The Ice Cream Girls

by Dorothy Koomson

  I saw the spot before my hands touched the soft fabric of my dress. A spot of white ice cream, the size of a pea, staining the front skirt of the pink dress he had bought for me. My hand froze mid-air.

  No. No. No! There can’t be a stain on my dress. There just can’t.

  I stared at it, not knowing what to do. There was no way I could hide it. There was no way I could wash it off and dry it before he came back. This couldn’t be happening to me. I’d been so careful for so long, I hadn’t made any mistakes or said anything stupid, and now this . . .

  All ready to leave, Serena came closer to me. She was zipped into her knee-length yellow dress, the pristine version of mine, her feet in her heeled espadrilles. She’d removed her big straw sun hat and had her big straw beachbag on her shoulder. She’d got dressed the moment he left because she knew what would happen if we kept him waiting.

  With panic whirling around inside, I looked up at her while she looked down at what I had been staring at. She briefly closed her eyes, curled her plum and gold lipsticked mouth in on itself and shook her head slightly. She understood the enormity, the gravity of what I’d done.

  Without saying a word, because she rarely spoke to me unless she absolutely had no choice, Serena dropped her bag and hat, reached under her arm and unzipped her dress. Then she slipped out of it, threw it at me so it landed in a heap on my lap, and then snatched up my dress and put it on. I sat and watched, watched as she zipped it up, watched as she picked up her bag and hat again, watched as she took a few steps away from me, and stared off out to sea.

  We both knew what she’d done, what it meant, what would happen when we got back to London.

  I dressed quickly, and picked up my belongings, too, and waited for Marcus to return. He didn’t come back down to the beach, he hung around on the promenade, and we both made our way over the shingles, our headway hampered by the heels on our espadrilles.

  He frowned when he saw that we were wearing each other’s dresses. The frown was replaced by a flat-mouthed glare when his eyes alighted on the spot of ice cream on the front skirt of the dress Serena was wearing. He moved his gaze to her face, and she stared back at him, defiance was in her eyes, on her face, in the way she stood up straight and tall. She rarely stood straight – if she did she was nearly the same height as him and he hated that. She was doing it for me: gently challenging him so that even if he did guess that I had done it and she was trying to take the blame – which would make it worse – he’d be far more occupied with her current behaviour.

  I understood what she was doing, but not why. She didn’t like me, I didn’t like her – she had no reason to save me. Especially when I wouldn’t do it for her.

  Marcus’s face closed in tight, barely containing his rage as he turned on his heels and stalked away.

  She followed and I brought up the rear. I wanted to speak up, but I couldn’t. My voice had been quietened by incremental degrees over time. And I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t confess. I shouldn’t have let her do it, but I was too scared to do anything else.

  I kiss Alain and he kisses me back. I was anything but fabulous that day.

  And I’m ashamed every time I think about it.

  serena

  Even though it’s crazy, I do this.

  It’s almost compulsive. At least once a year, I come to the library and look through the microfiche about myself. And her. And him.

  Most of it is online nowadays – the librarians always tell me this. But I do not want to use the Internet at home or at work to look at this stuff. On the Internet you are like Hansel and Gretel in the woods – leaving a trail behind wherever you may go. Unlike Hansel and Gretel, nothing gobbles up your path and others can find out very easily where you have been, what you have looked at. I do not want anyone in my life to know I look at this.

  I had to take a half-day today to come here because I need an outlet. I need to be able to think about those times without losing the plot completely. Having my behaviour censored by being in a library is the best way.

  My family think I’m a murderer, and I have to remind myself why. The fear I have of that time, the gaps in my memory it has caused, mean that if I try to think about it, I lose myself. Every defence I have kicks in and I start to fall apart.

  They think I am a murderer.

  Adrian obviously told Medina and she obviously told Faye, who obviously told Mum and Dad, because they have all been ringing me for days. Trying to get me to talk to them, I think. I do not know because I cannot speak to them. How can I speak to any of them knowing what they think, what they feel?

