The Friend

by Dorothy Koomson

  It was Amma’s turn to look at me as if I had sworn at her. She stared at my father, he stared at her, the pair of them clearly shocked that I had even considered doing it.

  Amma adjusted the pallu of her sari, straightening and restraightening it on her shoulder – something she only did when she was anxious. Then she spun her large gold bracelet around her dainty wrist. She was very anxious about this. Eventually she said, ‘I do not think so, Anaya.’ Amma rarely said no. Not outright. She talked to you, explained to you, got you to see that her no was wholly warranted and justified.

  ‘But Amma—’

  ‘Your mother has said no,’ Tatta interrupted. ‘Respect that, Anaya.’ Tatta had no worries about saying no.

  ‘Why can’t we even talk about it? Why are you being so unfair?’ I could hear my voice rising.

  ‘I don’t want you out there, exposed to goodness knows what,’ Amma replied. ‘That is a world we know nothing about. I do not want you to be out there with all of that.’

  ‘But Amma, I’d be one of the first Asian teenage models,’ I said. ‘I could be a role model for other girls like me to think they can do it too.’

  ‘I’d rather that came from your achievements in the world of medicine, law, science, literature … anything but this, this … This.’ Tatta couldn’t even think of the word to describe it.

  ‘But I could do both. I wouldn’t be a model for ever. It’d only be for a bit, then I could go to university. I could even earn enough money to pay for university myself.’

  ‘No, Anaya,’ Amma said again. She was much firmer, much more sure of her decision this time. ‘I do not want you to do this thing. No. Come, come, you must do your homework. And then straight to sleep.’

  ‘Goodnight, Anaya,’ Tatta added.

  I spent the better part of a week thinking of the right way to change their minds, to explain why they should let me do it. Why it would be good for me, good for all those other girls out there who were constantly being told having brown skin meant they were not beautiful. They would have hope. They would see that someone like them could be beautiful. I wanted Amma and Tatta to know that wanting to be a model was not about vanity, it was about being a trailblazer for the girls who would come next. I thought of many, many arguments and counter-arguments. I invoked every argumentative bone in my body and in the end it was simple. I forged their signatures on the forms and pretended to go to school when I had shoots. It was easy, really.

  7:40 p.m. Cece and I wander down the perimeter of the park, the structures seeming to change and grow, moving like arthritic giants waking from sleep in the dark of night. She’s listening. Listening and not speaking.

  June, 1994

  There I was, wearing a short skirt and a baseball jacket, with my head thrown back laughing at something one of my friends had said. And there I was, sitting huddled on the street with my knees pulled up to my chest, a hat pulled down low on my head and a ‘help me’ look in my eyes. And there, dressed in a bikini, with three of my other friends dressed in matching bikinis, all ready to rush down over the sand onto the beach. And there I was, about to graduate – smiling but worried about what the future held. There, there, there. I was all over the place. All over my parents’ large kitchen table, in the various magazines I’d worked for.

  My school bag fell off my shoulder and I stood very still in the kitchen doorway while my parents sat on either side of the table, framing my laid-out work like two shocked bookends.

  ‘I can explain,’ I said. That’s when I realised that explaining would be all about confessing to forgery, truancy, lying and deception. They had it all laid out in front of them, they did not need me to spell it out too. They did not need me to inadvertently confess to stuff they didn’t know about. ‘Actually, no I can’t,’ I amended.

  ‘Anaya, why?’ Amma said. The desperation in her voice, the utter incomprehension, made me gulp. ‘We allow you so much freedom. So much more than our parents allowed, than any other parents like us allow, and you do this? Why?’

  Because I wanted to, I should have replied. You wouldn’t let me, and I couldn’t accept that answer so I did what I wanted. I shrugged. It was easier than admitting that.

  ‘Your father is so hurt. I am so, so hurt. How can we ever trust you again?’

