicky’s sitting on the only chair in the room, worrying at her lip. She’s been doing that for the last few minutes while listening to her mum moving around the house. She rakes through her dishevelled blonde hair for the third time. Her make-up-free face turns serious.
In the silence that settles between us, the front door opens and closes, followed by the sound of a car leaving the driveway. Vicky’s shoulders drop, and she leans back in her seat.
‘End it,’ she says with such resolution I think I must have not heard her right.
‘What do you mean?’ I sit up on the bed.
She looks around the room like she doesn’t want to face me. When she finally gazes at me, her eyes are watery, and her hands once again end up in her hair in a feeble attempt to smooth it. ‘I didn’t have the strength to tell you, but Alex has been chasing Sara. I don’t think anything has actually happened, but everybody knows he’s got it bad for her. He’s just gotten bored. That’s what guys do.’
I think of all the times he’s talked to Sara in the last month. He even offered to help her with her science homework the other day. How stupid have I been?
‘What? Why are you saying this now?’ A small part of me doesn’t want to believe it, but Vicky wouldn’t lie. I’ve been such an idiot. How many people know?
‘I didn’t want to tell you because I hoped I got him wrong, but the other day when I went to Sam’s party, he was all over her.’ She stands up and sits by the bed, squeezing my hand supportively. ‘Just end it before he does and be done with him. He doesn’t deserve you. He’s going to Meg’s tomorrow night, so why don’t you talk to him then?’ I recall that on the day of Sam’s party, he cancelled our plans to go to the cinema. We had tickets and all. Despair hooks into my insides.
Vicky’s right. Even if he hasn’t cheated yet, he might. I don’t ever want to be like my mother. Everybody talking about me behind my back. ‘I can’t confront him. Not at the party and not at school.’
My whole chest is hurting like someone has ripped my ribcage open and scraped my heart out. How can one hurt so much from something that isn’t physical?
‘Text him.’ She pushes my phone towards me, and I take it uncertainly.
My fingers quiver as I type, delete and retype the message for what feels like an hour. Eventually, I settle on, I can’t do this. This isn’t working. Let’s not see each other any more.
A few seconds later, my phone starts ringing.
‘He’s calling.’ Even to my own ears, I sound panicky. The hand holding the phone is shaking.
‘You don’t have to pick up.’ I hate how calm Vicky sounds, but she’s always been the calmer and more confident one of the two of us.
The phone goes silent, and then another call splits the quietness that has settled over the room.
When I don’t pick up, he messages back, What do you mean? Has something happened? Talk to me. He carries on messaging. I thought things were good. I thought we were good.
When I don’t respond, he starts calling again.
Vicky grrrs . ‘The audacity. Come on. Give me your phone.’ She grabs it before I’m ready to give it to her. I stare into nowhere, leaving her to take control because I’m a coward.
She fires away a few messages after which my phone stays deadly silent. I don’t dare to read them, but Vicky deletes them alongside deleting Alex’s number. I know it’s for the best because I know I’d agonise over whether to message him.
The next day I torture myself over my decision. I keep pacing in my room, feeling indecisive. I call Catherine who doesn’t know anything about Sara and Alex and even thinks it’s very unlikely. She reassures me that he’s smitten with me. I start wondering whether maybe I shouldn’t have split up with him. Whether Vicky has gotten him wrong. Maybe I should have given him a chance to tell me what was going on instead of rushing into ending things. I feel incredibly fickle and shame flares in my stomach. How could I have been swayed by Vicky so easily? She’s never liked him, so of course she’s biased. I should have thought it through.
A split-second decision makes me get changed into the first thing I find in the wardrobe, a spaghetti-strapped red dress with black buttons down the front. Because it feels too revealing, I wear a white T-shirt underneath it. I don’t text Vicky that I’m heading to the party because she’s notoriously bad at responding when she’s out. I check the time, and it’s just past ten, which means that half the people will be drunk by now and the other half paired up. On my way, I message Catherine who texts back, Go get him, tiger , which makes me almost smile. Almost.
Meg lives only twenty minutes from me, so I decide to walk. When I’m near, dread knots my insides. What if he won’t even listen? From a distance, I see that the house has all its lights on, and muffled music is coming in steady beats.
Inside, the spacious lounge is full of people. The two beige corduroy sofas are occupied by four couples snogging. A few guys I recognise from school are sitting by the coffee table playing the Circle of Death. Several half-empty bottles are scattered around the centre of the table.
Everywhere is loud and smells of cheap perfume, booze and cigarettes. I’m already regretting that I’ve come. I can’t imagine finding Alex in this crowd.
