‘Hello, Grace dear, it’s lovely to see you.’
‘You too, Mrs Jones. How are you?’
‘I mustn’t grumble, dear. Everything’s working and still where it should be.’
‘Have you taken a parcel in for me?’
‘It’s here on my new telephone table. I’m ever so pleased with it, dear. It’s a lovely colour. That pretty Kirstie Allsopp had one just like it on her programme last night.’
‘It was my pleasure; I really enjoyed restoring it. I’m glad you like it.’
Mrs Jones squeezes my package and looks at me expectantly. ‘It’s a squashy one.’
‘It’s a dress, from eBay.’
‘Going anywhere nice, dear?’
‘It’s Hannah’s hen do, from work. We’re going to Pizza Express.’
‘Lovely, dear. It will be your hen night soon, I expect?’
I grin wryly. ‘Have to wait until he asks me, first.’
‘A lovely young girl like you? I’ll tell that young man of yours to get a move on, shall I? Before somebody else snaps you up.’
I smile at the old lady I’ve grown so fond of.
‘And is he better now?’ she continues.
‘Who?’
‘Dan. I saw him go to work on Monday and then come home again about an hour later. I thought he must be ill. It’s unusual for you to not have the same holidays. He got changed out of his suit and then went out again. Doctor’s, was it?’
I hesitate. If I admit I’ve no idea Dan was off work or why, the whole village will know by teatime. Mrs Jones must keep BT in business, the amount of phone calls she makes – repeating ‘have you heard’ and ‘you’ll never guess what’. There’s no maliciousness in her, though; just loneliness, I think.
‘Stress, is it? All you young people seem to have it. It didn’t exist in my day. I’ve heard him shouting at someone on that cordless phone of his. You should do what my granddaughter does.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She chillaxes.’
My laugh sounds forced, even to me. ‘We’ll definitely try that.’
I take my package and step over the picket fence that divides our properties. My parcel feels light compared to the ton of questions I want to ask Dan.
The pale blue shift dress fits perfectly and I’m so pleased – it was such a bargain. I can’t afford to shop in Coast normally, and this looks barely worn. I smooth the fabric over my hips and twist from side to side as I check out my reflection: stomach in, chest out. Ella Fitzgerald sings ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’. Mrs Jones has certainly been watching Dan. I practise turning my rose-painted mouth into a happy smile.
The front door closes with a crash. Keys chink into the bowl on the telephone table; shoes thud against the wall as they are kicked off.
I find Dan in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and tie loosened. He is rooted in front of the sink, staring at the garden, ice-cold lager in his hand, beads of condensation dribbling down the can.
‘You OK? I thought you were driving me into town later?’
‘It’s just the one. I’ve had a shit day.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I place my palm on his shoulder, feel the muscles under his shirt tighten as he shrugs me off.
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘Mrs Jones says you seem stressed lately.’
‘Don’t talk about me with the bloody neighbours, Grace.’ His fingers clench the can. It begins to crumple.
I tense up. ‘I wasn’t. She mentioned she heard you shouting on the mobile. Who were you talking to?’
‘A client. Christ.’ Dan bangs his drink onto the draining board. Lager fizzes and froths, pooling on the gleaming surface. ‘Can’t a man have a drink after work without an interrogation?’
I flatten myself against the fridge as Dan pushes past me, and I remain motionless long after the front door has slammed. It isn’t until my heart has stopped thumping quite so loudly that my trembling fingers dial for a taxi.
The jalapeños on my spicy meat pizza are volcano-hot, and I knock back chilled wine to cool the flames. Lyn tops up my glass with Pinot Grigio as I check my mobile again. No messages from Dan.
‘I can’t believe Charlie wanted to find her dad. It’s so sad,’ says Lyn.
‘I read a story in Take a Break this week about a Mum who gave her son up for adoption.’ Hannah reaches across the table for a slice of garlic bread. Her sparkly sleeve brushes against the pizza, and I dab the cheese that sticks to the material with my napkin. It’s funny to see her so dressed up, and not in her in her ‘Little Acorns’ T-shirt and leggings. ‘She spent her life waiting for him to knock on the door. Imagine if he’s waiting for Charlie, thinking he’ll meet her one day. Have grandchildren.’
