by Emlyn Rees
‘You want me to kiss you?’ I asked, amazed.
She looked me up and down uncertainly, then her expression hardened. ‘Forget it,’ she told me, spinning on her heels and stomping off down the path. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
I stayed where I was, watching her go, completely at a loss for what to do next. I felt the warm air closing in around me and a drop of sweat running down the side of my face. Then I started to run.
I caught up with her just before she reached the churchyard gate and skipped around her so that I stood between her and it. ‘Wait,’ I said breathlessly.
She glared at me, her face the colour of a sunset, and reached out to push me aside. It was then that I did it. I put my hands on her shoulders, stepped forward and pressed my lips up against hers.
We stared into each other’s eyes, the tips of our noses squashed together. Warm breath funnelled from her nostrils on to my cheeks, tickling me, and I blinked, wanting to laugh. But Mickey looked so serious that I didn’t dare. So instead, I waited, and then I watched as she closed her eyes. This is it, then, I thought. She’s really going to do it. She’s actually going to kiss me with her –
And then, without warning, she did. With the speed of a striking snake, her tongue darted out from her own mouth and pushed inside mine. Slimy as a slug and wriggly as a worm, it brushed over my own tongue. I froze. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t breathe. This was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever known. But now that our tongues were touching, what next?
I stared at her eyelids and prayed for a sign.
Then came a shriek and we pulled apart, simultaneously looking up into the sky as a starling broke from the cover of the bushes. When I looked down again, past Mickey’s shining eyes, I was amazed to see that the ground still lay beneath my feet.
‘That was …’ I began. But I didn’t know what it was, only that it was new.
‘Don’t tell anyone,’ Mickey said.
‘Why not?’
‘Just because,’ she said, smiling. She stepped away from me and walked to the churchyard gate. When she got there she turned back to me. ‘We should go home,’ she said. ‘It’s getting late.’
I nodded my head and followed her out of the gate, across the Elo and up the Avenue. We didn’t speak the whole way, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I don’t know what Mickey was thinking, but my memory of the walk is still as clear as it was when I said goodbye to her outside my house. I didn’t care about whether Miss McKilroy had been round to see my mum. Nor did I did care that tomorrow Mickey would be going to her new school without me at her side. I didn’t even care about Miles. In my mind right then, there was only Mickey.
I put the photo back in the shoebox and return it to the drawer. Then I take Mickey’s business card from my wallet and key her number into my phone. Without giving myself time to hesitate, I press OK. Then I count the rings: one, two, three, four, five, six –
‘Hello,’ she answers.
I take a deep breath. ‘Hi, Mickey,’ I say, ‘it’s me, Fred. Sorry to be calling you so late, only there’s something I want to ask you.’
Chapter IV
Mickey
Joe’s grinning from ear to ear, as he turns away from the giant screen. Thousands of miles away, the pixilated and slightly time-lapsed face of his opponent, a Japanese boy who looks about thirteen, breaks into a begrudging smile. His gazes shift nervously around the bottom of the screen like a novice TV reporter, before he goes fuzzy and disappears. After the digital surround sound of the intergalactic game, my ears are ringing and, as the lights come on, I can’t help swallowing a yawn.
Fred, who’s been running around for the last hour, appears by my side. He applauds along with the crowd of blinking kids and adults who’ve all been staring up at the screens, as Joe and his Japanese opponent battled it out. He leans in close to me as Joe scrambles off his stool and accepts his prize: a trendy rubber courier bag presented by Nina, the promotions-girl-come-chaperone. She looks a bit out of her depth, with the kind of toothy radar smile and incessantly posing limbs that would make her a natural at holding a number board in a bikini contest rather than looking after an unruly mob of adrenalised kids.
‘I can’t believe Joe did it,’ says Fred, clapping proudly as Joe wrestles the bag away from Nina, who’s busy posing for photos. ‘I couldn’t have done that.’
‘All those hours in front of the computer have paid off at last,’ I reply, waving to Joe, who pushes towards us through the crowd of kids, all swarming the other way towards the bank of computer consoles. Behind him, an American advert for another game explodes on to the giant screen and a clubby soundtrack booms out around us.
