‘Alright, let’s have look at you,’ Marsha says. Because you can’t hide anything from Marsha.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, and, with disastrous timing, I sneeze.
‘You’ll be finer when I’m finished with you.’
I stare at her. What’s she even doing here? She’s not my mother.
She touches my forehead with the back of her fingers.
‘You hot and cold?’
I nod.
‘Blocked nose?’
‘D’you need to ask?’ I say in a disgustingly nasal voice.
‘Headache?’ she asks.
I nod, only because she might go away to get me some painkillers.
‘Back in a minute,’ she says and is gone. Minutes later, she reappears with a tray full of stuff. She puts it on the locker. ‘Right, knock these back.’ In one hand, she holds out painkillers and vitamins; in the other, a glass of orange juice. It’s homemade, warm and sweet with bits of orange floating in it. It tastes like my mum used to make.
‘Did you make this?’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think I’d deprive Barbara of the pleasure. Now, put your head over the bowl and the towel over your head, then breathe in through your nose.’
‘I just need sleep.’
She stands, arms folded, eyebrow up.
And I know that the only way to get rid of her is to do what she asks.
I’m beginning to look like a bag lady. My hair is uncombed and stuck to my head. I’ve been living in the same T-shirt and trackie bottoms for days. I could do with a shower. And opening a window or two. But I can’t get out of bed.
Next day, The Rockstar appears.
‘How’s the cold?’ he asks lightly, as if that’s all this is. A cold.
I shrug with one shoulder.
‘Plenty of OJ,’ he prescribes. Rockstars don’t use proper words, like ‘orange juice’.
‘Listen, I just came to say, I have to go to London for a few days.’
I almost laugh. He’s so predictable.
‘Marsha’ll be here.’
‘Does she know that babysitting’s part of her job description now? Maybe you need to give her a raise.’
He smiles awkwardly. ‘I just meant if you want someone to talk to. Of course, Mike’s here. And Barbara. For anything you need. Any problems.’
How about a broken heart? They got anything for that? ‘Great,’ I say.
He leaves that night. Why hang around?
The following morning, there’s a knock on the door. It opens to reveal Marsha. And David. He looks pale and serious.
‘Oh Jesus,’ I say, feeling the energy drain from me. Sitting in bed, I draw my knees up to my chest and squeeze.
‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Marsha says, and I wonder why The Rockstar pays for security with her around.
David comes in. Closing the door behind him. He starts walking towards me.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ he says. ‘And I’m not going to let you.’
My heart is pumping like a broken machine.
He stops walking. ‘I love you,’ he says.
It’s like everything stops. I look at him standing there and know with such force that I don’t just love him back but love him with every single bone in my body, every hair on my head, every breath that I take. And that is why I have to say,
‘I don’t love you.’ Eyes closed, I force it out. Because better to snap suddenly in two than shatter slowly into a million pieces. Better for both of us.
But he just looks at me, ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘That’s pretty arrogant.’
‘No. It’s pretty honest. I’m leaving in just over a week. Let’s make the most of it, let’s spend our last few days together.’
I have to kill this. I have to do it.
‘What makes you think you’re so special?’ I demand, kneeling up on the bed, pretending to be indignant, pretending he’s this arrogant person. But I know what makes him special. His smile. His eyes. His face. The randomness of the few freckles he has. His sense of humour. His honesty. Honesty that is making this so hard. He starts walking again, towards the bed, holding my eyes with his. If he kisses me, I’ll melt. Oh God. I’ll cave in.
‘Stop.’
He doesn’t.
‘Stop or I’ll scream.’
He does stop. He stops and looks at me like I’ve just accused him of something, and he can’t believe it. He takes a step back.
‘I give up,’ he says, more angry than sad. ‘I give up.’ Then he is walking away. And I wish with all my heart he’d given up before I had to hurt him.
It’s better this way, I tell myself. For him. For me. But when he walks out the door, all I can think is, I’ll never see him again.
I cry myself out. And have to wait for over an hour before my face looks any way normal. Then I go looking for Marsha. I find her in Dad’s office, sketching designs.
