It was like a dumb show of teenage interaction. Rachel watched Mia drink from a bottle of vodka, rapid swigs that can barely have wet her lips. The music still blared, and the girls still danced when the mood took them. Bottles sat empty at their feet. A few of the boys lay down on the grass, sprawled as if it was far later, as if they’d drunk far more. Rachel sipped on her bottle of water in the dark, picking slimy wedges of mango between two fingers, wishing she’d thought to bring a fork. She had to lick her sticky fingers clean after every mouthful. Her eyes hardly left the dozen teenagers.
Even through the pane of glass, Rachel knew them well. She could see Ella making sure she was in the centre of whichever cluster seemed most active. She could see the way Abby hung back, plaiting sections of her own hair, dyed a shade of red that nature could never create. The girls touched each other constantly; little pats as they walked by, arms around waists. Did they think of Lily? Did it sting that she’d chosen somewhere different, that she’d already outgrown this patch of grass?
As the others drifted away, Rachel saw Keira stand on the bench alone. She was the shortest, her body tight and hard like a gymnast. The others formed a huddle under the lamppost. Keira climbed, arms outstretched, onto the thin wood at the top of the bench. She got one foot on, then wobbled wildly before the other found its place. She stood there for a second, with the wind catching her curls enough to lift them. Rachel could imagine her eyes narrowing, her brown skin burnished in the light. For a moment, she wasn’t quite real. Rachel willed Mia to look up, to clock her friend’s feat, willed Dominic to see his sister. For a moment, Keira was silhouetted in the hazy twilight. She lifted her arms above her head in a mime of freedom. Then she fell.
There was barely a wobble; she just disappeared. She was standing in her full glory, then was nowhere. She must have been on the ground – the gritty, grimy ground. She could have fallen straight onto the glass of their empty bottles; it could have torn right through her legs. Rachel gripped the steering wheel to stop herself slamming out of the car and running to help. She watched as the teenagers froze.
‘Come on!’ Rachel whispered to herself. ‘Move. Do something.’ Surely Dominic would rush to help his sister.
Ella got there first, screaming. The others leapt to action at her siren call, picking Keira up, sitting her on the bench. Rachel leaned forward in her seat. The darkness on Keira’s bare calf could be shadow, or a thick trickle of blood. She should run over there and swab any wounds with antiseptic. But she could do nothing. Any action would reveal her. She was rooted to her car seat, unable to move, as she watched them stumble through a situation too adult for any of them to cope with.
They’d gone to a club in London. Not Central London, not Soho, but an alcove of Zone 2 that had felt far enough away from home to be safe. It was the sort of club that brands the back of your hand with an ink impression of its logo. It had been early, and they were the first people on a dance floor already fogged with artificial smoke. It was the sort of club they’d never have gone to when they were young. Groups of teenagers, scarcely old enough to be there, had clung to the edges of the room.
Mark had been aware of his audience. He danced like the music was following him, and that night it didn’t miss a beat. The drum snapped just as his head turned, the bass guitar thwacked with every step he took. Rachel could see nothing but him. The club’s theme was intended to be ironic; archly playing songs that were released when they were teenagers, but nothing could have felt less like a joke. They filled the floor with just their two bodies.
For the first songs, Rachel struggled. She tried to move her body the way she would have back then, the way Mark could, but every cell seemed to carry two decades of heaviness. Rachel could feel it drain her. It could have weighed her feet down altogether, but she couldn’t let it. That was not who he wanted her to be. Locking eyes with him, forcing everything around them into a blur, she shed twenty years. She made the loose ease of her limbs return, the blithe freedom that let her jerk every joint without thought of how it could ache in the morning. She let her neck fall slack, as her core jolted, her hair whipping around her face. That was what he wanted, what he expected. Disappointing him wasn’t an option.