‘I know. That’s why I want to find him. To tell him the truth.’ And to find out the truth, I think, but I don’t say that.
‘Do you think Lexie gave you his real name?’ asks Lyn.
‘Paul Lawson? Yes. She seemed really relieved to talk about him. She doesn’t have any female friends or family. Probably kept it all bottled up for years. She was really cagey when I tried to find out whether he knew about Charlie, though.’
‘Does she know you’re looking for him?’ Hannah asks.
‘No. She resents him for running out on her when she was pregnant. It probably wouldn’t have occurred to her that she should tell him his daughter has died.’
‘I don’t blame her. He sounds like a bit of a bastard,’ says Lyn.
‘We haven’t heard his side.’
‘So what next? He may not be Internet-savvy. A lot of that generation aren’t.’
‘I’m not sure. I will find him, though. One way or another.’
I signal to the waiter, brandishing our empty bottle.
‘Grace.’ Lyn covers my hand. ‘Don’t take on too much. I’m worried about you.’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ I shake free and pick up my glass.
‘And you’re drinking a lot. I didn’t think you could, with the tablets. Have you stopped taking them?’
‘Nearly.’ I don’t tell her about the strip I carry in my handbag. The way I break each pill into quarters that I take whenever life gets on top of me. Not enough to send me to sleep, but enough to create the warm haze I’ve become so reliant on. I will stop. I really will. Just not yet.
I change the subject. ‘A toast to Hannah.’ I raise my glass. ‘To eternal love.’
‘I can’t imagine love being any other way,’ says Hannah.
The conversation turns to the wedding, and it is gone eleven before we pay the bill and stumble out into the inky darkness. After the warmth of the restaurant, the cold air takes my breath away and I button my coat, ease fingers into gloves.
‘Shall we go to a club?’ asks Hannah.
‘If that’s what the bride-to-be wants,’ says Lyn. ‘Which one?’
‘I dunno. Which one have you booked the stripper for?’
‘You’d kill us if we had.’ Hannah only has eyes for Andy.
‘I’m just grateful you haven’t made me wear L-plates and carry a blow-up cock. Let’s try Rumours. They play lots of ’80s and ’90s music.’
We link arms and weave along the pavement. It’s the first payday since Christmas and people are out in droves: men with designer stubble, girls who look too young to drink. Tiny dresses, fake tans, bare arms and legs. I feel old as I shiver in my layers. The queue for the club is long and we stamp our feet in the cold air.
Bouncers in black ties appraise us before nodding at the door. We pay our entrance fee to a bored-looking bleached blonde and navigate our way down a dark staircase. It isn’t easy in heels; I hardly ever wear them. The pounding bass rumbles below us and the staircase shudders, making my toes tingle. I blink as my eyes adjust to the glaring neon brightness. The cocktails sign winks on and off; shiny black tables reflect flashing strobe lights.
‘Sex on the beach
?’ screeches Hannah. I’m glad her wedding isn’t for another couple of weeks. I think we’ll all be hung-over in the morning.
I squeeze against the sticky bar and wait for ages to be served, despite waving my £20 note.
‘What can I get you?’ The young barman leans his forearms on the bar and stares into my eyes. Too many buttons are undone on his bright white shirt, displaying a tanned, hairless chest.
‘Three cocktails please. Sex on the beach.’ I’m glad it’s dark in the club. I can feel myself blushing.
I wend my way through the crowd to Lyn and Hannah, who are perched on high stools near the dance floor. We shoulder boogie as we drain our drinks. The cocktails are smooth and sweet.
‘Let’s dance.’ Hannah shimmies her way over to the DJ.
Three songs later and I’m panting. I gesture to our seats.
‘Not yet,’ Hannah clutches my wrist, shouts in my ear. ‘I love this one.’
Madonna’s throaty voice invites us to strike a pose. My body stiffens as the dance floor vogues. The thrum of the club slows and fades. I don’t need to close my eyes to see Charlie’s face. I can almost hear Grandma yelling up the stairs that we sound like a herd of elephants as we perfect our moves.