  Evan has caught me crying in the kitchen at 4 a.m. a couple of times and has slipped his arms around me, held me and hushed me and told me it would be OK. He thinks it’s normal for sisters to fall out, that we’ll fix it soon. And I feel my throat start to ache because it wants to tell him, but the words and the fear expand so much they cannot break through. And all I can do is cry, and let him hold me and try to think of ways to fix this. Try to think of ways to rewrite history so I never met him, and I never let him ruin my life. Like he always promised me he would.

  Working slowly and methodically, I go through the newspapers from that time. From our arrest after our confessions, the run-up to the trial, the trial and afterwards. I should know word for word what they say now, I have been through them enough. But some headlines are more eye-catching than others.

  ICE CREAM GIRLS CONFESSION! Veronica Bell did indeed get me back. She went to the newspapers and told them that he was a great and gifted teacher and he would show an interest in the brighter pupils. But she knew something was wrong because I threatened her. ‘He wanted to help me after class, but even then Serena had her sights set on him and told me to stay away from him. She told me that I should be scared of her.’ She is reclined along the bottom of the two-page spread, wearing a school uniform with the shirt knotted above her belly button, the buttons open to the knot, and her breasts barely contained by her pure white bra. Her skirt almost covers her bum and she has bunches in her hair. Did Mum and Dad, Faye and Medina believe that? Did they think I had really done that? Because how could anyone take seriously what she said when she was dressed like that?

  THE TRUTH ABOUT THE ICE CREAM GIRLS! A ‘concerned neighbour’ of Poppy’s parents described how she had seemed a nice girl until her teens when she started sneaking around, staying out late, getting out of different cars at all hours of the night, usually with different boys. They’d seen her scantily clad, smoking and drinking, and worried what else she got up to. They also wondered where her parents were in all of this. I did not like her but I knew this was pure fiction, what the neighbours wanted to believe about her, having heard what she was accused of, rather than the truth. None of that behaviour was Poppy.

  THE KILLER IN ME! A psychologist explained in the newspaper how everyone was a potential killer but some, like The Ice Cream Girls, like Serena Gorringe and Poppy Carlisle, were closer to the edge of actually committing murder. We did not need much to tip us over; we actively sought the flimsiest excuse to hurt someone. We had probably singled him out because he was weak-willed. He hadn’t been able to resist two of his pupils and then was stuck. If he ever left us, we would have ruined his life. As it probably turned out, when he decided to end it with us, we decided to seek revenge by first torturing then killing him.

  I gorge myself on the stories, the headlines, the theories, the reports from the courts. I gorge myself until I feel nothing but sick: it swirls like a whirlpool in my stomach and at the back of my throat, it weighs heavy on my mind. This is what the world saw and thought. I do not blame the papers, they only reported what they were told by the people who supposedly ‘knew’ us, and the information they got from the police. But is this what my family thought? That I had seduced him? That Poppy and I were lovers because of the kissing picture he had made us pose for that the police found but never actually gave to the press? Did they really think that I was the one who went back and stabbed him t
hrough the heart? Did they read everything in the papers and believe it? Or think there had to be at least some truth to it?

  And did they see that picture, the only picture the papers had of Poppy and I together, and think we really were lovers who had plotted this?

  I hate that picture. It was used over and over and over again. And I hate it. If only the world knew. If only they knew what had really happened that day, maybe they wouldn’t have been so quick to use it, so ready to condemn us in the various captions. Maybe they would not have used the inscription he scrawled on the back of the photo, ‘My ice cream girls, 1987’, to rename and brand us The Ice Cream Girls. To mark us in the world’s mind as cool, calculating killers.

  August, 1987

  ‘Come on now, girls, you can do better than that.’

