‘That’s so sexist,’ is all I can think of saying.
‘Simon,’ Sarah interrupts. ‘If Alex’s dad has taken out a barring order, it must be serious. She’s probably a stalker.’ Her eyes widen at the thought. ‘You don’t joke with stalkers, Simon. Madonna had a stalker. It’s very serious.’
I want to be somewhere else.
‘Yeah, well,’ Simon continues, ‘if someone was sending me nude shots of themselves, I wouldn’t exactly stop them.’ He’s looking very satisfied with himself.
I roll my eyes. And walk out. In the corridor, I stop. Nude photos. No one said anything about nude photos. At the risk of getting detention, I make my way to my locker and take out my phone. Mike doesn’t take long to answer.
‘What’s with this stalker?’ I use the word deliberately.
A moment’s silence. ‘OK. The first thing to know is that we’re just being careful.’
So, he’s not denying that she’s a stalker, then. ‘Who is she?’
Another pause. ‘Her name is Sarah Cameron. She’s South African. In her thirties. Your father had her up on stage back in the nineties.’
‘The nineties? She’s been stalking him since the nineties?’
‘No, no. She only got in touch lately.’
‘I don’t get it.’
He takes a deep breath. ‘She seems to be a religious . . .’ he pauses, ‘. . . enthusiast. She says that when she, and I quote, “met” your dad, he was married and she respected that. She only got in touch after your mum died.’
‘Psycho.’
‘Look, Alex, there’s no reason to worry . . .’
‘I’m not worried, I just don’t get why someone religious would send nude photos of herself.’
‘You know about that?’
‘Apparently it’s all over the Internet.’
‘Alex, this is not unusual. Fans sometimes get obsessed. But they’re totally harmless. They just don’t see that their behaviour has gone over the top until something wakes them up. Something like a barring order.’
‘OK. I get that. But why does he need a barring order if she’s in South Africa?’
‘Recently, she moved to Ireland.’
‘Because of him?’
‘We don’t know that. But it’s why we acted. Just to be on the safe side.’ His voice is reassuring. ‘Look, Alex, I’m sure she’s just a lonely woman who got a bit carried away. The barring order will put an end to this.’
And I wonder what it is about celebrity, that even an ancient guy of forty-five with dyed hair and wedges can attract such adoration. I also wonder when his life is going to stop affecting mine.
Ms Hall is there when I get back. She doesn’t see me come in, too busy allocating the last of the roles. I go to the end of the hall with the other non-enthusiasts. I take out my jotter, sit on a table and start to doodle. A noose – for over Simon’s head.
A sudden clap.
‘Right,’ Ms Hall says. ‘The rest of you.’ Why her eyes zoom in on me I don’t know, but they do, before I’ve a chance to look away. ‘Alex!’
Damn.
‘Any thoughts on what you’d like to do?’ She’s walking towards me.
I snap the jotter shut. ‘Eh. Something backstage.’
‘What about sound?’ she asks as if it’s the obvious choice. And I am so sick of having a rockstar for a father.
‘Why would I want sound?’
Her eyes widen and the room goes quiet. Which is when I realise I may have said that a bit loud. I may, in fact, have shouted it out. I close my eyes and shake my head. ‘Sorry, I just meant I’d like something other than sound . . . Thanks.’
‘What’s wrong with sound?’ she asks, her face grim, her mouth drawn tight.
‘Nothing. I’m just better at other things.’
‘Like?’ she asks, like I’m being difficult.
I can’t think. She’s standing in my face, arms folded, looking like Mrs Tweedy from Chicken Run. Her hair is ordinary brown, cut in no obvious style; her jacket, skirt and shoes more last century than last season. And she’s supposed to be a drama teacher?
‘Well?’ she asks, tapping a foot. Her shoes are almost as bad as The Rockstar’s.
And then I have it. ‘Costumes! I’ll do costumes.’
The look she gives me. Like I’m making the biggest mistake ever. ‘Fine. If that’s what you want.’ Already, she’s striding away. And swooping on Amy.
I glance at David. Roll my eyes at myself. He winks.
