She even gave me a book about unhealthy relationships. (I almost laughed out loud. Could you get any more unhealthy than the relationship between me and Tasha?) It was about how you have to be strong to break free from abuse and not constantly measure yourself against toxic people but stand strong and distinct like a healthy tree. Not some stunted, falling-over, co-dependent victim tree. Or whatever.
It’s all very well. But Izzy and Tasha and all of them are still in my mind all the time. They have not checked out of the building. Maybe they never will.
‘If I don’t do it, it’ll always be a question,’ I say at last. ‘It’ll bug me my whole life. Could I have done it? Would it have changed things?’
Mum and Dad don’t look convinced.
‘You could say that about anything,’ says Mum. ‘Could you sky-dive off the Empire State Building? Well, maybe.’
‘Life’s too short,’ says Dad firmly. ‘Move on.’
‘I’m trying to move on. This is part of moving on!’
But as I look from face to face I know I’m never going to persuade them. Never, whatever I say.
So I go to Frank. Who also thinks it’s a bad idea, but the difference is, after we’ve discussed it for about five minutes he shrugs and says, ‘Your life.’
Dad’s changed his email password, but Frank soon finds it on his BlackBerry on a memo called New Password (poor Dad, he really shouldn’t leave his BlackBerry lying around), and we get into the account. I was planning to write the email myself, but Frank takes over, and honestly, he sounds just like Dad.
‘You’ve been reading too many of Dad’s emails,’ I say in awe as I read his words. ‘This is amazing!’
‘Piece of piss,’ says Frank, but I can tell he’s pleased. And he should be. The email is totally a work of art. It goes like this:
Dear Mrs Lawton
Please forgive my wife and me for our intemperate outburst of yesterday. As you can imagine, we were shocked at being contacted by you and perhaps reacted too quickly. On reflection, Audrey would very much like to meet Izzy and hear what she has to say. Could we suggest 3 pm next Tuesday, in Starbucks.
Please do not reply to this email, as my machine is playing up. Please text this number to confirm: 07986 435 619.
With best wishes
Chris Turner
That’s my new mobile number. After we’ve sent the email, Frank deletes it and then deletes it again out of Trash, and I think we’re safe.
And then, all of a sudden, I feel this lurch of fright. What am I doing? Shit, what am I doing? My heart starts racing, and I can feel my hands twisting up into knots.
‘Will you come with me? Please?’ I say before I can stop myself, and Frank turns to give me a long look. I dodge it, turning my head, but then sneak a glance back. He’s looking really anxious, like it’s suddenly hit him too – what we’ve done.
‘Aud, are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ I nod, over and over, as though to convince myself. ‘Yes. I’m going to do it. I just need a bit of moral support. If you come with me. And Linus.’
‘The three musketeers.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Have you told Linus?’
‘No, but I’m meeting him later at the park. I’ll tell him then.’
As I get into the park, I have a really bad moment. One of the old, scary kinds. Everyone around looks like a robot out to get me and the whole place is crackling with this air of dread and threat. My lizard brain is really not enjoying the experience; in fact my lizard brain wants to crawl under a bush.
But I’m not crawling under bushes, I tell myself firmly. I’m not listening to any lizards. Even though I feel ill with fear and keep getting these weird, dizzy waves, I manage to stride into the park like a normal person, and spot Linus sitting on a bench. Seeing him anchors me a little. Seeing his orange-segment smile splitting his face, all wide and happy, just for me, feels like someone stroking my lizard brain and telling it to calm down, everything’s fine.
(I haven’t mentioned my lizard brain to Linus. I mean, there are some things you tell a boyfriend and there are some things you totally keep to yourself otherwise you sound like a nutter.)
‘Hey, Rhubarb.’
‘Hey, Orange Slice.’ I touch his hand and we brush mouths together.
‘OK,’ says Linus, as soon as we part. ‘I have one. Go and ask that man if ducks are vegetarian.’ He points to an elderly man throwing bread at the ducks.
‘Are ducks vegetarian?’
