Entangled

by Cat Clarke

  ‘I do have other friends, you know. Sal and I aren’t joined at the hip, believe it or not.’ Much to my surprise, Sophie laughed. Sophie Underwood was laughing at ME!

  ‘Yeah, whatever. You’re like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Or maybe the Chuckle Brothers.’ She definitely had a glint in her eye now. This was something I hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Aw, come on, Grace. You know it’s true!’ She paused and then said, ‘I suppose a drink would be nice. Tonight?’ Nat was working that evening, so that was good. Not that I’m one of those pathetic girls who has to spend every minute of every day with their boyfriend. Sophie and I arranged to meet in Bar Code, a quietly cool bar in town – with a seriously crap name.

  As soon as I got home, I headed to the kitchen and grabbed the penguin jar off the top shelf. I’m tall enough to reach it without standing on a chair now. Just like always, the jar had a few tenners in it. I took three – enough for a semi-decent night out.

  I can’t even remember when I first started taking money from that jar. Mum MUST have known, but she never mentioned it. Like some sort of unspoken agreement: I wouldn’t call her on being a terrible mother, and she wouldn’t call me on being a sneaky little thief. I always looked on it as a sort of payment for babysitting myself, and maybe she did too. That’s why she kept topping it up every few weeks. I’ve never really thought about it before, but it was kind of decent of her. She could have cut me off completely, but she didn’t.

  Mum cooked an early tea, which I could barely stomach. I was weirdly nervous. We had a half-proper conversation for the first time in ages. She even asked me what I was up to that evening (like she cared). I twirled some spaghetti round my fork, watching the orange globules of fat from the sauce swirl round the plate.

  ‘I’m going for a drink with Sophie.’ I looked up in time to see her perfectly plucked eyebrows rise in surprise.

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I muttered like the moody little cow I am.

  ‘God, I haven’t seen her in … well, it’s been a long time. I didn’t know you two were still friends.’

  ‘We’re not. I mean, I just ran into her and we decided to catch up tonight.’ I shrugged, like it was no big deal. Which it wasn’t.

  ‘Is Sal going too?’

  ‘No, why would she be?’

  ‘No reason. I just haven’t seen her around in a while.’ Mum was looking down at her plate now too. I got the feeling she’d been waiting to ask about this for some time.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Have you two had a falling-out?’ I swear to God, the way she said it made me want to hit her. A falling-out?! Like I’d pulled Sal’s pigtails, or she wouldn’t share her toys with me.

  I gave her my most withering look, which, I have to say, is pretty withering. ‘No, we haven’t had a “falling-out”, but thanks for asking.’

  Mum pretended to ignore my tetchiness. ‘It’s just, well, you know I’m here, if you want to talk about anything. You do know that, don’t you, sweetie?’ I could have choked on my garlic bread! First of all, saying that I could talk to her? And second of all, calling me sweetie? Had she been watching some kind of How To Be A Parent programme on TV?

  I looked at her for a few moments. Her hair highlighted to within an inch of its life. Her face strangely lacking in wrinkles or emotion or love or anything. I was supposed to believe that she suddenly cared? Yeah, right. Nice try.

  ‘Thanks, Mother,’ I said as sarcastically as was humanly possible. ‘I’ll let you know when I feel the need to share.’ I stood up, chucked my napkin on top of the congealing spaghetti and left the table without another word. When I turned to head up the stairs, I saw her framed by the kitchen doorway, coolly sipping her glass of water and staring into space.

  The bus dropped me off just over the road from Bar Code. There was a bouncer outside, but it was still early so there was no queue. Inside, the bar was all retro chic – shabby leather sofas and weird curvy chairs. I looked for Sophie, not an easy task given all the nooks and crannies. It’s like when you’re at school, scanning the canteen for your friends – and trying to look as if that’s the last thing you’re trying to do. I embarked on a quick circuit of the bar, as nonchalantly as possible, and eventually spotted Sophie secreted in a booth in one corner. She was tapping away on her phone, playing with her hair at the same time. No drink on the table in front of her.

