Over the next few months, the various accessories and props from our discarded identities pile up in corners of our bedrooms like we are both holding never-ending jumble sales. Broken Walkmans, watches that aren’t cool any more (‘cool’ is the new word for anything good), copies of French existentialist novels that we bought one Saturday from the bookshop to go with our French cigarettes, dinky notebooks half-filled with poetry and lists of what we thought was ‘in’ or ‘out’ at the time, Zippo lighters (branded matches from interesting clubs are better, we decide), silk scarves, berets, menthol cigarette papers, perfumes, deodorants, lipsticks, black nail varnish, indie albums (we like house now) and posters for demonstrations from when we used to hang around at the squat. Even my tarnished old necklace is under there somewhere, and my now battered copy of Woman on the Edge of Time.
How much life can the two of us fit in to the smallest space? We squeeze our few experiences like oranges, telling our new friends how wasted we always are, and how much sex we are always having. I say I was fucked up by my dad abandoning me, and Rachel turns her boarding-school into a reform school for the purpose of anecdotes and discussions. We claim to have seen cutting-edge TV programmes that last aired when we were both ten, and despite Rachel being at boarding-school and me not having a TV. We even lie to each other. ‘Yeah, I tried a bit of coke once,’ Rachel says. ‘Someone brought some into school.’ ‘Yeah, me too. Same,’ I say. As if anyone would ever have brought coke to school. Suddenly, trying things for the first time (coke, acid, speed) can’t even be that because doing something for the first time is too uncool. We don’t even admit to ourselves that we are the inexperienced sixteen-year-olds we are. We hitch rides home after the last bus has gone. We read ‘feminist’ novels about prostitutes being raped and we think they are profound. We even find them titillating, which we have no problem admitting to each other. We still think we might die if Saddam launches a nuclear missile at us. We fall in with another group, at another squat, and Toby becomes Mike and Gary becomes Dave. Dave already has a girlfriend with a kid on the way but Rachel doesn’t care. She is younger, prettier, poutier. And anyway, we are grown-ups now, doing grown-up things, like in the books we read. There will be casualties, of course there will. But that’s not our problem.
But summer changes everything, as summer always does. Did I think I would ever get away with this? Did I think I would ever manage to be cool and liked and myself, all at once? How stupid of me. It’s over – bang, bang, bang, bang – all of a sudden, just like that. Bang! My first-year exam results are pitiful and Rachel fails altogether. Bang! Rachel is pregnant and can’t tell her parents. Bang! Her mother is diagnosed with breast cancer. Bang! My grandmother goes into hospital, having suffered the first of the many strokes she will have. My life is like a firework display that has just finished; with cold, greasy hot-dog wrappers and charred remains of fun lying everywhere. I have hardly spoken to my grandparents for months. Now I find I simply have to be at home. I have to be the right sort of granddaughter for my grandfather. I want to work with him again like when I was a kid, before these pretty, meaningless lights exploded around me. But even this is tarnished. Of course, I still have to sneak around with Rachel, trying to organise an abortion, trying to convince doctors that she really cannot tell her parents.
By the time it is all over, my bedroom is tidy again, my necklace is back on, and my hair dye is growing out. Life doesn’t seem quite so frivolous any more. Rachel starts her A levels again, back to her science subjects, and I pull my socks up for my second year. When I leave for university the following year, I take a recipe for root-vegetable stew, my gaffer-tape glasses and lots of books connected to the Voynich Manuscript. I send my grandparents long letters every week, written in fountain pen, on nice paper. I look at the other first years, smoking their first joints, agonising over their first sexual experiences and trying to come up with a ‘logo’ for every society they invent and I know that I have already had enough of all this.
*
My remedies arrive on Thursday morning, in a little brown padded envelope. This cheers me up a bit. I love getting remedies through the post. Little brown bottles with tiny white tablets inside, each labelled with the Latin name and potency of the remedy inside. I take a Kali-C, one of the 200s, and then get back into bed. I haven’t slept well at all, and the remedy knocks me out, too. I pretty much sleep through breakfast.
