Ooh yes, and Five. When we get to Clothes Show Live, Rufus De Villeneuve will be there.
Oh my God he is completely amazing and fit and stylish and I just know that if I see him I will literally fall to the ground and have an epileptic fit or faint or something. He’s like really old (33 or something) but he’s really buff and has this massive beard that on most men would make them look like Father Christmas or something but on him makes him look like someone who makes you go, like, hold me back coz I’d so do him in every room of the house!
Of course Owen and Pratley McShatley reckon he’s a full-on massive bender. But I’m like, what the fuck do you know? And they just laugh.
Don’t get me wrong, they’re not laughing because they find me, like, funny and stuff. Seriously, they’re laughing because they think every man that walks this planet is totally into taking it up the pipe.
I say this to them. I also call Matt a retard, and World War Three breaks out. Matt’s driving the car and he is threatening to pull over on the hard shoulder of the M6 as he is ‘so angry with you, Cally’ – deal with it, dog breath. And Owen’s neck has gone red (I’m sitting in the back and can only see the back of his head as he’s too lazy to turn round) and he’s telling me what is and isn’t acceptable.
1) I can’t be reductive and say being gay is all about anal sex.
Yeah yeah, whatever you say, Owen.
2) I can’t call Matt a retard because it’s offensive to people with alternative abilities or something.
I know it’s offensive, that’s why I say it, you IDIOT.
3) And I better not even think about calling Owen a ginge because that’s tantamount to racism apparently.
Oh drop dead and die, hot pubes. Are there countries full of naked gingers walking around starving to death because of the colour of their hair? No. I don’t think so. THAT’s racism.
4) I’m really lucky they’ve brought me today because everyone at both their works wanted the spare ticket but they’ve chosen me and I should be grateful.
Oh God I’m so sorry I’m not grovelling at your shrine, gays! I know you only invited me coz Mum can’t stand the sight of me and wanted me out of her hair so she could arrange all her hideous knick-knacks in her new Wendy house. Deal with it!
I wouldn’t mind, but I haven’t even mentioned the fact that I’ve noticed Owen is wearing one of Dad’s coats. Well, that’s not strictly true; I did say, ‘I can’t believe you’re wearing that,’ under my breath, but I’m not sure he heard me. And even if he did he wouldn’t have said much, coz his comebacks are so lame. I’ve overlooked that in the name of having a nice day out, but seriously, Owen won’t let anything drop! I can’t be arsed to argue with them so I bury my head in my phone and check my Twitter and Facebook.
I love Twitter. I’ve got 325 followers, which is more than some of my friends have got but much less than Macey McIntyre’s got. But then someone said she’d paid like a thousand pounds to get a thousand followers. I’m not sure how that works so I can’t do that but 325 isn’t that bad. I’ve already tweeted the bum cheeks out of going to Clothes Show Live ON A FREE TICKET so I check my mentions to check that everyone at school is suitably jel. And they are! I’ve changed my avi to a picture of Rufus De Villeneuve and that’s got me loads of comments too. I retweet some of them.
Fab avi Cally.
LOL at your pic Hon.
God I love Twitter. It’s just so real.
I see another mention:
Drop dead Cally you skinny alien.
It’s from a girl in Year 10 but she’s only joking so I decide against blocking her. People are so funny. And if I block her I think that might mean one less follower, so . . .
Facebook’s really quiet today. I don’t think anyone goes on there any more. In my feed I see that Mum has put the status:
Got the house to myself today. And breathe.
What a bitch. And she’s got 28 likes for it. I wish there was a dislike button. I would press that like ten million times and see how she breathes then. God she’s annoying. Instead I write her a private message:
Mum maybe you should think twice about writing stuff like that on here in case people think you’re happy that dad has gone missing. #justsaying
And then I press send. God she winds me up.
Matt has put some weird music on the stereo.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘Belle and Sebastian,’ he replies. And they both start humming along.