Rachel focused on the twist and snap of Mark’s feet, the flow of his arms that knew exactly where to go, that anticipated the crux of every lyric. He told every story through his limbs, he knew every word, and his eyes were narrowed and only on her. She tiptoed up against the warmth of him, and whispered right into his ear. You are so cool. She needed to keep him looking at her. In that crowded room of people young enough to be their children, she needed him to stay focused. The effort took every muscle of her body.
He kissed her the way they would have kissed when they were young. You are so cool. Back when their lives were too fierce to be captured by telephones, when they would never have interrupted a moment to upload, when there were too many sunsets for Instagram to possibly fathom. When she had stood on that stage in ripped tights and sung; when everyone’s eyes had followed her. When she could make them scream by throwing one hand into the air. When she’d leaned so far back, microphone in her grip, that any mortal would have toppled. When people she’d never met had shouted her name. He hadn’t known her then, but he looked at her like he could see it. Like he could remember. She’d had it in her to be magnificent. He was the only one who could see it glow through her suburban disguise.
It couldn’t last. Ten songs in, twenty songs, the darkness began to make her tense. They couldn’t see the faces that lined the room, not clearly. It would only take one pupil from their school to have ventured into London for the night, buoyed along by an older cousin, ID scratched from the internet, a thirty-five-minute train journey with pilfered alcohol. It would only take one pair of eyes to light on them and it could all unravel.
The following night, Tuesday, Dominic arrived before the other boys. When he was there, the girls danced freely, for once not seeming to think about what they looked like. They became a mass; Rachel couldn’t quite see where each ended and began. Above them, there was a flock of starlings in their final frenzy of the night, swooping and diving in unison, turning the sky black. The streetlamp made halos of the stray hairs their styling couldn’t tame. The sky streaked blue and purple, mottled and beautiful, and for a second those popular suburban girls were maenads.
Rachel could sense the change before she saw the boys. She loathed that moment. The weight of the air became apparent. The magic vanished and each girl became herself again. Their moves changed; their limbs stopped being free, and every action was now designed for impact. They slowed down; their backs arched dramatically; they writhed in unsubtle mimics of sex, their hands caressing their own hips, their fingers trailing down their own throats. Ella’s shorts barely covered her underwear, riding up her rump as she bent over. Rachel sweated in the stifling heat of the car. She’d opened the window only a crack. The heat made having a body more than an afterthought. The mechanics of the flesh were so much more apparent. Her thighs stuck together beneath her dress, and she remembered the days when they’d held such power, when they’d been as tight and firm as shark’s skin, when she’d wielded them like a weapon.
Mia and Aaron were the only distinct couple in the group. The other girls sometimes sat on boys’ laps, but perched rather than leaned back, hopping off after only minutes. Mia and Aaron stood together all night. As he came into sight, she directed her dance at him. When he reached the bench, she stepped down. When he kissed Mia’s forehead, his arms stayed around her waist. Rachel was shocked by the intimacy, the tenderness. Her daughter was in a grown-up hold with a man. She hadn’t seen her parents interact that way in so long. She’d learned it elsewhere. His fingers were in her hair. There must be something gentle in those brutish fingers, because when Aaron was there, Mia picked him over her friends. She was closer to him than anyone. She was closer to him than to her own mother.
Dominic rea
ched down to lift something from the ground. Daisies. He was weaving them together. It was too far to see, but Rachel knew he must be pushing his thumbnail into the flesh of each stalk, coaxing another through the fissure. He stood on the bench and placed the circle of flowers onto Mia’s head, crowning her. She spun around, seemingly in delight, and the other girls raised their hands as if in joy. Through the dusk, Rachel could see that Aaron hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted to the impromptu coronation. He turned his back on Dominic and kissed Mia so fully that she leaned back, and the daisy chain fell to the ground.
