‘Be nice, Millie.’ I tug on her sleeve. Bels and Kat nod their heads in agreement. Millie has a gob on her, but the others respect my opinion more. 1,998,042 subscribers. Just saying.
Millie ignores me, ‘But how do you do it, Frigid?’ affecting her slow voice syrupy sweet. ‘You always manage to work your clothes all Addams family.’
‘Niceness meets with understanding. Nastiness meets with war, Mils,’ I whisper.
‘I like that,’ Bels oozes. ‘You’re so good with words, Hope.’
‘I’m not being nasty. I’m just speaking my mind,’ Millie says. Turning back to Fran she grows her eyes horror-movie wide, making a vampire cross with her fingers.
Frigid does something worse with her own fingers.
Millie bristles. ‘Frigid – you’re like an infectious disease.’
‘At least you can’t catch me,’ Fran sweeps her eyes over the four of us, ‘you’ve all been inoculated against being human.’
I pull Millie back as she jerks forwards, her sticky lips stretching elastic band tight. ‘Millie, feel sorry for her, not angry,’ I say under my breath. ‘Anger will only give you crow’s feet.’ That works. Millie views everything from a beauty perspective.
‘Let me,’ I say, thinking of what Dad wants from me. I head over towards Frigid – of course, I’d never call her that to her face. Name calling is low, we all just need to be nice to each other. I see others in the common room are watching, smiling over at me. Good. I need to show everyone how we can help each other. Livelifewithhope is all about leading by example.
I bend down till I’m level with Frigid.
‘What do you want Hopeless?’ she asks sulkily, her eyelids half-closing as if she wants to shut me out.
‘Please don’t call me names. It’s not nice.’ I pull a sad face to illustrate that fact. ‘You know Fran, you shouldn’t slate Leata. Remember, underneath our school slogan, “work hard and prosper”, it thanks PharmaCare and Leata. Because they paid for our new sports building and all our new IT equipment. Like they pay for all those libraries and health centres and state schools that would’ve closed were it not for Leata sponsorship.’
‘Oh, do me a favour. And quit making big eyes at me, Hopeless. You can’t convert me however hard you try.’
I take a breath to stem my impatience. ‘I’m just saying: remember your mum works for PharmaCare.’
‘What is your problem, Hopeless? I mean, really, what is it?’
The way Frigid’s looking at me, it’s like she’s genuinely trying to work it out. Damn her for her negativity. It does me no good to be around bad energy likes hers.
‘You know …’ Frigid is saying, ‘Maybe it’s time you start accepting there’s no such thing as Father Christmas.’
It’s like Dad says, some people just want to get hot-headed about anything for the sake of it. He’s helped PharmaCare successfully sue lots of people for libel. He almost wins every case. One national newspaper even folded over court payouts last month because it was so horrendous about Leata all the time. What does that say?
I try a new tack. ‘It’s a new year, why not a new you? Join in more; you’ll find we’re all really fun. Millie can be your friend if you make friends with her.’ Big smile. Come on, Fran, take the bait.
She stares at me, chewing on the side of her mouth. ‘I heard about Tom’s dad,’ isn’t what I was expecting her to say.
‘Oh,’ I say, instinctively reaching into my bag for my foil strip. I can sense my chest beginning to tighten again just with hearing his name. Pop one out; into my mouth.
Fran’s looking at me with a sneer of disgust. ‘What? You need help talking to me or talking about Tom? I thought you two were friends?’
I shrug. I never told her we fell out. That last year of primary, when Dad asked me to be Fran’s minder, I took her over to the treehouse, four or five times. It wasn’t hard to see she liked Tom. And when we started Beaton High and he went to Sladesbrook Comp, she asked for Tom’s number. I told her bluntly: Tom wasn’t interested in hanging out with her. I never asked him. I couldn’t. We weren’t talking by then.
Yes, I know, that wasn’t very nice. And it would have played on my conscience ever since except that’s not healthy. So I don’t let it.
But I couldn’t have it – Fran up there in Tom’s treehouse.
Without me.
‘Tom’s doing really well,’ I reply perkily. ‘It was two months ago now. He’s had time to get over it.’
Fran pulls her head back. ‘Really?’
I nod eagerly; broad smile. ‘Really.’
