by Sue Wallman
The desk faces a wall and the window is to the right of it. It might not have been in that position when Doug used it up here, but wherever it was, he’d have seen the rose garden when he moved around the room. I sit in the tatty leather swivel chair. It creaks as I turn towards the window. It’s hard to imagine Alice burying a body on her own without him even knowing about it. And the story Alice told about Rose going to Switzerland to be a lady’s companion – would he have believed that if he didn’t know the truth?
The others are immersed in various things. Tatum is reviewing footage on her phone, Ivy’s reading a magazine that Mum brought with us, and Jakob is fiddling with his portable speaker.
“Right,” says Jakob. “This baby is now working. Song requests, anyone, or shall we risk shuffle?”
“Shuffle,” I say, going to sit next to him on the sofa.
“OK, now this is boring.” Tatum sits upright. “You know what I want to do? See your predictions. The ones you were so cagey about last night. Please?” She makes a pleading face. “Please.”
Ivy says, “They’ll seem really stupid to you.”
“No, they won’t. Pleeeeeeease?”
“They’re private,” I say.
“But I really really want to see them,” whines Tatum.
Jakob says, “I wish you’d stop going on about them.”
“I’m going to keep going on about them until you show me,” says Tatum.
“God, Tatum, you’re a pain,” I say.
“You’re really intriguing me now,” says Tatum.
“Fine,” I snap. I stride to the rug, push it back and lift up the loose floorboard. I see the pile of different pieces of paper. It’s my writing on the top sheet. I was the one who wrote down the predictions in the candlelight last year. I freeze.
“Can you smell that?” I ask
The others come closer and it’s not just me and my imagination. We can all detect it. Roses.
As I reach in to lift out the paper, dark flakes fall away. I drop it. “Eww.”
“Mice droppings?” asks Jakob, crouching beside me.
“No. It was something papery,” I say. Ivy shines her phone light and Jakob leans in.
“They’re petals. Dried-up petals.” He lifts one up by its edge. Is it a rose petal?”
“You’re playing a joke on me,” says Tatum. She has her hand clenched round her phone.
“You’re playing a joke on us,” I say and the other two nod in agreement. “Tell us where you found the rose petals.”
“Where would I find rose petals?” she says. “And I didn’t know where you kept your predictions in the first place.”
I wish she’d cave in and tell us it’s a joke. I’d be willing to say on camera that for a while she had us fooled. Anything to stop the prickling of unease.
Tatum starts to film, holding one of the dark red petals in the palm of her spare hand, describing the smell of roses. Her voice is breathy and excited, over the top for the camera … but does that mean she’s faking?
Next she pulls out the disorganized pile of papers. The sheet on top is what she’s looking for. She pauses her commentary. “Oh,” she says. “Oh.”
I picture the words that I wrote down last year as she reads them out loud:
“Something of great value will be lost
An actual ghost will be seen
Someone in this house will be in a car accident
There will be an unexpected twist of fate
An Amigo will be unlucky in love their whole life
Someone in this house will die.”
ELEVEN
“Yup, that’s a brutal list,” says Tatum.
“You had to be there to understand,” says Jakob. “It was because of that book. What does a twist of fate even mean?”
“Things turning out a different way because of something out of our control,” I say. I looked up the phrase on the internet a few days after I’d made that prediction. “Maybe that’s already happened.” I’m thinking of Rose’s body being found. Maybe even of Tatum being here with us because of her nan’s operation going wrong.
Tatum puts her phone down and looks in the space under the floorboards. “Maybe those petals were always here and you never noticed them.”
Jakob shakes his head. “I’d have noticed.”
“I know you’re going to say it’s something to do with Rose’s ghost,” I say to Tatum. “But it can’t be.”
Tatum shrugs. “Why can’t it be? Give me another explanation if it wasn’t any of us.”
“Other people staying here might have put them in as a joke…” says Ivy.
We’re quiet a moment at the thought of people reading our predictions – and then going to the trouble of sourcing rose petals. If that’s what happened, it must have been done recently, after the police released the name of the body. Was it someone who’d had too much to drink, who thought it would be funny?