  We had come to Littlehampton for a day trip. He chose Littlehampton because he said most people we knew would go to Brighton on a sunny day like today, so we’d come here instead. He had chosen our swimsuits – mine was a string bikini in white with red polka dots, hers was an electric blue one-piece with a plunging neckline and the legs cut so high you could see right to the top of her thighs and the smoothing of her abdomen into the v of her pelvis. We had this area of the beach to ourselves, we were there so early, so he told us to get our dresses off while he got us some ice creams so he could take a picture. We each held cones in our hands and were smiling at his camera lens.

  For the fifth time he lowered the camera without hitting the button. ‘Come on, you don’t look like you’re having a good time at all,’ he complained. In unison we both fixed smiles to our faces. ‘Stand closer together . . . that’s it. Anyone would think you didn’t like each other . . . Poppy, suck in your stomach, there’s a good girl . . . Serena, stick out your chest a bit more, pretend you’ve got something to hang those bikini cups on . . . That’s it . . . Now if you could just smile, it’d be perfect.’

  Click!

  ‘One more for luck.’

  Click!

  ‘That’s it, ladies, thank you. Now we can all relax and enjoy our little beach adventure. I bring you to the best places, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said brightly, at the same time as she did.

  We both knew it was easier, simpler, better to just play along.

  August, 1987

  ‘I don’t know why you make me do these things, Serena,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have worn her dress. And you shouldn’t have got ice cream on it.’ His footsteps came closer to me. ‘We had such a nice day, why did you have to ruin it? Why?’

  I watched his bare feet, standing in front of me, as if they were waiting for me to say something.

  ‘You won’t do it again, will you?’

  ‘No,’ I managed to whisper, as pain jack-knifed through me. My lip was split, my jaw ached, my throat hurt, my chest burned, my stomach was a caved-in mass of bruises. The smallest movement would light up another part of my body in pain like a Christmas tree. No, I won’t do that again.

  ‘Good girl, I knew you’d learn,’ he said. He finally bent down and picked me up, causing more pain, more agony to ricochet around my nerve-endings. ‘Come on, let me help you up, here.’

  My body was too bruised, too heavy from what he had done for me to move unaided so I could not resist as he dumped me on the bed.

  ‘It’s over with now, baby, OK? Let’s make up.’

  ‘No,’ I whispered again. I did not want to make up, I did not want him anywhere near me.

  ‘We can still salvage the day, can’t we?’ he said. ‘We can still fix this.’

  I moved my head to shake it and a migraine of stars and bright lights popped behind my eyes. ‘No.’

  He was lifting my dress, pushing it up around my waist. ‘You can make it up to me,’ he said.

  ‘No.’ I shook my head again, setting off the migraine but I did not care, I wanted to stop this. My limbs felt like lead, I could not move them to stop it, I had to tell him ‘no’ with my voice, with my headshake.

  ‘You can show me how much you love me.’

  ‘No. Please. No.’

  He was tugging off my bikini bottoms, pulling them down over my legs.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stop saying no, you owe it to me, Serena.’

  He was unbuttoning his shirt, unzipping his trousers.

  ‘No. No.’

  He was looming over me, watching my split lower lip make the same movements over and over as I said the word over and over: ‘No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.’

  ‘You owe me,’ he said through the twist of the smile that had taken over his face. ‘You owe me this.’

  He was pushing himself inside me.

  ‘No,’ I continued to whisper. ‘No.’

  ‘Please stop crying, baby, we’re only making up.’

  I wonder if they would still have called me The Ice Cream Girl if they knew the real story, if they knew that because of that day I could never bring myself to eat ice cream again.

  poppy

  Sometimes I forget who I am. What I am. What I am meant to be doing.

  It’s been five days since I watched Serena. Since I went to see what she was up to. I didn’t realise that until this morning, when I was trying to put together an outfit for my ‘New York’ lunch date. I really am crazy in love, I think.

  Alain and I sit side by side in the booth of an American-style diner in Brighton, on the red seats, the Formica table in front of us, our table’s jukebox playing a medley of fifties hits.

  This is our second date to New York and I’m so glad we’ve decided to come back. This place does the best burgers: all thick and juicy and oozing with grease. The cheese is slabbed on top, the salad is fresh and the pickles have the perfect sharpness. And the French fries – divine.