They’d have eaten out on that first night. Everyone would still be snug in the belief that Lily was safe elsewhere. As soon as they realised she was missing, restaurants would become unthinkably dangerous, but for that one night they could celebrate. There was a restaurant just below the apartment. Rachel knew Lily would apply her make-up carefully. Dark hair would make her face seem washed-out, so she’d pile on more pigment to pick out her features. Her cosmetic bag was one of the things they knew she’d packed. She’d powder her cheeks, darken her eyelids. She’d want to look sophisticated, so would employ parts of the palette she’d never dipped a brush into before. She’d want to look French. But she’d stroke on too many layers, making her eyes sooty and her lips jammy. She was too young to understand exactly how much less was more.
Mark would order wine, and when the waiter poured an inch into his glass he’d swirl it around, then sip, letting the liquid rest on his tongue, closing his eyes before nodding his approval. There would be no sugary drinks now. He would be all adult. Lily would see that his lips were already marked by the wine, a tinge of red where they met. It would be the first time Lily had held a whole, deep glass to herself. It would dry her throat rather than quench it, and she’d leave a greasy pout on the rim, not knowing about the surreptitious lick that was needed first.
He’d order for them both, trilling the rs and blurring the ts of each word so expertly, she’d think he was a god. Confit de canard. Moules marinière. Terrine de campagne. He’d linger his hand on hers across the table, and she wouldn’t be able to breathe. In daylight, he could seem unremarkable, but in any kind of dark, he shone. The candlelight made him flicker; he was there, then lost to the dark, then back again. He’d have grown the beginnings of facial hair in a bid to disguise his features. The candles wouldn’t let anything stay still; their plates, glasses, both of their faces would constantly be in motion, bobbing and weaving as they spoke. She’d be holding her heavy cutlery, the linen napkin folded in her lap, trying to remember the things her mother had chastised her for at the table.
Pudding would be crème brûlée because she’d never tried it. He’d let her crack the sugar on top, then feed her creamy spoonfuls. Lust would announce itself to Lily as nausea. A feeling of her stomach being too full. A desire so intense she needed it outside her body, an unbearable twitch across her nose and mouth, the tightening of her throat, a flood of unwanted saliva. When he reached the pale mound over the table on his spoon she would focus on her own lips as they covered it. She’d close her eyes the way he had tasted the wine. With the spoon still in her mouth, she’d look at him, chin tilted down, eyes widening. The candle would gutter. In the blinking shadows, she wouldn’t be able to see his face.
6
‘So, I’d like to meet this Aaron.’ Rachel immediately cursed her phrasing. The awkwardness didn’t escape Mia. She was concocting her breakfast that Wednesday morning: a fashionable blend of yoghurt, overnight-soaked oats and the almond butter she’d made Rachel add to the shopping list. Her friends were dedicated to a young Instagram health star, and were refusing toast or cereal. They had to think about their slow-release proteins. Mia stopped mid-stir.
‘What? “This Aaron.” What even is that? No. No way.’
Rachel pulled her feet onto the chair, sipped from the mug she held with both hands. She made her voice rise, innocent. ‘Why on earth not, Mia? You obviously like him, and I’m sure I’ll like him too. I’m sure he’s an incredibly charming young man.’
‘No way. It’s weird. We’re just seeing each other. You don’t need to meet him. It’s not serious.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’
Mia thudded her bowl on the kitchen table and sat down in one slumped movement. ‘Oh my God. I hate that you’re a teacher. I get no privacy whatsoever. It’s a violation. Why can’t you teach at a different school? What have you heard?’
‘I’ve heard enough that I want to meet him.’
‘You don’t need to. You literally spend all day in the same building as him. This is ridiculous.’
Her voice was high now, nearly a whine.
Rachel didn’t give up. ‘I want to meet him properly. Here. For dinner.’
‘Please, no. He won’t want to come. It will be awful.’
‘It will be perfectly lovely. We’ll eat dinner, we’ll talk. He’ll be delighted to join us, I’m sure. His exams are over now, and I’m sure he has no plans for tomorrow night.’
‘Dinner? That is hideous. No one has dinner.’
‘We all have to eat, darling. Even Aaron. He can just eat here. With you and me.’ Rachel watched as Mia bowed her head over the bowl of brown and white swirls. Her hair fell in a sheet, hiding her face. She pushed the conversation no further, just swallowed her hearty mush in stolid resignation.