3
Don’t ever go back. The only way is forward
Leata
Him
The three of them silently tidy away the leftovers now that the last of the guests have left. The kitchen island and other surfaces are cluttered with empty wine bottles and half-drunk glasses; foil trays of sandwiches, crusts curling hard.
‘I can’t tell you how glad I am that’s over,’ his mum murmurs, passing behind him. Tom flinches as she strokes his back. He tries to rescue it with a smile her way. But his mouth won’t work. As she joins Nathaniel at the sink, he grabs the nearest half-filled wine glass and downs it. Over? How can it ever be over?
He clears his throat, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘Mum? Ralph – he said to ask you – he said there was some secret, why Dad killed himself.’ His voice amplifies in a way he doesn’t mean. ‘Was it something to do with why Dad left?’ He regrets his last words as his mum lets out a short gasp. Nathaniel whips his head round, his eyes creasing as if to say shut up. Tom shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, they’re shaking.
Her voice when it comes is thick like pipes clogged up. ‘Ralph had no right.’ She runs a hand through her ragged bobbed hair, which is lined with grey like it never used to be. Before Dad died Tom only ever saw her power-suited and polished. She had to be for the city job that took her away from them five long days a week since Dad lost his Daily Herald job. So she could keep them living here, in a big house, in a nice area, near a good school. None of it was ever Dad’s plan. His mum would’ve sent him to a school like Hope’s if his dad hadn’t put his foot down. ‘I won’t betray my Labour membership, Jean! Have my kids tidied and paid-for.’
‘Tom, I didn’t want to tell you yet,’ his mum makes a hum of appeal as Nathaniel states, ‘Mum wanted to protect you from it.’
‘From what?’ Tom looks between them both. ‘You know something I don’t?’ he says to Nathaniel, whose expression is playing ‘father’ again.
‘I’m three years older, I –’
‘What’s that got to do with anything, if –’
‘Boys, please!’ His mum’s face has become more fog-coloured than pink since this morning, her forehead now permanently concertinaed. ‘I should have told you, Tom. I just didn’t want to hurt you more.’
Tom makes a face for ‘go on’. He’s not sure he wants her to now. He needs another drink first. He thinks of the hip flask in his jacket pocket.
‘It … something was sent to me, anonymously on my mobile. Just over a week before your dad died,’ she continues in a thin, sad voice. She turns to find her phone, holding it at a distance so she can read without her glasses, swiping and tapping until, ‘Here.’ She passes it to Tom.
Like her, Tom holds the phone away from his body, not because he can’t see, but as if it’s a bomb that’s about to blow. He looks at his mum, at Nathaniel, then down again at the first picture on the screen, swiping through two further images.
A cold chill rises up his chest. ‘Who sent these?’
His mum shakes her head briefly. ‘I don’t know. I tried calling the number, and got an out-of-service message.’
Tom’s breath becomes shallow. Behind his skull, the pain is back, banging at the door. He stares down at the pictures again, his stomach sinking lower, to the soles of his shoes.
In the first, his dad’s hands are fixed onto the arms of a woman – an attractive woman;
an attractive woman younger than his mum by at least a decade. They both wear sunglasses; she has dark hair to her shoulders and a tight-fitting trouser suit. Tom flicks to the next one; his dad and the same woman, embracing, clinging to one another as if they are all that matters.
The third: kissing, passionately, like some still for a film poster.
He feels sick. ‘This isn’t Dad,’ he says, knee-jerk words – because there’s no argument – he knows it is, even before his mum utters an equally breathless, ‘It’s Dad.’
Clearing her throat, his mum adds, ‘He didn’t deny it … when I confronted him. He called it “work” … said I wouldn’t understand.’ Her voice has grown unusually icicle-sharp.
‘How could kissing another woman be work?’ Nathaniel chips in.
Tom sniffs, hands the phone back to his mum. So this is what happened? he has an urge to say aloud: Dad had an affair, and you chucked him out, and Dad killed himself. But tears are sliding down his mum’s face. He can see she already holds that equation in her own head.
‘It’s not Dad,’ he says again, but he’s not talking about the physical likeness now. ‘Dad was honest. The truth mattered to him.’ Tom’s eyes dart round the room as if he might find proof of that fact hiding on the cluttered countertops. Was Ralph right? Parents keeping their worst side from their kids. Did he not know his own dad?