Eleven o’clock. I sit up in bed, switch on the TV and then immediately switch it back off again. I go to the bathroom and wash my face. I walk back into the bedroom and look at my storyboards from yesterday. What a load of shit. For the first time in ages, I think back to my own teenage years. I think about how we all built ourselves up like AIs or online avatars, as if identity was something you could put together only if you bought the right bits first. However, when I was a teenager you at least got to do the thinking yourself. You at least had to be inventive about where you got the bits and how you put them together. Teenage girls haven’t changed that much, but now there is so much more for them to buy. Now there are people only too willing to stick a bunch of them in a focus group and say, ‘Now, girls. Tell us what exactly you want a lipstick to do.’ I suddenly think back to the question of the moon. If I was a scientist and I had worked out how to brand the moon, how to shine logos on it so that everyone in the world could see them (100 per cent coverage, well, except blind people), would I sell my idea? Would I sell the moon for a million or more? No. I absolutely would not.
I think about all the marketing books I have read, and all the little tricks that we learn in our industry and I suddenly realise that Esther is right. It is all dishonest. We are twenty-first-century con artists. Marketing, after all, is what you do to sell people things they don’t need. If people needed, say, a T-shirt with a logo on it, no one would have to market the idea to them. Marketing, advertising … What started off being, ‘Hey, we make this! Do you want it?’ turned into, ‘If you buy this, you might get laid more,’ and then mutated into, ‘If you don’t buy this, you’ll be uncool, no one will like you, everyone will laugh at you and you may as well kill yourself now. I’m telling you this because I am your friend and you have to trust me.’ Marketing is what gives value to things that do not have any actual intrinsic value. We put eyes on a bit of plastic, but it is marketing that actually brings the piece of plastic to life. It is marketing that means we can sell a 10p bit of cloth for £12.99. We spy on kids and find out that they like playing with socks, so we sell them socks. I don’t want to do this any more. I really, really don’t want to do this any more.
I burn the storyboards in the bath.
‘You’re looking a bit better,’ Ben says when he comes later, with dinner.
‘Thanks,’ I say, smiling a watery smile.
‘We’re going on an excursion tomorrow,’ he says, just as we finish eating.
I put my tray down on the table. ‘An excursion? Where?’
‘Totnes. You should come if you feel better. We can have lunch. We’re all getting things for sailing … Deck shoes, funny hats. All that stuff.’
I smile another smile, even more diluted than the first one.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ben asks.
I can’t help it. I start to cry.
‘Alice?’
‘I miss my grandfather,’ I say. ‘And my grandmother.’
I talk incoherently while he fetches me tissues. I doubt that what I am saying is making any sense. I’m talking about how I don’t think they’d be proud of me doing this and I don’t know who I am or where my life is going and how this is the third time I have let them down. I think this might have something to do with not smoking, or the remedy, or even a touch of PMT. But it’s what I really feel, and it’s coming out because I don’t have my barriers in place properly.
‘It’s all right,’ he says, stroking my arm. ‘It’s all right.’
When I stop crying, we lie down on the bed together, both staring at the ceiling.
‘I’m leaving PopCo,’ I say, eventually.
Ben pauses for a minute, then props himself up on an elbow and frowns.
‘Why?’
‘I just don’t believe in it any more,’ I say, seriously.
He starts laughing. ‘Alice … bloody hell. No one believes in it. You don’t have to leave.’
‘No. I do have to leave.’
‘But …’
I won’t listen to any arguments. My mind is made up.
Ben disappears shortly afterwards to take the trays back and I am on my own again. He is gone for longer than I expect, and soon I fall asleep, dreaming of the moon.
Chapter Twenty-seven
We are going to Totnes in Esther’s car. That’s the plan. Other people are getting taxis. Some people are going to Newton Abbot instead, or Plymouth, or Exeter. I like the sound of Totnes.