I remember when my brother was a laugh. He’s only five years older than me but now he thinks he’s got to act like my dad or something. Which is bang out of order because even Dad never behaved like that. My dad is a laugh and is dead cool and always called me Princess. Mum was the strict one, he was the soft one. But then, being married to my mum, is it any wonder he ran away?
I write another tweet.
Brothers are SO annoying. #cantchooseyourfamilydotcom
My brother isn’t just a gay, he’s a professional gay. He runs a website that helps people do the gay thing better and ever since he got into all that it’s like he’s been to homo hospital and had major sense of humour bypass surgery. He may as well not run his stupid website, he should just be honest about what he really does, which is be a fully paid-up member of the PC Police. I know I shouldn’t take the piss out of people with special needs but he is so easy to wind up it’s hilarious, and I only do it to annoy him. And it works! No honestly, I love people with special needs. Keesha Lomax has got a cousin who’s got that Down’s Syndrome and she’s SO SWEET. Last time I saw her she let me put make-up on her and put a false bun in her hair like the Peru Two and she looked SO LOVELY. Keesha’s mum was less impressed though and rang my mum and told her I had treated Patsy like a doll and I should be ashamed of myself. Mum gave her some bullshit about me not being myself since my dad left but she still grounded me. God. You try and help people make the best of themselves and it all gets thrown back in your face. Patsy loved it. She was so happy she cried. AWWWW I LOVE HER.
Time for another tweet.
OMG Literally can’t believe in less than an hour I’m meeting the entire cast of Kings Road.
Everyone at school will be sooooo jel when they read that. I’ll be like the coolest person in the entire universe. I’m already quite cool coz my mum’s been on the telly and my dad was in the papers and it was really amazing because when Dad ran away like, yeah it was really intense and I hated it and I’d rather he didn’t, but for ages the teachers let me get away with loads of things they wouldn’t usually. They excused me from tests and didn’t go mental when I was late with homework, and I hardly had to do any PE coz I’d just turn on the waterworks or say, ‘I couldn’t find my trainers coz I think my dad took them.’ And it was really cool. And all the girls think it’s really cool having my brother being a massive bumder, and being on posters and everything.
Basically when he was 18 he posed for this poster about coming out for some gay charity trying to encourage more people to do it and it was actually quite a good shot and all the girls were like ‘Oh my God why are gay boys so fit?’ and ‘I can’t believe he’s your brother, that’s so cool.’
And even though I was like ‘Oh it’s disgusting’ everyone thought I was joking, so in the end I was like ‘Oh yeah he’s amazing. Like, I totally heart him?’ But fortunately that’s died down a lot lately.
‘Can you pass us a sandwich please, Cally?’ Matthew says.
‘What did your last slave die of?’ I grumble. And then hilariously shout ‘THAT WAS A JOKE!’ and punch him in the neck. Oh my God, giggles! Only now apparently I’m not even allowed to touch him when he is driving as we could have a ‘serious accident’ coz we’re on the motorway and not only would I kill the pair of them I’d kill myself as well and ten or twenty innocent lives if a minibus was passing.
Honestly. I just can’t win.
I grab a sandwich from the plastic bag on the seat beside me and hand it to Owen to hand to him.
&nbs
p; ‘Just in case I touch him,’ I say.
‘You’re a fucking nightmare,’ he says.
‘And you’re Rafael Nadal. NOT!’ I go, and I piss myself coz if there’s one thing likely to wind Owen up it’s reminding him HOW SHIT HE IS AT TENNIS. LOLZ!!!
God. I am, like, well funny?
Owen is fidgeting with the lining of his coat. Even Matt’s finding it irritating.
‘Stop fidgeting,’ he goes, and I go hysterical. I love it when they argue.
‘DOMESTIC!’ I shout and I can tell Matt’s trying not to laugh.
Owen stops. And then after a bit he starts again. Eventually he pulls something out of the lining of the coat. It’s a small piece of white paper with writing on it. Tiny. He sits there turning it over in his hands. And then I realize that he has started to cry.
