by Camilla Way
As Monica talks an icy chill creeps up my spine. When had this been? I cast my mind back to when Heather had first knocked on my door. Was it after that she’d started to – to what? Watch me? Stalk me? Or had it been going on for longer? Unease and confusion twist in my gut. I think about how, sometimes, when I turn to catch Heather staring at me, there’s this moment, gone almost before it’s there, when I see a coldness in her eyes. And then the usual fixed smile returns, her gaze darts away again like a mouse into its hole, and everything is normal once more. I realize Monica is watching me, waiting for a response, but I have absolutely no idea what to tell her.
After a few moments she tactfully looks away. ‘Well anyway, it’s none of my business. I’m sure there’s an explanation for it all.’
In the park we sit on the bench in the sunshine for a while. I take Maya out of her pram and put her on the grass next to a pile of conkers some other child must have left. Red and orange leaves drift down to us, a smell of bonfires floats over from the allotments a few streets away, and a faint hum of traffic, of idling buses and car horns and sirens rises from the mass of city streets stretched out far below. Maya reaches for a conker, holds it up to examine it and lets out a peal of laughter.
It’s as we’re leaving the park again that we bump into the man who I’d bought the cot from all those months ago. ‘Hi!’ he says, so enthusiastically that I have to check over my shoulder that he isn’t talking to somebody else. ‘James,’ he says, a wide smile on his face. ‘I sold you the, um …’
‘I remember.’ I nod, trying not to think about the state I’d been in the last time we’d met. ‘How’s it going?’
I turn to Monica. ‘James sold me Maya’s cot.’ There’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she says hello.
A short, awkward silence follows. ‘Well, nice to see you again,’ I say.
‘I was just heading to work, actually,’ he tells me as we’re about to move off.
‘Oh,’ I say, and, because I’ve no idea what else to do I stand and nod for a while, aware of Monica’s eyes on me, and for no reason I can think of, feel myself redden. ‘OK, have a good day then.’
But he doesn’t move. ‘I teach evening classes at Goldsmiths. Fine art, actually.’ When I don’t reply his eyes flicker over Monica and he adds, ‘It’s the, um the university down the road.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We know what it is.’ From the corner of my eye I see Monica’s mouth twitch.
‘My students have a show of their work next week,’ he goes on hurriedly. ‘You could come, if you want.’
‘Me?’
He laughs. ‘It’s usually a good night – a few glasses of shit wine while you look at the art, then there’s a bit of a party in the pub afterwards.’
‘I could babysit,’ says Monica, and smirks when I narrow my eyes at her over James’s shoulder.
‘Well anyway,’ James is searching in his bag for a pen, and begins scribbling something on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my number. If you fancy it, next Tuesday, give me a ring.’
I take it. ‘Right. OK. Thanks.’
Monica barely manages to wait until he’s out of earshot before she starts to laugh. ‘Bless him. He could hardly pick his tongue up off the floor.’
I shake my head, embarrassed. ‘What, him? Don’t be silly.’
She nudges me with her elbow, ‘Don’t give me that.’ She has a nice laugh, and I find myself smiling back at her.
‘Well, anyway, he’s really not my type,’ I say.
She glances at me in surprise. ‘He was all right. Thought he was a bit of a sort, actually.’
‘A sort?’ I say, laughing too.
We walk on a little further before she asks mildly, ‘So what is your type?’
I shrug. Heri’s face pops into my mind, followed by the handful of men I’d been careful not to get involved with over the years. In fact there has been nobody really since Connor, and the moment I think of him, of his green eyes, his mouth, I see him so clearly, recall exactly the way he smelled, the way it felt to kiss him, the overwhelming, all-consuming attraction I’d felt for him, that I shudder. I never want to feel like that about anyone again. ‘No one,’ I say quietly. ‘I don’t have one.’ I’m aware of Monica looking at me but I avoid her eye and the jokey atmosphere between us dies. We walk on in silence.