I feel a hand, hot on my arm. See Lyn’s worried face. I remind myself we’re supposed to be having fun and summon up a smile. ‘Going for a wee,’ I mouth and point over to the back wall.
I fight my way to the toilets and join the queue of over made-up girls in tiny black dresses. I squeeze into a cubicle and rest my forehead against the cool door. Toilet paper is caught on my heel and I use my other foot to knock it off. I want to go home, but I don’t want to ruin Hannah’s evening. Someone bangs on my door, shouting for me to hurry up, but it takes a while before I feel ready to emerge. I run my wrists under icy water; reapply my lipstick. The door leading back to the club is heavy, and as I pull, someone pushes from the other side. We fall into each other and red wine splatters the front of my new dress.
I wave away apologies and step back out into the fug of the club. I must look a state: my blue dress stained crimson, jostling my way through the throng, pulse beating in time to the music. I can’t see Lyn or Hannah.
I unclasp my bag to fish out a tissue, thinking that maybe I can soak up the worst, but then I notice the illuminated screen of my mobile. It’s a text from Dan.
‘We’ve found Charlie’s dad.’
Lyn and Hannah aren’t ready to leave, but I can’t wait to talk to Dan and I say my goodbyes, claiming exhaustion. They know I don’t sleep well and I can see the sympathy in their eyes. The night breeze cools my hot cheeks. The smell of frying onions from the burger van fills the air, greasy and sweet. I tap my clutch bag against my thigh impatiently as I scour the street for a taxi. The clubs haven’t kicked out yet and there are no cabs to be seen. The rank isn’t too far. I decide to walk.
The street is deserted – everyone’s still partying. I turn off the main road, and as the thumping of the bass quietens and fades, I hear footsteps behind me. I stop. Fiddle with my bag and glance over my shoulder. There’s no one in sight, but the shop doorways cast shadows and I wonder what they’re hiding. Who they’re hiding. I move again. My heels click-click-click against the pavement and there it is again. The slap of shoes on concrete.
I speed up. So do the footsteps. Alcohol churns in my stomach and I calculate the quickest route back to the main road. Run at full pelt. My breath wheezes and my mouth hangs open in a silent scream. Fight or flight has kicked in: I’m definitely the latter. My heels slow me down and I wonder whether I’ve time to kick them off – they’re hard enough to walk in, let alone run – but the footsteps are getting closer and I can’t afford to stop. There’s hot breath on my neck. Something brushes against my shoulder. I shrug it off, hurl myself around the corner and wham into something solid. A policeman. I cling to his arm, crying with relief, turning around to point – but there’s nobody there.
12
Then
The school toilets always smelled of cigarettes and cheap perfume. I tried not to inhale too deeply as I stuffed my shirt into my bag, pulled on a fitted T-shirt and rolled over the waistband of my skirt until the hem was way above my knees. I was desperate to look older than fifteen.
I joined Charlie in front of the mirror and picked up her Boots Seventeen mascara.
‘Forest?’ I asked. ‘Or pocket park?’ We were making the most of the balmy evenings.
‘Park. Esmée and Siobhan are meeting us there.’
I sighed, long and hard. ‘Someone took my history homework from my bag. I’m sure it was Siobhan. She really doesn’t like me.’
Siobhan was always inviting Charlie and Esmée round hers without me, saying her mum was really strict and would only let her have two friends in the house at a time. ‘Sorry, Grace,’ she’d say, pulling a face, but I knew she wasn’t sorry, not really. ‘You’d understand if you had a mum.’ And I wanted to smack her. Hard.
‘Well, me and Esmée like you. Siobhan will get used to you.’
‘Charlie, I’ve lived here six years now!’
‘Yeah.’ Charlie grinned. ‘She’s a bit slow.’
‘I heard her saying I was boring. Do you think I am?’ I never quite understood why Charlie stayed friends with me. We were polar opposites.
‘You’re not boring. You’re calming. Mum says if it wasn’t for you I’d have gone off the bleedin’ rails. Stop analysing everything, Grace. I love you, and Siobhan doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Anyway, it won’t be just us. Dan and Ben are coming tonight.’