‘Of course they’re not, you dope. They eat worms. Go on.’ He pushes my shoulder and I get up with a grin. I’m pulsating with dread but I force myself to have a conversation with the guy about ducks. Then I return to the bench and tell Linus to go and ask a bunch of French tourists which country we’re in.
Linus is a master. A master. He tells the French tourists in tones of consternation that he was aiming for Sweden, and must have gone astray, and they all start looking at maps and phones and saying ‘Angleterre! Eeengland!’ to him and gesticulating at the red buses that pass the park every five seconds.
‘Oh, England,’ says Linus at last, and they all nod furiously and say ‘D’accord! Grande-Bretagne! Eeengland!’ and at last they head off, all still gabbling and looking back at him. They’ll probably talk about him for the rest of their holiday.
‘OK,’ says Linus as he returns to the bench. ‘Go and ask that guy if he sells coconut ice cream.’ He nods at the ice-cream seller who has had his stall in the park every summer for as long as I can remember.
‘He doesn’t.’
‘I know. That’s why you’re asking.’
‘Too easy,’ I say proudly. ‘Think of another one.’
‘Can’t be bothered,’ says Linus lazily. ‘Go and do ice-cream guy.’
I head over to the stall and patiently wait my turn, and then say, ‘Excuse me, do you sell coconut ice cream?’
I know what he’s going to say. I’ve asked for coconut ice cream every year since I was about eight, but he never has it.
‘I do today,’ says the ice-cream seller, his eyes twinkling.
I stare at him stupidly as he reaches for his scoop. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Coconut ice cream for the young lady,’ he says with a flourish. ‘One-day special. Just for you.’
‘What?’ I blink in disbelief as he scoops white ice cream into a massive cone. ‘Is that coconut?’
‘Just for you,’ he repeats, handing me the cone. ‘And a chocolate chip for the young man,’ he adds, handing me a second cone. ‘All paid for.’
‘Coconut’s my favourite flavour,’ I say, in a daze. ‘But you never have it.’
‘That’s what he said. Your young man. Asked me to get it in special-like.’
I swivel round, and Linus is watching, his smile wider than ever.
‘Thanks,’ I say to the ice-cream seller. ‘I mean, thanks.’
As I reach Linus, I fling my arms round him without dropping either ice cream and kiss him. ‘I can’t believe you did that!’ I hand him his cone and lick my own. It’s nectar. It’s bliss. Coconut is the best flavour in the world. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Nice?’
‘I love it. I love it.’
‘So do I,’ says Linus, licking his own cone. ‘You.’
His words catch on my brain. So do I. You.
The park is a riot of sunshine and ducks quacking and children shrieking, but right now it’s as though the whole world has shrunk to his face. His brown hair, his honest eyes, that crescent smile.
‘What . . . do you mean?’ I force the words out.
‘What I said. I love it too,’ he says, not taking his eyes off mine.
‘You said you.’
‘Well . . . maybe that’s what I meant.’
I love it. So do I. You.
The words are dancing around my mind like jigsaw pieces, fitting together this way and that way.
‘What, exactly?’ I have to say it.
‘Well . . . I love it too,’ I say, my throat tight. ‘You.’
‘Me.’
‘Yes.’ I swallow. ‘Yes.’
We don’t need to say any more. And I know I’ll always remember this moment, right here, standing in the park with the ducks and the sunshine and his arms round me. His kiss tastes of chocolate chip and I’m sure I taste of coconut.
Actually those flavours go very well together. So.
And it’s only later that life disintegrates.
He doesn’t understand. He won’t understand. He’s not just opposed to the plan, he’s angry. Physically angry. He hits a tree, like it’s the tree’s fault.
‘It’s fucking nuts,’ he keeps saying, striding back and forth over the grass, glaring at the squirrels. ‘Bonkers.’
‘Look, Linus . . .’ I try to explain. ‘I have to do this.’
‘Don’t give me that bollocks!’ he yells. ‘I thought your therapist banned those words? I thought the only thing you “have to” do in life is obey the laws of physics? Didn’t you learn anything? What about living in the present, not the past? What about that?’