Oh God. The MORTIFICATION. What if someone sees? What if someone really cool drives past (which wouldn’t be hard as Matt is the slowest driver in the world) and sees me in the car with this loon? It’s too much to bear.
‘What’s the matter, Bubsy?’ Matt goes.
Bubsy. They have THE most ridiculous names for each other. I can’t bear to find out what’s set him off now. I ram my earphones in my ear and listen to some proper music. One Direction. Then I don’t have to listen to them being so CRAP.
I have that daydream again where Harry Styles is proposing to me and he’s looking really scared in case I say no. All the girls at school are looking and I’m like God Harry, this is SO embarrassing. And he starts to cry and then I laugh my head off and go RINSED!
I look at my phone. Mum has replied to my message on Facebook.
As you know, Cally, my settings are set to private so it’s only close friends who see what I write. I also have a false name. Unlike you, I don’t have a desire to broadcast everything to as many people as possible.
If you say so, Mother! She didn’t even put a kiss! No wonder I feel so unloved! So I jab back, really hitting the phone.
I love you who do you love or what?
And press send. It’s amazing what I have to put up with.
Owen
Sometimes I wish I knew what was going on in Matt’s head. He’s so poor at communicating it’s hard to tell. It’s like all he can deal with is the good stuff, the happy stuff, the silly stuff, and when that’s not on offer he hermetically seals himself away. Like today when I was sitting in the car crying because I’d found that ticket in the lining of Dad’s coat, what does he do? Calls me Bubsy like that’s going to make everything OK, squeezes my leg and then just leaves me to it. Even though most of the things Cally says are incendiary, at least she is honest about her feelings and lets us know them. And some.
‘Owen. It’s just a left luggage ticket from years ago,’ Matt says that night over a stir-fry. We only ever seem to have stir-fries. Quick, functional, healthy, no messing about. Very Matt.
‘I know, but it tells a story.’
He tips his head to one side and I know what he’s thinking. ‘Oh, here we go. Owen mopes some more about his dad and I don’t know what to say, so I try not to yawn and lose interest.’
‘What story’s that?’ he asks, raising a far-too-full glass of white wine to his pursed lips.
‘Well . . . Mum and Dad obviously put some stuff in left luggage once.’
He nods, though I can see he doesn’t understand.
‘I know it’s not earth-shattering but . . . it just brings things up, you know?’
He takes another swig of wine. Soon he will be slurring his words and leaving big gaps between each one.
I’m too hard on him sometimes. It’s a lot for him to cope with, I suppose. It might be easier if I was grieving properly – had Dad died and there’d been a funeral there would be something finite about that, there’d be a grave, closure, forward movement – but there’s not, there’s the eternal question mark.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, sensing I’m confusing him rather than, say, wasting his time.
‘You don’t have to apologize, Bubsy.’
There we go again. Bubsy. As if that makes everything all right. He then frowns. Something is confusing him.
‘Is it the demo tomorrow?’
We’re taking part in a demo against a UKIP candidate who’s coming to speak at the university. He has blamed the recent poor weather on the advent of gay marriage.
‘No, that’s next weekend.’
He hiccups then nods, relieved. Then repeats, ‘You don’t have to apologize, Bubsy.’
I nod. Maybe he’s on a loop. Better not to encourage him.
‘Wasn’t today mad?’ he says, incredulous, shifting the tone of our conversation and moving us onto safer territory.
‘Mental,’ I say, for it was. And as if on cue, my mobile rings. I check the caller ID and answer.
‘Hi Mum.’
‘Owen, what’s this about Cally being scouted for modelling?’ Mum is sounding impatient, pleasantries have been dispensed with, no beating around the bush tonight.
‘Yup. It’s true. I bet she hasn’t shut up about it.’
‘She’s gone for a sleepover at some hideous posh girl’s. She’s phoned me, I think she’s drunk. Rambling on about having the last laugh. What happened?’
‘Well, we went to the Clothes Show and . . .’
‘God, I wish I’d been home when you dropped her back.’
‘This woman started following us round and . . .’