Then Sarah’s hurrying over, looking all dramatic.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, to cut her off.
‘Oh. OK. Good.’ She sounds deflated.
‘Let’s go find Rachel,’ I say. I scan the hall. She’s standing at the far end, looking over, but not coming. And then I remember the way it is between us now.
One reason it’s so easy with David is that he never pushes it, never expects us to go out on, like, official dates or anything. He never suggests we go to a movie, to parties or discos. He knows that having ‘fun’ means feeling guilty after. So, later, we just walk Killiney Hill with Homer. It’s starting to rain but the drops aren’t getting through the trees yet.
‘You’re quiet,’ he says.
I look up. And realise we’ve been walking for ages. ‘Sorry. Just thinking.’
‘About what happened in drama?’
Actually, I was thinking about Rachel but now that he mentions drama, I shake my head. ‘Such an idiot.’
‘She hasn’t a clue.’
‘I meant myself. I can’t believe I lost it like that.’
‘You didn’t lose it. You got a bit angry. She deserved it.’
‘I just wish people would stop bringing him up. He’s got his own life. It’s not mine.’
He stops walking. ‘OK. First of all, Ms Hall is not “people”. Ms Hall is just Ms Hall.’
And Simon Kelleher is just Simon Kelleher, I think, and start to feel better.
He puts an arm around me and we start walking again.
‘Does Mark like Rachel?’ I ask, looking up at him.
He stops walking. Smiles widely. ‘Does Rachel like Mark?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then I don’t know.’
‘You do know. You’re just not telling me.’
‘It’s classified information.’
‘Oh my God. He does. Doesn’t he?’
‘Don’t tell her.’
Then I remember where we are, Rache and I. ‘It’s OK, I won’t.’
He looks at me. ‘Is everything OK between you?’
I make a face and sigh. ‘Not really.’
And I’m relieved he lets me leave it at that.
Later, I take out my laptop and google The Rockstar’s name and the word ‘stalker’. I scan the results.
‘Typical!’ I say aloud, thinking of Simon Kelleher.
It’s not ‘all over the Internet’. Just a few bloggers hyping it up. Anything in the actual media is just a mention, nothing I don’t already know. The downside of that is that there aren’t any photos of her. Maybe they do that with stalkers, keep the news to a minimum, so they don’t encourage it. Could the press sometimes actually have a conscience?
ELEVEN | THE MACBETHS
No one else would notice. Only me. Mostly, it’s the things Rachel doesn’t say, the times she doesn’t step in – to distract Sarah from a difficult topic, to deflect Amy, to ask if I’m OK. But it’s not that I miss. It’s her just looking me in the eye and saying what she wants to say.
On Thursday, in the canteen, I surprise everyone, including myself.
‘Hey, why don’t we go see a movie tomorrow and you guys can stay over?’
‘Great!’ Sarah says, automatically.
Rachel looks into her lunch. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ve something on.’
‘What?’ Sarah asks straight out.
Rachel starts to blush. She hesitates. ‘A family thing.’
My stomach tightens and I blush too.
Because there is no family thing.
Sarah looks at me. ‘I’m still OK,’ she says cheerfully.
‘Oh, right, great.’
When I get home, the place is full of people. Which means The Rockstar’s home. Not that it is a home any more. The kitchen is all noise now. Noise and strangers. And exotic food I don’t want. I go upstairs with Homer, the next best thing to Mum. From under the bed, I take out my photo album and go straight to my absolutely favourite shot of me and Mum, taken in a phone booth only a year ago, just before she was diagnosed. It’s the last record of us when things were normal. Looking at it, I remember how alike we were, same colour hair (browny-blonde), same shaped face (kind of pixie-like), same shaped eyes (big and round) but different colour (her green, me blue). I wonder where she is now, if she can see me, hear my thoughts. Or if she’s gone forever. My throat burns, and I start to cry. I put the photo back and close the album. I hold it to my chest. Finally, I reach over to put it under the bed. Something falls out. An envelope. I haven’t had much post in my life, so I know who sent me this. I leave the album on the floor and lie back up on the bed. I take the letter from the envelope.