I stare at him, silenced. He was listening more than I realized.
‘You don’t “have to” do this,’ he continues. ‘You’re choosing to do it. What if you have a relapse? What then?’
‘Then . . .’ I wipe my damp face. ‘I won’t. I’ll be fine. I’m better, in case you hadn’t realized—’
‘You’re still wearing fucking dark glasses!’ he explodes. ‘You’re still practising having three-line conversations with strangers! And now you want to face down some bitch bully girl? Why would you even give her the time of day? It’s selfish.’
‘What?’ I stare at him, reeling. ‘Selfish?’
‘Yes, selfish! You know how many people have tried to help you? You know how many people are willing you to get better? And you pull a stunt like this, just because you “have to”? This is dangerous, if you ask me. And who’s going to pick up the pieces afterwards? Tell me that.’
He’s so righteously indignant, I feel a surge of fury. What does he know? What the fuck does he know about me?
‘There won’t be any “pieces”,’ I spit at him. ‘For God’s sake, seeing one girl in Starbucks isn’t dangerous. And anyway, it wasn’t what happened that made me ill. That’s a common mistake people make, actually. Stressful events don’t make you ill, actually. It’s the way your brain reacts to stressful events. So.’
‘OK, so how’s your brain going to react to this stressful event?’ he shoots back with equal ferocity. ‘Do a dance and sing Happy?’
‘It’s going to react fine,’ I say savagely. ‘I’m better. And if by any chance it doesn’t, don’t worry, I won’t expect you to “pick up the pieces”. In fact, you know, Linus, I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble already. You’d better find someone else to hang out with. Someone who doesn’t possess any dark glasses. Maybe Tasha – I’ve heard she’s super-fun.’
I’m scrambling to my feet, trying to keep my poise, which isn’t easy when the landscape is looming at me and my head is singing loud protests.
‘Audrey, stop.’
‘No. I’m going.’
Tears are coursing down my face, but that’s OK, because I’m keeping it twisted away from Linus.
‘Well, I’m coming with you.’
‘Leave me alone,’ I say, wrenching my arm out of his grasp. ‘Leave me alone.’ And finally, after managing to ignore it all day, I surrender to my lizard brain. And I run.
Here’s what I’m not supposed to do after a stressful event: ruminate about it. Brood. Replay it over and over. Take responsibility for anyone else’s emotions.
Here’s what I’ve been doing ever since my fight with Linus: ruminating about it. Brooding. Replaying it over and over. Taking responsibility for his fury (yet resenting it). Lurching between despair and indignation. Wanting to call him. Wanting to never call him again.
Why can’t he understand? I thought he’d admire me. I thought he’d talk about Closure and Courage and say, ‘You’re right, Audrey, this is something you have to do, however hard it is, and I’ll be right behind you.’
I’ve barely slept, the last two nights. It’s like my mind is a cauldron, cooking away, throwing up noxious bubbles and fumes and fermenting itself into something quite weird. I feel light-headed and surreal and hyper. But kind of focused too. I’m going to do this, and it’s going to be like a major turning point, and afterwards things will be different – I don’t know how exactly, but they will. It’s like I’ll have got over the hurdle or run through the finishing tape or whatever. I’ll be free. Of something.
So in short, I’m a bit obsessed. But luckily Mum and Dad are too preoccupied with Frank to notice me right now. I’m way down under their radar. Basically, Mum found the Atari in Frank’s room last night and it all kicked off again and now we’re in Family Crisis Mode.
As I come down to breakfast, they’re at it again.
‘For the millionth time, it’s not a computer,’ Frank is saying calmly. ‘It’s an Atari console. You said no computers. I classify a computer as a machine which can process information in a number of ways, including word processing, email and internet browsing. The Atari does none of these, therefore it’s not a computer, therefore it wasn’t a basic breach of trust.’ He shovels Shreddies into his mouth. ‘You need to tighten up your definitions. That’s the problem. Not my Atari console.’