The drama studio remained a cool sanctuary from the blazing days. Briony, Ross and Dominic still turned up twice a week at lunchtime, eager to hone scenes, to nail their lines. The show was not scheduled until the very end of term and, with over a fortnight to go, they seemed convinced that if Lily came back it could all go ahead, just as planned. She didn’t have many lines: Laura Wingfield was rarely in scenes four and five; she was more talked about than talking. They could rehearse around her, and she could slot back in on her return. Rachel knew it was impossible, but let herself be buoyed by their conviction. It was foolish, but it would have been so much worse to recast, to cancel.
As the others moved through the scenes, Rachel held her highlighted copy of the play and read the lines Lily had memorised. It was unexpectedly humiliating. Dominic had dedicated himself to perfecting the walk, the timbre of a full-grown man. The rock back on his heels, the latticing of fingers, the frown. Briony was working hard to add several decades to her stature to play an already-faded belle. Rachel had to do the opposite. She had to shape her face, her voice, to become a convincing ingénue. She couldn’t just say the lines; it wouldn’t be fair. They were working so hard; she had to commit just as fully. But she couldn’t capture the cadence. Lily could do it so well; when she spoke Laura’s lines, she was all fragility. Every note Rachel struck felt false. She whispered so softly it became a lisp.
‘I – don’t suppose – you remember me – at all?’ The lines sounded unbearably flirtatious. She was standing where Lily would stand, saying the words Lily had committed to memory, tilting her head the way Lily had tilted hers. But her eyes would never again feel untired. The skin would never hang more lightly from her bones; it would never tighten, no matter what unction she might massage into it before bed. She could never be Lily.
‘Blue Roses!’ Dominic usually touched Lily’s hand on that line. It was the first time their characters made contact, a landmark for timid Laura. Lily’s Laura had lit up every time. Dominic didn’t touch this new, stand-in Laura, just hovered his hand over her wrist. Rachel imagined how the skin of his fingers would feel, hot and damp on her own dry hands. His awkwardness pushed the humiliation further. Rachel couldn’t face the rest of the scene. She broke character.
‘Okay. Okay. I think we’re good from here. Why don’t you guys go back over scene six? From when you go out onto the fire escape to the end. Try to get that dialogue really popping.’
She left them to work without her. As they began the scene, she walked across the studio, towards her own image in the dark of the door’s glass. At
first, she was just a fuzz: blonde hair, pale skin, black vest – she could have been almost anyone – but she watched herself growing smaller and sharper with every step.
He’d seem younger when he slept; the details of him would jump out to Lily. The lines around his eyes, between his eyebrows, would seem to melt, and his skin would become smooth, almost waxy. He’d look gentle. She’d want to count his eyelashes, his ribs. His skin would look paler than usual in the half-light, and she’d be able to see what he might have looked like ten years previously, twenty, when he was the same age as her, when she could have matched him month for month. She wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t want to wake him, because the moment his eyes opened the years would race forward, and he’d be grown again. Instead, she’d sit awake and watch the roll of his eyeballs under his lids, the slow bulge as they lolled in their sockets. Mark’s sleep was never broken.
Wednesday was the fourth night Rachel had followed the girls. They sat in the same place; she parked behind the same trees. Her concerns were beginning to fade. Mia didn’t seem to be troubled. They were just kids making the most of the late sunset to pack in as much summer as possible. The music they listened to over these few months would ingrain itself into their souls for ever. Rachel didn’t need to watch it happen. It wasn’t her responsibility. But just one more night. One more night where she could watch them rather than the television, where she wasn’t alone. When she watched the girls, she didn’t have to think about anything else.
They followed their usual rituals. It was so predictable that Rachel let her eyes wander, picked a slice of apple from her Tupperware, sipped from her bottle. When she looked back, everything was askew.
Heatstroke: an intoxicating story of obsession over one hot summer Page 15