by Sara Barnard
I shall look forward to it
I still can’t believe I got on the scheme.
Do you know how many people apply? Literally hundreds!
Sasha:
SO?! None of those hundreds have your unique talents, Mr Lindsay. *I* can totally believe you got the place
Joe:
Sasha:
Although . . .
Um . . .
Joe:
Spit it out!
Sasha:
Don’t take this the wrong way . . .
Joe:
Go on . . .
Are you still there???
Sitting on the edge of my seat here, Sash!
Sasha:
Sorrreeeeeeeeee! I was trying to compose my question. It’s delicate.
Joe:
Bloody hell, what is it?!!??!?
Sasha:
It’s about your mum.
Joe:
OK . . .
Sasha:
When you decided, did you feel guilty? About leaving her I mean? (I’m sorry. You can tell me to fuck right off if I’m being too nosy.)
Joe:
I felt well guilty at first. But then my dad (and you lot, actually) reminded me to think about what Mum would say if she knew I turned down the chance to work at the UKB.
She’d hate to know I was missing out on my life because of her. It’s the exact opposite of what she’d want.
So . . . yeah. I feel terrible.
Thanks for the reminder!
JOKE!
But I also know I’m doing the right thing.
And sometimes that feels like shit.
Why do you ask?
Sasha:
Dad stuff
(Thank you for being really lovely and not telling me to fuck off)
Joe:
I could never tell you to fuck off, Sash.
Do you wanna talk about it?
The dad stuff, I mean?
Sasha:
Yes and no. Maybe when I see you? I’m kind of paranoid about my phone these days
Probs gonna have to delete this chat, tbh
Joe:
Seriously??
Sasha:
Well . . . since I’m deleting this . . . you know it was him who took my phone when we were meant to be eating at Pizza Express? Said he’d mistaken it for his. But he didn’t
It’s been getting worse, actually, these last few months. Dad’s turned well clingy
As I said, I’ll tell you in person
Joe:
I’m dead sorry, Sash. That’s properly messed up.
Let’s definitely find time to talk at the party. Sasha:
Sasha:
I’d really like that xxx
Joe:
It’s a date xxx
SASHA
A lift. One I shouldn’t be in. Something is wrong, and I need to get out. Only I can’t work out how. None of the buttons have anything on them, and I don’t know which one to press.
So I dial. The number is long and complicated and made all the harder because I’m only guessing which button is what number, and I keep getting it wrong and starting again and getting it wrong and starting again and getting it wrong—
‘You fucking idiot!’
I’m panicking now. My calls are getting through, but not to the right people, and I’m sobbing at the sound of their voices.
Joe and Velvet and Kaitlyn and Dawson and . . . Hugo? A tinny little voice, drawling and sarcastic echoing in this sealed metal box: ‘Please come. I’ll pay your train fare. Just get to the station . . .’
If Hugo’s on the other end of the line, then who’s in here shouting at me? I don’t know his voice. I don’t know his face, but I know who he is.
I’m trapped in here with Steven Jeffords, and I’m never ever going to escape—
‘SASHA!’
I’m woken by a screaming little cannonball to the ribs, instantly aware that I’m no longer alone as two small terrors bounce around the spare bed yelling my name and chanting for me to get up.
Rose doesn’t appear until after I’ve given the girls breakfast, dressing gown on, a smudge of last night’s eye-shadow across the bridge of her nose.
‘Oh God . . .’ she croaks, collapsing across the table. ‘Hangovers in your thirties are the worst. Get all your drinking in now.’
‘Good night?’ I ask, pushing a coffee her way, hoping it’s OK for me to go now she’s up. I’ve a lot to do today.
‘Definitely worth the babysitting money, put it that way.’
She straightens up a bit, although she’s still hunched up and haggard. Still unnervingly crush-worthy. As with Joe, my slightly baffling feelings for Rose remain quiet and close and secret. Something delicate, and precious, like beautiful lingerie too precious to wear, it makes me happy enough to have it sitting in the drawers of my mind.
Ones I have to keep rammed shut when I’m actually near her.
Out in the hall, I pick up my overnight bag, and Rose hands me some cash and the plastic carrier that’s slouched next to the kids’ jumble of boots and shoes.
‘I don’t think that’s mine . . .’ I say.
‘It is now.’ Rose pushes it into my arms, managing to look like someone who is very pleased with themselves and who also might be sick. ‘I got two sizes. Just in case. I’ve kept the receipt so I can return one of them, but absolutely under no circumstances will I return both. Understood?’
I’m too overwhelmed to actually say the thank you that’s screaming through my brain.
I hadn’t known it was a trick, yesterday in the shopping centre, the girls at soft play while I accompanied Rose round John Lewis. We were looking for something for her date night, but she’d kept pulling things off the rack for me to try too because she said it was boring trying things on all by herself. I’d left her queuing for the cash desk while I fetched the girls before their soft-play session ended. I was standing, watching them wrangle their shoes on, when someone said my name.
