‘No, absolutely not. I’m sorry. It was hot and then I fell …’
‘The hospital’s up there if you need it. They look after plenty of ill folk Saturday nights.’
‘No, I’ll be fine.’ He starts to put on his shoes but changes his mind, picks them up instead. I’m out of the fountain standing under a lamppost making wild gestures toward my clothes. He bends over and picks up my heels and frock.
‘They’re your clothes are they?’
‘Um, yes.’
The security guard is a nice guy. He looks concerned. ‘I’m not too happy letting you go like this. Are you sure you’re all right, lad? I can get you help. No need to be ashamed.’
‘No, honestly, I’m fine. I’ll go home now.’
I realise I’m dripping all over the cement so I bolt up the street and around the corner. Tom follows my path of drips until he finds me hunched against the wall laughing my head off.
‘I told you!’ He slaps my arm.
I screw up my nose. ‘Are you mad?’
I meant it like ‘are you angry’, but Tom passes me my things with such a look of adoration it melts me all the way to my toes. ‘I’m beginning to think so,’ he says.
We’re both glowing, radiant soup bowls of mutual admiration. He leans in to kiss me. Wow. This is serious. I’m falling for this guy, madly, badly, gladly.
I pull away. ‘Now for the magic.’
I step into my frock, fasten the zip then bound across the road, barely missing a trio of motorbikes heading down the street. I scramble up onto the back of the Mac Street swine statue; a bronze monstrosity with water dribbling from its jaws.
‘Hey, be careful, would you!’ Tom says, looking both ways for traffic as he follows me. He is cross.
‘Do you think he’s going to buck me off?’
‘No—back there with the bikes—you could have been killed. Those guys can’t see you—they could swerve in your direction any second.’
I can’t go there. It’s too raw. ‘Sorry,’ I reply.
He’s not sure if I’m just blowing him off—I guess since I’ve never apologised so easily before. So he’s on edge and still irritated with me. ‘You wanted to show me a pig?’
‘I used to sit on it when I was small.’ I bend over and rub its nose. ‘Rub it—for luck.’
Reluctantly Tom pats the snout, where the bronze has been buffed by the hands of hundreds of passers-by.
‘See? Magic.’
Tom doesn’t seem convinced.
‘Public statues are fascinating,’ I tell him. ‘It’s extraordinary the spots people choose to touch. Have you heard of the Wall Street Bull in New York? They say its balls sparkle like morning dew!’
‘Sounds kind of unhygienic.’
‘I suppose it is—but still—what compels so many people to rub its balls? It’s perverse.’
‘So that’s why you like this guy?’
‘In a way.’
‘Come on Olive, why are we here?’ He is still rubbing the pig’s snout. ‘Because you sat on this thing when you were small?’
I shrug. Maybe this was a bad idea. ‘I just wanted to show you.’
‘Show me what?’ His head drops back, he’s losing patience with me.
I nod toward a stately stone building nearby. It’s easily over a hundred years old. ‘Dad worked here.’
‘Yeah?’ Tom seems stunned. I never hand over personal information. He doesn’t know what to do with it.
‘Yeah.’ I’m just as awkward.
‘He was a … lawyer?’
‘At first but then one of those big-wig QCs.’
‘So that’s where you got your smarts.’
My eyebrows shoot up. I’m not sure if he’s being genuine. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘I spent a lot of time here with Dad when I was little,’ I continue.
‘Was it fun?’
‘Yes,’ I reply. I loved this place.
‘Tell me about him.’ Tom sits down with his back to me, tugs off his shirt and starts wringing it out. It’s easier to talk while he’s not looking at me.
‘His name is Bruce,’ I say. ‘Not the most lyrical name.’ Tom looks over his shoulder so I can witness his exaggerated eye-roll. ‘It suits him though. He’s fat and wrinkly and bald. He has a wicked sense of humour.’ I can’t help smiling. ‘In chambers everyone thought he was batty. He didn’t try to hide my presence at all, he’d chat away to me, pull out a chair for me in meeting rooms. You should have heard the whispers—that he’d made up an imaginary daughter, that he was a sunflower seed away from an asylum. He was a complete genius in the courtroom though, so nobody dared challenge him.’
