Darling

by Rachel Edwards

  I padded to the back door. Time for the flavours to mix themselves up, for it all to meld together and break down a touch. I considered another cigarette but remembered Lola’s gift of suffering and pushed the urge aside, for now. I went back to the hob, added coconut milk, stirred and covered.

  Soon come.

  After at least twenty minutes, I decided to seek her out upstairs.

  Lola was in her room. She was sitting up on the bed, Facetiming some friend, and when she looked up I saw it: that naked, honest hatred that she had not been quick enough to hide. So then, Lola.

  I stood, rock steady, in her bedroom doorway until she killed the call.

  ‘I’m making a Caribbean vegetable curry for you …’

  ‘I’m not really feeling—’

  ‘What aren’t you feeling now Lola?’ I said. ‘Curry? Vegetables? Or simply the Caribbean?’

  A twitch at her mouth. ‘Well. No. I was just going to say I wasn’t feeling that well.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. I waited for the sympathy to come, but it did not.

  Two seconds passed. Three.

  Then from cool flat nothing the magnesium sparked and flared, and Lola reheated a smile:

  ‘Hey, want to see my new skirt? Try it on if you like!’

  It was a black and turquoise patterned mini, and it was pov-chic and it was witty-tacky and it was small as hell; it would never have fitted over my rounded old black backside, even at her age. She threw it down on to the bed, a polyester gauntlet.

  I did not rise, I did not move; I paused, made admiring noises.

  ‘So yeah,’ she said. ‘Not bad for High Desford.’

  ‘It’s lovely, Lola,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’d better check on dinner.’

  ‘I told you.’ That hot metal stare. ‘I’m not that hungry.’

  I met her long gaze, eye for eye. A flexing of time, and of wills.

  ‘OK then.’

  I walked out of the room. Lola got up and followed. I stopped by the stairs; she stopped.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  She moved closer.

  A loud purr, gravel. A car. Lola edged me forward along the landing, seeming to hear something that made her cry out:

  ‘Why? Why do you need to be like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ I said, literally on the back foot.

  ‘You act like you hate me the whole time!’

  She was shouting now, a full-throated yell.

  ‘What? You can’t be—’

  ‘It’s true! No. You talk like you like me, but—’

  ‘Lola!’

  ‘You—’

  ‘Lola—’

  ‘Hi, Darling!’ called Thomas.

  And, poor silly girl, in that one weird second she heard not Darling, but darling, and she rushed to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Hello?’ called Thomas.

  But I was still moving forward and she pushed, pushed at me, then more shouting, screaming, a heart-jerking lurch – she was screaming? – and then my arm flew out somehow, anyhow, but she flailed, flew backwards.

  Down she fell, a tripping, twisting, puppet’s dancefall right down to the bottom of the stairs.

  I looked at Lola lying there, one arm up in a question mark above her small fair head, one arm down, legs bent. A beautiful catastrophe: her broken swastika of a body.

  Lola

  DONE LIST 2

  You’ve got to be joking, right?

  They’d been together for a few days and he wanted to fucking marry her? Well, at least that’s never going to happen now.

  Trust her to try to spoil the most important time of my life, ever. I have the most unbelievable, amazing, freaky-deeky news. We did it. How fucking crazy is that? No one can know. I’ve always wondered if he felt like that about me deep down and turns out he does. He really does. And the weirdest thing of all is that he does not realise that he is more or less a total god to me. Especially now.

  But of course Darling has to ruin my life at the same time. Did she mean to push me down the stairs? What was that? I’ve told Dad she meant it, of course, over and over … but deep down I’m guessing the silly cow would not have had the bollocks to risk prison over me. I heard Dad coming back and got distracted so, who knows? She may harbour a criminal intent, it happens. OK, so I did sort of want to catch her out, make a scene – but not that much of one! #familiated

  Between you and me, kiddos, I might just have got it into my stupid skull that I could try to fly, as high and as far as a bouquet tossed over a bride’s head …

  Anyway, I’m alive.

  I don’t want Darling White in this family.