‘No more visitors,’ I say firmly. ‘No more phone calls.’
She looks up. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. You said yourself, Christmas is a bitch. Well, it is.’
She puts down her felt-tip. ‘This isn’t about Christmas, though, is it?’
I close my eyes, take a deep breath. ‘Look, I just want to be on my own for a while, OK? I just want peace.’
‘David’s a good guy.’
I have to stop myself covering my ears. ‘Marsha. I don’t need to hear this.’
She looks at me for a long time. ‘You’ve lost him, haven’t you?’
I take a deep breath. I keep my voice steady, free of emotion. ‘Yes I have. And now I want to be alone. OK?’
She stands up and opens her arms. I don’t move.
‘Marsha. I’m OK,’ I say, like I’m totally in control. ‘I’m going back upstairs to have a shower, to open the windows. Then I’m going to eat something.’ Because these are the things that make people think you’re OK. This I know.
But there’s something in her eyes. And I start to panic.
‘Don’t tell The Rockstar about this.’
‘He’s your dad.’
‘And you’re my friend. I’m asking you not to tell him. He doesn’t know I was going out with anyone. So what’s the point? David’s leaving. He’s going back to the States. I’ll get over it. Let’s just leave everything as it is, please. I don’t want him to know.’ I don’t want him pretending he cares.
Then the phone’s ringing. She looks at me and answers it.
‘Oh, yes. Hi. One moment and I’ll check.’ She covers the mouthpiece. ‘Are you here for your gran?’
My stomach tightens. I’ve been avoiding her, unable to tell her about David. (She’d have too much to say.) But she’s the only one who needs me.
‘Last phone call,’ I whisper to her. I put my hand out for the phone.
‘Hey, Gran.’
‘Good Lord. You sound terrible,’ she says. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’ve a cold. It’s fine.’ I look at Marsha to let her know I’m leaving with the phone. Then I do.
‘I’ll pop some Vitamin C in the post.’
‘Honestly, Gran. It’s nothing.’ I don’t want her having to go out to buy vitamins.
‘You’ll get it in a day or two. Take it.’
‘OK,’ I say, because it’s easier to agree.
‘I’ll email some links on building your immunity, OK?’
‘OK. Thanks.’
‘Read them.’
‘I will.’ I start to walk up the stairs.
‘Is your father around?’ she asks.
I pause. ‘He’s in London.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake. Who’s there with you?’
‘Marsha.’
‘Is that the cook?’
‘No, the stylist.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’
‘It’s OK. Mike’s here. And Barbara, the cook. I’m not alone.’
‘I’ll come over.’
‘Gran, he’s back
tonight,’ I lie. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She hates coming over. She’s about as happy with The Rockstar as I am.
‘Are you sure?’ she asks.
‘Totally.’ I get to my room and close the door.
‘OK, well, drink lots and get plenty of rest. I’ll pop round in a few days.’
‘No, I’ll come to you . . . How are you?’
‘Fine. Just worried about you.’
I feel guilty again. ‘It’s just a cold.’
‘Are you in your bed?’
‘Yep,’ I say, sitting on it so I don’t have to lie again.
‘Good girl. You take care of yourself, alright?’
‘OK. Thanks, Gran.’
We hang up. And I’m crying again.
TWENTY-THREE | MY OTHER LIFE
For the rest of the week, I hear from no one. I should be happy. It’s what I wanted. But I’m not happy. I miss David so much. And he’s not even gone. The Rockstar returns from London. So I get up and have that shower. Open those windows. Change my clothes. I even go out. To bring Homer for a walk. Cold air on my face wakes me up. I squint in the glare of daylight, like someone who has emerged from a cave.
I’m not walking him on Killiney Hill. Or the beach.
Poor Homer. Bringing him along the road means using the lead. Which he hates. We both do. He tugs me forward, I tug him back. It’s a battle.
It starts to drizzle. And it’s so cold. Then Homer crosses in front of me suddenly to get a stick that’s lying on the edge of the path. I stumble forward.
‘Homer, God!’ I shout at him. He cowers.
We walk on, and the drizzle turns to rain. I don’t care. I’m not going back.