I look around, eyes narrowing as I search, but I can’t see either Sara or Alex. My nerves are jangling. I quickly text Catherine to let her know I arrived OK.
She texts back, I hope it goes well. Let me know if you need to sleep at mine tonight. X
I roam through the house, and after I’ve gone through the kitchen and checked the empty garden, I head upstairs. The first bedroom is occupied by two couples in various stages of undressing, so I quickly click the door closed before they notice me. At this point, my anxiety levels have doubled. I cannot stand the idea of Alex touching another person.
My heart pounds so fast in my ears it takes over the steady beat of the music downstairs. The second bedroom door opens, and I exhale with relief. Three girls, including Sara, are smoking weed on the large bed. When she spots me, she waves. The room stinks so badly I quickly shut the door with an embarrassed sorry. My heartbeat slows down to an almost normal speed. Everything is going to be OK, I tell myself.
When I approach the third bedroom, I can hear the muffled noises of two people arguing from the other side of the door. The voices belong to a boy and a girl and straight away I recognise Alex’s deep voice but don’t recognise the other. Everything inside me stills when they stop talking. Suddenly, I want to be anywhere but here. I half-turn, ready to go home, but then I inhale, and my hand ends up on the doorknob. I hover for a moment, unsure what I might find on the other side.
Eventually, I find the courage to turn the knob. At the sight inside, my stomach churns like I’ve ingested acid. I’m going to be sick. Alex is sitting in an old-fashioned armchair, but there’s a person on top of him. His hand resting on the armrest has the girl’s hand wrapped around the wrist like a tourniquet. Her other hand is down his trousers. He’s gripping her shoulder with such urgency that I think I’ll vomit right there. The girl’s short blue dress has hitched up to reveal her perfect bum. Somewhere in my brain, a thought occurs. Vicky got that exact dress for her birthday last week. This girl is wearing her dress. When the two facts connect in my brain, I close the door and run.
I grab the first bottle I see downstairs. I think it’s vodka. I glug half of the remaining contents down and take the rest to the closest toilet where I force it down my throat. I gag as I swallow, but I don’t stop because all I want to do now is to forget, to bleach my eyes and glue my heart back together. My head is whirring, and my vision is starting to spin. What now? Should I call Catherine? She would pick me up.
I stare at myself in the mirror and my stupid dress. I look like a child. I take off the T-shirt underneath it and undo the top two buttons. My black bra peeks just between the folds of the now-open fabric, but I don’t care. The stupidest decision is brewing in my head, but I’m hurt and drunk.
I re-enter the party and join the table in the lounge with an uff . I have to pull on my dress because it climbs up my legs. ‘Can I play?’ My voice wobbles with alcohol and devastation.
‘Hell yeah. Come sit with me,’ one of the boys with brown hair says eagerly after his gaze lowers to my cleavage. I learn his name is Tom, and we have physics together, not that I care.
After a few rounds, I feel so drunk I can barely keep my eyes open. But even in my state, I spot Alex weaving through the crowd, a phone to his ear. Immediately, my phone starts ringing in my bag with the familiar tones of Florence and the Machine’s Drumming Song . He follows the direction of the tune. Immediately, he scans my dress, his eyes hitching up the two open buttons. His face turns into a confused scowl.
Without hesitation, I grab Tom by the shirt and kiss him on the lips with all the intensity of my anger and betrayal. He doesn’t expect it but doesn’t resist either. There are hoots of approval from around the table, and when I pull away, half the room is cheering. Turning as white as a sheet, Alex hangs up and puts his phone in his pocket. His expression turns from addled hurt to impenetrable cold. Tom’s hand rests on my bare knee, and I let him leave it there, even though everything inside me is screaming to jerk away. As soon as Alex is gone, I push Tom away and lock myself in the bathroom. Crying, I dial Catherine’s number.
‘Can I stay at yours tonight?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I’ve done something awful.’
*
I still remember how the next day Vicky told me that she went to speak to Alex about me and argued with him. But instead of listening to her reason, he told her he liked her all along. Then he suddenly started kissing her, and she was so shocked, she only pulled away too late. When she told him no, he just shrugged and spent the rest of the evening snogging Sara. I didn’t believe her until the next day when I saw him with Sara, whispering and laughing together by the lockers. He didn’t give me a second look. That was that; we were done. A few months later, we graduated, and I was convinced I’d never see him again.
I’m laden with decade-old guilt. It presses against my chest and threatens to suffocate me. Thoughts chase each other in my head until it’s a jumble of old and new memories of Alex. For the first time, I feel like significant pieces of the story are missing.
