All the Little Things

by Sarah Lawton

  The girls were playing in Vivian’s room when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Hello! How have they been?’ Lexie’s mum was standing on the doorstep.

  ‘Good as gold. Come in. Have you got time for a drink? Tea? Coffee? Wine?’

  ‘Ooh, go on, then. I’ll have some wine, if you are. Liam is with his dad this weekend, and he’s taking him to Silverstone tomorrow. Lexie’s a bit little to be interested, so we’re having a girly weekend. He’ll have her next weekend instead.’

  Carol smiled faintly at the ins and outs of split parenting. Not a choice she’d had after Rachel’s dad had died; there had only been her, having to hide her grief to support her little girl. Even now, it was her whole focus. Two years to herself while Rachel was at university and then she’d come home beaten up and pregnant, expecting Carol to pick up the pieces. ‘Well, you’ll definitely want a wine, then. They’re playing upstairs. Come through.’

  Lucy sat down at the table and looked around. ‘I always love walking down this road. We’re only around the corner, on Eden. I wondered what this one would be like inside – it’s bigger than it looks from the outside, isn’t it? Ours is like that, bit of a Tardis. Have you lived here long?’

  ‘Thirty years now, and Blackhorse Road before that.’

  ‘Wow, a long time! You’re a proper East Ender. So, did Rachel grow up here?’

  ‘She did, before a bit of art uni in Manchester. She went to Henry Maynard School, too.’

  ‘How lovely! Is Vivian enjoying it? I can’t believe reception is going by so quickly.’

  ‘I think she is now she’s made a friend. Lexie is a credit to you, by the way – she’s a sweetheart.’

  Carol took a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured it into waiting glasses.

  ‘Thank you. She is a love. She was still a baby when her dad left, it didn’t seem to affect her too much. Liam’s a different story unfortunately – he can remember us together and it’s difficult for him. Is Vivian’s dad still in the picture? She told Lexie she didn’t see him.’

  ‘No, thankfully,’ said Carol with a frown, as she sat down and passed a glass to Lucy. ‘Rachel is well out of that.’

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I talk too much, and don’t think; that was rude of me. What is it she does? Rachel?’

  ‘Don’t apologise, it’s fine, honestly. She’s in advertising,’ said Carol, making air quotes with her fingers. ‘Something artistic. She got a promotion, recently, and it’s taken up a lot of her time.’

  ‘I don’t see her a lot at school. But she seems lovely, and it must be exciting, advertising. I’m an accountant, can’t really get much duller. But at least I can work around the kids.’ Lucy smiled and lifted her glass to drink.

  ‘Speaking of kids…’ said Carol, as feet thundered down the stairs.

  ‘Mummy!’ shouted Lexie, as she bounded into the room, throwing herself onto Lucy’s lap. ‘I missed you!’

  ‘Hello, darling, have you had a nice play?’

  ‘Yes. We had fishfingers and we played with Vivian’s phone.’

  ‘Vivian’s phone?’ said Carol. ‘Vivian, what phone were you playing with?’

  ‘It was just pretend, Nana,’ said Vivian, who was giving Lexie a look.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Lexie, oblivious. ‘Vivian’s got a phone. A black one, with lots of buttons.’

  Vivian

  ‘Oh god, my head really hurts.’ I open my eyes and then shut them straight away. ‘I think my teeth have melted.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think you brushed them last night, you were so wasted!’ Molly has the temerity to laugh at me, when she was behind this.

  ‘Did you spike those drinks, Molly? Why?’ I put my hands over my face, fan my fingers so it’s covered and press down so it doesn’t slide off when I sit up. I’m going to assume this is my first and last hangover. I’m never letting that sneaky bitch make me a drink ever again. Snatches of last night seep into my brain: what Molly was saying about me, asking me if I was a lesbian. What is wrong with her? All any of that stuff does is cause trouble. Look at how much she’s fucked everything up.