‘Crazy.’ Tom pulls his shirt back on.
‘It was wonderful. I felt almost real in his office. I spent almost every day there from when I was four, colouring under his desk, listening to stories on his stereo. His secretary kept trying to file away my stuff but he insisted it be left out. She was like “why do you need Play-Doh?’’’
Tom is laughing with me as I slip off the statue and squat beside him. We put on our shoes together.
‘We played awesome tricks spooking his snooty rivals. It was so fun, he’d have me nick stuff or spill stuff on them, and the funniest was slowly unravelling a toilet roll while this stuck-up barrister was on the toilet freaking out. Dad and I laughed and laughed.’
‘That’s funny.’
‘Yeah. He was good. Bit unethical I realise now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was too young to know at the time, but sometimes he’d get me to borrow files or go into meetings and tell him what they were saying.’
‘That does sound dodgy.’
‘It was fun, I felt like a real detective.’
‘And you were how old?’
I’m twisting a strand of hair around my finger as I try to remember. ‘Probably eight by then. He didn’t trust me with the covert stuff till I was old enough not to blow it.’
‘Huh. No wonder he was so good in the courtroom.’
I punch him in the arm. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘Sorry. I’m sure he would have been great anyway.’
‘He was!’
Tom nods but it doesn’t come off as genuine.
‘He was a QC before I was five!’ I cry. Why do I feel the need to defend my dad to this dumb guy?
‘Fair enough,’ he reassures me. ‘So why did you spend so much time here?’
‘Rose was at school.’ I bite a fingernail. ‘My Ma was gone.’
‘Oh,’ Tom says. He waits a beat before he asks, ‘So your mum …?’
I shake my head. I won’t do it to him. He doesn’t need to hear it.
Tom pulls me to my feet and we begin to walk, his clothes dripping on the pavement behind us. ‘So this is where you got your education then. Instead of school?’
‘Actually, I did go to school sometimes. I sneaked into most schools in the city. Well, I didn’t venture north of the bridge.’ I knock into him with my hip. ‘Pity, really.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘Dad was all for it, he said I needed a real education. But maybe that’s because he wanted me to stop hanging around the chambers. He got a bit worried when I started to out-lawyer garble him.’
‘So you are super smart—I knew it.’
‘Did you now?’ I say it like I don’t believe him, but really I’m flattered as hell.
‘Yeah, you’ve got that sexy-nerd vibe going on under all this …’ His hands flail as he tries to come up with the word.
‘Calamity?’
‘I was going to say bad-assness.’
‘You are a true virtuoso with the English language, my dear,’ I snort. ‘Anyway, I credit my unique brain to a very unusual education. I’ve been popping in and out of schools and universities whenever I feel inspired; no tests, no judgement, just the satisfaction of learning.’
‘That is so cool.’
‘Learning what you want, when
you want, how you want. It’s the way of the future,’ I reply. I’ve given this spiel to Felix too but he’s not sold on the idea, he’s more of a mainstream, pay your dues type of guy.
‘So did you study science and maths or did you stick to humanities?’
‘I’ve dabbled in everything really.’
‘Impressive.’
‘Yeah, you’d think, but when you’re not forced to learn, you actually want to learn. Like I was reading about these scientists, Herschel and Ritter, who were studying light invisible to the human eye. And I got all excited that their concept might explain me—which it didn’t by the way—but I was so impressed by their thinking I did two terms of physics at university.’
‘Hey, I did physics too. First year geology. It was tough.’
‘Is that why you quit?’
‘No.’ Something inside Tom shifts. He’s offended. ‘I wouldn’t just quit something because it was hard.’
‘Sorry.’ I’ve obviously touched a nerve. ‘Sometimes quitting is smart. It’s stupid hitting your head against a wall, if you can’t do something. It’s better to go and find something you can.’
‘Like pull up weeds?’
I shrug. ‘Sure. If you enjoy it.’