When we reach the top of our road she says gently, ‘Why don’t you go to that art thing? You never know, it might be a laugh. Do you good to get out, even if it is for’ – she imitates James’s slightly posh accent – ‘a glass of shit wine.’
I smile. ‘Maybe,’ I say.
‘I really could babysit.’
‘Well, but there’s Heather,’ I reply.
‘Oh yeah,’ she says, looking away. ‘That’s true, there’s Heather.’
We say goodbye and I pause outside her flat, staring at the closed door and mulling over what she’d said before about seeing Heather outside our building all those months ago. It makes no sense, and as I start up the stairs to my flat, unease shifts in my gut.
Before
I stare down at my maths homework, unable to concentrate, my mind returning repeatedly to the strange sight of Mum hurrying along the towpath an hour before. The house is still and silent; my dad won’t be back for hours yet. I suck my Biro and turn another page, trying to concentrate. Had there been something furtive in the way she moved – her quick stride, her head bowed as though she hadn’t wanted to be seen – or had I imagined that? My mother never did anything she wasn’t supposed to. She did everything properly and correctly – my mum was never wrong. Fractions and statistical tables swim before my eyes and at last I put aside my textbook and go downstairs to watch TV.
I’m making myself a snack in the kitchen a couple of hours later when the front door opens and Mum appears. Instinctively I shove the jar of peanut butter to one side, but too late, her eyes pounce upon it and she frowns. ‘Heather, you do realize how fattening that is, don’t you?’ She puts her bag down and fills the kettle. ‘How was school?’ she asks briskly.
‘All right,’ I say, grateful that she’s at least talking to me again.
‘I hope you stayed away from Edie?’
Mutely I nod.
‘Good.’ She busies herself making a cup of tea. ‘I expect you have some homework or reading to do.’
I watch her turn away to the fridge and a sudden anger flares inside me. I’m sixteen. I can see whoever I bloody well like! When I don’t move she looks round at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Well?’
I nod and head towards the door, but at the last second I turn. ‘Mum?’ I say.
‘Yes?’
I keep my voice level. ‘How was it at Wrexham today? With the fundraising thing?’
Her eyes flicker and she pauses before replying, ‘It was fine, Heather. Thank you for asking. We achieved a lot, I think.’ Our eyes meet, but she looks away first. She’s lying to me, and the realization is astonishing. After a moment longer I turn and go up to my room.
I don’t see Edie for a few days after that, except once, in the distance, walking with Alice and Vicky towards the art department. I think about running after her but in the end I stay where I am, watching them until they’re out of sight, the lower school’s bell ringing out across the playground before I make a move myself. It’s Thursday before I see her again, standing outside the gates and smoking a cigarette as I’m leaving. She squints distractedly at me before her face clears and she smiles. ‘Oh, hi,’ she says. She looks awful: her skin pale and greasy, her clothes creased as though she’d slept in them. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Home, I guess.’
She flicks away her cigarette. ‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘Don’t you have a class?’
‘Yeah, but …’ she shrugs, ‘you know, fuck it.’
When we get to the empty field behind the old dairy at Tyner’s Cross we stop and sit on one of the crumbling walls of the outbuildings. Neither of us speaks at first. A damp autumn
breeze trails its fingers through the long grass and the sky’s as thick and grey as spat-out chewing gum. Somewhere behind us the motorway drones on. I look around myself, at the graffiti covering the bricks, the trails of rubbish on the broken cement floor. I notice a dirty syringe by my foot and hurriedly I kick it away. ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
She nods, running a hand over her face. ‘Yeah. Just tired.’ She looks off in the direction of the Pembroke Estate, and I feel something brooding and troubled in her silence. I wonder if she’s still annoyed about what happened in the square. And then, unexpectedly, she turns back to me and smiles. ‘What’ve you been up to anyway?’ she asks.
I think about telling her about the atmosphere at home, how Mum and Dad seem to go through entire days without talking to each other. How I went to the bathroom at 2 a.m. this morning and saw the light shining through the crack of Dad’s study’s door, heard the creaking of his chair. But before I can speak she puts her hand to her throat. ‘I’ve lost my necklace,’ she says. ‘My little gold locket one.’