It’s written on A4 foolscap paper. It has no address at the top, but I know where it was written. Irish College. Rachel spent three weeks there, two summers ago, trying to improve on the language we’re all forced to learn. It doesn’t start with ‘Dear Alex’. It just dives straight in:
Get me out of here! OMG, why do we have to study this freaking ‘language’? It’s, like, from the Ark. So’s Irish College. Our teacher’s Damien from The Omen. Our bean an tí (lady of the house, in case you don’t know) is like the witch in ‘Hansel and Gretel’– except instead of making us fat, she’s starving us to death. I can’t believe this place cost 1,000 euro. If I didn’t think my mum would kill me, I’d speak English just to get kicked out. Oh God, it’s so good to speak English – even if it means I have to write a letter. No offence.
Write back. Or else. Seriously miss you.
I HATE IRISH! Rache.
P.S. Send chewing gum. Preferably cherry flavour.
I fold it away, knowing she’d never write that now.
Friday night, we’re at the cinema. Sarah’s glued to the latest romantic comedy while I wonder how I got myself into this i.e. Sarah coming home with me for an entire night. Maybe I could drug her. The movie is a four out of ten and not worth talking about as we leave the cinema. Outside, Mike’s waiting. I climb in the back and slide across to make room for Sarah. But when I look, she’s not behind me. A door slams up front, and there she is, reaching for her safety belt. A confused-looking Mike glances back at me. I shrug, then stretch to close the back door. We take off. As we drive, Sarah keeps glancing at him.
‘Is that a new haircut?’ she asks finally. There’s something about the way she says it – like she wants to run her fingers through it or something.
‘Eh, yeah,’ Mike says, keeping his eyes on the road.
‘Suits you,’ she chirps. Inside, I groan.
‘So, what part of London you from?’ she asks.
In the rear-view mirror Mike’s eyes widen, as if to say, ‘help’.
I try not to laugh.
‘Tower Hamlets,’ he says.
Means nothing to me. And I’m pretty sure it means nothing to Sarah.
‘And how d’you get into security?’
I have to turn my sudden burst of laughter into a coughing fit. Mike hands me a bottle of water.
‘I answered an ad,’ he says.
Anyone else would take the hint. Not Sarah. The questions keep coming. The weird thing is, they’re so ordinary but she delivers them like Marilyn Monroe singing ‘Happy Birthday, Mr President’. What is she doing? Even if she had a hope, which she so doesn’t, Mike would lose his job. If he was that stupid. Which he’s not. I don’t suppose it’d make any difference if I told her he’s got to be in his thirties? Eeew!
At last, we turn into our driveway. Mike looks relieved. I know I am.
Sarah’s ‘Bye!’ to Mike is delivered like a line from Romeo and Juliet – that one, ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’. And I wish Rachel was here, rolling her eyes.
If I told Sarah, ‘My house is your house’, she’d take me up on it – for real. Apart from the fact that her mum isn’t here (they don’t get on), there’s a cook, and a stylist. And Mike. There’s entertainment too: gym, swimming pool, tennis court and hot tub.
‘Where’s Homer?’ Sarah asks when we get inside.
‘Probably upstairs, hiding from The Stylist.’
‘God, I love this house. Where is she?’
‘Could be anywhere,’ I say, depressed. I mean, why’s the New Yorker still hanging around anyway?
Sarah’s eyes open wide. ‘D’you think she’d give us a makeover?’
‘She kinda works for my dad.’
Sarah looks disappointed. But only for a moment. ‘I know! Let’s play on the Wii.’ She gives me the wide-eyed look she does so well. ‘The cow race one, that’s so fun.’
After the Wii, she wants to check out the hot tub. I haven’t been in it for so long. On my own, it’d feel kind of weird. And lonely. We sit submerged, heads and shoulders above water, looking up at the stars, steam rising all round us. Sarah’s cheeks are rosy from the heat.
‘So,’ she says, sipping her Coke. ‘Rachel and Mark Delaney.’
‘The Macbeths!’