  ‘Hi, sorry I’m late,’ I said, knowing full well that I was exactly on time. Sophie was even worse (or better, depending on how you feel about these things) than I was when it came to punctuality.

  Sophie put down her phone and said hi. I asked if she wanted a drink, and she nodded. ‘Vodka and coke … a double if that’s OK?’ I managed to hide my surprise. Little Sophie Underwood … drinking doubles? My, my.

  When I came back with the drinks I slid into the booth opposite Sophie. A quick ‘Cheers’, a swig of vodka, and my first chance to really check her out. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and was wearing (shock, horror!) make-up. Actual, proper make-up. I hadn’t even bothered with any (well, the bare minimum, but that hardly counts). I had to admit, Sophie looked pretty good. I even recognized the top she was wearing. A rather cool little red number from Top Shop that showed off her breasts to full advantage. I suddenly felt self-conscious in my somewhat scraggy black-top-and-jeans combo. It was unsettling. I needed to re-establish the equilibrium, pronto. After a bit of small talk about exams and whatever, I started telling her all about Nat. Now, I really dislike girls who brag about their boyfriends, as if they deserve a bloody medal for having bagged a half-decent one. But I couldn’t help myself.

  Sophie listened politely while I talked, nodding in all the right places, saying all the right things. By the time I’d run out of steam, we’d both finished our drinks. Sophie went to the bar this time – probably grateful for a breather from me. When she came back, I asked her the killer question. I am a bad person.

  ‘Not … not at the moment.’ She opened her mouth as if she had something else to say, and then promptly snapped it shut again. I raised a quizzical eyebrow. She swirled her drink round and round, clinking the ice.

  ‘Well, there is someone I sort of … well … kind of like.’ Sophie exhaled loudly, as if she’d just made some kind of major confession, like she’d been shagging the whole rugby team or something. This is more like it. I felt more comfortable with Awkward Sophie

  I pressed her to try to find out who the mystery boy was, but she kept shtum. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that I was being unbelievably patronizing … As if I was her big sister, teasing her because she was finally getting interested in boys. I apologized and changed the subject.

  We talked about school for a bit, but there really wasn’t much to say. We might as well have gone to different schools entirely for all the common ground we shared. But after a while and a couple more drinks, the conversation flowed a lot more smoothly. Sophie had a surprisingly dry sense of humour. She hadn’t had that when we’d been friends, had she? She must have grown it or bought it off the Internet or something.

  As the evening progressed, the inevitable reminiscing began. Like the time we’d scared ourselves shitless, climbing in the window of the old deserted house at the top of our road. I’d somehow become obsessed with the idea that a creepy bald man with bloodshot eyes and no eyelids lived there, lying in wait for the neighbourhood children. The crack addicts who were hanging out in the attic actually gave us a bigger scare than anything my overactive imagination could ever have come up with.

  Sophie was handling her drink a lot better than I would have expected. I couldn’t help thinking that you don’t build up that kind of tolerance by sitting in your room every night, studying like a good little girl.

  ‘I have to say, Soph, you’re pretty hardcore. Most people would be on the floor by now.’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised!’

  ‘Well, I kind of am,’ I admitted, a tad sheepishly. ‘I suppose
I didn’t think …’

  ‘What? You didn’t think that I was “that sort of girl”? More an “in bed by ten, cuddling a teddy bear and reading a book” sort of girl? Is that it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Welllllllll …’ We both laughed.

  ‘Oh, Grace, you really have no idea, do you?’ I noticed a slight edge to her voice, but we were both still smiling. ‘We haven’t been friends for five years … Do you not think that maybe, just maybe, I might have changed a little bit in all that time?’

  ‘Er … course. I was just …’ I stammered.

  ‘Just what?’ Sophie looked amused at my discomfort.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You know, I bet I could tell you a thing or two that would surprise you.’ Her words weren’t exactly slurred, but she was definitely tipsy.