  I’ve tried to do us all a favour, give her the stinky fags she craves. Everybody would win that way. If Dad had caught her smoking, that would have caused a total shitstorm, or at least made him wonder about her. Much better than me grassing her up, which she would have soon wriggled out of.

  As for my own medical issues, the reality? Sadly for our situation it was just a bit of a bang, just boshes and bruises, as Dad says. My ankle is sprained but it will get better soon if I don’t put weight on it, apparently. Pity. Getting rid of her would be well worth a few broken bones.

  What’s wrong with everyone? Turns out Anna must have wanted to get with Will herself that night at her party and that’s why she didn’t want Caro to blow him in her parents’ plastic disco tub. Like that should be the main reason!

  Anna won’t admit it, but how do I know? Because she called me a while back – all upset – to say that, apparently, Ellie and Will have a thing going on that they kept totally quiet, from before Mungojaxx. Ellie told Jess that they were getting serious and that she did not trust me any more. She doesn’t trust me! The total bitch must have been lying all those weeks ago when she said Will and I would ‘make sense’ together. I can’t believe that Ellie was going for him when she knew how I felt. Anyway, tough, too late now.

  What a crap start to the summer. Prizegiving was crap – who cares if I got the Kendal Award for English? No Dovington boys showed up – and the day before was rubbish too. I’ve had bloating forever and no period to show for it because my cycle’s all haywire, just shot to hell. Also, how did I manage to permanently lock myself out of both my internet banking and Facebook in the same hour? I must have tried a hundred versions of Lolaisafitty#123 this morning while keeping my brain on life support by mainlining that old film Dad says Mum loved, Four Weddings and a Funeral (like if I watch enough well-advised jiltings, it might just rub off). I was sure my password was Lolaisafitty#123 last time. Total mindfart – from now on it’s all fuckadoodled00.

  Seriously: my name’s Lola and I’m a crapoholic.

  Nothing is the way I thought it would be this summer. It’s messed up. Things have to get better when I start college – and I won’t miss all that school stuff. And what is even wrong with the teachers? They kept it up to the bitter, annoying end, making us do those ‘Leavers’ Sessions’ a few weeks ago when I had already done my exams and all but got the hell out. We were gone. But no, they dragged us back in to have Jonesie go on about using the internet or crossing the road or whatever #lifelessonsforlosers until he tried to jazz it up with history bant and get all funny about Napoleon and ‘divide and conquer’ while under the desk we all whatsapped ideas on how he could alli alleviate his obvious ongoing sexual frustration (best suggestion: strawberry jelly and a gimp called Duncan).

  And now I’ve finally left but my freedom’s being ruined: that lot think I’m a megabitch because I first told everyone about blowjobgate, screamed it all out laughing at Maccy Ds as planned, and Caro got way over the top upset when she found out because Ellie had freaked at her. Anna, who was every bit as much to blame as me, is playing innocent now so Will doesn’t hate her and she’s loving it because Ellie is also freezing me out for being a ‘stirrer’. Now I know the real reason – Ellie reckoned she and Will were it. She has no idea. Also great to put it all on me, given that they both say all the time that Caro’s such a total dick. S
he clearly wanted a bit of a dick … Anyway, if you don’t want people to know you behaved like a complete slut, don’t do it, right?

  Like I said – messed up. But never mind Ellie, or Caro, or even Anna. I’ve got bigger things to worry about and no one I can tell.

  AT was getting on my nerves earlier. There is no point in me going over and over the same old stuff. I barely see the point in what I’m writing, except that not talking about it for an hour every week keeps her in all the grandad shirts she so loves and all the seed snap biscuits (why?) she seems to think her clients (patients) might find both health-giving and non-threatening (hey, a little therapy quiz – if you could be a biscuit, AT, what kind of biscuit would you be? … Oh. Sorry). All of it, a complete waste of space. Just like me – snap.