  This was so much worse than shouting. Shouting I could rail against, I could meet with my own shouts about injustice. Hurt, sadness … how do you fight them? Answer: you don’t. You either cave and beg for forgiveness, or you harden your heart to all such manipulations. It was manipulation, even as a fifteen-year-old I knew that, but it was good manipulation. It was positive and necessary to scare me back onto the right side of truth-telling.

  ‘I’m sorry, Amma, Tatta. I’m so sorry. I know I did wrong, I know I was selfish and wrong, but I’m so sorry, so, so sorry.’

  I hung my head, started to sob as I realised how much I had hurt my parents. I didn’t actually think of them as having feelings. They were adults, they were people who set the rules, and made decisions about my life and the lives of their other children. They went to work, they cooked, they cleaned, they made us help with regular chores. They worshipped, they partied, they socialised with other Sri Lankans who had built up a life in London. They were all of these many-many-faceted things, but I never thought of them as having feelings. Understanding, let alone knowing, what love was all about; what fulfilment, or fear, or insecurity or wanting to be thought of as pretty and successful meant or felt like. How could they understand what it meant to have so many conflicting emotions living at the centre of your being? They were adults and they functioned without the passions and desolations I felt sometimes on an hourly basis.

  ‘I won’t do it again. I am so sorry.’ Tears ran down my face, dripped off my chin, the sobs moved through my body in huge gulps as I realised that my parents not only had the capacity to feel, they could be hurt very, very badly. And I had done that. Some of the girls at school were practically caged. One girl, Erise, told me her parents wouldn’t let her out without one of her older brothers accompanying her – even to and from school. I had all the freedom I could need and I’d abused it. I had behaved terribly and I had made my parents sad. ‘I won’t do it again, Amma, Tatta. I won’t do it again.’

  Amma came to me, cupped my face in her hands. ‘Stop crying, my beautiful daughter,’ she said gently. Her bracelets tinkled against each other as they slipped down her wrist. She used her thumbs to wipe away the tears. ‘You don’t have to worry. Bring me any form you like from now on and I will sign it. If I am not here, your father will sign it. No more sneaking around, Anaya.’ Amma took her hands off me, adjusted her pallu and then went to the other side of the kitchen to start dinner.

  Tatta smiled sadly at me and got up and left the room without saying another word.

  I called Flint, the guy who had ‘discovered’ me in that shopping centre in Wimbledon. He’d treated me so well in all my modelling assignments, looking after me, showing me the ropes and stopping other photographers and shoot directors from pushing me to do outrageous things. He was disappointed when I told him that I had to stop, and he’d tried to persuade me to change my mind, but I couldn’t. What I had done to my parents had devastated me. I was giving up modelling and I was going to do whatever it took to earn my parents’ trust back.

  ‘I totally understand, kiddo,’ he eventually said. ‘Come over any time to pick up your portfolio. There are some really nice pictures in there. It’s a shame though, you could have made it big.’

  8 p.m. Cece links arms with me. She seems scared – I’m not sure if it’s of the dark, winding path we’re taking into the heart of the park, or my story.

  August, 1995

  My mouth felt funny. It felt sticky, gunky. It was the first thing I noticed. My eyes were still closed because I was in complete blackness, and they felt heavy and thick, but my teeth were coated, my tongue felt inflated as well as covered with slime. My limbs were heavy, unwieldy too, and I had to concentra
te to raise my hands to cover my eyes. When I managed it, I rested my hands on my eyes and immediately regretted it. I groaned, exhaled and groaned some more. My head hurt. It thumped and pulsed and I couldn’t stop myself groaning again.

  This is what Candy – my former best friend who had been so jealous of my modelling career she had ‘anonymously’ grassed me up to my parents – said hangovers felt like. But I hadn’t drunk enough to be hungover. I’d gone over to Flint’s studio to collect my portfolio. It’d been over a year, he must have discovered and photographed lots of girls in that time, but he’d remembered me on the phone and had said to come over any time I wanted. I’d actually wanted to see him because I’d had a huge crush on him and none of the boys in my class could match up to him.