The tug-of-war continues.
‘I should have had you trained,’ I say to him.
He ignores me. Then he spots a dog on the other side of the road and runs out onto it, pulling me with him.
I wrench him back. ‘Heel!’ I shout. Which is stupid. I never taught him to come to heel. He’s no idea what I’m talking about. He looks up at me like he’s sorry. ‘That’s it, buddy, we’re going home.’
We’re supposed to go back to school a day before the work experience starts to make sure everyone’s set up. The teacher knows I am, so I don’t go in. I can’t face anyone. Especially not David. Though he probably won’t turn up either. It’s only days now, before he leaves. And he certainly won’t want to see me.
Next day, I get up early. There’s no sign of Marsha or The Rockstar, which is a relief. I force some cornflakes down. Then catch Barbara looking at me like I’ve had some kind of relapse. I force a smile. And go out to Mike. When he sees me, he jumps from the car with what seems like great energy. He opens the door for me with a smile.
‘Good to see you back on your feet.’
‘Thanks.’ This time my smile is genuine. Because I know that will be the limit of his conversation for the entire time we’re out.
He drops me at the car park close to the shop.
And as I walk towards it, I feel glad that in this place no one knows me. I walk through that door, just another girl on work experience, not someone with problems, worries, issues.
‘Hey, Alex,’ Pat says. ‘Welcome.’ She actually hugs me.
I smile. Like I’m happy. Like everything’s easy. ‘Thanks.’
‘Come on. Let me show you the ropes before things get busy.’
It’s good to have to concentrate. It’s good to have a challenge. It’s good not to have time to think. The morning goes fast. I’m good with customers – not pushy, just helpful. I genuinely care that they go away happy. And they seem to pick up on that. Some even compliment Pat on me. By lunchtime, I’m tired. But good tired. I leave the shop but have nowhere to go, so I get a takeaway coffee and walk down to the sea.
In the afternoon, the shop gets a little bit quieter. And Pat, unfortunately, starts to get chatty. I don’t set out to fool anyone except, maybe, myself. It starts with a compliment. Pat tells me I’m good with people.
‘My daughter, Emily, won’t go shopping with me anymore,’ she says wistfully. And I don’t know why she’s telling me that. I used to be exactly like her daughter, when I had a mum, turning her down in favour of Rachel and Sarah. If I’d known there was a deadline, that our time together had a limit . . .
‘Do you go shopping with your mum?’ she asks, as if she should judge everything by me.
I clear the lump in my throat. I’m not telling her about Mum. I’m not bringing my life here. If I do, how can I escape it?
‘Sometimes,’ I say.
‘Where d’you go?’
‘Dundrum,’ I say, imagining the life I’d like. ‘Mum’s pretty hopeless. I have to find stuff for her. She’ll look at a rail and see nothing. I make her try things on. She doesn’t realise how pretty she is.’ She never did. I can’t believe how much information can be requested and passed over in one afternoon. By the time I’m leaving, I’ve a father who’s an engineer. He hassles me about homework and boys and keeping my room tidy. I’ve a brother who broke his thumb playing hockey. And I’ve a friend, Rachel, who climbs mountains.
On Tuesday, I know what I want to do when I leave school – medicine.
On Wednesday, I have a boyfriend. But it’s not serious.
On Thursday, my real life invades. Rachel walks in.
I slip behind a display. And watch through the glass as she approaches the counter. Pat looks up from pricing some necklaces. I don’t hear what Rachel says, but I do hear Pat.
‘Not at all.’ Her eyes scan the shop. Doesn’t take long.
‘There you are! Someone here would like a quick word.’ She smiles at Rachel.
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I can call Rachel after work.’ Because I don’t want a quick word, a slow word, or any kind of word.
‘So this is Rachel,’ Pat says, looking impressed.
Rachel looks at me, totally stunned that I’ve told anyone about her. I come hurrying forward.
‘Why don’t you two grab a quick coffee?’ Pat says. ‘Go on.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, grabbing my bag from behind the counter, before she can bring up mountain climbing.
