by Judy Waite
The evening slides on. The noise grows. Nathan steers her back into the kitchen for more vodka. A chubby-faced bloke is stirring the bubbling chilli, splats of sauce spluttering over the top of the oven. Courtney resists the urge to grab at a kitchen towel and mop it all up.
'Who's burning the garlic bread?' Patti Hodge hustles past. She's doing the same business studies course as Courtney. The course where Courtney first met Alix.
'Oh shit.' A bloke who has been leaning against the opposite wall, his eyes half-closed, looks at Patti and gives a high-pitched giggle. 'I forgot about it.'
Everyone shrieks with laughter as a charred black baguette is pulled out from under the grill.
'Shit.'
'Think it's probably cooked.'
'Who likes their garlic bread well done?'
'Come on, letsh go outside.' Nathan seems determined to stay glued to Courtney and she thinks that, even if she got rid of him she'd probably have to do it all again with someone else, and she couldn't face that. It just isn't worth it. 'OK. I'll get my jacket. It's in the hall.'
They carry their drinks into the tiny patch of Alix's rain-sodden garden, sitting on a patio under a dripping sun umbrella. The metal chair burns cold on the back of Courtney's legs. Light spills out from the kitchen window, highlighting the spiking rain. A snail edges slowly across the paved slabs of concrete, a thin trail of silver marking its path. Courtney draws her feet in under the chair. Nathan shuffles nearer, trying to kiss her ear, her cheek, her lips.
'Yoor sho shpecial,' he says.
She swigs more vodka, wondering why she can't get drunk like every other person at this party. Being drunk would make her normal. Being drunk would make her forget.
He pushes one hand down the front of her top. She grips his arm, pulls his hand out and places it firmly on his own knee.
'Are you schure you're not gay?' He keeps pawing at her, his hand groping lazily, his head half-buried in her shoulder.
She thinks that maybe this is outside her role as party hostess. Above and beyond the call of duty. Alix surely wouldn't want her reduced to this – not even as a present.
Five minutes later, when he staggers up and goes inside for the loo and 'top upsh', she slips away, heels squelching into the soggy grass as she hurries out through Alix's side-gate. The rain washes him off her, dripping him out into tiny pools and puddles as she walks.
* * *
Fern can't believe it. All that stupid worrying and that lonely hearts Khaki Steve disaster and thinking she might be too ugly or boring or stupid for anyone to really like her and now. . . ! Alix's brother!
He looks like Alix too. Wheat-blond hair and blue blue eyes. Beautiful.
He's got his arm round her. Well, not exactly round her, but stretched along the back of the sofa.
They haven't said a lot because the music's up too loud, but not talking is good because she probably wouldn't be able to think of anything interesting enough to say.
She wonders if Alix mentioned her to him. She thinks she must have done, because he seemed to know exactly who she was when she arrived. Alix must have said something nice, or else he wouldn't have bothered to come rushing over. She tries to think through what Alix might have told him, but it's hard. Whenever she tries to think of nice things about herself, it's as if a giant boot comes thumping down out of the sky and squashes it.
She shifts slightly on the sofa, leaning her head backwards, suddenly aware that it is now resting against him. Heat blushes through her. Is this too keen?
Alix is up dancing, dazzling brighter than diamonds, whirling about in the shimmer-blue dress and caught between two partners that Aaron has told her are his friends.
Courtney has been dancing but she went off to the kitchen a while ago, another of Aaron's friends leading her away.
Fern hopes Aaron doesn't want to dance. She's so awkward with it – she can never pick out where the beat comes. All the sounds muddle up in her head. She gets it too fast or too slow and at a primary school disco she once turned round to find two boys mimicking her, lurching about, clumsy as clowns.
'Can I get you another drink?' Fern realises Aaron is talking to her.
She looks up at him, making her eyes meet his even though she can feel the blush heat up her face again. The truth is she doesn't want one – she's already had a Breezer, just out of embarrassment. But he's going to think she's stupid if she says no. 'I could have another Breezer,' she says.
