Faye Meredith - Becoming Edward

by Faye Meredith

  Clive’s common sense was trying to shout at him. This was Rachel, not some flaky girl. Rachel would never play games, it wasn’t like her, she hated crap like that. But Clive couldn’t hear his common sense above all the noise his paranoia was making. After spending all weekend rationalising the situation, this new information was capsizing his mind. He stared at Cassie and Rachel. A deep crease began to form between his eyebrows. He hadn’t had much sleep and the dark crescent moons under his eyes made him look slightly barmy.

  ‘I was just saying, it’s great,’ Rachel repeated.

  ‘Could I have it back please,’ Clive said in a cold robotic voice. He couldn’t think of any response so he just said something for the sake of saying something.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Rachel handed him back the story. Clive took it and put it in his bag. ‘Clive, are you mad at me for telling Cassie about your story?’

  Clive wasn’t really, but that would do. He had to vent all this mental sewage that had built up and Rachel had just given him an outlet.

  ‘Yes I am. That story was something personal. It was meant for you only. Do you understand how hard I worked on it? I stayed up all weekend to finish it. I wrote it for you. I knew you were unhappy and I thought I’d write it to cheer you up. You never even said thank you. You never said anything. You didn’t even read it and then you ignored me all week, and now you’re all “Oh it’s great”. Well it’s a bit late now.’

  The trouble with flushing all the rubbish out of your mind is that the truth comes flying out too - well, most of it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Clive,’ Rachel said. ‘I didn’t realise. I thought it was just something you wanted me to read so I could tell you what I thought. Like a school essay or something.’

  ‘Well it wasn’t,’ Clive said. ‘The trouble with you, Rachel, is you think that everything revolves around you.’

  Rachel’s face was beginning to turn red, partly through anger and partly because she felt upset at hurting Clive.

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘You’re always going on about all this ‘finding your Edward’ nonsense, as if you’re someone special and better than the rest of us. As if you’re the only person in the world that wants to be in love. What about Cassie finding her Edward? What about me finding my Bella? You never think about anyone else, do you?’

  ‘I’m not looking for an Edward,’ said Cassie. ‘I’m more of a Wolverine-type of girl.’

  ‘Oh shut up, Cassie,’ Clive replied. He stood up, put his coat on and stormed out of the class.

  ‘Clive, where do you think you’re going?’ demanded Mrs Edmunds, their English teacher.

  ‘I’m going home. Something’s made me feel sick,’ he shouted, loud enough for Rachel to hear.

  Clive slammed the classroom door and walked out across the playground. He had no idea what he was doing or why he’d just done what he’d done. Losing his temper wasn’t something he was comfortable with. When you were angry, you couldn’t control what came out of your mouth and that was dangerous. Clive liked being careful and cautious with his words but now he had sprayed them recklessly all over the place. He desperately tried to remember what he had said but he was in too much of a rage to recall the details, even though it had only just happened.

  Clive arrived home. Luckily his mum and dad were at work. He took off his coat, dropped his bag and trudged upstairs. He felt exhausted. His little outburst had sucked all the energy out of him. He hadn’t slept much and the emotional marathons he’d been through were making him weak and listless. It had all been too much for him. He toppled over onto his bed and fell into a deep sleep.

  He was woken up by someone ringing the door bell. As he began to come round, memories of this morning at school began to surface like some terrible sea monster rising from the deep. Clive groaned and squirmed and cringed when he remembered the things he’d said. It was like someone else had said them. Angry outbursts were so out of character. They gave him an emotional hangover. His head ached and he felt sick. Unlike an alcohol-induced hangover there was nothing he could take to make the pain go away.

  The doorbell rang again. Clive staggered down the stairs and opened the door. Rachel stood there looking angrier than a beehive that had been hit with a stick.

  ‘Rachel?’ he said.

  ‘What the hell was that all about this morning?’ Rachel fired her words at him like bullets from a machine gun.

  ‘I - I, well I was …’

  ‘When you gave me your story, you just asked me to read it and tell you what I thought. You didn’t say anything about it being personal or special or important. I thought it was some project or something. How was I supposed to know? Don’t you ever talk to me like that again, do you hear me!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Clive whimpered.

  ‘’I’ll tell you what is personal - that stuff about me trying to find my Edward. Only you and Cassie know about it and I don’t want the whole school finding out, okay? I feel stupid enough about it as it is.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’ve been acting really strange recently.’

  This was it. This was the opportunity to say how he felt; to tell her the reason for his strange antics. Clive could do it right now while they were alone and get it out in the open. She would know about his love for her. The thought suddenly scared him and the grown-up words he was about to say changed to something childish and pathetic:

  ‘I’ve been acting strange? You’re the one acting strange.’

  ‘I’m not, you are,’ said Rachel. ‘You sounded like a right weirdo this morning.’

  ‘You started it.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes you did.’

  ‘I did not.’

  Their conversation was beginning to sound like a pantomime. Clive felt ludicrous, especially as he’d nearly told her but had wimped out at the last moment.