‘Oh no!’ I remember how she’d been wearing it the first time we met, how pretty it was.
‘Yeah. It was my nan’s, she gave it to me. I’ve looked everywhere but it’s vanished.’ She sighs, and chews despondently at her thumbnail, then brightens. ‘That Vicky’s having a party on Saturday,’ she tells me. ‘Her parents are on holiday so she’s got the house to herself.’
I nod. ‘Oh, right.’
‘Well, do you fancy it?’
I stare at her. ‘They won’t want me there.’
‘Who cares? I’m bringing Connor and some of his mates. Not a lot she can do about it once we’re there. Go on, it’ll be a laugh.’
‘I don’t know. My parents …’
She exhales sharply. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Heather! Don’t you get fed up with it? They treat you like you’re six!’
I’m taken aback by the strength of her irritation. I think about Mum, Dad and me, about all the things unspoken, all the secrets between us. And I realize that Edie’s right. For all the clocks in our house, time never moves on for any of us; we’re all held fast in that day ten summers ago, unable or unwilling to leave it behind. To my parents and maybe even to myself, I am, as Edie says, still the child I was the day we lost Lydia. I try to speak, but my throat is constricted by a rush of grief.
She gathers up her things. ‘Anyway, it’s up to you. Me and Connor are meeting some of his mates in the square first if you want to come. Otherwise, I guess I’ll see you around.’
And I watch her go, striding away through the long grass, a sinking, desperate feeling in my chest.
The necklace I find in the jeweller’s shop in Wrexham on Saturday morning is not as pretty as the one Edie lost, but still I feel pleased with myself as I hand the money over. I leave with it tucked away in its tiny velvet bag and begin the long cycle home. I hope she’ll like it. I think about when I’ll give it to her, and picture her face when I do, how surprised she’ll be, how pleased.
Later that day, at lunchtime, when the three of us are sitting around the kitchen table – Mum talking only to me, Dad in one of his vague, distracted moods, squinting down at his newspaper – I take a deep breath and say, ‘I was thinking of going out tonight.’ Then I put my fork down, and hold my breath.
My mother looks up, frowning. ‘Where to?’
I hesitate, avoiding her eyes. ‘To a party.’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
I begin to reply but Dad rouses himself. ‘I think, after what happened at the shopping centre—’
‘It wasn’t even me who took the bloody dress!’
A short silence follows my outburst. My mother glares at me, her face flushed an angry red. ‘And it’s not Edie’s party anyway,’ I add sulkily, stabbing my fork at a potato. ‘It’s someone else’s. Someone from school.’ But I know I’m defeated. My mother gets up and begins to clear the lunch things away.
It’s almost ten before I sneak out of the house that night. I wait until Dad’s upstairs in his study and Mum’s watching Midsomer Murders before I shout goodnight, walk noisily up to my bedroom then turn off the light and wait. Ten minutes later I tiptoe back downstairs, carefully lift the back door’s latch and creep out into the night. My heart pounds, but more with exhilaration than fear – it strikes me that I don’t care whether my parents find me out or not – and I hurry on, away from them, to Edie, to where she’ll be.
The night is cold and bright and I pull my coat close as I pass through empty, silent streets, past darkened front rooms where strangers sit motionless on their sofas, faces flickering in the ghostly blue light from their television sets. Even the high street is deadly still and quiet. I have never been out so late alone before and I feel giddy, and free, and full of daring. I reach into my pocket and find the necklace nestling there, my fingers stroking the shiny gold paper I’d wrapped it in so carefully.
And then, magically, when I turn the corner into the square, the world is full of people again. I hang back, surprised by the unexpected life and activity. In the centre by the statue little groups stand huddled together or sit on benches, their faces dipping in and out of the dim light from the street lamps, clouds of cigarette smoke caught in their yellow glow. A girl’s laugh rings out harshly against the cold night and from somewhere behind me a bottle smashes, a lad’s voice shouts, ‘Oh, you wanker!’ to a chorus of shouts and jeers. From a parked car comes the fast thud thud thud of music. Uncertainly I edge closer, scanning the faces for Edie’s.