Standing in my clothes in the bathroom feels very odd, a bit like those mornings when you find yourself robotically getting into the car at 3 a.m., washed and dressed, having set your alarm wrong, or having simply been woken by a brain that will not rest. I’ve been lying in bed in my pyjamas for days. That’s why this now feels so odd. I do feel a lot better, though, today. For some reason, things feel different. Not just emotionally, but literally, too. It took me ages to get out of bed once I had noticed how soft my sheets actually are. Then, while I was getting dressed, I had to stop and consider every fabric I touched. The worn-out cotton of my knickers, the soft downy feeling of my vest, the thin, tissue-paper feel of my cotton top and the warm woollen texture of my blue cardigan. My skirt moves in ways I hadn’t ever noticed. When it brushes against my knees, the sensation is like being licked by a cat. And thinking of cats: Atari, I will see you soon.
The plan, the plan. Do I have a plan? Well, yes. For something that arrived in such an unexpected way, spontaneous and emotional, my future feels rather well planned, actually. I will spend tomorrow sailing with the others and then on Sunday I will go home. I will say that I am sick and Georges advised me to take myself off the project. Then I will write a letter of resignation. My old editor is still a good friend, so I will see if I can’t get my old crossword slot back – or maybe even some sort of Child of Mind Mangle column, although that sounds a bit like a horror film. I will clean the house and brush my cat and not be too tired to have Rachel round for dinner. I will help at the zoo again. I will cash in my PopCo shares and go travelling – there’s somewhere I have wanted to go for a while. I will unlock the dusty old chest in my bedroom and get out the Voynich Manuscript. I can report back to my grandfather when we meet in my own personal heaven. Will I have much to report to my mother? Maybe not. I wonder if my father is up there somewhere, or whether he is still here on Earth. It probably doesn’t matter, and I probably don’t care. You’re supposed to pine and ache for missing fathers but I didn’t spend much time on all that. He left me when I was nine years old for some vague idea of treasure. I was over him by the time I was ten. If I did see him again, maybe I would ask him why but I doubt that his answer would make too much difference to me.
Even my hair feels different today, like child’s hair, soft and delicate. Come on, Alice, Ben will be here in a minute. I put in my contact lenses and even the sensation of things snapping into place feels new, as if I don’t have that sensation every single day. New eyes, I think. Perhaps today I really do have new eyes. I splash Orange Flower Water on my face and then apply a touch of tinted moisturiser, some lip balm and a tiny bit of rose-scented mascara. The hand cream that came with my remedies is smooth and cool and I rub some of it into my hands just for the feel and the smell of it. I am looking forward to some fresh air; to seeing something beyond PopCo Towers.
There’s a knock at the door a couple of minutes later. When I open it, Ben’s standing there with a small white package, sealed with Sellotape. It’s about the size of a book.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘This was by your door. It’s for you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it quickly. My correspondent at last? It must be. I slip it in my canvas bag, where it sits awkwardly on the pack of nicotine gum, my tobacco (which I crave more than I can describe), my purse, my remedies, a little notebook, a pencil, a pen and my survival kit. This last gives me a pang. I won’t ever present those roughs in a meeting, now. I won’t ever be able to teach thousands of kids how to go out and survive in the wilderness. Then again, I could write a proper book about survival if I wanted. In fact, if I was going to write a book it could be about anything at all. Perhaps I will make the survival research into a free website for kids.
‘Are you sure you’re OK to come out today?’ Ben asks me.
‘What? Oh, yes. Of course I am. I just won’t do too much walking around, probably.’
He smiles. ‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better.’
I smile back. ‘Me too. Of course, you know what this means?’
‘What?’
‘Prepare to be jumped on later. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Jumped on? Sounds nice.’
‘Will be.’ I grin at him as he pushes me against the door and kisses me hard. Even this sensation is more intense than usual. What will sex be like in this state? I almost want to ditch the excursion and stay here all day with Ben finding out. Then again, I’ve actually spent enough time in bed this week. Later, though. If I anticipate it all day, maybe it will be even better.
He’s suddenly holding on to me like I am about to get on a train and go to war or something.