  ‘Oh yeah? Like what?’

  ‘You think I’m going to spill out all my deepest, darkest secrets just like that? Not a chance.’

  ‘Well, maybe if we did this again some time? I think that would be … cool.’

  She looked at me, weighing up the truth of my words. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve had fun. Haven’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She paused and then went on: ‘You’ve fallen out with Sal, haven’t you?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Sophie shrugged. ‘You should sort it out.’ Now this was all turning a bit strange. I had half a mind to tell her to fuck off and mind her own business.

  ‘No offence, Soph, but I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Fair enough, but don’t just give up on her. It’s easy to do that when things get hard.’ She stood up, a little unsteady on her feet. ‘Sometimes you need to dig a bit deeper and find out who someone really is instead of walking away.’

  ‘Are we talking about you or Sal now?’

  She shrugged again, and laughed. ‘Who can say? I’m wasted … Don’t listen to me! Right, I’ve got to run or my mum’s going to kill me. You’re OK to get the bus on your own?’ I nodded dully. ‘OK. I’ll see you soon?’ Another nod from me. And then she was gone. Bizarre. And what’s with the not-so-cryptic words of wisdom?

  When I got home I had a sudden drunken desire to look at old photos. So I dug out my photo album from under my bed. I’d put it together a few years ago, decorating the cover with a collage of cat pictures for some unknown reason.

  The first few pages were filled with pictures of a little me. Quite cute, bad hair and a gappy smile. Then there was one of me and Sophie in the back garden, arms slung around each other, mischief in our eyes. You could just make out my dad in the background, tending to the barbecue, can of beer in one hand, tongs in the other. He loved that barbecue. Any opportunity to cook outside (and it didn’t even have to be summer) and he’d be out there, blowing on the white-hot coals, explaining to me the finer points of marinating meat. I would ask question after question, just happy to listen to his voice. Not really understanding, not really even caring, just wanting to spend time with him.

  I wonder if it will ever get easier – thinking about him. You’d have thought that I’d have got used to the idea of him being gone. If only. My two favourite words when I’m feeling sorry for myself.

  If only he was still here.

  If only Mum could understand.

  If only I could stop hurting myself, punishing myself.

  Useless words.

  Anyway, looking at the photos made me feel sad and happy at the same time. I slipped a picture of Dad out from its plastic sleeve. It was a photo I had taken one Christmas. There was wrapping paper strewn everywhere. Dad was sitting in the middle of it with sparkly baubles dangling from his ears. I remember directing him where to sit and oh-so-artfully hanging the baubles. In the photo he’s laughing hard and his eyes are squeezed shut. My mum’s slippered foot sneaks into the bottom left-hand corner of the frame.

  I kissed the photo and put it under my pillow. Then I phoned my perfect boyfriend and left a long, rambling message that didn’t make a whole lot of sense (as he took great pleasure in telling me the next day).

  day 18

  I feel good today. Slept well, no dreams to speak of. Mum reckons she never dreams, but what would she even dream about? Row upon row of shoes as far as the eye can see?

  Ethan was sitting on the bed when I emerged from the bathroom all ruddy and wrapped in a towel that just about covered everything a good girl would want covered. There was a chocolate croissant and a big mug of tea on the table. I tore off a bit of croissant and popped it into my mouth, licking the oozing chocolate from my finger.

  ‘Want some?’

  Ethan quickly shook his head.

  I shrugged and continued to eat, saying nothing. When I’d finished, and sucked every last bit of chocolate from my fingers, I sat down next to him on the bed. The towel just about managed to hang on for dear life.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ I teased him.

  ‘Good morning, Grace. You look … different today,’ he said.

  ‘Most people do without their clothes on.’ He looked confused. His eyes frantically searched mine, as if he could look deep enough and see the truth of me. I held his gaze. The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises.