  ‘Rachel, as I said this morning, you’ve been ignoring me recently like I’m getting in your way. If you feel like that, it’s fine. I’d just rather know if you want me as a friend or not. Just don’t make me look stupid.’

  Clive had finally hit a nerve. Rachel knew he was right. She hadn’t been paying him much attention. All this business with Lewis had been taking up every ounce of mental energy, and there simply wasn’t enough left over for Clive. Now it was her turn to be silent.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said after a while. ‘I have been ignoring you, but it’s not on purpose. I’ve just had loads of things on my mind and, well, I’m sorry.’

  The two of them stood there looking at each other. There was a cold silence. Clive looked down at the floor for a while. Rachel was offering him an olive branch and part of him wanted to accept it. The other part of him wanted to string this out and punish Rachel. It was wrong, of course he knew that, but his pride wouldn’t give in. Then, as he looked up, he just happened to catch Rachel’s eye. For a second their eyes locked.

  They burst into hysterical laughter; great big belly laughs at just how ridiculously dramatic they were being.

  ‘Are we the worst drama queens ever?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘Well, you are. I think I’m quite normal,’ replied Clive, with his tongue wedged firmly into his cheek.

  ‘Normal, my ass,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Shall we call a truce?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘How about a cup of tea as a peace offering?’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  *

  Rachel felt relief as Clive ushered her into his house and toward the kitchen. She sat down while Clive filled the kettle. The kitchen was large enough to accommodate a table with four place settings and room to spare. It was conservatively decorated with plain wooden cupboards and a stripped pine floor. A large window looked out onto a picture-book garden complete with apple tree in the middle. It was safe, comforting and cosy, and Rachel had always wished it was her home. Everyone seemed to live in a ni
cer place than she did. Even Cassie’s flat was better than Rachel’s. It had a balcony - a small one - but at least it meant you could sit outside when the weather let you. No wonder I’m always so pale, she thought.

  ‘Did you mean those things?’ Rachel suddenly asked.

  ‘What things?’ Clive replied.

  ‘About writing that story for me.’

  Clive hesitated before he answered. He had to try and remember what he had and hadn’t said. That was the trouble with telling half truths, he could very easily tie himself up in little knots.

  ‘Yes. Yes I did.’

  ‘That was very sweet of you,’

  Yuk, thought Clive. Why did girls always think he was sweet? He didn’t want sweet, he wanted words like sexy, fit or cool.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘It’s good, you know, your story.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s really original.’

  ‘Oh, er, great.’

  Clive was having this conversation while pouring the tea, so he was concentrating on two things at once and doing neither very well.

  ‘You don’t sound too enthusiastic,’ said Rachel.

  ‘No, I am. It’s just I thought it would have, er,’ Clive had to be careful with his words, ‘more of an … impact.’

  ‘But it did. I think it’s great.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Aren’t you happy with it then?’

  ‘Sort of. Maybe it needs something else.’

  ‘Can I be honest?’

  ‘Of course,’ Clive said, putting a steaming mug of tea in front of her.

  ‘I think it needs a bit more menace. In Twilight, you’ve always got this horrible feeling that something really bad is going to happen to Bella, and that really drives it forward.’

  ‘Don’t you think the characters in my story are already vulnerable?’

  ‘Yeah, but I think it needs something else. Something outside of them.’

  Clive took a gulp of tea, it was far too hot to be gulping but he liked the idea of having something to do while he thought about what Rachel was saying. This could go two ways. He could get offended that she was criticising his precious words. Or he could accept the criticism and do something constructive with it. He felt too tired to throw another strop. Maybe there was a way of turning this situation to his advantage.

  ‘Why don’t you help me write it?’ he asked.

  ‘Me? But it’s your story.’

  ‘It’s yours as well; I wrote it for you, remember?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, Rachel, it’ll be fun. And you’re great at writing. You’ll make it better, I know you will.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it bother you having someone else interfering?’

  ‘No, course not. As long as you do everything I say.’

  ‘Well it’s your story so you should have final say

  ‘Rachel, I was joking. This is a partnership. Just think, once it’s finished we could send it off and get it published in a book of short stories or something. Imagine that.’

  ‘That would be cool. okay, let’s do it. When shall we start?’

  ‘How about now?’

  ‘Er, okay.’

  ‘Cool. I’ll get my laptop.’

  Clive sprinted up the stairs, all excited at his small victory. He had just persuaded Rachel to help him write his story, which would certainly include seeing a lot more of her alone. It wasn’t quite the same as going out with her - it didn’t involve kissing but it did involve being near her and chatting with her for long periods of time. After a few sessions, maybe they could work in his bedroom. He’d heard that a lot of romances started when people worked together.

  Numerous scenarios flashed through his head like film clips. They weren’t pornographic by any means but they were passionate. All of them involved him and Rachel getting up to things they weren’t supposed to. Clive tried to switch them off, but the little projector in his brain was stuck playing out all the different scenes for him to enjoy. Clive suddenly worried that he wasn’t going to get any writing done at all.

