And with that she set off down the ward. I watched Meggie until she disappeared through the double doors at the end and even then, I couldn't tear my gaze away. What on earth had I done?
'I know this is none of my business,' said Roxie from the bed next to mine, 'but I couldn't help overhearing. I thought you were going home with your mother tomorrow?'
'I guess not,' I said, my voice clipped.
'Who was that woman then?' Roxie asked.
'Meggie McGregor. Callie's grandmother.'
'Why did you say you'd go with her?'
'She needs me.'
'What about what you need?' Roxie asked.
I had no answer.
twenty-three. Jude
Cara and I have been going out for a couple of weeks now. I decided to be patient. I'm after more than just a day's takings from the local hairdresser's. I have my eyes on bigger fish now – like the money from the whole Delany hairdressing salon account. There must be hundreds of thousands of pounds in it. I've seen Cara constantly have to turn people away so she has to be raking it in. Getting my hands on all her money shouldn't be too tricky.
For the simple reason that she cares about me. A lot.
I've tested her out. Sometimes, I let two days pass without phoning her. On the third day, like clockwork, she phones me on my mobile and suggests we hook up. And every time I see her, I give her flowers or chocolates or cheap bits of jewellery and she laps it up.
And the questions have started.
'How many brothers and sisters do you have?'
'Steve, what're your mum and dad like?'
'Steve, what exactly d'you do for a living?'
'What did you want to be when you left school?'
'Where d'you see yourself in five years' time?'
All those searching female questions that girls ask when deciding whether or not to get serious about you.
And the funny thing is, I haven't done a single thing to encourage it. Definitely no sex, very few kisses, limited handholding.
But I'll say one thing for Cara – she's intelligent. She knows how to have a proper conversation – unlike Gina. And she has opinions of her own. Gina would always ask me what I thought before venturing an opinion, invariably the same as mine. Cara isn't afraid to disagree with me. It's been a while since I sat down and talked about politics and religion and films and life with someone outside the Liberation Militia. And it's been for ever since I discussed any of those things with a Cross.
'D'you get many noughts in your shop?' I asked over dinner one night.
'Not many – no,' said Cara. 'Not as many as I'd like.'
'I bet some of your Cross patrons don't like you doing nought hair in the same salon,' I said.
'Then they're free to go somewhere else,' said Cara immediately. 'I can't stand that kind of thinking around me. It's such a waste of time.'
'So if I asked you to cornrow my hair, you'd do it?'
'In this restaurant – no!' said Cara dryly. 'But in my salon or at my house? Yes, of course I would. Why wouldn't I?'
'You don't feel we noughts are trying too hard to take over the Cross style?' I said, careful to keep my tone even.
'The Cross style? What's that when it's at home?' Cara asked, leaning in to hear my answer, her expression alert.
'Everything that's you and not us,' I told her.
'For example?'
'Walk into any nought clothes shop and you can buy padded knickers so nought women can have more of a curvaceous bum – like Cross women. Everything about our lives, the style of clothes we wear, even down to the food we eat, it's all dictated by Cross aesthetics, by the way Crosses see the world. Rich nought women aren't dressed without collagen implants to give them fuller top lips and melanin tablets or expensive sun bed treatments to make their skin darker. And what about Hartley Durrant?' I said warming to my theme.
'What about her?'
'She's the only nought woman to make it into this year's list of the one hundred most beautiful women in the world. And d'you know why? Because she looks like a Cross.'
'No, she doesn't,' Cara argued.
'Yes, she does.'
'D'you think she's attractive?' asked Cara.
'Yes, she's gorgeous. But that's not the point,' I replied impatiently.
'Don't you think that beauty is as beauty does?'
'What does that mean?'
'It means too many people, Nought or Cross, are caught up in the things that don't mean a damn – like how people look and how much money they have. Who cares!'
'So what does matter then?' I asked.
'What people are on the inside,' said Cara.
What a load of naive, happy-ever-after nonsense, I thought sourly. And easy for you to say.
'Yes, I know it's easy for me to say.' Cara smiled, reading my mind. 'I'm on the inside. I'm part of the majority – I know that. Most magazine covers have Cross women and men on them, not Noughts. Most film stars are Crosses, most TV dramas are about Crosses. I know all that. I'm on the inside but that doesn't mean I can't see what's going on outside. And it doesn't mean I approve of the status quo.'
'Why not? Why should you care?' I couldn't help asking.
'Because my mum and dad brought me up to believe that people are different but equal. And that I should treat everyone, no matter who, with the same respect I'd like to be shown,' said Cara.
'So you're with me to show you can put your parents' philosophy into practice?' I could've bitten off my tongue the moment the words left my mouth.
'Is that what you really think, Steve?' Cara asked seriously.
I took a sip of my wine. I'd said far too much already.
'Is it?' Cara persisted.
'I don't know,' I said, looking her straight in the eye.
To my surprise, she smiled and sat back in her chair. 'Thanks for being honest. Now I'll be equally honest. I'm here with you because I like you – very much. And that's the beginning, middle and the end of it.'
But you don't know me, I couldn't help thinking. And the thought didn't bring me the satisfaction it should've done.