‘Ben?’ I say, pulling back to look at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. I’m going to … Nothing. I’ll just … miss you. That’s all.’ He frowns. ‘And I wanted …’
‘What?’
He looks away from me. ‘This. I wanted this to go on for longer.’
‘This …?’
‘For God’s sake, Alice. Me and you.’
‘Well, why can’t it?’ I say.
‘Do you want that? Even after you leave this all behind?’
‘The first weekend you get out of here, I will expect you at my place. How about that? I’ll even cook.’
His eyes are sparkling now. ‘How about this?’ he says. ‘Next weekend I’m going to fuck this place off, get on a train and come to see you regardless. That sound OK?’
‘That sounds lovely,’ I say.
‘Good.’
Esther’s driving is bizarre. It’s like she is on a constant safari. She doesn’t drive at more than about thirty-five miles an hour, which is a good thing because she doesn’t ever seem to look at the road.
‘Bunny rabbit,’ she says, as we drive across the moors. ‘Oh, look – fluffy cow! Spooky forest. Witch’s house …’
Soon I’m doing it too. ‘Little steam train line,’ I say, as if we’re ticking off items on a list. ‘Oh – more cows. These ones don’t look very happy, though …’
As soon as we get near Totnes, Ben says, ‘Esther, earthlings!’
‘Shut up, Ben,’ she says.
As we enter the town, I briefly see the castle, round and grey, before we turn off to drive into a half-empty car park. I have an urge to see what it looks like from the air. Maybe I will find a postcard while I am here.
Esther is explaining the layout of Totnes.
‘It’s basically one long road on a hill,’ she says. ‘Top of town has more interesting shops, but the best health shop is at the bottom. Um …’
‘Is there a museum?’ I ask. This is a curious habit I have. If ever I visit a new place, I have to go to the museum.
‘Yeah,’ Esther says. ‘Top of town. Well, about three-quarters of the way up the hill.’
We park and get out of the car.
‘So …’ Ben says. ‘I’m going down the hill to that amazing health-food shop and then I’m on a mission to find some vegan deck shoes. Alice?’
‘I’m not sure I want to walk all the way down a big hill and then back up again,’ I say. ‘I’m going to wander around up here a bit and maybe go to
the musuem. Shall we split up and meet later for lunch?’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Shall I text you when I’ve finished?’
‘I don’t have a mobile,’ I say.
‘How can you not have a mobile?’ Esther says.
I shrug. ‘I don’t like them.’
‘What are you doing, Esther?’ Ben says.
‘I’m meeting Chloë at the bottom of town,’ she says with a slight frown. ‘We’re having lunch.’
‘Shall I just meet you somewhere up here?’ I say to Ben.
‘Yeah, OK,’ he says. ‘Shall we say … outside the museum at one?’
‘Great,’ I say.
I walk up towards the main street, passing two pubs and a fish and chip shop. After crossing a road, I feel like I have crossed over into another dimension. This is a place from books. The street is tiny, with old-looking buildings crowded on either side of it. I pass a shop selling Indian clothing and wind chimes, a health-food shop, an organic cotton shop (with an amazing soft-looking brown blanket in the window), an Oxfam, a Fairtrade clothes shop and a secondhand music and book shop. I stop by the music and book shop and go inside. I need to ask directions to the museum, and I just can’t resist shops like this. With a sharp pang, I remember how my grandfather would always stop in places like this, looking for old herbals or occult books, always hoping to see a replication of a picture or a fragment from the Voynich Manuscript. The shop itself is large and airy, although almost everything in it is brown and dusty. Old cassette tapes, drums, tambourines, records, comics, books, dream-catchers, maracas. An Asian-looking woman is in an intense conversation with a dark-haired girl who is playing a haunting tune on a red acoustic guitar. The woman laughs and then the girl does too. I wander around looking at old books, remembering the time I picked up a three-volume Synthetic Repertory in a shop like this. They only wanted a fiver for it but I made them accept £20. They were connected to a charity and I couldn’t rip them off too much. The set was worth over a hundred pounds.
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