“It might have been Evan,” says Tatum.
“No!” I say sharply. “Of course it wasn’t.”
She laughs. “You’re quick to defend him. It’s possible.” She still has the list in her hand. “Didn’t you say you ticked off the predictions if they came true? We had a pen up here, didn’t we?” She looks over to the bookshelves where I left the list of things we know so far, and the pen.
“Don’t!” says Jakob, but it’s too late. Tatum’s pressed down on the top of the ballpoint pen and she’s placed a tick beside: An actual ghost will be seen.
I grab the pen from Tatum’s hand. “Stop.” I snatch the predictions list and other bits of paper from her and shove them back under the floorboards. I replace the loose one and push the rug back into place. Those predictions don’t belong to her.
“Don’t fool around with them,” I say, placing the pen back on the shelves. “It’s not funny.”
“I’m not fooling around,” says Tatum indignantly. She goes to the sofa and drops down on to it. “I think they’re interesting. I think something’s shifted in this house. It’s not a happy place. Can’t you feel it too, a sadness in the air?”
Ivy says, “It feels the same as it always does.” She’s on the floor, leaning against the armchair, shaking a table-tennis ball in her cupped hands.
Jakob says, “It doesn’t feel any different to me either.”
“But it’s never smelled of roses, has it?” asks Tatum, and although the floorboard and the rug are back in place, it still floats in the air, that faint perfume.
“We couldn’t get rid of the banana smell for a long time, when you two had that banana fight,” says Jakob.
I have an urge to do my ballet stretches, to get rid of the tension in my muscles. I stand up and move my neck and shoulders. Jakob joins in until I do the splits slowly.
“I’m wearing the wrong trousers, sorry,” he says. Tatum tuts loudly; she thinks I’m showing off.
“I’ve had enough of the attic,” I say, pushing down on my front leg. “Let’s get out of here.”
“And do what?” asks Tatum.
“Any ideas, Ivy?” asks Jakob. “You normally come up with something.”
“Something fun,” I say.
“But not dangerous,” says Jakob. He takes off his hat and shakes his hair. “Ivy persuaded us to go up on the roof the year before last,” he says to Tatum, pointing at the skylight. “I screamed the whole time, it was so slippery.”
Tatum peers at the skylight. “Look at all those bird droppings,” she says, pulling a face.
“Er…” Ivy squeezes the side of her mouth, thinking. “We could go down to the bathroom and cut your hair, Jakob?”
“Or,” says Tatum. “We could give you hair like mine?” She holds up a pink-tipped end. “I’ve got bleach and dye with me. I was going to give myself a few more sections if I had time. I’ll do it for you if you like. If your parents won’t have a go at me.”
I come out of the splits. I have to admit it would be fun to see Jakob with pink hair. It sounds like a good use of t
he afternoon.
Jakob’s eyes glint with excitement. “I love that idea. Mum and Dad will freak. Obviously. And if school try to exclude me, I can just cut the ends off.”
“I want to help,” says Ivy.
“You and Leah can keep track of time and keep us company,” says Tatum.
“That’s big of you,” I mutter.
There’s plenty of room for four people in the bathroom. Ivy and I settle down next to each other, sitting on towels and leaning against the bath. Tatum clears the glass shelf above the sink of our toothbrushes and toothpastes, and lines up her hair products. Jakob pulls the cord for the double bar heater attached high up on the wall. There’s a smell of burning dust and a ticking sound as the metal expands and the bar glows orange. He sets up his speaker on the huge chest of drawers where the clean towels are kept, and once the music’s playing, and the room warms up, this starts to feel like a solid Amigo activity.
Tatum sits Jakob on the toilet seat lid and places a towel round his shoulders to protect his clothes. I’ve never been allowed to dye my hair with anything other than wash-out dye, so I’m not used to the noxious smell of the bleach kit. After arguing about how wide to open the window – toxic fumes versus lowering our core body temperature – Jakob rinses his hair over the bathtub, Ivy and me scrambling out of the way of the showerhead. Tatum sprays deodorant to counteract the smell, which makes us choke, and Ivy throws the window open fully. We cheer when we catch sight of the light ends of Jakob’s hair, and Ivy closes the window most of the way.