  I used to like Will. OK, bollocks. I really liked Will, I have liked Will Benton for an age. Over eleven months. Ever since he rocked back from a whole summer sailing around the Greek islands looking so tanned he was practically black, about a foot taller and a whole shitheap hotter than anyone else. So sue me: I still really like Will. I want Will Benton. But – and I still can’t believe this – he was-or-is sort of with Ellie Motte-Ryder who used to claim to be my best friend and it probably started because their mums sometimes share the school run because of his sister and bloody boys just don’t have a clue, do they?

  I don’t know what to believe. Is he with her or not? He’s too old for her, for starters – I’m much more mature than Ellie. They can’t be together. I tried to work it into a random chat I grabbed with him outside Maccy Ds, made a joke of it. I said something like:

  ‘So, what you’re into Ellie now? My friend Ellie?’

  He said: ‘Nah. She’s a nice girl, but no. Nothing much going on there.’

  ‘Oh yes. You’re saving yourself for Caro Francis …’

  ‘I told you, if you say that again I’ll—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Spank you. Oh shit, gotta go …’

  Then he wandered off and I realised that Caro, Ellie, Anna and me were all pretty much the same to him, to all of that lot. Interchangeable. Just the Harbrooke Girls.

  How the hell can I make myself stand out? How can I make him see me?

  Not that he would want me, unless he was very drunk. I mean, my face looks all right with enough make-up on and my hair’s OK if I dunk my head in serum, but my figure is way off, just too blah (hey, wonder if Dad would let me swap AT for a personal trainer?) and my shocking lack of tits will, let’s face it, render me pretty much loveless forever.

  Oh my God, that basically makes me the flip side of the Caro Francis coin! Will might have a point …

  No, no way. Got to stop hating on myself, gonna get me some skills. You never know when you might need them #dontstopbelievin #dirtyglee. I’ve looked online at Freeporn.com to work out how Caro didn’t drown when she gave the blowjob, as that might be something I need to know. Your parents never tell you the stuff you really need to know. Your Dad doesn’t, anyway. The closest I could find were two women in a pool with this big oily guy. It went on for ages and no one laughed (how can they not laugh?) and they all kept going mmm-mmm but anyone could see it was fake and there wasn’t enough of the promised ‘underwater action’ to show you how to breathe right with a thingy in your mouth and no wonder this stuff has to be free.

  I could just ask Caro. Lol.

  No, don’t want to be like her – a one-off. Got to make Will Benton want me.

  Total fucking aArmaggedon. Life is over. Dad’s planning to propose tomorrow. He told me when we went to see Grease and it was totally unfair because we ended up having this weird hissing argument because of everyone trying to watch the film and having Stevie on the back seat. I don’t think he meant to tell me then but he was really stressy and then he just said it. Then the stairs thing happened so I thought that would cool everyone the fuck down. Now he’s said he’s still going to ask her, tomorrow. He keeps smiling all the time. I feel sick.

  You see? He’s a dick, but funny. He actually called earlier:

  ‘I know what you’ve done,’ he said.

  ‘I know what you’ve done,’ I said.

  ‘Your nan,’ he said.

  And we laughed (Will laughs really loud, it’s hilarious) and I realised right then just how much I hated Ellie Motte-Ryder.

  Maybe I should get a private detective on to her. We hardly know anything about the woman, after all. Where did she come from and what does she want with my dad? Look at them together. I just don’t get why that would work. Or maybe I should track her – a quick fiddle with her phone would sort that one out. I don’t know, no frickin idea what to do, but I’ve got to do something.

  So boring in bed. I should have suitors coming to fill my room with flowers like they do in black-and-white movies. I think I’ll soon invite Anna and Caro and – fuck it – Will over with the other Dovington boys and Jessica’s group. They won’t bring flowers, but Will could smuggle in some prosecco (or perhaps some of the good stuff smuggled out of his dad’s old law textbooks lol). Plus Jess and Caro really get on – Jess has gone Switzerland on this whole thing – so I won’t look like such a bitch any more #onelove and Anna would never dare make a move on Will anyway and I’ll teach bloody Ellie not to twoface me. Napoleoned all over.