‘I’d better not stay long,’ I say to Rachel, outside. ‘Don’t want to take advantage.’
Rachel looks straight at me. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t take up much of your time.’ Ice.
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘You don’t return my calls. You won’t see me. It’s OK, Alex, I get the message.’
‘So why are you here?’ I say, to really hammer it home. To push her away for good.
She doesn’t flinch. ‘His flight’s at ten tomorrow morning.’
I wrap my arms around myself. ‘So?’
‘So. This is your last chance.’
I don’t tell her what I did with my last chance. ‘Tell me why this is your business,’ I say instead. Because I don’t need anyone.
‘Stop! OK?’ she says so suddenly, so loudly, that people passing turn to look. ‘You need people. Alex, if you don’t say goodbye, you will be sorry.’
‘Look. I have to go back.’
‘Alex. Open your eyes. Look what’s happening. You’re totally isolating yourself.’
Exactly, I think.
She throws her hands up. ‘OK. Fine. But, just so you know, there comes a point when people stop trying.’
‘Good,’ I say, to make sure that this is it. The end.
‘Goodbye, Alex.’
I let her go without a word. I tighten my arms around myself. Then I force a smile on my face and return to the shop. I’ll keep busy. I’ll be fine.
‘That was quick,’ Pat says, cheerfully.
I just smile wider.
‘So that was Rachel?’ she says.
‘Eh. Yeah.’ I pick up a cloth and start cleaning a glass cabinet, my back to her.
‘She does look fit. Mind you, I’m not sure I’d be in a hurry to let my kids up the side of a cliff.’
I rub the cloth round in a circl
e. Round and round, over the same bit of glass. But then I catch my reflection and look so sad I turn away suddenly. I bump right into Pat. She laughs. Then sees my face.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, fine. Thanks.’
‘You don’t look so well.’
‘Migraine.’
‘Oh, well, in that case, go home.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘You don’t have a choice here, Alex. I get migraines. I know what they’re like. Hang on.’ She goes behind the counter. Roots in her bag. Takes out a box of tablets. She hands me two. ‘Take these now, while you can still absorb them.’
I hold out my hand for them. Then she hands me a bottle of water.
‘I don’t have cooties,’ she says, smiling.
I knock back the tablets. ‘Thank you.’
‘Now go.’
I squint at her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. Do you want me to call your mum?’
I take out my phone. ‘It’s OK, thanks, I got it.’
Mike brings me home. I go straight to my room. I take out the laptop and bring it to bed. I watch movies back to back. Kill Bill followed by the sequel. Then Pulp Fiction. At some point, my plan works and I fall asleep without thinking.
TWENTY-FOUR | MISSING KNIGHT
In the morning, my first thought is David. He’ll be at the airport now. Checking in. An ache starts in my chest and spreads out. I try to ignore it. Mike drives me to work in the rain. All day, I keep my head down, my mind blank. I smile extra hard at customers – until I catch my reflection and realise how scary I look. I try to concentrate, but give one woman too much change, another an empty jewellery box. I drop an earring onto the floor and step on it when I try to find it. By four o’clock, I’ve apologised so much, I’m annoying myself. Pat asks if I want to leave early.
So I leave early.
I stand outside the shop. Take a deep breath. And just start walking. One foot in front of the other. My steps form a rhythm. And carry me to the sea. It roars loud, wild and rebellious. And I think, there must have been a storm last night. Waves rear up like angry horses. There’s salt in the air, mist in my face. And for just one moment, I close my eyes, breathe it in and think of David – who is now over the sea somewhere, travelling hundreds of miles an hour, away from me. Then I’m walking fast, along the coast, my feet pounding the ground. Then I’m running, past Sandycove beach and up the hill towards the Forty Foot, the infamous ‘gentlemen’s bathing place’ that had to give in to pressure and allow women bathers. (Big of them, right?) I stop, out of breath, watching waves explode like fireworks against the rocks. I go down the steps to the changing area. People swim here all year round. Today it is deserted. I climb the rocky outcrop. Spray covers me, landing on my hair like cold fingertips. I forget time. Zone out. It’s just me and the sea.
The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually) Page 17