It wasn’t as scuzzy as I had thought it would be, inside. We got a table in the corner near the loos and Will told me the bouncer’s name was Daz and I tried to joke, ‘Well, if my father asks, tonight you’re called Cassie, or Caz.’ And he was all, ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ So I told him I’d had to lie to Darling to come out, which really did make me look about twelve. But I was sort of secretly impressed because Daz looked like someone I would never dare talk to and about forty, but then Will knows a lot of older people and he is practically nineteen himself.
Then he bought me a double vodka coke and I told him everything. Well, maybe not every last detail, but I did say:
‘Darling’s gone too far this time. She called my dad an actual paedo.’
He spat out some of his drink and went ‘What?’ And so I had to tell him the whole embarrassing story, including that I must have left my knickers lying around after one of our ‘Facetime Dates’. (I didn’t say fucks because there was this nosy couple on the table next door and the man was quite fit despite the eyebrows but she looked like a teacher and it was all pretty distracting.) Will did piss himself and said ‘What a silly bitch!’ a lot, but then I said to him (this was so awkward):
‘I don’t think we should do any of that Facetiming stuff any more. I mean, I promised Darling I wouldn’t. And even if … I really don’t think we should.’
He said ‘Don’t be a twat, of course we can.’
And I didn’t like him calling me a twat so I told him that I just didn’t want to any more anyway, which was totally the wrong thing to say because then he said:
‘Suit yourself. To be honest, it was quite funny watching you try to be sexy.’ And then he did this impression of me.
And I was so shocked I couldn’t speak, and he got up to get himself another drink – I still had my one, but even so he didn’t ask. He took ages at the bar and he was chatting to this blonde girl with massive hoop earrings queueing next to him, for ages, and then he came back and he seemed a little less pissed off. So I tried to perk myself up and get him on a better subject and I asked him:
‘Anyway, what is all this great stuff you know about Darling? What’s she done?’
I thought he would be dying to talk about it, but he said:
‘I can’t really go into it, sorry. But you don’t need to worry.’
So I pushed a little more and said:
‘But if I know then maybe my dad will decide she’s not worth the trouble and finally kick her out.’ Which made perfect sense to me, but he said:
‘She’s just a trouble-maker, that’s all. But it’s sorted, leave it.’
And I was a bit confused, because I thought the whole point was for us to split them up, but then soon after that the bouncer guy, Daz, came past our table and stopped and said to Will:
‘Is this her, then?’
And Will said yes, which made my stomach do an actual flip because he has obviously been talking about me to his friends.
The bouncer gave me this big smile – I think he might be quite sweet under the tattoos – and then he disappeared out the back door and I asked Will how he knew him. His answer surprised me, he said:
‘He’s actually a friend of my dad’s.’
And I was like ‘What?’ (Will’s dad is really posh.) But he said:
‘I know! A bouncer from Elm Forest. And my dad. My dad defended him once – he was wrongly accused of something stupid – and now he thinks my dad is an absolute legend. Which is cool for me.’
‘Yes,’ I said, although I did not get what was so cool about it, until he said:
‘Because obviously he’s the best dealer round little old High Dumpford.’
I must have looked shocked, but only because I was sure the couple on the next table could hear every word. And Will laughed and just said:
‘Don’t do that face. Where did you think all that lovely blow came from, Father Christmas?’
And then I felt stupid, so I laughed loud too. But at least Will was back to normal and this time he got us both doubles and some crisps and started to joke around a bit more. Then, just when I thought he might ask me to go outside with him or something, he started to tell me that this Big Daz bloke was a handy guy to know because he was also ‘pretty good with a cricket bat’.
I must have been reaching my most pissed point around then because I thought for one second he actually meant sport and said:
‘What, Daz is a batsman?’
And Will laughed, like a lot, and said:
‘Don’t be moist, Lol. More of a problem-solver. Solves problems with his bat. Could even solve Darling for us.’
‘What?’
‘Sort her out. Hit that fugly face of hers for six.’
He was laughing, but then he went on about how Daz had been inside at least twice, and something gross about some guy he hit who ended up with his shin-bone poking out and imagine if that was Darling and then neither of us were laughing any more and Will was looking quite intense which made me feel suddenly way too drunk and a bit sick so I said:
‘Just stop, Will, please.’
He got all annoyed and started flicking bits of beer mat across the table and saying:
‘What’s your problem? You’re the one always going on about how much you hate her.’
And the next-door table were practically in our laps – he was sort of checking me out from under his eyebrows and the teacher was listening to Will’s every word, I swear – and I did not want a scene especially as I wasn’t even supposed to be in there and I really wanted to get back and so I said it was probably time I went home. I sort of hoped he might leave with me, but he just said ‘See ya!’ and leant right back in his chair. So in the end I had to walk back down the high street in my heels in the dark feeling sick on my own and I knew Dad would not even be in when I got there and that Darling would not give a toss where I had been.