‘Long ago, in another world …’ begins the dramatic voice-over.
‘Blimey. It doesn’t stop, does it?’
‘Non-stop adventure. That’s the idea,’ replies Fred, who is clearly chuffed with the progress of the launch, although I have to say that, so far, most of it has gone over my head … and straight to Joe’s, by the looks of things.
‘So, what did you think?’ shouts Fred over the din, but one look at Joe’s face and it’s not difficult to tell that being one of the heroes of an international game launch is possibly the most exciting thing that has ever happened to him.
‘Lush,’ he replies.
Fred and I smile at each other as Joe drops to his knees in front of us and, in a frenzy of excitement, unzips his bag. Inside are a black designer T-shirt with the name of Fred’s computer company in discreet yellow lettering, two of the latest games and some cinema tickets.
Joe looks up at me, his mouth open with the sheer brilliance of all his exclusive freebies.
Nina catches up with Joe and flicks her sleek brown hair over her shoulder. ‘How about a lesson on the ramp?’ she suggests in her high-pitched sales squeak. She has absurdly long pink nails with very white tips that scrape down the list on her clipboard.
‘There’s a slot with Zack,’ she says. ‘Or you could blade with Quark, if you like?’ She gestures to the skateboarding ramp which dominates the floor, before glancing nervously at Fred.
‘You’re doing a great job, Nina, thanks,’ he says, not missing his obvious cue.
Nina melts at his compliment. She giggles deferentially and snorts unattractively down her nose. ‘Thanks.’ She nods, as another of the kids, a boy of Joe’s age, slips through the crowd and joins us.
‘Are these your parents?’ he asks Joe.
Joe nods and points up at me. ‘That’s my mum,’ he says, standing, and then cocks his head. ‘And Fred. Our … friend.’ Joe grins up at us both. ‘Tyler,’ he says, by way of explanation. ‘He lives up the road from us.’
‘Hi,’ I say, astonished at Joe. Usually he’s so shy.
I catch Fred smiling. I can tell that he’s pleased at being described as ‘our friend’.
Tyler mumbles a greeting and turns his full attention back to Joe. ‘That was epic, man, you on the game. Are you going to blade with Quark?’ he asks. ‘I’ve seen him on this video …’
Joe and Tyler stomp off down the shiny metal ramp together to where the skateboard and rollerblading demonstrations are being held.
Nina’s super-thin eyebrows knit together. She places her hand flat on her clipboard and looks at us sincerely. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find you,’ she says, before turning away and hurrying after the boys.
‘Looks like we’re off the hook,’ says Fred, rubbing his ear bashfully.
Joe’s goodie bag remains exploded at my feet and I crouch down to pick up all the contents.
Fred holds my elbow as I stand up. ‘Come on, let’s go and get a drink.’ He smiles, leading the way down the other walkway to the juice bar.
I dawdle behind him, fiddling with the zip on Joe’s bag, my attention caught by the skateboarders who flip up over the rim of the giant ramp and perform gravity-defying spins and turns, their twisting bodies caught in the sweeping searchlights.
Although we’re in a warehouse in East Lo
ndon, you’d never know. The party planners have transformed the large open space into an urban jungle, with walkways between different areas, so that it’s impossible to tell the shape of the place, or how big it is. I’ve never been to somewhere so trendy and state-of-the-art and, so far, it’s been quite a struggle to stop myself from gushing to Fred, like an awe-struck kid.
Below us, down an industrial metal ladder, the party is in full swing in the juice bar. A light show illuminates giant screens above the bar, the light moving in time to the ambient music, accompanied by the bubble of conversation and clink of glasses from the crowd below.
‘Mum?’
I look up and see Joe hanging over a scaffolding bar above me. He’s fastening a silver crash helmet under his chin.
‘This is fantastic,’ he yells, and I grin up at him and wave. I can tell by his smile that he’s forgiven me at last.
When Fred called a few days ago to invite us tonight, I was half asleep and in such shock that he’d rung that I agreed without thinking. Yet the second I put the phone down an all-consuming forty-eight-hour bout of worrying engulfed me, culminating in a full-scale panic before we left.