She sits up. ‘Oh my God! That’s a great name for them if she says yes.’
I squint. ‘Yes to what?’
She puts down her drink. ‘Mark asked Rachel out.’
‘What? Oh my God! When?’
‘Yesterday. Didn’t she tell you?’
I feel my face fall. Sarah looks guilty, like maybe she shouldn’t have said anything. She sinks under the water a bit.
‘He just asked her. She didn’t say yes or anything.’
She told Sarah. But not me. I’m surprised how much that hurts.
‘She doesn’t even know if she likes him.’
And I’d so love to be hearing this from Rachel. For her to be sitting here with us, telling us how she’s feeling, and what she’s going to do. I’ve so many questions. And she’s not here. Which is totally my fault.
‘Alex. Don’t worry about it. She probably forgot to tell you.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’
Costumes for Macbeth is not what I had in mind and shows how desperate Sarah is to come up with something fast. But I don’t think it would matter what subject she picked: all I can think of is how it feels to be left out in the cold and how many times I must have done this to Rachel.
Sarah passes out at midnight. And snores. Not loud, like a man, but whistly and regular. It’s like Chinese water torture. I make it through the night without suffocating her, but only just. In the morning, she asks if Mike could drop her home, then right in front of me rings her mum and tells her she won’t need a lift after all.
‘Can I borrow your hair straightener?’ she asks, cheerily.
I think about all the ways you could use a GHD to murder someone.
She spends an hour in front of the mirror, updating me on the latest gossip on Perez. I know she’s loving this. While she ‘tries out’ my lip gloss, my mind flashes back to Rachel. And my stomach tightens.
When Sarah’s finally leaving for home, I go with her. Mike might be ancient, but he still needs protection. Walking to the car, I give a sudden spurt of speed and beat her to the front seat. I feel like Bobby, David’s little brother. I also feel like laughing.
Mike’s smiling when I get in. But he says nothing, just starts the engine.
‘Wow, that hot tub’s amazing,’ comes from the back. I look out the window.
‘Ever tried it, Mike?’
His ‘no’ comes out as a cough.
I don’t know anything about soccer apart from the fact that Mike’s a Man United fan. I ask him how they’re doing. He comes alive. His answer is a long, boring ramble wit
h no pauses for breath or thought. But it gets us to Sarah’s without further interruption – which was, of course, the point.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say when she’s gone. ‘I don’t know what’s got into her.’
He looks at me. ‘That girl’s trouble.’
‘Actually, she’s kind of harmless.’
He says nothing, but doesn’t look convinced.
‘Mike, can you drop me to Gran’s?’
‘Sure.’
Gran opens the door with a smile. Then loses it.
‘Where’s McFadden?’ She stretches her neck out and checks the porch, as though I’m hiding him.
‘David has a hockey match.’
‘Oh, it’s David now, is it?’ she says, eyebrows raised, like I’ve just told her we’ve got engaged.
I shake my head and follow her in. She makes tea. Then it’s the Spanish Inquisition. Is he a good hockey player? (Dunno.) What’s he like at school? (OK, I guess.) Is he still annoying? (No answer.) And finally, ‘How many times have you seen him this week?’
‘Every day,’ I say, to get her excited. Then, ‘We’re in school together, Gran.’
‘Smarty Pants.’
But actually, apart from last night, we have met up practically every day after school too.
‘Does he hold the door for you?’ she asks, like it’s a crucial question.
‘Gran! Nobody holds doors any more.’
‘But does he?’
I give in. ‘OK. Actually, he does.’ He’s kind of caring like that.
‘I knew it!’ She’s so happy with herself, she forgets to ask any more questions, and we’re quiet for a while. My mind flashes back to Rachel. How many times in the last six months have I blocked her out? And she still stuck by me. Until now.
‘You’re not listening,’ Gran says, crossly.
I look at her. ‘I am.’
‘Then what did I say?’
I draw a blank.
She folds her arms. ‘I said, “That boy’s a keeper.”’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘You don’t know what you’ve got there,’ she says, crossly.
The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually) Page 9