Sometimes when we're chatting or laughing together, I actually forget that she's a Cross. But only sometimes. When that happens, I force myself to look at her and concentrate on her skin colour and nothing else. And that usually does the trick. I focus on the things that are totally different about us. What surprises me is that sometimes I actually forget about our differences. Not for long – but it does happen. And it shouldn't. I'm going to have to make my move soon. I'm in danger here. Because I've started to think about the things we have in common rather than the things we don't. It's time to cut and run with whatever I can get from her.
twenty-four. Sephy
Mother didn't understand my decision. How could she, when I barely understood it myself?
'You said you were coming home with me,' Mother reminded me.
'There's been a change of plan. Callum's mum said I could stay with her so I've decided to . . . to live with her instead.'
'Why?' Mother asked quietly. 'To punish me?'
'It wasn't like that,' I insisted.
'Sephy, d'you want to live with Callum's mother?'
'She's got no one else,' I replied.
'That doesn't answer my question,' said Mother.
She'd noticed.
I'd taken the coward's way out and phoned Mother on the morning of my departure from the hospital. And even though I couldn't actually see her, I could still hear the hurt in her voice. And in some ways it was worse because my imagination filled in the blanks. My mind painted a picture of the bewilderment on her face, the disappointment clouding her eyes.
'I'm sorry, Mother,' I tried again.
'I thought you were serious about the two of us putting the past behind us and starting again
'I was. I am.'
But Mother wasn't listening. And I couldn't really blame her.
'So you'd rather live in some hut with a nought than come home with me?' as
ked Mother.
'I'd rather go where I won't hear comments like that,' I replied. 'And I thought Meggie was once your friend?'
'I didn't mean it,' Mother said instantly. 'I just don't understand you, Persephone.'
'You never tried to in the past and it's too little too late now,' I lashed out.
Silence.
'I see,' Mother said at last.
'Mother, I don't want to fight with you. I'm too tired. I'll come and see you as soon as I get settled,' I told her.
'Goodbye, Persephone,' said Mother.
'Bye, Mother.'
Mother put the phone down first – but not before I heard her sniff and caught the catch in her throat. She was crying. It made me want to cry too. Mother was crying.
I'd done that.
* * *
So Callie, here I am at Meggie's. I've been here for almost a month now. She lives in a two-up, two-down house but it's warm and clean and better than I've been in recently so I can't complain. Meggie sleeps in the smaller bedroom upstairs. I have the bigger one. We argued about that until Meggie put her foot down and said that there were two of us and only one of her so it was only right we had the bigger bedroom. The bathroom is opposite my bedroom which is handy. Downstairs, there's a kitchen and a living room with a burgundy sofa and a light beige armchair which don't match – but who cares? The TV sits selfconsciously in one corner. The ancient music centre sits in another. Meggie has a courtyard garden. It's smaller than her living room, but it's enough to dry your clothes when they've just come out of the washing machine. So the house is fine. The area is something else again though.
When I phoned Minerva to ask about her new job at the Daily Shouter and to check that Mother was OK, she was horrified when I told her where I was going to live.
'But it's really rough around there,' she told me.
'No rougher than anywhere else,' I replied.
'Are you kidding?' Minerva scoffed. 'My first assignment was to interview a woman just a couple of streets away from where you are now. On the way back to the office I was ambushed.'
'What d'you mean?' I asked sharply. 'Are you all right? Were you hurt?'
'No. Some nought creep pushed me against the wall and asked me what I had for him,' Minerva said with disgust.
'What happened?'
'He took my purse and my mobile phone, then ran off,' said Minerva. 'Bastard! But it could've been worse.'
'You were unlucky—' I began.
'Sephy, the majority of the rapes and murders in this country are committed by noughts. You remember that,' Minerva told me.
'That's such a simplistic argument – and you know it,' I shot back at her.
'It's the truth.'
'The truth or manipulated statistics? Besides, even if that's true, which I don't believe it is for a second, that doesn't mean that every nought is a criminal.'
'But the ones that are don't walk around with the word stamped on their forehead,' said Minerva.
'So you're saying I shouldn't trust any nought?'
'I'm saying you should be careful,' said Minerva.
'I prefer to trust people no matter who they are until they give me a reason not to – not the other way round,' I told her.
'Which is why you always end up getting hurt,' Minerva told me.
And I couldn't think of a single thing to say to that. I decided to change the subject before we ended up screaming down the phone at each other.
'Congratulations on getting your job,' I said.
'I'm on six months' probation,' Minerva told me. 'I won't get the really big stories for a while yet. Like I said, I'm only a junior reporter at the moment.'
'You'll breeze through it,' I said.
'I hope so. I've reported on two nought assaults and a fire at a warehouse so far – as well as a kitten stuck in a tree and the local sweet shop being flooded out.'
'Two assaults? They're launching you in at the deep end, aren't they?'
'Not really. They were both nought-on-nought crimes and no Crosses were involved, so they were minor league stories,' Minerva dismissed.
'Not to the Noughts involved,' I replied.
Couldn't Minerva hear herself? Could she sound any more like Dad?