I hadn’t seen her in so long that when I turned to see who’d said it, I wasn’t sure it was her.
‘Michela! I like your hair,’ I said. Always best to start with a compliment, even if it’s a lie.
‘Yeah?’ Her hand drifted up to stroke the ends. They looked brittle and burned, like charcoal. ‘Thanks. Did it myself. You look . . .’
‘Thanks.’ I pre-empted whatever backhanded compliment was coming. I know exactly how Michela sees me. ‘How are things with you?’
‘Same old. They’ve moved me to the front desk down at the hotel.’
‘Really? That’s awesome.’
‘It’s answering phone calls from guests who want extra towels. Any monkey could do it. But I’m hoping to get into sales. You sit in the back office and no one expects you to clean up vomit from the plant pots . . .’ The pause that followed was a fraction too long for what followed to be anything other than a dig: ‘Fucking students.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘How is it then, university?’
‘Great, thanks.’
‘You still living with your dad?’
‘No. Course not. I’ve been sharing with some friends from uni.’ No need to tell her that I’d not been able to persuade them to keep the flat over the summer.
‘More mates? I’m surprised you can keep track of them all.’
I knew what she was driving at and didn’t like the destination. So many of my conversations with her follow the same pattern as those I’ve been having with Dad.
‘Speaking of,’ I trilled, ‘are you still in touch with Will?’
‘That dickface? Why would you even ask? The second he fucked off to Plymouth, the twat dumped me by text.’
‘That’s really shitty.’
‘Yeah? Well. At least he bothered to let me know.’
And so we finally arrive: Destination Guilt. A place I’m so familiar with, I may as well have a season ticket.
Michela went after that, passing Rose, who skipped roun
d to avoid bumping her with all the carrier bags.
‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘No one,’ I said, knowing with utter certainty that this is exactly what Michela would say too.
It’s disappointing to think that I chose to spend so much time with someone who consistently made me feel like a terrible friend so that eventually I became one.
Exactly the way that I’ve become a terrible daughter.
The bus is slow, and I get a message from Dad saying lunch will be on the table in half an hour. I don’t know what he expects me to do with this information, so I don’t reply. It’s been like that a lot lately. Me saying less and less to him because I can’t work out how to say the one thing I really have to.
That next year, I won’t just be living in another flat – I’ll be living in another country.
One year in a French school. No coming home one weekend every fortnight – I’ll be lucky if I make it home for Christmas.
The university set it up for me, but they’re getting annoyed about it. I’ve been ignoring their emails, so they sent me a letter, only they sent it to the flat-share, and the landlord had to forward it on, so it only arrived two days ago.
There’s documents and stuff they need. Confirmation of my start date. Applications for housing.
I can’t do any of that until I’ve told my father.
Tomorrow. When I’m back from London, feeling brave and buoyed up the way I always do after I’ve seen the whole gang. Tomorrow, I will talk to my dad.
Today, I just want to pretend my life is perfect.
There’s the smell of a roast coming from the kitchen. This last year, Dad’s got into cooking. Every time I’ve walked into the lounge since I’ve been back home, there’s been some chef on the telly throwing things in a pan like exuberance is all it takes.
But Dad’s a plodder. He downloads recipes and spends time learning techniques. The food he makes is good. Really good.
Too good.
Like if I tell him I had a McDonald’s earlier, then I’m scorning his culinary skills.
Like if I say I’m going out for dinner with my friends, he tells me I should invite them over so he can cook for us.
Like if I’m five minutes late, the whole thing’s been ruined, because good food is a fine art, and timing is the brushstroke.
Sometimes, even when I’m bang on time, it feels like I’m late. Without being asked, I whip round the room, cutlery, drinks, sauces. My bags are just dumped in the door to my room, and I think longingly of the dress that I want to hang up to make sure any wrinkles fall out . . .
‘Sash!’
I have to say how much I want to eat. The perfect balance between not so much that I’ll feel bloated before tonight, enough that I’m being sufficiently appreciative.
‘Thought you’d be home sooner,’ Dad says over the table.
‘Me too. The Jordans slept in.’
‘Hope they paid you for it.’
They did not, but I don’t say this. I’m not an idiot.
‘Any plans for you to stay over again next weekend?’
‘No.’ Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it . . . ‘Why?’
Dad grunts, watching me while he finishes his mouthful.
I’m flagging in the face of my meal. I only asked for one slice of lamb, and he’s given me three.
‘You spend so much time with that family that I’m starting to think you prefer it to your own.’
My reply is reflexive. ‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Then why is it I never see you?’
‘I live here.’
‘For now.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
But Dad says nothing, just looks down at my plate. ‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’
‘I’m not hungry, sorry.’ It really is delicious, but I can’t force in any more. I try to find the right thing to say to make it better. ‘It’ll be great tomorrow night – bubble and squeak when I get back from London.’