I look at my phone again and decide to deal with the lesser evil of the two unread messages. John.
hey i’ve heard you had to leave in a hurry today. i hope your ok. If you want to talk i’m here x
I’m done with John and the rest of the male population. His message only confirms what I already know about him and myself. I will not settle for a two-faced man with ambiguous motives and who doesn’t know the difference between you’re and your .
I’m fine. Thanks for the offer, but you are the last person on earth I’d want to talk to right now, to be honest. Please leave me alone.
After the message is delivered, I block his number.
Next, I decide to deal with Vicky. I’m surprised she picks up on the first ring.
‘Hi, Vicky.’
‘Oh my god. Holly. I heard about your dad. Is he OK?’ She sounds genuinely worried, and I tense up for some reason.
‘He’s going to be fine. How have you heard?’ I feel so exhausted, I lie back on the bed, banging my head against the headboard. Wincing, I massage the back of my scalp.
‘Your mum texted mine. I’m glad to hear your dad is OK. You sound awful, like you need some cheering up. Why don’t we go out and try to do that? I know just the right place.’
I tell her it’s the last thing on my mind. It shows how much she knows or understands me.
‘OK. Just let me know if you need to get out of the flat. I’m at your beck and call.’ She laughs quietly. She’s about to hang up.
‘Vicky?’ My voice is croaky, and I shift the phone from my left hand to my right. I stare blankly at the ceiling for long moments, unsure what I want to say.
‘Yeah?’ She hesitates at my strange tone.
‘Do you remember when you told me Alex was after Sara?’ I’m not sure what I’m trying to ask or what I want to hear back. ‘How did you know? I mean, who told you? Did Sara speak to you about Alex showing interest?’
For a long time, she’s silent. ‘Everyone knew. It was common knowledge. Why are you rehashing old history? What has Alex done?’ she says with unexpected bravado.
I force a neutral tone into my voice. ‘No. It’s nothing. It’s just something that has popped into my head. It’s stupid.’
‘Well, that school of yours doesn’t sound like the best place for you if it makes you relive ancient memories and reopen old wounds.’
We chat some more, but my mind keeps flitting back to the past. Not long after that, we hang up, and for the first time, I have a feeling that Vicky is not being entirely honest.
The next day, I get a surprising call from Mother that Dad is awake and is coming home, so I shouldn’t bother to go to the hospital , quoting my mother. She tells me that he’s doing well, and it would be better if I came over to their house because it would be more comfortable for my dad.
On Saturday, I pick up my car from work and head to my parents’ house. There’s no room in my body for any more dread. I’m so tense my shoulders are permanently locked in a hunched position over the steering wheel. I park on the road because both my parents’ cars are parked in front of the house.
My mother opens the door after the first knock clad in a salmon-pink cocktail dress that looks like it was taken from a ’50s edition of Woman & Home magazine.
‘Close the door behind you, darling, will you?’ she says by way of hello. Business as usual. I do as I’m told and shuffle along the way in my corduroy dungaree dress and heavy boots. I’m reviving the ’90s goth style today. I’m counting down the seconds until my mother comments on my look.
However, she surprises me by abruptly pivoting on her heel and squeezing the life out of me. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ she whispers softly before she pulls away.
Then, as to be expected, she scans my outfit, pausing at my slightly outgrown bob. I desperately need to book a hairdresser, but it’s currently last on my list of problems.
‘I wish you hadn’t cut your hair.’ She strokes one of my locks with her manicured hand. ‘You look like a fifteen-year-old boy wearing a wig.’ I frown. All is right in the world. ‘I meant to say that you were very pretty with your long hair,’ she adds hurriedly. I guess she’s trying the only way she knows how.
She confirms my suspicions. ‘I know we agreed I would stop interfering with your life and – what did you call it – judging your life choices , but couldn’t you at least take those monstrosities off your feet? We aren’t some vagabonds or anarchists.’
‘They’re vintage Martens. They cost almost two hundred pounds,’ I say, offended.
‘I don’t care who Vintage Martens is. They are ugly, and you should leave them by the doormat like normal people.’ She crosses her arms, numerous silver bracelets gleaming around her wrist with the movement.
I look pointedly at her feet which are strapped in silver sandals like she’s going on Strictly Come Dancing after lunch.
‘These are my indoor sandals. I thought I’d dress for the occasion,’ she responds impatiently. Only my mother.
We walk to the kitchen, and through the conservatory window panel, I spy my dad’s greying hair peeking over the top of his favourite lounger chair. The view is so familiar, my hands start sweating, and I rub them against my dress.