Minerva sighed. 'I didn't mean that the way it sounded.'
I let it slide. We chatted for a few more minutes until I learned that Mother was really down but not drinking. I was grateful for that at least.
Meggie and I still haven't quite settled into a routine yet. To be honest I feel like I'm tiptoeing across eggshells around her. And Callie, you cry such a lot. I feed you and change you and try to make sure you're not too hot and not too cold but you still cry. And after hours and hours of crying, I just want to scream at you to please, please stop. I don't know what you want. I don't know what I'm doing wrong and I feel like such a failure. I pick you up and hold you to me and that usually – eventually – calms you down. But then as soon as I try to put you back in your cot, you start up again.
'You shouldn't keep picking her up all the time,' Meggie told me. 'That's why she cries whenever she's away from you. If you just left her, after a day or two of crying, she'd soon get used to not being held all the time.'
'I'm not going to leave Callie crying in her cot,' I told Meggie.
'It works,' Meggie insisted. 'Callum was exactly the same when he was a baby and . . .'
Meggie's voice trailed off. What was she going to say? It never did him any harm – in fact it did him good? Made him self-sufficient? Self-reliant?
'I'm sorry,' said Meggie unexpectedly. 'I'm doing exactly what I promised you I wouldn't do. You do what you think is best.'
I watched as Meggie left my room, before picking you up, Callie. I walked round and round the room, whispering soothing things into your ear and praying that you'd soon get tired enough to go to sleep. I felt like I was about to drop. It wasn't just the regularly interrupted nights. More wearing than any of that was the gnawing guilt I felt every second of every day. So many things to feel guilty about. And not being able to stop my own baby from crying just added to my sense of worthlessness.
It was like the first time I bathed you, Callie. I was so scared. Meggie asked me if I needed any help but I turned her down. I didn't want her to think I didn't have a clue, when in truth that was exactly how I felt. I ran the water in the bathtub and checked the temperature whilst you lay in your carry-cot on the linoleum bathroom floor. I did all the things I was supposed to do. I checked the temperature with my fingers, the back of my hand and my elbow. Then rechecked the temperature. I undressed you and put you carefully into the water. And then it all went wrong. I tried to hold onto your arm, whilst supporting your head with my forearm, but when you started to mew, I realized I was gripping your arm too tightly. I slackened my grip and turned to grab the soap from the side of the bathtub with my other hand, but then your head flopped off my forearm and your whole body started sliding further into the water. Panicking, I yanked you back up again but I did that too hard and you let me know it. You howled. I took you out of the water, your wet body dripping down my shirt – and burst into tears. I couldn't even give my own daughter a bath. How pathetic was that? Meggie came in and took a nanosecond to realize I was in a right state.
'Let's bathe her together – OK?'
I nodded, gulping down my tears. Meggie kneeled down beside me and supervised whilst I had another go at bathing you, Callie. And this time I did better.
I never realized before just how exhausting looking after a baby would be. I never realized how you never get a break, how you have to be on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And babies don't understand 'Just give me five minutes' or 'Not now, I'm tired'.
I try to catch up on all my other household stuff when you're asleep, Callie – like the washing and ironing – but I move like a tortoise, I'm that tired. If it wasn't for Meggie helping or insisting that I try to get some sleep when my daughter does, I don't know what I would've done. Thank goodness I
didn't have to take you back to my bedsit. I can't imagine how I would've coped if I'd been alone with you.
Then I think of Callum and what we're all missing because we're not together. How much more fulfilling it would've been if Callum was here to share it with me. With us. Then all my problems would've shrunk to the size of full stops. Those are the worst times, when I hold you, Callie, and think of your father. Or when I lie in bed and dream of him.
Why is nothing ever easy, Callie? I so wanted you to have your dad's surname of McGregor. You'd think I'd be able to declare your name was Callie Rose McGregor and put that name on your birth certificate and that'd be the end of it. But no. Apparently, as Callum and I weren't married, I need Callum's permission to use his surname. I explained to the woman at the registry office that Callum wasn't in a position to give his permission but she wasn't having any of it.
'You'll have to consult a solicitor then,' she told me. 'But I warn you now, it's a lengthy and complicated process.'
So I'm waiting to get more settled and then I'll go and see a solicitor about having your surname changed legally. But what a big song and dance about something which should be perfectly straightforward.
I stopped walking and glanced at you. You weren't asleep but at least you were no longer crying. I'd taken just a step towards your carry-cot, when the peal of the doorbell made me jump. And you started crying again. I cursed. Meggie didn't get many visitors. I didn't get any. So why did someone have to come calling at just that moment? I carried on walking around the room.
'Callie, please stop crying,' I pleaded.
As if you heard me, you began to quieten down. For once.
'Sephy, it's for you,' Meggie called upstairs.
Frowning, I carried Callie downstairs. Had Mother finally decided to come and see me in person in an effort to change my mind? But it wasn't Mother at all. It was Jaxon, the boy with the guitar I'd met in the hospital.
'Hello,' I said, eyes wide.
'Bet you weren't expecting to see me,' Jaxon grinned up at me.
'You've come to see me?'
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