'You could,' Aaron smiles at her and his blue blue eyes are warmer than Alix's, 'but what do you actually want?'
She smiles back, uncertain. Is it all right to be honest? His face is up close to hers and she can catch the scent of him – slightly musky. Almost sweet. 'I'm not that good at drinking.'
He tilts his head, the blue blue eyes considering her. 'It's not a test,' he says gently. 'You can't get it right or wrong.'
'Actually – I can.' She thinks even this answer is wrong, because someone like him will want girls who are mature and sophisticated. 'I mean – it makes me a bit silly. Alcohol. I can't hold it very well.'
He smiles again and all her insides are melting. Liquid.
Then he squeezes her shoulder and gets up and she knows she's blown it. Of course she's blown it. As he walks away she stays sitting stiffly on the end of the sofa, his touch on her shoulder like a burn. Nobody comes over to her. Everyone is talking and laughing and getting drunk and she tries to keep her expression relaxed and happy, relieved that at least Mum is picking her up and she's got an excuse for leaving early.
And suddenly he is back, smiling, handing her a drink. 'I've got you some fruit juice. Sorry I took so long. I had to rummage through cupboards for it.'
Fern's whole heart seems to spill over. He hasn't minded about her being honest, and he hasn't tried to push her with the drinking. He isn't a Khaki Steve, happily watching her get more and more drunk.
'Thank you.' She pushes out a smile at him and he smiles back.
She wishes now that she could ring Mum and beg her to come later, but she can't because River's View demands they make such an early start in the mornings. She doesn't want to be unfair.
He sits next to her again, his arm stretched back along the top of the sofa.
'My mum's coming at eleven.' Her voice sounds silly. Squeaky. She starts worrying again. Will he think she's pathetic? 'We always have to be up early on a Sunday.'
He has had to lean forward to hear what she's saying, and she feels herself trembling, as if every nerve in her is waking up to him.
Alix is laughing up at Aaron's friend, her arm round the other one. She is drinking vodka straight from the bottle. Fern wonders if she should try and get her to slow down but she'd probably just laugh at her. And Aaron might think she was a goody-goody spoilsport wimp.
'So tell me . . . ' Aaron's face is close to hers again. '. . .what are you doing at college?'
Fern takes a breath, hoping he's not just being polite. Hoping he might really be interested. 'Pottery is my main thing. The thing other people seem to think I'm best at.' She can feel her voice warming, the silly squeakiness all gone. She can tell him all her dreams about Art College and the future. She is hardly thinking of Alix now. And anyway, she was just being stupid. It's Alix's eighteenth birthday and even if she does get drunk, nothing bad could happen to her in her own home. Fern doesn't need to worry about her.
* * *
Alix sits on the edge of the bed. Her head is muzzy. The room is muzzy. How did she get up here with Tom? And Dale.
'Are you OK?' Tom slides his arm round her and she rests her head against his shoulder.
'Think so.'
Dale is behind somehow, rubbing her back. The movement makes her feel like she wants to throw up.
'No, don't.' She murmurs this, tilting her head to look over her shoulder. Dale's face is very close. He starts kissing her.
Tom pulls her chin round and away from Dale, and he kisses her too.
She breaks away. 'I don't feel wel
l,' she whispers.
'Why don't you lie down, baby?' Dale moves round to one side of her, making room.
She feels Tom lift her legs, straightening her out.
'That better?' She realises he is stroking her through the shimmer-blue silk of her dress.
'The room's spinning.' She is whispering again. She closes her eyes.
After a moment it starts to seep in that they are both lying next to her. One either side. Maybe it isn't Tom touching her. Maybe it's Dale. 'No,' she says. 'Stop.'
'It's OK. We won't do anything you don't want to.'
This is definitely Tom, and it's the 'we' that startles her eyes open. Up until now she's had the vague idea that Dale was here more by chance. He just helped Tom get her upstairs – and stayed.
'I . . . no.' She struggles to sit up, wincing suddenly. There is something sharp sticking into the base of her spine. 'Ouch. What the hell is that?' She reaches round, fumbling for whatever it is. Her fingers grip something spiky and hard and there is the sound of shimmer-blue silk tearing.