Nathaniel’s nodding his head meaningfully at the phone in Mum’s hand. ‘Clearly, he also cared for lies as well … Tom, he deleted his emails – to stop us seeing anything that –,’Nathaniel lets his words trail off when he catches the hurt intensifying in his mum’s eyes. He turns back to Tom. ‘Well, now you know. The rise and fall of Matt Riley.’
Tom screws up his face. ‘Don’t.’ He clenches his fists, sucking in his cheeks hard. Nathaniel always took Mum’s side against Dad. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘Tom’s right. Let’s leave your dad be,’ his mum intervenes, pressing a hand hard against her collar-bone. ‘The best thing we can do now is put it all behind us. Remember the good stuff about your dad. There’s lots to remember.’ She nods encouragingly at Tom. Nathaniel scrunches up his mouth, as if he doesn’t agree.
He doesn’t care that they’re both watching. Tom reaches for another of the used glasses, knocking back the wine left in it, then another; one more. ‘Tom, what are you …?’ His mum’s shaking hands reach for him, but before they make contact Tom is leaving.
Her
I turn from the bus stop into Jubilee Woods, hugging gooey Seth thoughts to myself as if it’s something cuddly I’ve just won at the fair. Usually I get too spooked taking the shortcut to the back of our road. But today: I am invincible. That third Leata sorted me out for the rest of the day. Even shrouded by light-zapping oaks, I am floating on a sunshine burst of happiness.
Seth’s messaged me twice more today already. Our exchanges have flirted up a gear since I said yes. His last text: I bet your lips are as passionate as your vlogs. My stomach lurches like a toddler in the sweetie aisle. I can’t wait to meet him, to – oh no, come on, really? I stop dead, glancing back at the road behind me. Back over at him. Tom.
He’s walking fast through the woods towards me, as if someone or something’s chasing him. That silver hip flask clutched in his hand. The suit jacket’s gone, his shirt is open. His tie’s round his head like he’s a schoolboy playing combat. He’s not seen me yet. I could still go the long way home. But – he’s just buried his dad, Hope! You should help him. Right now, must I? That’ll mean talking about the funeral … which will mean thinking death. Death and Life – they’re as bad a partnership as Tom and Jerry or vampires and werewolves. Can’t I just stay daydreaming about Seth and Saturday and vlog collaboration and falling in love?
Another time, I’m thinking, turning quietly away. As he looks up.
Our eyes lock. Now you’ve got to say hello. I take a deep breath. Trusting in Leata to stop my chest tightening again, as I walk over to him. Further into the wood.
Him
He wills her to turn and walk away. He can’t be doing with this now. Shards of fuzzy light spray through the leaves, as if she’s being spotlit for him, like some angel Gabriel. Come to tell him everything will be okay if he takes Leata.
‘Hi Tom!’ she says brightly, waving a hand.
He pushes his glasses up his nose. Yanks his tie off his head, feeling stupid. Somehow ‘new’ Hope always makes him feel stupid.
‘“Hang the DJ?”’ she asks, reading the T-shirt under his shirt.
‘It was Dad’s,’ he says.
She tilts her head sympathetically, bites on her lip, takes a breath as if she’s working up for the next question. ‘Was the funeral hard?’
He stretches his eyes. ‘Well deduced, Batman.’
Her
The boy needs my help. Seriously. He always did love the sarcasm. Back when.
Back when. ‘Don’t ever go back. The only way is forwards.’
‘I am very sorry about your dad. He was awesome,’ I reply. Well, I half-lie. I always preferred his mum. Yes, Tom’s dad could be fun, plying us with juice and biscuits; swinging us about by our arms; grinning as he taught me the names of Socialist leaders, don’t tell your dad, Hope … making sure we loved the old Star Wars episodes more than the new. He was like a big kid. But it made me uncomfortable, all those times he hung around the treehouse just to sneak smokes of dope; his eyes going glassy, his mood growing unpredictable. Tom was more like his little mate than his son.
My phone starts ringing inside my bag.
‘Don’t mind me,’ Tom mutters, a tired edge to his voice.