I have two hours in which to get ready – Dad said he’d drive me to the station, which is a big help, and I feel a confusing pang of affection for him. I’ve been so resentful recently that I forget it’s only because he loves me. That the low-level digs and passive-aggressive comments come from the same place as the hugs and the cooking and the lifts and all the things he pays for that I don’t always remember come from him.
One hour fifty. I’m ahead of schedule – bag packed, dress and make-up on. I thought about doing all this on the train, but tonight’s the swankiest night of my whole life, and I don’t want to be trying to time my eyeliner application with the swing of the Pendolino, or scrabbling into my dress in the stinky train toilet. I have almost exactly twenty-four hours of being the Sasha I like best with the people I like most, and even the train journey, alone and in first class (because Hugo bought my ticket and he is ridiculous), is a part I intend to get maximum pleasure from.
When I pull my dress on, I feel like a movie star. The perfect shade of purple, swathes of sequins. It’s the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned. One look at my reflection has me vowing to save more often to buy fewer, better clothes in future. My make-up is immaculate, my hair gorgeous and glossy, and I feel like it doesn’t matter if no one in the world sees me the way I see Rose Jordan, or Joe Lindsay, or the really sexy bloke that I brought back to the other flat for a night of amazing sex without ever knowing his name.
Just for one night: I see myself that way.
And then I walk out of my room, and I see my dad.
It makes no sense. He’s sitting on the front-door mat, back resting against the door, and there’s a bottle of whisky on the floor, a glass in one hand, and an envelope in the other, and my father – my angry, stubborn, proud father – he’s . . . crying.
HUGO
Two Hugos. Two different lives. And just the one fucking boat.
You know what? I’m not sure I’ve thought this through properly, come to think of it.
Everyone’s arriving on time. There’s nothing like the knowledge that the year’s biggest party will sail off without you to make sure you rock up promptly. I’m stood at the end of the ramp, tux on, grin on. Mum’s made me gel all my long hair back for the evening, and she probably has a point. I shake everyone’s hand as they arrive.
‘Joan! It’s so lovely to see you. Thank you so much for coming.’
‘Spenny! What is WITH that bowtie? You look like you should be sectioned.’
I’m looking over the head tops in the queue of people, trying to spot David and co., and then the Lift Lot and co. Under no circumstances whatsoever do I want those two sets of people to collide. I wish I hadn’t had to invite David, but what can I do? This is a charity fundraiser, and funds need to be raised. The British Heart Foundation isn’t going to benefit from me only inviting my poor, non-arsehole friends.
As if on cue, I spot David elbowing his way past all of the adults to get to me.
‘HUGHIE! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. YOU’VE NOT FORGOTTEN HOW TO SCRUB UP THEN, HAVE YOU, YOU BRILLIANT CUN—’
‘David!’ I interrupt, just as Joan’s eyebrows are about to skyrocket off her face. ‘You made it.’
He envelops me into one of those macho, back-slapping squeezehugs, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
‘What? Watching you? Helping charity? Wouldn’t miss this for the WORLD.’ He releases me from the hug, but stays close. ‘I’ve got some charlie, by the way. Should get things going nicely.’
I wince because he can’t see my face.
David pulls away, sniffs faux-loudly and then points to my chest, pushing me slightly. ‘And I’ll see YOU in a toilet cubicle some time very soon.’ Then he spots Giles, Cat and all the others from school who are already on the deck. ‘Yes! The old crew are back together again!’
He vanishes and leaves me with Joan and her eyebrows.
‘Sorry about that, Joan. Old school friend. Thanks so much for coming. Here are your raffle tickets.
’
I carry on welcoming everyone and saying thank you so much for coming, and soon the queue is dwindling.
I get a sudden stab of panic.
The Lift Lot aren’t here yet. They are going to come, aren’t they? I still worry sometimes that they’re just tolerating me. That they secretly hate me, but are too kind to say so. Suki, my psychologist, says that it’s due to my low self-esteem. When you have low self-worth, you can project it on to your interactions with people and read hidden messages that aren’t actually there. Yes, apparently I, of all people, have low self-esteem. I’m still not sure I believe it either. But Suki has a PhD from Oxford, so I’m inclined to believe her.
A waiter swooshes past with a platter of filled champagne glasses, offering me one with a nod of his head. My fingers twitch and my throat thumps with thirst, but I turn it down. I’ve got to do the speech later; I need to be on form. Plus, alcohol is poison, and all that. Must remember it’s never helped me in the past.
Mum clops over in her heels, and I can tell by the way she clutches her glass that it isn’t her first.
‘Hugo, darling, it’s actually going surprisingly well so far, isn’t it?’ She reaches out and pats my head ever so briefly. ‘I have to say, the Smythes are most impressed. I think it’s the first time they’ve not felt sorry for me for having you.’
Maybe it’s not such a surprise I have low self-esteem after all.
‘Cheers, Mum,’ I say.