'Hey,' says Dale, his voice warm in her ear, 'are you ripping your clothes off for us?'
Us. We.
'Something's snagging me.' She struggles to look behind her and see what it is.
'Here, I'll do it.' She feels Tom's fingers fumble with the fabric. 'You're all caught up. Hang on.'
She slumps forward, her head on her knees, closing her eyes. All this effort is too much. Too much.
There is another long rip.
'Sorry. Your dress is a bit torn. But this is the culprit.' Tom gives a low whistle, holding his hand out to her. 'A necklace.'
She opens her eyes again. Takes the crucifix from him. One of them– she's not sure if it's Tom or Dale, is stroking her skin through the rip.
Lacing the chain around her fingers she remembers a story Mum used to tell her, a hundred years ago. 'The Princess and the Pea,' she says out loud. 'Do either of you know that story?'
'Didn't she feel something hard in her bed?' Tom or possibly Dale starts laughing. It is a soft raspy sort of sound, not much above breathing.
One of them is down the front of her dress now, exploring the edges of the stick-on bra.
She drops the crucifix onto her open palm. The room mists round her again. Her and Mum. Mum has woven herself a different fairy tale now. The drawbridge is up, and Alix is on the wrong side of the moat.
She lies back down, grips the crucifix tightly, the diamond-hard edges pressing into her skin. Dale has moved away slightly, pulling off his shirt. Tom moves one leg over hers, pressing down on her. 'We've both got condoms,' he says.
Alix squeezes her eyes tight shut. She would like Mum to appear out of the haze. She'd like to hear what sort of fairy tale she weaves around this.
When Tom or possibly Dale presses his lips against hers, she lets her mouth open slightly. Lets herself sigh. Her fingers release the crucifix and it slides away. She circles her arms around Tom or possibly Dale. Valuable. Very valuable. She wonders if Mum has taken out insurance on her.
* * *
COURTNEY WALKS ON. The night washes down on her, rain in her hair and her eyes. A cold trickle finds its way in at the neck of her jacket, sliding a slippery snail trail down her back.
The pavements shine up in the glow from the streetlamps and water ripples down the road in small rivers, gurgling up out of drains and streaming round leaves and twigs and pieces of litter. Rain drums everywhere, on everything. From nearby she can hear the heavy rush of a waterfall escaping from a broken piece of guttering.
A car passes and she shrinks sideways into the hedge to avoid the spray, seeing at the last moment that it is Fern with her mum. Neither of them see her.
Courtney thinks about the Dress Agency dress again, and decides she is glad she didn't get Alix anything over the top. Things like that are a kind of blackmail. I give you the best present I can think of. You stay my friend through thick and thin.
Things to do with Fern have always annoyed her. She was never part of the bullying – not even at primary school when she was arguably young enough not to know better – but she never stopped it. Blind-eyed, head in sand, she'd always walked by on the other side.
That oh-so-sweet, little girl, please-take-care-of-me face. But it was more than that – it was the way she always walked about with her mum and dad, holding hands, linking arms. Hugs and goodbyes in the playground.
Her look screamed 'please take care of me' but she didn't need it.
And those children that did need it – they probably never screamed out a look at anyone.
It is as she turns the corner into her own road that she first hears the car. It has slowed down behind her, keeping pace.
She quickens her step and it seems to speed up – just enough – keeping the same distance behind. Courtney won't let herself run. Don't lose control. Don't lose control. Get your mobile out. Let the bastard see you're making contact with someone. And then – oh help. She hasn't got her mobile. It's upstairs in the neatly packed bag next to Alix's bed, along with the overall she's going to need for Easi Shop tomorrow.
She wants to cross over, so she's not on the driver's side, but she doesn't want to risk stepping out in front of the car.
She keeps walking. Her heart hammers at full speed.
Just past the first bend she comes to the phone box.