So, on balance, not the best night. Horrible, in fact. Bloody wish I had not even mentioned Darling. How did I manage to screw that up quite so badly? #epicdatingfails #drinkdietcoke #fmfl
This morning I woke up and had to run to the toilet. Sick, sick, sick. I’m sure it’s not my hangover. Let’s cut the bull, we know what this must mean. I hate that dodgy old expression ‘up the duff’ (what the hell is a duff when it’s at home, anyway?) and ‘knocked up’ and ‘bun in the oven’ and all those nasty little phrases which all basically mean you’re fucked. Pregnancy is why they call it being fucked.
Just thinking about it makes me want to vom again. But if I chuck up any more I’ll probably faint and then I’ll come to and no, it really is not a bad dream. Oh God oh God oh God.
Pregnant, seriously? Why is my life falling apart all at once? Dad and Darling, wedding hell. Stevie. Ellie messing me about. The whole Will thing, which all of a sudden seems to have been just some cheesetastic, Ferris-Bueller-fail, rites of passage shitstorm. And now this?
He hasn’t whatsapped me at all today. I’m not even sure how much I like him. Last night was so weird. How am I supposed to stop thinking about him though?
I have just been sick again. Why do they call it morning sickness – it’s fucking 5.47 p.m. Not like my loopy, AWOL periods can confirm anything, but … I don’t want to think what will happen if I am definitely, without a doubt pregnant. Dad will freak, God, he will go nuts. But Darling might be able to help. After all, she is a nurse. What would Darling do?
Oh God. Just my luck if she’s my only hope.
Achievements
Googled a lot about being pregnant. It is not good. #nonononothankyou
Decided to keep all my goddamn undies up and on from hereon in, aka forever!
Planned to walk all the way to Will’s to try to talk, but bottled it and went and got myself a second piercing in my left ear instead. No one’s said anything, so I’m guessing they haven’t noticed.
Obsessed about cake for more hours than might be normal. I’m not even your biggest cake fan. But it was my cake. #buttercreambitch
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Cried and cried until I looked like a fucking frog. Darling heard and tried to hug me ffs. She’s watching me a lot, at the moment. Like, a lot.
Darling
MONDAY, 7 NOVEMBER
I was here but not here. We were supposed to be leaving before Lola woke up, as soon as Stevie had rested more, so that he might wake to find me lying on his duvet and think the night had all been a bad dream.
We were in the hallway with our suitcase, good as gone. A padding down the stairs.
‘Darling, can I have a word with you, please?’
She was wearing the pink playsuit I had first seen her in, when I had been put in mind of mythical creatures, but now with thick black tights and a slouchy cardigan.
‘You need to go to the loo before we go, Stevie. That’s it, go on.’
Then she told me everything: that she had been fooling around with the boy, Will, on their smartphones and got carried away, leaving her knickers and such all over the place.
‘And so, what, you filmed yourself, for this boy—’
‘Will. I’m seeing him, he’s not just anyone.’
‘I thought you guys fell out ages ago?’
‘We did. But I got him back.’
‘By showing him your bits?’
Nothing.
‘Have you at least got the film, the files?’
‘No!’ she said, boggling at me, numbskull that I had to be.
‘I only meant to destroy them …’
‘Oh. No, it was mostly Facetime, it doesn’t record, and the vid— Don’t worry about it.’
‘I do worry. I was right to worry.’
She looked around as if for exits.
‘So, what’s he like anyway? Is he worth it?’
She jabbed at the screen, cocky and pissed off, shoved her phone under my nose and there he was. A smugshot looking out from his conquest’s phone with eyes that gleamed with knowing; not glaring, but no more pleasant. He was in the sort of suit that sixth-form Millennials found smart and was wearing the striped tie that I recognised from around town. No man, then: just your average, three-Shredded-Wheat, conquering since 1066 Dovington boy. He had been to our house once or twice during the summer. I hadn’t twigged; he must have shot up. It was so clear now – when you recognised that tilt of the head, that leader-in-waiting smile – this was the same boy, then younger still, puffing his chest up next to his dad in the Bright New Britain photo that had been waiting for me in the bundle on Lola’s bedside.
A wha dis fadda?
Dear God, that was it. She was in love with a boy who loved to hate darkskins. Oh, the conversations they must have had about her new step-mum! What havoc he could wreak on us all were he to practise his dark arts in court!
Wah gwan, gyal? Mi nuh swallah mi spit …
‘Good-looking fellow,’ I said. ‘Seen him before, somewhere.’
‘He was here.’
‘Perhaps, but I’m sure I’ve seen him in a photo. In your room …’
Realisation can be a red flash, or more like cream coming to the boil; both happened at once in her complexion.
‘Ah … oh.’
‘So he hangs out with Bright New Britain people?’
‘I’m not sure “hangs out with” is right …’
‘But who does he know there?’
‘I’m not sure, why?’
‘Because … nothing.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Hmm. And he’s why I found your knickers lying around?’
‘Yes, it must be, but you see I didn’t mean to be that out of order. And I’m so embarrassed.’
I paused, weighing each of her words.
‘No, Lola, I can buy that.’
She looked at her feet.
‘Does your dad know about this yet?’