‘Why don’t you ring up and ask what to wear?’ suggested Lisa, as I huffed and puffed around the shop.
‘I can’t,’ I whined. ‘Besides, I’d look …’
‘Look what?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I bleated, totally demoralised.
Upstairs, Joe was equally unhelpful, as I riffled through every possible combination of outfits.
‘Chill, Mum,’ he advised. ‘I don’t see why you don’t wear what you normally wear.’
‘What I normally wear?’ I snapped, throwing my hands up and growling with frustration. ‘It’s a launch party. I’m not going to wear jeans and trainers, am I, stupid? It’s Fred’s business do.’
‘He’s not going to care what you wear,’ Joe countered, with his usual nine-year-old wisdom, even though he was clearly offended that I’d called him stupid.
‘Oh … just … go and wash your face,’ I snarled unfairly. ‘And clean your teeth.’
Joe pulled a snotty face and stalked out of my bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I jolted, guilt overwhelming me.
Once alone, I scrutinised my face in the wardrobe mirror, feeling unbearably frumpy and neglected. The last time I went to a business function it was Martin’s mobile phone company’s and I hated every minute of it. At Martin’s request, and against my better judgement, I wore an evening dress and spent most of the time with a napkin over my cleavage to protect it from the scrutiny of Martin’s leery colleagues. I doubted Fred’s company would be anything like it, judging from Fred, but I still felt nervous about being on show.
But it was Rebecca who was making my stomach turn with panic. Part of me wanted to ring Fred up and cancel seeing him, but I couldn’t let Joe down, so instead, I started rehearsing. Holding my hair up at the back of my head, I gave the mirror my most confident look. ‘Hi, Rebecca,’ I mimed, smiling as widely as possible. ‘I’m Mickey.’ Sticking out my tongue at myself, I tried again. ‘Hi, I’m Mickey Maloney. Fred and me …’
I let my hair and my face drop, before slumping on the bed, my confidence deserting me as a barrage of questions racked up in my head. Was Rebecca going to be at the launch? Would she know about Fred and me? What would Fred have said to her after our last meeting? How would Fred have described me? Were we all going to be friends and hang out together? Why, after all, had Fred invited us? What did he want?
Now, I glance at Fred and I’m still hopelessly in the dark. Rather than having any answers, I’ve just got a load more questions.
‘What?’ he says, smiling as he stops on the ladder and looks up at me. His face is caught in the swoop of light and his eyes seem to sparkle. He’s wearing a charcoal-grey T-shirt that complements his lightly tanned face and, for a second, my heart is in my throat.
‘Nothing,’ I reply, but part of me wants to stop and say, Exactly, Fred. What? What’s all this about? Where’s Rebecca? What’s going on? And … and when did you get to be so bloody good-looking?
‘Give me that,’ he says, smiling at me as he reaches out for Joe’s goodie bag and I hand it over, glad that he can’t read my mind.
Of course, Joe was right all along. I shouldn’t have dressed up. I feel ridiculous in my pinstriped trouser suit, which is the trendiest item I could find in my wardrobe, but is still hopelessly out of fashion. All the girls here are in funky urban gear, all of which looks scruffy in an expensive, designer kind of way and, apart from the odd slick of lip-gloss, seem entirely au naturel.
By comparison, I feel like I’ve had a head-on collision with the supermarket cosmetics display stand, the badly co-ordinated contents of which I’m currently lugging round in my huge mummy bag, along with a whole load of other personal clobber. It serves me right for being so vain. I thought that having the usual essentials like a hairbrush and a sweatshirt for Joe, not to mention my bulging appointments book stuffed with junk mail and held together with elastic bands, would make me feel prepared and grown-up. Instead, I just feel old.
‘Listen, Mickey, there’s one thing,’ whispers Fred, as we’re about to make our way through the crowd to the bar. He sounds serious.
‘Yes?’
‘I use Wilson now, as my surname.’
‘Wilson?’