This is supposed to be what Mum calls a 'respectable' area, but it's still never safe from 'drunken yob riff-raff' – and the phone box is always the top choice for attack. Now, tonight, the glass is all shattered as usual, the panes a crazing of tiny fractured lines. Crystal beads litter the pavement.
But the light is still on in there, and the handset is on its cradle. It's got to be worth a chance. She pulls at the door, keeping her back against it so it doesn't shut, and edges in.
Her hands shake. She bangs on the buttons. 999. Nothing. The phone is dead and outside, just slightly ahead now, the car has stopped. She'll have to bluff it. Scream for help down the dead mouthpiece anyway.
She sounds out silent words. Yes, please. Norwood Avenue. No, that's fine, I'll wait here.
The phone booth smells disgusting. Urine.
The car dims its lights.
Dad makes a fuss about things like this, on his council meetings. Phone boxes not working. Streetlamps out. Her dad, Saviour of Cove End.
On the shelf underneath the handset, someone has wedged a card.
Jasmine.
For ALL your pleasures.
07789 9988 XX.
The card has got damp and is curled on the corner, the last numbers blotted away.
Courtney stares at it for a moment.
The car door closes quietly. Footsteps.
She talks properly now. Loudly. 'Yes, it's a white car – a hatchback. PGR 7—'
There is a knock on the window behind her, a small tap.
Courtney turns slowly. This is it. This is how it starts. Or ends. She tenses, ready to bolt. Ready to fight. 'Don't you dare try to—'
A middle-aged lady with prim neat curls stares out from behind very round goldfish-bowl glasses. 'I'm so sorry, my dear – I hope I haven't frightened you, but I'm nearly out of petrol. Is there a station nearby? An all-night one? I could probably manage a couple more miles on what I've got, but it would be dreadful to be stranded on a night like this. Terrible weather, isn't it? I'm barely able to see where I'm going.'
Courtney is still shaking. 'Texaco should be open,' she manages to croak. 'Just turn left at the end of this road and it's about half a mile.'
'Thank you, dear.'
The woman is gone, back in her car, crawling away as if going slowly will help her save more petrol. Maybe it will. Courtney hasn't a clue. She's not going to ask Dad if he'll let her learn to drive.
Pushing back into the rain, Courtney runs.
Her shoes make a stabbed clicking that she thinks must be waking the whole street up. They'll be at their windows, tutting and shaking their heads. That Courtney Benton-Gr
ay, out all hours, running about like a common yob waking up the whole street. And her dad a councillor too. Respectable people, or so you'd have thought. That's teenagers for you. Not enough discipline these days.
Minutes later she is at her gate, a stitch in her side, her breath tearing out of her.
And then she realises that not only has she left her mobile and her Easi Shop uniform at Alix's – her key is there too. She would never never never risk ringing the door bell. She'll have to sleep in Mum's car.
Slipping off her shoes, she tiptoes round the side, her bare soles stinging on the hard gravel. The garage key is under the stone, where it always is, and she opens the side door carefully, edging past the silent broom and the lawnmower and the cupboard stacked with tins of super gloss paint.
Sliding into the back seat she curls up, shivering.
Rain batters the garage roof.
Mum's car smells of clean shampooed seats and air freshener.
Mum, who is probably sleeping, and who has no idea that Courtney is out here in the cold.
And now the image of Fern comes back to her. Fern always holding hands with her mum in the playground, every morning for the whole seven years they were at primary school. Fern out walking, sandwiched between her mum and her dad on a Saturday afternoon.
Fern just now, safe in a car, rattling past through the puddles.
And Courtney starts to cry.
* * *
It's 2 am and she's in bed but Fern has never been so awake.
It is as if she's floating, the evening glowing – almost magical – in her mind.
She can still feel the warmth of his arm around her shoulders.
She has a hope she is almost afraid of shaping; a dream that he will ring her tomorrow. He might ask Alix for her number. She doesn't believe that he will – not really – and she knows she shouldn't be wanting it. She should just take tonight and fold it in bubble wrap and tuck it away in the back of the wardrobe where it will always be safe. Every now and then she could get it out and look at it.
Please please please ask Alix.