Tom’s mouth is pinched like he’s irritated. Maybe with me. But maybe with himself. This is not the way I wanted the night to end. ‘Let’s go back to my place,’ I say.
We stand by the side of the road, Tom with his arm out, trying to hail a cab, something I pine to be able to do. We stand for a good five minutes of silence until suddenly he turns to me.
‘Olive?’
‘Tom?’
‘Where’s your mum?’
As if by magic a cab pulls up. Tom looks tempted to wave it on but he doesn’t. ‘Tell me later,’ he says as he pulls the door open for me.
But it’s almost easier this way. As I dip my head to enter the cab I answer him.
‘I killed her.’
CHAPTER
18
Tom looks ready to split out of his skin when the cab finally pulls over. ‘You killed your mother? How?’ he blurts the moment the door slams shut.
I can’t talk about it. Honestly. Not one word. It’s bringing on all sorts of bad things. The darkness, I can feel it moving in. My hands cover my face. ‘Please, Tom. Can we talk about it later?’ I plead with him.
His lips go all taut. He’s not happy but I’m counting on the fact he’s nice enough not to push me.
‘I promise I’m not a pyscho-killer, you’re completely safe,’ I reassure him. ‘I just can’t talk about it, not now.’
‘All right,’ he concedes. ‘But you need to tell me sometime. This is obviously important.’ He looks deep into my eyes, his face serious. ‘I want you to trust me.’
In ancient Ireland it was customary for a man to braid a bracelet of his own hair to give to the woman he loved. It was considered a gift of trust because if you had someone’s hair you could inflict some mighty awful magic on them. I doubt a band of my hair would be enough for Tom.
I take his hand and change the subject. ‘Do you know what would be hot?’ I kiss his fingertips. ‘If you got a motorbike.’
‘Ha.’
‘And leathers. You would look hot in leathers. And I could get those slutty biker boots.’
Tom rolls his eyes. He’s still not happy with me. ‘Like I don’t get enough hell from my mum already.’
‘Oh yeah, you’ve got real troubles,’ I scoff.
Tom pulls up at that. ‘I do actually. Not that you bother to ask.’
Hell. That hurt. But he’s probably right, I’m hopeless with that how are you feeling stuff. But I don’t know how to back out of it and I’m still feeling raw from thinking about my own Ma, so I get sarcastic. ‘What? Did mummy get your sandwich order wrong when she packed your lunch this morning?’
Tom drops my hand and glares at me. ‘Actually, she’s been defending you. She thinks if we’re serious, I should introduce you to the family. She says I’m not treating you with enough respect.’
It almost has me flat on my back. How do I reply to that? Of course Tom has some ridiculously kind mother intent on making me feel part of the family. He would! What a bastard. I want to take it graciously and admit that it brings up everything I’ve been fearing; that I’ll never be normal, that I’ll never fit into any family. That I’m alone. That I’ll always be alone. But do I? No. I go straight to defence position A—attack.
‘Oh yeah, well fat chance!’ I spit. ‘How’s that supposed to happen?’
‘Exactly,’ he growls back. ‘So I’ve got my mum and sisters on my back, all of them thinking I’m some bastard.’ He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. ‘It might not mean anything to you, but I care what they think.’
‘Then get your dad to stand up for you!’ I say. ‘He would know it doesn’t matter.’
I do feel bad that he’s dealing with this but it’s hardly a crisis. He’s got no idea what a real crisis is. I reach for his hand but he wrenches it away.
‘My dad? Really?’ His eyes narrow and his lip curls. His face scares me like that. ‘You don’t remember do you?’ He shrugs, then says quietly, more to himself, ‘You probably never asked. You obviously never cared …’
‘What? Spit it out!’ I say with way too much frustration.
‘My parents are divorced, Olive,’ he says with such hurt in his swimming blue eyes I feel like I might split in half. ‘I haven’t seen him in over a year.’ Then he turns and starts to walk away. ‘And it does matter that I can’t introduce you to my family,’ he calls back. ‘It matters to me, A LOT!’