  Chapter 11

  *

  Lewis’ mum and dad were engaged in their weekend ritual. Every Saturday afternoon, as long as his dad wasn’t working or entertaining foreign clients, they would drive into nearby Westbourne and stock up on fancy food from Marks and Spencer. They would fill their trolley with all the nice stuff they had managed to avoid during the week. Weekends were for indulging and that included tucking into a range of cakes, pies and things that people on TV told you not to eat.

  After filling up the back of their obscenely large Mercedes with delicious booty, they would stroll around Westbourne’s posh shops and boutiques. Lewis’ dad would stop off at the newsagent and buy a fat Saturday newspaper that was rammed with various supplements, guides and glossies. Then they would pick a smart café and sit and sip frothy coffee while catching up on what was happening in the world.

  It was all very civilised, which was the whole point of the exercise. Their weekend ritual had evolved from a need to get out of their house on Saturday afternoons - because that was when the madness would start. Though they only had two children and one ridiculously large house, it was astonishing just how much noise their offspring could make.

  Ever since their mid teens, every Saturday, Lewis and Olivia had turned their parents’ beautiful home into an asylum. After spending the morning lying in, Lewis and Olivia would rise at roughly the same time - just after lunch. Two different types of music would then echo through its halls, originating from two different but very powerful sound systems. One was in Olivia’s room and the other in Lewis’. She always opted for uplifting house music to get her day started, while Lewis preferred jangley indie rock. The two didn’t mix.. Their parents had regretted the decision not to include sound-proofing in the architect’s plans when the house was designed.

  If they were lucky, either Lewis or Olivia might still be passed out from their antics the night before, meaning only one type of music would assault their ears. While one was tangled up in a duvet with a headache and a dry throat, the other would be up and about deciding on the next tune to rattle the foundations of the house. And of course, the one asleep would be immune to the effects of the thumping music, unlike their parents.

  So it was with quite a bit of trepidation that their mum and dad pulled into the driveway late on Saturday afternoon. They prepared themselves for the ugly exchanges about to take place - shouting for the music to be turned down, with their children ignoring them.

  Then the threats would start, usually this would involve Lewis’ father telling them that he would cut off their money. Sometimes it worked, but not very often. The music would go down a notch or two, but would still be loud enough to shake the fillings in their teeth. When the situation got really bad, Lewis’ father would resort to extreme measures and turn the electricity off.

  As they stepped onto the driveway, they could see their children’s cars parked side by side. A bad sign. They were still in and that meant noise - lots of it.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ Lewis’ dad asked.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ his mother replied.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Lewis’ mum felt a little concerned and she walked to the front door with increasingly rapid footsteps. They walked through the hall and straight into the lounge where they saw the most bizarre sight they’d ever seen.

  There, sitting on the sofas were their two children, but the weird thing about the situation was that they were both reading. And not just reading. It was like they were gorging on every word like it was keeping them alive. Lewis was stretched out on his back with his feet resting on the sofa’s arm. One hand was holding the book above his face while the other was tucked behind his head. Olivia sat upright and held her book with both hands clutched together, as if she were a choir boy singing from a hymn sheet.

  Their parents looked at each other in disbelief. They knew Olivia r
ead the odd book every now and again, but Lewis never read. And seeing the two of them reading together in silence was simply ridiculous.

  ‘Hi, mum, hi dad,’ Olivia said without looking up.

  ‘What are you reading?’ asked her father.

  ‘New Moon,’ she replied.

  ‘What about you, Lewis?’ he asked. Lewis didn’t reply. He was desperate to get to the end. One, because he had to know what happened and two, because he wanted to get in touch with Rachel so he could talk to her about it.

  ‘He’s reading Twilight,’ Olivia answered on his behalf. ‘That’s the first book in the series, this is the second.’

  ‘Oh, right. Er, well we’ll leave you to it,’ her father said.

  This kind of tranquillity had never descended in the Mead household. They certainly weren’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth. Their parents carefully retreated out of the lounge, hoping not to disturb the delicate calm. They went into the kitchen to put their shopping away and tried to get accustomed to the strange silence that was bewitching their usually chaotic house.

  *

  ‘Hope you’ve nearly finished, sis,’ said Lewis. He snapped Twilight shut and leapt to his feet. ‘I’m going to need New Moon off you ASAP.’

  ‘Excuse me, whose books are they?’

  ‘Yours, but I need them more than you,’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘I need to know what happens.’

  ‘Just be patient, I’ve only got another few pages to go.’

  ‘Well hurry up.’

  Lewis needed to phone Rachel. He had so much to talk to her about. After reading Twilight he was now a true convert. It was as if one of the vampires had jumped out of the book and bitten him. The venom now chased through his body, transforming him. He was addicted and the inhabitants of Forks had all moved into his head. It looked like they would be there for a very long time. The amazing thing was he could now understand where Rachel was coming from. He had something in common with her, something they shared. He had to speak to her immediately.