  He’d made it very clear that I was too young for him and that I should go for boys my own age. Which, of course, had made me like him even more. One of the best things about being photographed by him was his studio. It was pristine. One area was a clean expanse of white that housed his backdrops and had cameras set up all around. The other part of the studio had a waiting area set up with sofas and chairs, a sideboard with a coffee machine and a fridge underneath. Through an archway, to the right of the shooting area, was his living space. A large bedroom that led to a kitchen area that led to a sitting and lounge area. And beyond the lounge area was another archway that led you back to the studio. He had the whole floor of an old box-style warehouse in a pretty grotty part of east London. Outside the world was decaying; inside it was clean and new and fresh. He’d offered me a glass of champagne and said he’d missed me. ‘You were a dream to work with,’ he’d said. ‘Most models, especially the newer ones, can out-diva even the supers. I swear, the ones like you are few and far between.’

  I’d been flattered, had blushed and gulped down the drink in my hand. ‘Hey, careful,’ he’d said to me, ‘don’t drink it too quickly, especially if you’re not used to it. Sip it slowly, OK?’

  ‘Who said I’m not used to it?’

  ‘You do, with everything you do and say. You’re a nice girl, gentle, virginal, untouched by life. That’s why I like you. That’s why all the clients liked you. Don’t go rushing to get into the grown-up world,’ he’d said. ‘Once you’re there, it’s hard to get yourself out again. Believe me.’

  I’d lain back and closed my eyes. I loved Flint’s voice. He had a cockney accent that grated on your ears first of all, but when you listened to it for a few minutes, you found yourself rising and falling with the lilts and tilts of his voice, the way he shaped words and allowed them to escape into the air like gentle multicoloured balloons.

  Finally, I managed to prise open my heavy, thick eyes and I flinched at the light that came streaming into my vision. I clamped my eyes shut as fast as I could and groaned.

  ‘Ah, look who’s awake,’ Flint said.

  ‘Nrrr,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes, well, you may well speak like that for a while, given how much you drank last night.’

  ‘I only had one glass,’ I mumbled through my dry, scratchy throat.

  ‘And the rest. Do you remember me telling you to slow down?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t listen. In fact, you didn’t listen to me all night.’

  My eyes flew open and looked around the room. ‘All night?’ I was in Flint’s bed, covered by his expensive cotton sheets. ‘Oh God, how did I get in here?’

  ‘I mostly carried you.’

  ‘Oh God.’ I pulled the sheet up over my head to hide my embarrassment. I noticed then that I was only wearing my white bra and black knickers. I stared at them for a second then jerked the sheet off my head and found Flint staring at me. A small smile of amusement played around his pink lips and his blue eyes.

  ‘You were sick,’ he explained. ‘All over yourself and some of the beach scene I’ve got set up out there. I had to take your clothes off to wash them off, but your underwear I left on and tried to sponge off as much as possible.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said again, cringing at the idea of it. I really didn’t think I’d drunk that much. ‘Did I … did I try it on with you?’ I had to know. I had to know how complete my embarrassment was.

  ‘Let’s just say I like my women sober and knowingly consenting.’

  ‘Oh God.’ I covered my eyes again. The sunlight, which was flooding in through the large windows in his bedroom, was burning its way through my brain. ‘I am so sorry. You must think I am awful.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve had worse, and at least you didn’t throw up actually on me. I’ve had that happen before.’

  I rubbed at my eyes. I didn’t know what I was going to tell my parents about being out all night. They didn’t generally mind, but after the revelation that I’d been dishonest with them, I’d been trying to rebuild their trust. Urgh, I was useless at this sometimes. I was useless at behaving like a functioning human being. Why did I get so drunk? And throw up and then pass out and then stay out all night?

  ‘I think I’d better go,’ I said to Flint.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he replied. ‘Your parents will understand. I think your clothes should be dry – I think I got everything off, apologies if I didn’t.’

  I cringed some more.

  ‘Seriously, Anaya, don’t worry about it. We all do things like that sometimes.’

  He left me alone to get dressed and I did so as quickly as I could.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, Anaya,’ he said at the large metal door to his flat.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘And I am so, so sorry about everything.’