  I’m not staying in bed a minute longer, never mind what they say. Dad says Darling’s the nurse and they simply want to make me better so this is what I must do, but all she wants to do is feed me. No, I do not want any more chicken, or calypso rice, or callaloo bugaboo whatthefuck. Thanks all the same, but no.

  She told me, like it was this big girly secret, that she doesn’t always eat all that stuff normally but that coming to us is like coming home. Subtle, Darling.

  She’s being weird. What’s more, she’s brought my sickness back on.

  Straight after I fell, she rushed down to the bottom of the stairs, told me to lie still and said my legs felt broken. I knew they were both fine. She might have broken her gammy old legs, but I am young and pretty springy. Resilient. I am a dancer (sort of). Only a sprained ankle and bruises and who can say fairer than that? I can’t fully put weight on it yet but I can’t just lie here any more.

  I am so much smarter than she is. I wear her down with any argument. That’s because I treat argue like a transitive verb (come at me, English A*) – I don’t so much argue with her as ‘argue her’. You can see her shoulders droop when I keep it up for just a few minutes.

  Know when you are beat, Darling.

  Can’t stop thinking about that call with Will earlier. He’s so different on the phone, he’s actually quite easy to talk to when he’s not surrounded by all his wanky mates. It’s really weird, it’s like he got how I felt about everything without me having to say that much. So different from when I last saw him with Ben and all that lot, less up himself imho. I worried about saying too much because I didn’t want to sound pathetic, but he didn’t seem to think I was a total loser or anything at all. Amazing. Maybe that was all just in my head.

  You see?

  She’s learning (too late, mind) that I matter around here. Dinner tonight was actually not horrific: tuna niçoise, with the fish just seared so it was almost sus sashimi and balsamic vinaigrette on the side, exactly the way I like it. I thought Dad must have got it together for me, but no, it was Darling. Giving up, or sucking up? To thank her I fucked all their plans up nicely for pudding:

  ‘I’m so glad for you guys!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He asked you, right? To marry him?’

  ‘What … oh! No, I don’t think I’m supposed to know yet.’

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry. Awkward! I’m really sorry …’

  Oh yes, I’m pretty good at the pratfall, the accidental-on-purpose stumble. Silly bloody mare. Next time I’ll argue her so much she’ll stab me. Or – as she’s probably not actually a gang member – she’ll dish out a quick slap. Dad’ll still hate her. And no amount of fishy bribery could ever smooth that o
ver – she would have to drown me in balsamic before we waded out of that one.

  No, just no. He’ll never marry her.

  Achievements

  Already got over leaving school with probably no GCSEs and then probably ruining my life, unless Dad’s right and I’m being melodramatic. #winning

  Shafted the proposal, just in time. I don’t want to seem like a heartless bitch, I’m definitely not, but who doesn’t get pretty worked up about this stuff? I know I’m not two, but Dads should be married to Mums, end of. In fact, if I hadn’t gone and killed my mum then we’d be the perfect happy family.

  Watched more porn in one day than my dad probably ever has in his life. #accidentalgrossout

  Did it! Darling said something pathetic about always losing her purse and earrings and stuff and I pretended I cared and said, ‘I at least know how to stop you ever losing your phone, give it to me.’ And she actually did and gave me her password too when I asked because Dad was standing right there and we were all smiling, and I activated Find My iPhone for her, played around with our phones a bit and then she thanked me! Stupid or what? #familysharing #oldpeoplefails #iseeyoubaby #unironichashtag

  Argued with Dad until we both cried. (OK, he didn’t quite). That never happens. But the whole time he thought I was sulking in my room afterwards, I was on the phone to Will. Yes.

  Darling

  WEDNESDAY, 10 AUGUST

  The poor girl kept saying that she was ‘mortified’ (her dad’s word) that she had spoiled my surprise, but I was too happy to care. I finally understood her, unhappy child. I had seen her book and knew her sorrows and would not need to trouble either again. Leave her to her angst and bother, I had love, love at last, to make good.