  I love this. I love sitting around, talking to someone, having him talk to me as if I’m an equal, replying without vetting every word I utter in case I make a mistake. Being able to relax with someone is another luxury for my list.

  I must write to Tina and tell her. Tell her that in the outside world you don’t have to be so cautious, you don’t have to be wary of people who want to be your friend. You can let someone in, even if you have just met – because if you do, if you let that person in, you can open yourself up to a whole new, wonderful world. You can become like me. On the edge of love.

  Yes, I am falling in love with him. And that does not scare me as much any more, because he has a good heart, a good soul, he is a man I can trust.

  Maybe I won’t write that to Tina. If I were still inside and she wrote that to me, I’d probably have done something hideous to myself.

  Surreptitiously, I kick off my sandal and caress Alain’s ankle with my toe, gently teasing him.

  He swallows the mouthful he is chewing and raises his napkin to his mouth, wipes his lips, while he stares ahead at the opposite side of the booth. His eyes are slightly hooded and his gaze is slightly unfocused. Swallowing hard again, he reaches under the silver-edged Formica table and runs his hand up and down my denim-covered thigh. He turns towards me, his eyes even drowsier with desire as he unbuttons two of the middle buttons on my denim skirt and slips his hand inside the material. He uses two fingers to trace a path from my inner knee to the top of my inner thigh, and I have to stifle a loud gasp as a bolt of desire jolts me. That is what I imagine what being struck by lightning would feel like, how it would feel to plug yourself into an electrical socket and flip the switch. I only felt something like that once before. It was only like that once with Marcus. I can’t believe that this is what other women feel all the time and I experienced it after the very first time Marcus kissed me.

  Alain leans in and kisses me, his tongue pushing urgently into my mouth while his free hand snakes around the back of my head and his fingers entangle themselves in my hair.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says breathlessly as he pulls away a fraction, his hand on my thigh increasing in pressure. ‘Let’s go now before I change my mind and decide we
still need to wait.’

  He pays for a taxi to take us back to my parents’ house from Brighton, and we kiss the whole way back. I was embarrassed at first because I was so used to doing that sort of thing in private, was rarely allowed to even acknowledge Marcus in public let alone anything else, that I wasn’t comfortable simply kissing in front of the taxi driver, let alone what Alain was trying to do.

  ‘He’s seen a lot worse,’ Alain whispered as he gently nibbled my earlobe, devoured my neck. ‘Ain’t ya, mate?’ he called to the taxi driver. ‘You’ve seen a lot worse.’

  ‘Just keep your clothes on,’ the taxi driver replied, unbothered. If he didn’t mind . . . when Alain kissed me, I kissed him back and by the time we fall in through my parents’ front door we are ready to start ripping clothing to get to each other.

  We stumble up the stairs, still pawing at each other, tugging at clothing but hampered by buttons and zips and sleeves.

  ‘Do you have a rubber Johnny?’ I ask as we fall on to my narrow bed. He climbs on top and sits astride me, and I start on his jeans’ buttons.

  ‘A rub—? Oh, you mean a condom. Yeah.’ He climbs off again and grabs his jacket, which is on the floor by the door. He picks it up and pulls out his black leather wallet, then pulls out the rubb— the condom. I sit up on my knees and, with him watching, I peel my white top over my head, then let it drop to the floor of my bedroom.

  Rather than drive him wild with desire, as I thought it would given that we were practically doing it the whole way home, it seems to stop him, scare him, and he drops his wallet and then the condom as if they have burnt him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask him. Instinctively, I cross my arms across my top half, hiding my white lacy bra, protecting my heart. He cannot change his mind now – we’re both ready.

  He reaches up and anxiously rubs his hands over his mouth. ‘Performance anxiety,’ he says. ‘So much pressure.’ He blows out a couple of times, like a weightlifter about to lift the big one. ‘Pressure.’ He is uncurling and curling his fingers into his hands. ‘Real pressure.’