  ‘Ethan, I …’

  He brought his finger to my lips to silence me. He tucked a few damp strands of hair behind my ear and whispered, ‘Drink your tea.’ And then he was gone. Just like that.

  I flopped back on the bed and sighed. Confused and frustrated.

  Then I did as I was told.

  I lay on the bed for most of the morning, not really thinking about anything in particular. Not unhappy. Just sort of being. Before I knew it, Ethan was here again with lunch. I was strangely ravenous for someone who had done fuck-all. When he came to take away my plate, I was licking the last drops of gravy from my knife. Mum would be appalled. Ethan seemed pleased. ‘Was that good?’

  ‘Mmm. Roast chicken is my favourite. You can’t beat a proper Sunday lunch.’ A memory popped into my head of Mum dishing up roast potatoes at the table. She always gave me and Dad loads, and only took a couple for herself. And every week, without fail, Dad would say, ‘These are the best roast potatoes I have EVER had,’ and Mum would roll her eyes and say, ‘But you say that every week, Jim!’ And you could tell she was secretly pleased. And you could tell that he really meant it. And you could tell they really loved each other.

  Ethan was saying my name, and I knew from his tone that it wasn’t the first time. And just like that, the memory was gone.

  ‘What?’ I said, annoyed. My brain wasn’t exactly brimming over with happy memories like that one.

  ‘I was asking about your family.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m curious.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like to know why you are the way you are.’

  ‘And you think that’s the answer? My family? What about your family? What’s made you the way you are?’

  He looked at me with those stormy eyes and said softly, ‘We’re not talking about me.’

  ‘Why not? Why do we have to talk about me all the time? I’m not that interesting, you know!’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Grace.’ He sounded as if he hadn’t slept in a thousand years. And then he looked me square in the eye and said, ‘Do you miss your father?’

  ‘Every day. I miss him every day.’ I swallowed, determined not to start bawling. Ethan must have realized that I wasn’t really in a sharing kind of mood. He said nothing more, just cleared up my plate and left. But not before he’d given my shoulder a reassuring (fatherly?) squeeze.

  It wasn’t until the door closed that I realized I haven’t told Ethan about Dad. How did he know? How could he possibly know?

  Why am I the way I am? What a weird question. Why is anyone the way they are? Nature or nurture? A bit of both? Maybe for some people it’s neither. Maybe they were supposed to turn out a certain way, but then something terrible happened. And maybe nothing was ever th
e same again. Maybe.

  day 19

  At least, I think it’s day 19. It must be by now. I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep. I CAN’T SLEEP. I’ve tried every trick I know: reciting all the kings and queens of England (but I always get a bit mixed up with the Henrys), trying to remember the names of everyone in my class at junior school (but I got stuck on the name of the boy with the permanently snotencrusted nose). I’ve even stooped so low as to try counting sheep. I don’t know who thought that one up – it turns out I can count pretty high.

  May as well get on with this as long as I’m up. It’s not as if I can pop downstairs for a glass of hot milk. Hot milk? Gross.

  Things were good with Nat. But I was sort of waiting for something to go wrong. Something had to go wrong. It was surely only a matter of time. I could never fully shake the feeling that I didn’t deserve him. He was too good for me. And too good to me. He listened to me when I talked, instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. He bought me a little green monster finger puppet, which made me laugh. He put his arms around me and I felt right.

  I went round to his house for the first time one afternoon. His mum was at work and we were messing around in his bedroom. We still had most of our clothes on, and I was trying to determine just how ticklish he was (very, as it turns out). I had him pinned down on his bed, both hands above his head, gripped by one of mine. We were both giggling like maniacs, Nat begging for mercy. And the door flew open and there was Devon – clearly not expecting to see me there. He stuttered an apology, and Nat said something like, ‘It’s OK, Dev. Wait a minute!’ But Devon legged it, his face flushing bright red. I laughed and resumed my assault on Nat. But he wasn’t laughing.

  ‘Grace, stop for a minute.’