I check caller ID. Millie. ‘I’m not going to answer it right now,’ I say. I clear my throat, waiting for my phone’s ringtone to finish, the tune from the most recent Leata advert. I love it.
‘But at least a funeral brings closure?’ I put a perky smile at the end of my question. ‘Whatever you say as long as you smile, it softens it.’
Tom kicks at the ground. ‘Is empathy not on the curriculum at your elite bubble-school?’
‘Is crap dry humour a specialism at your rough as chuff State?’ I bite back without realising. Quickly adding a laugh, to show I’m making a joke. I’m here to help him, I hope he can see that.
‘Remember Fran?’ I say to change the conversation. ‘She asked after you today.’
Tom makes a face like he’s trying to remember. ‘The American girl who joined Year Six?’
‘That’s her,’ I say brightly, an idea starting to form in my head. Hey, what about it? Tom and Fran! I can help them both at the same time. Two negatives … into a positive!
Better still I can feature it on my blog! Tom and his grief will make a great case story! Stateofhappiness Emily won this year’s Leata Bloggers’ Award, all because she featured some self-harming kid. How she and Leata helped him turn his life around. How she encouraged him to go to a PharmaCare Health Farm that cured him. They did an interview on Breakfast TV together and everything.
I’ll change Tom and Fran’s names to protect their identities of course.
‘Yeah, the two of you should really meet up again. I think you’d be great for each other,’ I say. Heck, I’m just too good at this. They should make me one of those UNICEF ambassadors. Move over, Angelina.
‘I’m not feeling at my most sociable right at this minute.’ Tom says each word like he’s spelling it out for someone hard of hearing. Pulling another of his sarcastic faces at the end.
Well, no one said Angelina’s job was easy.
‘The death of a parent can do that to you,’ Tom adds drily, holding my eyes for a second longer than I like. My eyes flicker nervously across his face. That white crescent scar above his eyebrow – I was with him when he got it. Sharing a skateboard, down Mason Hill. My idea. The bad ones always were.
I hurriedly divert my gaze into the trees. Note to self: The Past – it’s not on your itinerary for life’s journey, remember!
Clearly Tom thinks differe
ntly. ‘You used to make a good Ewok when we pretended this wood was Endor,’ he says suddenly.
‘Daft kids!’ I beam dismissively. Like I said: NOT on my itinerary.
‘Yeah,’ Tom sniffs and starts yanking off pieces of silvery bark. I can hear the tune of an ice cream van pulling up on the road behind us. ‘Want one?’ I ask.
I’m surprised – should I be disappointed? – when he follows me, his face darkening as if I’m leading him further into the woods, not out.
Him
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Trailing peachy-perky- pumped-up-on-Leata Hope to the ice cream van. He doesn’t even want a bloody ice cream. But he finds suddenly he doesn’t mind her company. Maybe it’s because Hope used to know his dad. ‘Angelic rogue’ Dad used to call her. She made him laugh. Before she made him pissed. When she told Tom ‘you’re not my friend any more’. Like father, like daughter, Dad had said.
He squints his eyes from the bright sunlight after the darkness of the wood.
Hope seems to be lingering at the back of the ice cream van. As if she wants him to look at the Leata slogan printed there in blue, ‘Life’s short. Enjoy it!’ It almost obscures ‘Mind that child’.
They’re back in the wood. He chose a Funny Feet ice cream; she went for a Fab. Some things never change then. Biting off a big toe, Tom suddenly blurts out, ‘Dad had an affair.’ He stares at what’s left of the foot, as if it contains some potion that makes him speak his thoughts aloud.
‘Goodness, really?’ Hope says uncertainly.
‘Leata can’t stop people from having affairs if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Morals can,’ she says, tipping her head thoughtfully.
‘Forget I said anything.’ He rips off the rest of the toes. ‘I just found out. You’re the first person I’ve seen.’ What am I thinking? Confiding in her?
‘That’s okay. People often bring their problems to me. I’m known these days, for helping people embrace positivity … you might have heard of my blog, I –’
‘Hope, nothing you can say will make me see anything positively.’ He frowns. ‘I’ve just found out life’s a con. We’re all in a wasteland. I just never saw it before.’ He regrets talking again. Looking at her shocked face, he sniffs, ‘Stay in your bubble though. If that’s what makes you happy.’
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