‘Course not! And he can’t, please, I—’
‘It’s OK, Lola—’
‘Seriously! He would fucking freak if—’
‘No need to swear, I won’t tell Dad, it’s OK.’ Just like that, the possessive pronoun dropped. Dad.
‘Let’s just say I’m a slob. That I was acting all weird – nothing new there, right? – and that I’m a messy slob, so you got it wrong, all my fault. No harm done, right?’
I waited a second. ‘You swear that’s all there is to it?’
‘Yes!’
‘And you’ll keep your goddamn undies up and on from hereon in?’
‘I promise. Please!’
‘Fine.’ I sat down, as if weighing my options. I had only one: ‘I will go and see Dad. But first I need a coffee.’
I was on my second coffee, Stevie was settled and watching cartoons, Lola was back in her room, and I still hadn’t summoned the nerve to go and knock on my own bedroom door.
I had fucked up, big time. What did it say about me that I could doubt my husband so seriously, that I could pack our bags before he had unpacked his first explanation? Yes, I could tell myself that I had to be certain that there had been no wrongdoing, or that I had been protecting the children, or that I had been fooled by randy, selfish teens; but what I felt now was more than guilt, or shame. I could not have been crueller to my Thomas.
How could I go to him, now?
I was thinking of filling the kettle again when I heard his tread on the stairs and then he entered the kitchen. Dressed, skin grey.
‘Thomas, I—’
He raised pink eyes to me, looked away. He took his phone off the charger, turned and walked; walked out of the front door without a word.
Heartbreaking, the things you do to keep yourself busy. It would have been unwise to phone Thomas at work, and he would not be phoning me, so to take my mind off that fact, I went back to one of the habits I couldn’t give up. It was usually when Thomas was in the shower that I read the Elm Forest Herald. Now I could read it all day long, if I wanted.
I clicked on to the dismal news:
Local councillor Malcolm Fletcher has spoken of ‘record support’ for the political movement he represents, Bright New Britain, ahead of the weekend’s rally. Putting the influx of new members down to a ‘healthy Brexit bounce’, Mr Fletcher spoke of his determination to ensure that ‘real locals get real choices’. Despite earlier plans to retire this year, he has now announced a new campaign to target younger voters.
Targeting the youth, goose-stepping to the right, declaring what was real and what was not. It was no shock. I had long followed the rise of Bright New Britain, lived through the wild popularity of councillor Fletcher in my old home town. Now support for them was growing in High Desford.
Another new dark red-pink and orange-rimmed flyer had dropped on to the doormat that morning. Rather than tear it up, recycle it or use it for kindling, I thought I would take in the headlines:
BRIGHT NEW BRITAIN
We Won Brexit. What Next?
10 More Ways for Us to Take Control
The ‘more ways’ turned out to be the same ways as before – by rolling the country’s horizons inwards – but strangely they did not spell out a clear policy in relation to abusing, intimidating or indeed pushing those rich in melanin. Or to stomping them as they tried to get home from their Saturday job, putting a knife against their screaming throat and telling them that they did not belong, had no right, that if they told the police, or anyone, they would die.
This was what the teens were being fed nowadays. The landscape Lola was growing up in once again trumpeted this hostility to non-whites (and, of course, the Polish, hauled up for honorary abuse). The vitriol ranged from casual burka-berating to unabashed anti-semitism. For the black people, the brown, and what some used to call ‘cappuccino’ complexions (and where had all that optimistic froth gone? What had happened to the cinnamon chai latte palatability of British race relations?), a chill was setting in in the villages, in the old industrial towns. It could not all be put down to the stone-cold terror of terror. This was more as if someone had left the fridge door open, or perhaps the front door to the UK, the same one out of wh
ich they now wished your too-big black arse would fall. Bit nippy, was Brexit Britain. All at once, everyone who claimed to have been forced quiet for years was a loud expert on what was wrong with all these darkskins.
Stevie wandered in.
‘What are you doing, Mummy?’
‘Getting angry, poppet.’
‘Don’t, Mummy.’
I put down the flyer. ‘Not really, sweetness, just catching up on some reading. You go watch your cartoon and I’ll bring you some porridge.’
I watched his tiny head retreat. Had he been born to become a non-word, a darkskin? No, but the people had spoken. Listened to battymout’ logic and had their say. The bad old days of finicketying around, having to waste time noting the differences between East and West Africans, those from the north and the south of the country, continent, whatever; having to pretend a Cameroonian really was different from a Bajan was different from a Muslim was different from a Turk was different from a skint-bloody-Greek was different from a Jamaican – bloody exhausting! Or pretending that rap and bongo-bongo music came anywhere near art forms, or that any of them liked anything other than rap or bongo-bongo music, let alone were able to play proper British music like Mozart and Whassafella von Beethoven. Those days had ducked behind the horizon, for now. No more! They were all darkskins and the Poles built their bloody houses and became their bloody cleaners and …
‘Is it porridge time now, Mummy?’
‘Sorry! Coming, my love.’
I put the flyer into the old coal scuttle along with some other flammable scraps. We would put a match to it on a colder day and use it to warm ourselves.
To be fair, she did not look too pleased as she announced:
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