Next Tatum adds one cream to another to activate the colour, talking us through it as if she’s doing an online tutorial.
“D’you think we should have done a spot test first?” asks Jakob as she slops the colour on to the bits of hair that she hasn’t pinned up on his head. “In case I have an allergic reaction?”
“Nobody’s got time for that,” says Tatum. “You’ll be fine.”
The bathroom door creaks open and for a strange moment, when I can’t see anyone there, I think it might be Rose, or Alice, coming to see what we’re doing in their house. I hear snuffling, lower my eyes, and see Baz. He isn’t his usual exuberant self. His legs are trembly and he’s not walking very well. He stands in the middle of the room and coughs.
“What’s up, little buddy?” says Ivy.
“Maybe he doesn’t like the smell of the products,” says Tatum.
Baz coughs again and a couple of specks of blood land on the floor.
“That’s serious,” says Jakob. “He needs to see a vet.”
Ivy uses toilet paper to clean up the mess, then washes her hands and picks him up. “I’ll take him down to Mum.” She strokes him under his chin and he closes his bloodshot eyes. “Poor thing.”
We wait for the pink dye to work, and Ivy comes back telling us that Auntie Gabs is going to keep an eye on Baz, and call the emergency vet if he gets worse. Since Auntie Gabs isn’t too worried we all slowly relax, apart from Jakob, who sits on the toilet seat, head up and shoulders back, so the product doesn’t drip off. The warmth, steady hum from the heater, and Jakob’s chilled playlist are soothing. “This was a good idea,” I say.
“Unless I have an allergic reaction, or the colour goes wrong,” says Jakob.
“Nothing will go wrong,” says Tatum. “I know what I’m doing.”
I close my eyes and drift towards sleep. I hear Tatum ask Jakob what the music is and I tune in to the female vocalist, singing a sad, haunting song in a foreign language.
“It’s like a soundtrack to a sinister scene in a movie,” she says.
Jakob says, “It’s Spanish. Something my Spanish teacher played us that I downloaded. D’you like it?”
Tatum says, “No, it’s creepy. What’s it called?”
I open my eyes and see Jakob walk to the chest of drawers and pick up his phone. He squints at the display. “OK, it translates as… Oh. Oh shit. It translates as ‘Crushed Rose’.”
The music slows to a strange, high-pitched finish.
“Oh, my God,” says Ivy. “Crushed Rose.”
Tatum says, “That’s weird. Perfect soundtrack for my documentary, though.”
“It’s coincidence,” says Jakob.
“We’re skipping that if it comes on again,” I say.
Jakob’s high-pitched phone alarm pierces through the conversation. “Time to see the transformation,” he says.
We watch him kneel on the mat at the side of the bath. Tatum helps him rinse off the thick gloop and conditions his hair with another tube of product. The ends of his hair have definitely changed colour, but we can’t see quite how much until Tatum finds the hairdryer in the chest of drawers and the warm air from it gradually reveals the brightness. She won’t let him look in the mirror until his hair is dry but he grins as we applaud.
Eventually Tatum leads him over to the mirror above the sink.
He runs his hands through his hair. “Oh, wow. That’s…” He turns sideways. “Wow.”
Tatum takes a photo of the back of his head, and he enlarges it.
“Fan. Tas. Tic,” he murmurs. “Mum and Dad are going to love it!”
We laugh.
“Fake tan next?” asks Tatum, waving a bottle from her enormous wash-kit bag.
“I’ll pass, thanks,” says Jakob.
“You name it, I’ve got it,” says Tatum. She holds up a foundation. “This is so nice. It blends really easily. And look at my smoky eyes palette. Anyone want to be made-over?”
“Me,” I say. “I’d like smoky eyes.”
“Sure. Sit on the side of the bath then,” orders Tatum.
Ivy goes to see if Poppy wants to come up and join in.