‘Abba? Is she called Abba?’
‘She is.’
‘What sort of parent names their child after a pop group?’
‘No, she’s African. It’s a real name. Just one B.’
‘Oh.’ Mum is suitably chastised.
‘She’s from Sierra Leone,’ Matt pipes up.
‘Sierra Leone,’ I repeat. ‘Well, her family are. She was brought up in Colchester.’
‘Bloody hell, you got her life story then.’
‘Well, yes. I think she was doing the hard sell. Buttering us up, but she seemed OK.’
‘She was really nice!’ Matt is almost shouting now.
‘Well, whatever she said, Cally now thinks she’s the next Kate Moss. She’s full of it tonight.’
‘I thought she might be, but it was all pretty genuine.’
‘Cally?’ Mum is clearly flabbergasted.
‘She’s a perfect model shape, apparently.’
‘Cally?’
‘Yup. Aba’s going to call you on Monday.’
‘Is she now.’ And the way Mum says it means it’s not a question, but a threat. I can’t help but laugh.
‘Apparently the Clothes Show is a hotbed of talent. All the modelling scouts go there and lurk behind pillars spying on all the teenage girls.’
‘Maybe I should give Operation Yewtree a call.’
‘Mother, you are an outrage!’
We share a soft chuckle. Matt starts clearing the plates noisily. I’m not sure whether that’s to make a point that I’m ignoring him, or because of the amount of wine he’s knocked back.
‘As you can imagine, Cally was a nightmare from start to finish today. And she was even worse when Aba had spoken to her.’
‘Oh God. I wish you’d never taken her now.’
‘I’m sure Matt thinks the same thing.’
‘What?’ Matt calls from the kitchen, furious at feeling left out. ‘What?!’
‘Nothing!’ I call back.
‘What you doing?’
‘Just having our tea.’
‘What you having?’
‘Matt made a stir-fry, now we’re gonna catch up on X Factor.’
‘I can’t believe you’re my son sometimes,’ Mum laughs.
‘I’m a disgrace to my family,’ I agree.
‘You’re twenty-one, not forty-one.’
‘Oh, Mum? I found something today. In Dad’s coat.’ Well, now seems like as good a time as any.
‘What?’ she sounds scared.
‘Oh, it was just a little piece of paper. A left
luggage ticket for Manchester Piccadilly.’
‘Really?’
‘From years ago.’
‘When?’
‘2008.’
‘I thought the police had been through everything with a fine-tooth comb.’ And then she adds, ‘I thought I had.’
‘D’you want it or shall I chuck it?’
‘No, I may as well have a look at it. Was it in the pocket?’
‘No, it was in the lining. There’s a little tear under the inside pocket. It was in there.’
‘Weird.’
‘I know. I’ll bring it round tomorrow. Might jog a few memories. Made me cry.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Well, we were always going on the train. I don’t remember leaving stuff in left luggage, though.’
‘Well, you can look it up in your diary.’
I hear another phone ringing at her end.
‘Oh, Owen, I’ve got to fly. Lucy’s calling on the mobile.’
‘All right, Mum. Love you.’
‘Love you, babes. D’you think you can make this vile housewarming thing tomorrow?’
‘I’ll check with Matt.’
‘OK. Speak in the morning.’
And I hang up. Matt is returning with a new bottle of wine and a corkscrew.
‘What do you have to check with me?’
‘One of the new neighbours is throwing a party for Mum tomorrow. Wants to know if we can go.’
Matt rolls his eyes.
‘All right, I’ll go on my own.’
‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t.’
‘See how you feel tomorrow.’
‘You don’t live there, you live here.’ And then he adds, ‘Allegedly.’
I say nothing as I hear the schlopp of the cork exiting the bottle neck. Matt comes in with the new bottle and bangs into a plastic storage box near the doorway. Hacked off, he then kicks the box.
‘Don’t do that.’
‘Well, if we could keep stuff in the loft like normal people,’ he moans.
‘Not now, Matthew.’
The Secrets We Keep Page 3