‘Heather!’ There she is, emerging from a group of people standing outside a pub on the corner. I smile and wave, relief flooding me as she runs over. ‘You came!’ When she reaches me she wraps her arms around me, stumbling so we both nearly topple over. She laughs and kisses me, turning her face at the last moment so that her mouth touches mine, sticky with lip gloss. She’s very drunk, and when she passes me the bottle of Bacardi she’s holding I take a long swig, and then another, ignoring how the taste of it makes me want to gag. ‘Whoa!’ she says, in a sing-song voice. ‘Heather’s getting piiiiii-ssed!’
‘Edie! You coming or what?’ Connor’s voice, rough and hostile, calls over to us from across the square and for the first time I notice him amongst the group she’d run from. She takes my hand and pulls me after her, and nothing else matters, suddenly, nothing else in the world but being here with her. When we reach him she releases my fingers and they tingle at the loss of warmth as I stand there, in the midst of them all, these rough-looking strangers who glance briefly over and away again. I think of my quiet, warm room, my unsuspecting parents sleeping soundly next door, and feel a flicker of doubt. At that moment Connor shouts something and instinctively I shrink back as he lunges at a boy just behind me and grabs him round the throat, so aggressively that fear pulses within me until I see that they’re both laughing – that it’s a joke, after all. I notice Liam, suddenly, the boy I’d met before, standing a little further off, but he’s talking to Rabbit, Connor’s flatmate, and I quickly look away.
Edie weaves in between them now, taking hold of Connor’s arm, ‘Hey, I’m back – did you miss me?’ It strikes me that there’s something forced, a little desperate in her too-loud laugh, and I stare at her in surprise. He glances down at her and almost imperceptibly shrugs her off, and I see her bright smile slip, just for a second, something bereft and bleak left in its place before she slicks it back on and turns to me. ‘Heather! Heather!’ she calls. ‘Come here!’ Reluctantly I go to them. ‘Hey, this is Heather!’ she says to the others. ‘This is my friend Heather! You better be nice to her, OK?’ She puts her head next to mine and as they all turn and look at us I’m aware of how plain my face must appear next to hers, how beautiful she must look beside me, and the idea, gone almost before it’s there, strikes me that maybe that was her intention – but I dismiss the idea immediately.
‘Are we going now or what?’ Connor says.
She puts her arm around me and we move off down
the street, the lads following behind as she staggers along next to me, her body bumping against mine. ‘Fuck, I’m so wasted,’ she says. ‘I’m so fucking wasted.’
‘I sneaked out tonight,’ I tell her proudly. ‘My mum and dad don’t even know where I am! They think I’m in bed asleep!’ I grin at her expectantly, but it’s like she’s barely heard and we walk in silence for a while.
‘Do you think he loves me, Heather?’ she says suddenly. ‘Connor? Do you think he does?’
I glance at her in surprise, trying to think of the right thing to say. ‘Of course I do,’ I offer at last. ‘I mean, yeah, I’m sure he does.’
‘Because I love him so much, I love him so fucking much,’ she says with sudden intensity.
‘I—’ I begin.
But a second later she’s laughing again, and, grabbing my hand, shouts, ‘Come on!’ as she sets off at a run, pulling me after her.
Vicky’s house is at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac and we hang around outside for a while, listening to the thud of music and shouts of laughter coming from within, while Edie peers through the window. When Alice comes to the door she squeals in an excitable, over the top sort of way to see Edie there, before her eyes drift to me and the seven lads standing behind her, and her smile falters.
‘This is my boyfriend, Connor,’ Edie tells her quickly, pulling him in front of her. ‘You said it’d be all right, didn’t you, if I brought him.’
Alice goes a bit pink as she gazes up at him. ‘Yeah, yeah, of course,’ she says dazedly, and stands aside to let us in.