I think Frank should be a lawyer one day. I mean, he’s totally nailed the argument, not that Mum appreciates it.
‘Do you hear this?’ Mum is appealing to Dad, who looks like he wants to hide behind his newspaper. ‘The point is, Frank, we had an agreement. You do not play any kind of video games, end of. Do you know how damaging they are?’
‘Jesus.’ Frank holds his head in his hands. ‘Mum, you’re the one with a problem with computer games. You’re becoming fixated.’
‘I’m not fixated!’ She gives a scoffing laugh.
‘You are! You can’t think about anything else! Do you even know that I got ninety-five in my chemistry?’
‘Ninety-five?’ Mum is stopped in her tracks. ‘Really?’
‘I told you yesterday, but you didn’t even listen. You were all, Atari! Evil! Get it out of the house!’
Mum looks a bit chastened. ‘Oh,’ she says at last. ‘Well . . . ninety-five! That’s great! Well done!’
‘Out of a thousand,’ says Frank, then adds, ‘Joke. Joke.’
He grins at me, and I try to smile back, though my stomach is churning. All I can think is: Three o’clock. Three o’clock.
We’ve stuck to the meeting place in Starbucks, even though the Lawtons have been constantly texting, wanting to change it to a ‘more conducive location’ and offering their own house or a hotel suite or a room at Izzy’s counsellor’s office. Yeah, right.
Frank has been in charge of all the correspondence. He’s brilliant. He’s batted away all their suggestions in a way that could totally be Dad, and refused to give them an alternative email address, which they keep asking for, and texted in exactly Dad’s style.
It’s actually quite funny. I mean, they have no idea it’s just us, two kids. They think Dad and Mum are coming. They think this is a big family meeting. They hope it will be ‘cathartic for all’, according to their last text.
As for me, I can’t believe I’m going to see Izzy again. It’s going to happen. The big showdown. I feel like I’m a spring that is slowly coiling up and up, tensing, waiting . . .
Only seven hours to go.
And then suddenly it’s seven minutes to go and I truly feel sick. My head is pounding – not with a headache, but with a kind of impending, heightened sense of reality. The street seems brighter than normal, somehow. Noisier. Rawer.
Frank’s bunked off school early, which is OK because exams are over, so all
they do in lessons is watch ‘educational’ DVDs. He’s walking along with me, chatting about what happened in assembly this morning when someone brought their pet rat in and let it go. I half want to snap, ‘Shut up! Let me think!’ and I’m half grateful for the distraction.
I’m wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and black trainers. Serious clothes. I have no idea what Izzy will wear. She was never a particularly cool dresser; that was Tasha. I even half wonder if I’ll recognize her. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago, but it feels a whole lifetime.
But of course I do recognize her, instantly. I see them through the glass before they see us. The mother, the father, both looking anxious, but doing that fake-smile thing. And her. Izzy. She’s in some childlike T-shirt with pink ribbon edging, and a pretty skirt. What’s that all about? I want to laugh. But . . . I can’t.
I can’t smile either. It’s like all my powers are slipping away, one by one.
As I step inside the coffee shop, I know I can’t speak either. My insides have turned hollow. Just like that, in an instant. All the inner strength I’ve been building up, the tensed-up spring, the fighting talk . . . it’s all disappeared.
I feel small and vulnerable.
No, not small. I’m taller than her. I still have that. I’m tall.
But vulnerable. And speechless. And now they’re all looking our way. I squeeze Frank’s hand in silent desperation and he seems to get the message.
‘Hello,’ he says briskly, heading towards their table. ‘Let me introduce myself. Frank Turner. You must be the Lawtons.’
He holds out his hand but no one takes it. Both Izzy’s parents are looking him up and down in bewilderment.
‘Audrey, we were expecting your parents,’ says Mrs Lawton.
‘They were unavoidably detained,’ says Frank without blinking. ‘I am the family representative.’
‘But—’ Mrs Lawton looks flustered. ‘I really think your parents should— We understood this would be a family meeting—’
Finding Audrey Page 16