  He shook his head and smiled that smile again. ‘No worries, mate.’

  I turned into my road, walking quickly, eternally grateful that it was early so the walk of shame hadn’t been too bad, and as I approached our house, I remembered I hadn’t actually taken my portfolio. All in all, a completely pointless exercise.

  8.25 p.m. I can hear Cece breathing fast beside me. I think she wants to cry; I know she feels bad for me. She holds me closer and we walk on. Deeper into the park, back into my past.

  August, 1995

  I pressed the large circular doorbell that sat beside the large metal door to Flint’s studio/flat. Someone had been leaving as I arrived, so I’d walked in and up the stairs to his third-floor apartment. I’d got him a box of Quality Street to thank him for not being offended after last time, and I was going to get my portfolio and go. No sticking around to drink, no vomiting, no trying it on with him, no passing out. I was going to collect and then go.

  ‘Anaya,’ he said when he opened the door. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I thrust the small purple box of Quality Street at him and stepped forwards. He stepped back, then seemed to change his mind and halted, barring me from going any further. From the way his shirt was hanging open, exposing his bare chest, he probably had a woman in there and didn’t want me around. I swallowed my pang of jealousy and reminded myself that I was only there for the portfolio, not to indulge my crush. ‘I brought you some chocolates to say sorry for being sick on your studio area, and thank you for th …’ My voice petered away when I saw what was projected onto the wall of his studio area: me.

  A giant image of me.

  My stomach turned over itself, a domino effect from the way my throat had somersaulted and my heart had stopped beating and fallen forwards.

  I was projected onto the wall in front of me, reclining on a bed. I was naked, my eyes – hooded and vacant – were barely open; my lips, which looked almost bruised they were so plump, were parted because they were being held open by a white male’s hand that wore a gold sovereign ring. I tore my eyes away from what he was doing, why he was holding my mouth open, and instead looked at my body, flaccid and immobile on the bed, my dark nipples prominent, the curls of my black pubic hair unnaturally shiny and glistening. I looked away, but the image of the three men, standing over my naked body, all of them naked, their faces obscured while mine wasn’t, wa
s burned into the back of my eyes.

  I looked at the sofa, where I’d sat many a time to wait for Flint to be ready to photograph me, at the two men sitting there, both of whom were holding bottles of beer, both of whom were staring at me. One, who had his beer positioned near his mouth, had a huge sovereign ring on the middle finger of his left hand, the same hand, I guessed, that was attempting to open my lips. I slapped my hand over my mouth and stepped backwards.

  My chest started to go in and out rapidly, trying to take air in, trying to keep it in, trying to expel the stale stuff so fresh stuff could get in. I was going to be sick, I was going to vomit, just like I had two nights ago.

  ‘Don’t make a big deal of it,’ Flint said to me. He casually wandered over to the projector and flicked it off. ‘It’s only a few pictures.’

  ‘You … you …’ I couldn’t find the words to describe what he had done, what they had done. I’d been violated. There were probably more and more pictures, all of them depicting what they’d done to me. I didn’t remember it, though, none of it. I didn’t remember drinking so much, vomiting, allowing them to take my clothes off, letting them do that to me. Did they rape me? Did they take it in turns? Why don’t I remember?

  I hadn’t even tried to remember the other night. I had vague images that floated like clouds in the sky in my dreams, but that was only of Flint taking off my clothes. But he’d told me he did that. He’d told me a lot of stuff that I could dismiss if I remembered things, I realised. And because I was so mortified by the idea that I’d vomited in front of him, had passed out and needed to be carried to bed, I hadn’t thought too much about it. ‘You … you …’

  ‘I, what?’ he cut in at the same time as the picture of me disappeared from the screen and the men on the sofa began drinking their beers again. ‘I took a few photos of you, that’s all. I’ve taken lots of photos of you, haven’t I, Anaya?’

  ‘You violated me,’ I said. And I sounded pathetic. Like I was using a word and a concept too sophisticated and complicated for a silly little girl like me.