I don’t bother to call after him. How can he want me to say anything? I certainly don’t want to hear my own stupid voice. I deserve every second of pain that will come from this. I’m a selfish idiot. I feel the warm tide of his presence drain away as his silhouette disappears around the corner. It leaves me ice cold on the black street.
* * *
I let the back door slam as I enter the house and go to the kitchen to make tea. Rose is sitting on the couch, her eyes red-rimmed, staring blankly at the television. I didn’t expect her to be here. She must have done some smooth manoeuvring with Malcolm, I need to ask her about that. First things first, chamomile tea for my nerves.
Rose hears me filling the kettle. ‘What are you doing slamming the back door like that? I could have had Mal here,’ she snaps.
‘I didn’t think you’d be home, all right?’ I snap back.
‘Where else did you think I’d be? Did you think Mal would want to take me out for cocktails and dancing after seeing me tonight?’
‘I thought you’d still be fighting. That’s how it usually works,’ I say, flicking on the kettle. Am I seriously walking from one fight straight into another? God. I feel exhausted.
‘True,’ she says. Her eyes dilate into this creepy dead look. ‘With you around, that’s how we always end up. Me making insane excuses for my insane behaviour to cover for you.’
‘You could always tell him the truth,’ I snarl, knowing she never would. She’s so ashamed of me.
‘Oh yeah, that would work!’ she says, her words caustic. ‘That would be such a great move. I should totally put you in charge of my love life.’ She blows through her lips. ‘God, you are selfish.’
‘What? How am I selfish?’
She juts her chin out, sad but angry too. ‘Malcolm almost broke up with me tonight.’
‘You can’t blame me for tonight! If you communicated better with your boyfriend, we would have known he was there.’
Rose’s eyes blaze. ‘I don’t blame you—I just expected you to, I don’t know, care or something.’ She turns away. ‘But of course you don’t. You don’t care about anyone—not even Tom.’
I walk toward her, my voice low. ‘You don’t know anything about me and Tom.’
‘I know if you really loved him you would tell him what’s going to happen to him.’ She’s trying to get under my skin—and
it’s working.
‘You’re just jealous,’ I tell her. ‘You know Tom is way more serious about me than Malcolm is about you and you can’t stand it.’
Rose gets to her feet, her fists clenched by her sides. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her this angry. I actually take a step backward, which I’m glad she can’t see. ‘Don’t you tell me how serious we are!’ she yells. ‘Mal asked me to move in with him months ago. I had to say no because of you.’
Hell. Forget the tea. I’m out of here.
‘You should have said yes,’ I roar as I retreat to my bedroom. ‘You would have done us both a favour!’
I lie on the floor in the pitch black, the buzz of the concert still ringing in my ears. This must be what Felix sees—nothing. It’s actually quite pleasant, being able to shut things out. I’m not sure he’d agree with me though. I once asked him what he wished he could see more than anything, and he’d said ‘a smile’.
I was pretty knocked out by that. I knew he was deep, but there was a whole new level to that. I told him he was impressive, which must have freaked him out because he hurriedly added a Victoria’s Secret model was a close second, which made me laugh. I wonder what I would choose if I could only see one thing?
I think of Rose’s smile at the concert tonight and think Felix might be onto something. I can’t remember the last time I saw her truly smile. I’m responsible for that—but I’ve had to bury it. It’s hard enough for a kid to grow up without parents and friends, or any hope of future happiness. If you lump in the fact that you’ve screwed up your sister’s life too—I’m not sure I could make it.
It hurts that Rose called me selfish tonight. I don’t mean to be. I just have to fight so hard to be noticed, it’s hard not to push yourself forward. No one else does.
Rose is strong, she’ll be okay. Besides, how can I make it better? Run away? Would that solve all her problems?
As I shuck off my clothes and underwear, still damp from the fountain, and pull on my flannel pyjamas, I remember the last time I considered running away. It was when Jordan’s parents told her I wasn’t real and she should stop pretending I was there because she was too old for all that nonsense.
I climb into bed thinking of Jordan, ten years old, sitting on the back steps of her house, overcoat on, cradling her stuffed school backpack and her favourite bear, a sleeping bag at her feet.
The Impossible Story of Olive In Love Page 10