3. Goldie
CHAPTER THREE
GOLDIE
Cuckoo’s message is all I can think about.
Patricia serves up spaghetti Bolognese, her portions always too large, and I refuse the offer of garlic bread, which she has dripped oily, fatty cheese over.
We don’t have a proper dining table, only the coffee table in front of the sofa.
Patricia ignores me, selecting one of her shows and balancing her meal on her lap for better access.
I thank her for dinner, as I always do, she grunts in response, and that’s about as much conversation as I’ll get.
She might laugh or shout at something on the telly, but if I try and strike up a talking point from it, she waves her hand impatiently or directly shushes me.
Sometimes I think of the families I read about in novels, the ones who have invigorating debates across the dining table.
They might not all agree with each other, but if anything, that’s better. Every opinion is valued.
From the window in my room, I can see the school, and above that, there’s a great view of the skyline.
There’s too much pollution to really see the stars at night, but I know they’re there, and that’s how I imagine my own life.
Right now I’m in the fog, pushing my way through, and soon enough I’ll reach the stars.
I’ll move to London, to one of the posh areas where the houses are tall and pretty, and I’ll be spotted walking down the street in my heels and become a supermodel.
I’ll look out of a window to some fancy park, or a row of beautiful town houses, and the sky will still be cloudy because let’s face it, it’s central London, but I won’t need to imagine the stars anymore. I’ll be one.
If the world doesn’t burn before I get there.
Patricia doesn’t care about phones at dinner; she’s swiping through Bumble with one hand and shoveling spaghetti in her mouth with the other.
I stare at Cuckoo’s message again, at the sea of responses that follow it.
Wren’s worried about getting in trouble, but she’ll go along with it if the rest of us do.
She’s a terrible people pleaser. Crow’s reluctant to do anything that disrupts her perfect image, but Starling is up for it.
We’re owed this, Cuckoo’s last message says.
I’m probably the only one secretly relieved to have a break from the pressure of exams. I’m not like the rest of them—I only go to Literature Club so I’m not a loner at lunch.
Reading is meant to be fun, not some exercise in proving how intelligent you are.
If I tell them my favorite book is Tess of the d’Urbervilles, they’ll nod and approve.
If I tell them it’s actually anything by Jacqueline Wilson because she got me into reading in the first place, that’s not literary enough, they’ll raise their eyebrows and laugh.
They’re all waiting for my response in the group chat.
I tend to have the casting vote, the accidental middleman of us all.
If Cuckoo is arguing with Crow or Starling is irritating everyone or Wren is crying over something one of them has said, I’m the one to step in and put them all right.
I don’t actually mean to be a peacemaker, I just don’t get as bothered by things as they do.
It’s hard to get upset when part of me simply doesn’t care.
Far easier to control my feelings, make sure I never get too attached.
And I know what a therapist would say, I’ve certainly suffered enough school counseling sessions to have their routine down pat.
Goldie, you have attachment issues because your dad died when you were young so you never really knew him (as Patricia likes to insist, that and how much of a martyr she is for taking in her brother’s child), and your mum decided she was done being a parent and dipped out of your life.
You need to learn to trust people, open your heart, and you’ll be better.
Bullshit.
First of all, I remember Dad. He took me to London for my eighth birthday.
He bought me the charm bracelet I wear every day there.
It was a huge treat, but I guess he knew he was terminal by then.
Patricia was fuming afterward when she learned how expensive it was, that he’d basically drained what little savings he had, but even she has never tried to get me to sell it.
Dad and I did about every touristy thing possible, crammed into two days.
Mum was there too, but the only time she got excited was when we spotted some famous actress she apparently adored.
She got an autograph, and it may as well have been a check for a million pounds with how tightly she clutched it.
It was all she could talk about for the rest of the trip, and when Dad died and she left, she took it with her instead of her daughter.
That’s what I want. Not Mum. She can go to hell.
But that kind of devotion from a complete stranger.
It must be incredible. If I had fans like that, I’d never be ignored at a dinner table.
I’d have my own table, enough seats for everyone, in its own special room, and people would beg for a chance to speak with me.
“You’ve barely touched your dinner again,” Patricia says now. I haven’t noticed the television on mute, her plate practically licked clean. There were four slices of garlic bread on a separate plate, and she had three, the remaining piece languishing alone. “You got a problem with my cooking?”
When I told Patricia I wanted to be a famous model, she laughed so hard her face turned bright red. I informed her she was jealous because she has a mug so ugly it’s why she’s never been married.
Yeah. That didn’t go well. It’s lucky I turn eighteen at the end of August because I’m not going to be living here after that. It’s alright. I’ll sign with an agency straight away.
“You know I’m watching my figure,” I say. “And I’d gladly do some cooking if you’d let me.”
“The last time you made us dinner, you threw together a couple of boiled eggs and some lettuce,” Patricia mutters. “You’re practically a stick insect, Goldie. You need to eat something substantial.”
“I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself. You’ll soon find out how hard it all is when you’re on your own.”
“Counting down the days? Me too.”
“Oh, because I forgot, you’re going to be someone special. Superstar model, the next Kate Moss, right?”
“Exactly!”
“You don’t even know who you are. Once you figure that out, you’ll see this world is going to eat you up and spit you out. There’s no fighting it. Might as well give up now and not bother trying.”
For the first year after Mum left, Patricia’s spare room was an office, and I slept in a sleeping bag on the floor.
I think she was convinced Mum was going to come back, so she didn’t actually have to fit me into her life.
Then I was upgraded to a camp bed. No birthday presents, no Christmas gifts.
She’s never hugged me, never spoken to me about Dad except to tell me she knew him better than I ever will, that meeting my mother ruined his life and gave him that cancer, and that I’m the reason he had to stay with that woman and suffer.
But there’s no point arguing, however much my heart squeezes and stomach churns. I don’t need her to believe in me.
“Bitch,” I say under my breath as I leave the room, heading to the kitchen to dump the dishes in the sink.
I could have shouted it, and she probably wouldn’t have heard me over the now-blaring telly.
I wonder if that’s what it’s like outside.
No one around to hear anything. Room to scream. “Bitch,” I say again, louder.
My bedroom is still half her office, one side cluttered with boxes and files.
Now that she’s working from home, she keeps coming in and out, getting one thing or another, and it’s tempting to take the lot and dump them out in the hallway.
Better yet, drown them in the bath. Or best of all, drown her.
I flop down on the bed, upgraded to a proper one since I started secondary school, and Patricia had the gall to act like she was doing me a favor.
My half of the room is taken up by it, but underneath is where I keep all my things.
A well-thumbed copy of The Suitcase Kid is waiting for me on my pillow, dog-eared on the pages that have my favorite lines.
Instead I choose my phone, open up the group chat again, gaze flicking to the darkening sky outside.
Stars. Somewhere out there.
Another message comes through before I can even type, Starling linking us a video from a news article.
You guys have to see this!!!
I click on it. There are dozens of wild goats, horned with thick white fur, running around the middle of a town.
Dashing in and out of front gardens, munching on hedges, bypassing parked cars like they’re nothing.
There isn’t a single person to stop them.
I watch as perfectly manicured gardens are destroyed, nibbled on by a line of them.
Others continue on their way, trotting down an alley.
It’s utterly bonkers.
And hilarious. Patricia is forgotten, and I’m laughing at a bunch of goats.
All uncertainty has vanished. I can stay inside, endure Patricia’s nasty comments, bore myself to tears waiting for the end of August and freedom. Or I can step outside and see something absolutely wild like a herd of goats terrorizing the city center.
If the world has gone mad, we might as well join in.