My feelings for Dan were changing. The sight of him made my insides crackle like space dust. I hadn’t told Charlie yet. I kept my feelings close to me, revelling in the deliciousness of the unknown. I was half-terrified, half-hopeful that he liked me too. At night I’d lie wrapped in my quilt, dreaming of the day he’d catch me in his arms as I whizzed down the slide, praying my bottom wouldn’t get wedged halfway down. ‘You’re the reason I come here every day,’ he’d murmur, before giving me my first taste of a boy’s lips.
Charlie had kissed half of our year already. ‘What’s it like?’ I’d asked her, both curious and repelled.
‘It’s OK until they shove their tongue in your mouth and poke it around. Ethan’s was like an eel. He ran it around my teeth. Cleaned out the salt and vinegar crisps stuck there, though.’
‘Charlie!’
‘You asked. They mainly taste of fags though. You should try it.’
I’d practised on my hand, but that didn’t taste of anything. I was waiting for the right boy. I was waiting for Dan. If Charlie knew I liked him she’d try to push us together. I wasn’t quite ready – too scared of being rejected, I suppose.
Be careful with your heart, Grandma had told me. You only get one and it’s precious.
If you can’t be good, be careful, Lexie had told Charlie, in contrast, while giving her condoms. The condoms had torn, one after the other, as we’d rolled them down a banana. I’d washed my hands three times afterwards. The smell of rubber had lingered for hours.
‘Dan’s asked me out,’ Charlie said now, as she smothered her lips in gloss. I slipped with the mascara wand, and went into a cubicle to get some tissue. ‘Charlie Fisher is a Slag’ was written on the back of the door. I’d scrubbed over a similar statement last week. This time, I left it. My eyes sprang tears as I rubbed at my cheek with the tissue until my skin felt as raw as my emotions.
I blew my nose. ‘What did you say?’ I asked, coming out of the cubicle.
‘I told him I might.’ Charlie slicked pink gloss over her lips.
‘You like him?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Never really thought about him that way. He’s just Dan, Dan, the ketchup man, isn’t he? I want to do it though.’
‘Do what?’
‘Sex. God, you can be so naive sometimes. I’m not sure whether to do it with Dan, though. I think Siobhan fancies him.’
‘Does she?’ I felt sick at the thought.
‘Yeah. I might let her have him. I’ll find someone, though. It’s time we got it out the way.’
Once your virginity’s gone, you can’t get it back. Give it to someone special, Grandma had told me.
Don’t get knocked up, Lexie had told Charlie.
‘I’m going outside. It stinks in here.’ I nodded at the cubicle. ‘Someone’s called you a slag.’ I saw Charlie’s mouth fall open and I let the door slam shut behind me.
Dan and Ben were already at the park. Dan stood on top of the slide and waved a bottle of vodka like it was the Olympic torch. Charlie, never one to hold a grudge, turned to me and grinned, hitching her skirt up even higher. Bare legs already tanned. Although it was June, my skin was January pale.
‘Well done, Danny boy,’ Charlie called up to him. ‘Let’s have a swig.’ Dan slid down and landed in front of us. ‘Something stinks.’ Charlie wrinkled her nose.
‘It’s Old Spice.’ Dan grinned. ‘It’s sexy.’
‘To who? You smell like an old man.’ Charlie covered her nose with her sleeve and quaffed the vodka before passing it to me. My throat stung and I swallowed hard to stop myself from choking.
‘Look.’ I nodded towards the gap in the hedge. Siobhan sashayed through, trailed by Abby, who mimicked her big sister’s walk, swinging her hips and pushing out her non-existent chest. With them were five older kids. I’d seen them around, although they didn’t go to our school. Always dressed in black, skin pale, hair rainbow-bright. The Walking Dead, we called them. Grandma always crossed the road whenever we passed them on the high street. Why was Siobhan talking to them?
I took another gulp of vodka so Siobhan wouldn’t notice my smile as she wobbled towards us, heels sinking into the grass, ankles turning.
‘Got any cash?’ Siobhan stood, hands on hips, shadowed by her mini-me Abby. She wasn’t given an allowance. Her parents poured even spare penny into a savings account so Siobhan could go to uni – she wanted to be a lawyer. ‘Bloodsuckers’ was what Grandad called lawyers. Siobhan would fit right in.
The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming Page 7