It doesn’t take long for Tatum to do my eyes. Jakob stands next to her, watching how she does it. When she’s finished she says, “Your turn next, Jakob. Take a seat.”
“What?” says Jakob, but he sits.
“I’m going to make you look fabulous,” says Tatum. She reaches for her foundation and presses on the pump so that a tiny bit comes out on to her finger.
I hold my breath as she smooths the foundation on. Jakob is transforming into someone else. He agrees to contouring, and blusher. He tenses his lips for the lip liner. I select a reddish-brown lipstick from Tatum’s wash kit and she fills in his lips.
We’ve braided his hair before, and plucked his eyebrows, and he’s been happy to let us pamper him, but this is a step further than we’ve ever gone. He’s loving it. We laugh when he says he doesn’t suit that shade of lipstick and asks Tatum for something more pink. He blots the first layer with a sheet of toilet paper, and waits for Tatum to brush in a second layer.
“You’ve done theatre things, haven’t you?” says Tatum. “You’re used to wearing make-up.”
Jakob nods, but he’s only ever talked about being in one production.
“Smoky eyes next,” says Tatum. I watch intently so I learn what to do.
“Ivy’s not going to recognize you by the time she comes back,” I say.
“That gives me an idea,” says Tatum. She quickly finishes off his eyes, and releases him to look at himself in the mirror above the sink.
He stares at himself before saying, “Who even am I?”
“You can be my younger sister,” says Tatum. “Want to borrow some clothes? We already have matching hair.” She squeezes his shoulders when he makes a reluctant face. “Go on! You’re taller than me but kind of the same size otherwise. Come and see what I’ve got.”
Apart from jeans and leggings, Tatum’s brought a dress and fake leather miniskirt with her. She holds up the skirt and says, “You know you want to.”
Jakob looks at me. I can’t interpret that look. “All right,” he says after a slight pause. “Have you got tights or am I going to have to shave my legs?”
“Awesome,” says Tatum. She throws a pair of silvery tights and a black crop top at him and says we’ll meet him back in the bathroom.
He knocks on the door when he’s ready. Tatum
flings it open and says, “Well, look at you!”
He looks stunning. Strangely himself, but also not. “D’you like the new me?” he asks, standing side on and raising an eyebrow.
I laugh. “Of course!” I stop laughing, suddenly aware in that split second of the weight of the moment. This doesn’t feel like a joke, not really. “Of course I do. And you need heels.”
Ivy comes running in telling us Poppy doesn’t want to come upstairs, and stops dead. “Jakob? Oh, my God. Jakob?” She circles round him. “You look incredible!”
His feet are too big for Tatum’s heels and neither Ivy nor I brought any. He just about manages to fit into Ivy’s fluffy slides
We take endless photos while he poses, and complains the skirt’s too tight round the waist.
“Does anyone have make-up wipes?” asks Jakob.
Tatum nods. “But I dare you to go down to dinner like that. What d’you think? Are you brave enough?”
“I’d choose the wipes,” I say.
“Bet you anything, your mum’s first question is ‘Have you done your violin practice?’” says Ivy. “But seriously, she’ll flip out.”
“It’ll be hilarious,” says Jakob. The gong sounds downstairs. We’ve been in the bathroom much longer than we realized.
Jakob picks up his hat from the chest of drawers. He knows he’s got time to wipe off the make-up and change if he hurries, and his hat can hide the pink ends until he’s ready to show them. “You know what?” he says, putting the hat down, “Let’s do this.”
TWELVE
We tumble down from the attic, laughing at Jakob in the skirt because he can hardly walk in it, and the slides are too small. We pass two mirrors and he admires his face in each one. Outside the kitchen, he stops.
We have the giggles now. “Your mascara’s smudged. Let me sort it,” whispers Tatum. She wipes her finger under his eye, and he squirms. “Ow.”
“Looking fabulous!” says Tatum, and she pulls him into the kitchen, saying, “Look who we’ve brought with us!”
“It’s Jakob!” exclaims Poppy, who is sitting at the table with Steve. She stares at him, then to the adults to gauge their reaction.