A sombre expression passes across my mother’s usually insouciant features. ‘Go speak to your father.’ She squeezes my elbow in reassurance, making my throat tight with emotion. ‘I’ll wait until you come back inside. Do what feels right.’ I nod, ready to say more on the topic, but she’s back to her old self in no time. ‘Make sure you use the outside shoes and take them off on the mat. I’ve just hoovered.’
The air outside is chilly but fresh and refocuses my mind a little. At my approaching steps, my father pokes his head out. His expression shatters when he sees it’s me. Wordlessly, he motions for me to sit next to him on the other lounger. Mother must have rummaged in the loft to find it because I haven’t seen it in years. It reminds me of the times when we used to sit here together, my dad with his newspapers and me with a paperback. I should hug him, but now he’s in front of me I can’t decide whether I’m more relieved or angry. A headache starts pressing insistently against my temples.
We sit in silence, staring at the overgrown laurel hedge that pens the back of the garden. Wrapped in, what-was-no-doubt-my-mother’s-idea, a blanket like a mummy, he looks weary. His cheeks are a little sunken, but he’s wearing his customary unfashionable glasses. He’s more himself again. Without volition, tears start running down my cheeks, and I swipe at them angrily.
‘I should arrange for the hedge to be cut. It’s getting out of hand. It will swallow us whole one day,’ he finally says. ‘I’m so sorry, Holly,’ he laments with misery when he catches my tears. ‘I’ve failed you.’ He reaches into the space between the chairs, and I extend my hand with uncertainty and let him take it. Immediately, he leans over and kisses it. Then he pats it with his other hand and doesn’t let go, making me feel like he’s holding a special treasure that might escape if he only left a tiny gap between his hands. ‘I’ve made a mess of everything, haven’t I?’
I’m finding it hard to speak at first. ‘I’ve been so angry at you.’ He’s about to carry on, but I jump in before he says his piece because I need him to understand. ‘But when you had a heart attack, all I could think about was how I’ve never given you a chance to make it up to me.’ Alex’s words echo in my head. I realise too late that I’ve never given Alex a chance to explain or to make things right either. Neither have I ever explained myself.
‘You were right to be angry. I did something unspeakable, and I hurt your mother.’ He gazes sorrowfully towards the kitchen. ‘I wasn’t happy, and instead of speaking to your mother about it, I broke her trust. She forgave me, and I admire her for it immensely. I never realised how my decisions and my mistakes would affect you. I should have been your role model. Instead, my bad choices influenced some big decisions in your life. That should have never happened. I will never forgive myself for that.’ He starts crying quietly, his big shoulders shaking.
‘Dad,’ I croak. I’ve never seen my dad cry, and it rattles me. He’s always so stoic.
He takes a fabric handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and blows his nose loudly with his free hand. ‘I will try to prove to you and your mother for the rest of my life that my mistake isn’t who I am.’ I nod. ‘As for Aaron,’ he starts, sounding a little steadier.
I squeeze his hand reassuringly. ‘I don’t want to talk about Aaron. He’s history.’ This time it’s his turn to nod.
We sit there in silence until the tip of my nose feels numb with cold. I’ve never realised how uncomfortable the loungers were. I guess we often see memories before a rift through rose-tinted glasses.
‘Shall we go inside and get some tea and biscuits?’ I offer, rising to my feet.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’ Together we head inside.
In the time Dad and I were talking, my mother has created a feast. On various plates placed on any available surfaces are sandwiches, crackers, hummus, carrot and cucumber sticks. A pot of tea, a milk jug and three cups with saucers rest in the middle of the table, ready for us. I notice there are no sausage rolls or biscuits and the sandwiches are made of brown bread with cream cheese filling instead of butter. I think I also spot some micro herbs in them. I gulp heavily, my appetite gone.
‘Come on, you two. Sit down and eat,’ she commands like the general she is. She plates two sandwiches for my dad and some hummus with a few carrot sticks. He eyes it suspiciously but starts eating straight away.
I sit on the opposite sofa from my dad while my mother is fussing over both of us, her favourite activity, only narrowly followed by gossiping. At first, I pick at the sandwich my mother plated for me, but when I take a proper bite, I hmm . It’s my favourite sandwich, BLT. She winks at me. At least one person is still allowed to eat bacon in this house.
After every last morsel of food is ingested and we’re sitting and watching Murder, She Wrote , my mother casually asks, ‘When are you heading back?’
‘I’d like to stay overnight. If you don’t mind.’ I don’t know why I feel so nervous.
‘That would be lovely, darling.’ My mother beams at me.