Fred looks shiftily around him to make sure no one has heard. ‘Mum decided after … you know. We took her maiden name.’ Fred smiles at me for encouragement, but I can only stare at him in shock. ‘Mickey, it’s no big deal. It’s just probably better if you don’t mention me as Roper, if anyone asks. Because I’m not. Not any more …’
‘OK,’ I mumble, scanning Fred’s face, but he just nods as if he’s made some sort of insignificant little pact with me and, before I have a chance to say anything, he heads into the crowd.
People keep coming up to him to say hello and I get the impression that he must be good at his job, as they all seem respectful and heap praise on him about his company, but Fred just politely bats them out of the way and ushers me towards the bar. He seems so confident and in control, this Fred Wilson. It’s like seeing a new person. Yet a part of me wants to hold up my hand, draw the attention of the crowd and say, ‘Sorry, folks, just a small mistake. This is Fred Roper.’
It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. Fred Wilson isn’t a part of me and I’m not a part of Fred Wilson and, childishly, I feel that in denying his past, Fred has denied me something, too. Because I was a part of Fred Roper. The shared experience that linked us may have stretched over the years like a cobweb, but it was still there. Now I realise that in spite of every promise we made, Fred made a clean break and, for all those years when we were apart, he was happy being a different person all along.
But then again, why shouldn’t he have changed his name? What happened to him was so awful that I can hardly blame him for putting it behind him. People reinvent themselves all the time for much smaller reasons and, if I’d been in Fred’s shoes, I’d have probably done the same. To be honest, it would have been nice to have had that luxury. At least Fred didn’t see what happened, like I did. He wasn’t there. He didn’t smell that dreadful smell that haunted me for years.
‘I’ll just pop to the loo,’ I whisper as Fred is greeted by yet another colleague.
‘I’ll be right here, OK?’ he says and I nod, feeling absurdly flattered. I’m so used to looking after Joe and the shop that I’d forgotten how nice it feels for someone else to take care of me.
After carefully scrutinising the weird symbols on one of the doors, I decide that it must be the Ladies and push against the heavy door. For a moment I look back in dismay, wondering where I’ve gone wrong, as a wall of stainless steel panels faces me. Hopelessly, I prod at them, but nothing happens. Even the loos are too sophisticated for me.
A girl with blonde hair appears behind me and comes to the rescue. She pushes hard on one of the panels and it swings back to reveal
a stainless-steel toilet cubicle, complete with space-age-looking toilet. ‘Bloody obvious, right.’ She smiles, sympathising with me.
‘Thanks.’
She’s waiting when I come out, washing her hands in the water fountain round the corner. ‘You’re with Fred, aren’t you?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’ I smile back, taking a thick white hand towel from a pile by the sink.
‘I’m Susan,’ she says, pushing her fringe behind her ear and leaning one hip against the sink, as she looks at me. She takes a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her funky trousers and lights one. ‘Fred’s my boss,’ she explains. ‘Although, to be honest, I’m the bossy one.’
‘I’m Mickey.’
There’s a pause, as she smokes contemplatively, looking at me. ‘I like the retro look,’ she says, nodding at my suit.
I stare at her for a moment, wondering whether she’s being rude.
She catches my look. ‘No, honestly,’ she says. ‘You look great.’
I scan her wide, honest face once more and decide that she’s being serious. ‘You mean I’ve finally got to that stage where I’m so unfashionable, I’m actually fashionable?’
‘Honey, it woiks,’ says Susan in a phoney American accent and we both laugh.
‘I feel like a walking Accessorize store,’ I confide, pulling a face at my huge handbag.
Susan reaches out for it. ‘I’ll put it with Fred’s stuff.’
Gratefully, I hand it over and follow her to the door, although how she knows where it is, is a mystery.
‘Have you known Fred long?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘For ever, but I haven’t seen him for a while.’
‘Well, it’s nice that you’re here. It means he can enjoy himself and stop being such a boring workaholic, like he is at these dos.’
‘Oh?’ I say curiously, unable to stop myself. ‘Doesn’t Rebecca usually come?’
‘Rebecca?’ says Susan, as if I’m joking, then she clocks my look. ‘I take it you haven’t met Rebecca?’
‘No.’