  ‘Can I have a shower first?’ Molly asks, ignoring my question and stripping off her night clothes. She has no modesty whatsoever, and I have to avert my eyes from the expanse of skin while she grabs the towel I put out for her. ‘Do you think your mum will make pancakes?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s up. I didn’t hear her come home, did you?’

  ‘Yeah, I heard her come in. It was late though.’

  ‘Well, maybe, I don’t know…’

  Molly sings in the shower, badly. She might be good at a lot of things but her singing could strip wallpaper. It wakes my mother up, which I suspect was her intention, and I hear her moving around in the kitchen in between verses.

  By the time I am finished in the cold shower, which fails to cool me down but at least makes me feel cleaner, and slightly more alive, Molly has already disappeared. I get ready and slink down the stairs, soft feet, so I can snoop. They are laughing together, not talking, so I go in. Neither of them takes any notice of me standing in the doorway: I am invisible.

  ‘Wait, wait!’ says Molly, who has hold of the frying pan and is trying to flip the pancake. ‘Yay!’ It flips in the air, she catches it perfectly, and she puts the pan back down and catches my mother in a hug, which she reciprocates. This scene of domestic bliss makes me feel sick, so I cough, and they see me and step apart. I hate pancakes.

  * * *

  The school day drags as the remains of my Molly’s-fault headache rolls around in my skull, squashing and squeezing my brain. She is as perky as ever, laughing and joking, while I feel vile and moody. It’s harder to behave when I am not feeling straight. All of them tease me at lunch for being hungover.

  ‘You look as rough as a badger’s arse,’ giggles Tilly, covering her mouth like she always does when she laughs, ashamed of her teeth.

  ‘At least I don’t smell like one, like your disgusting brother!’ I snap, and enjoy the offended look on her face. I cannot stop myself. ‘Are you rancid on the inside, like he is?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asks me, eyebrows gathering above her watery eyes in a frown. ‘He’s not that bad! That’s out of order, Vivian – I was only teasing you because you’re hungover for once, instead of us.’

  ‘Truth hurts, huh?’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Molly knows all about how rancid he is, don’t you, Molly?’ Her face is a picture, but I don’t really understand why: she knows what he did to me the other night, she was there! I open my mouth to say I don’t know what when she stands up and grabs me by the arm, pulling me out of my chair and hurting me. I swing my other arm and slap her, hard, on her bare bicep. The noise of it rings around the room. Serena and Tilly are aghast, stupid eyes wide.

  ‘Vivian Sanders! Molly Barnes!’ The strident voice of Mrs Barker shouts out across the canteen, making us cringe. ‘Come with me, right now!’

  The walk is sullen. I didn’t mean to hit her, she was hurting me first. They always hurt me first – it’s not my fault if I lash out after, is it? I can feel imprints of hard fingers circling the thin muscle of my arm: little burning spots. My jaw hurts where I have been gritting my teeth. Molly hurt me. She is trying to steal my mother: every time she sees her I catch her all over her, in the studio, in the kitchen, and now she hurt me. I don’t like this Molly.

  Mrs Barker takes us into Mrs Brondsbury’s little office next to reception. I don’t know where she is, but her stink lingers. Coffee and stale cigarette smoke. I can feel a slick of sweat start up on the back of my neck, and I have to tense to not heave up my lunch on the carpet.

  ‘It was my fault, miss,’ says Molly, stepping forward in front of me. ‘I was pulling her, it was my fault.’ I can see the welts my fingers have left on the silky skin of her upper arm, white blending to pink, strangely beautiful.

  ‘I saw her hit you, Molly. And not gently.’

>   ‘It didn’t hurt, miss, it was my fault.’

  Mrs Barker looks unconvinced. I just look at the floor, though I can feel her eyes on me, suspicious. She’s never liked me, not since Mum came in and had a meeting with her because she was worried about bullying, like at my old school. God knows what she blabbed on about. I am so cross at myself for not keeping it together. At least Molly is admitting that it’s all her fault, which makes me inclined to forgive her for yesterday’s transgressions. Maybe.

  ‘Both in detention tonight, please. I won’t have fighting on school grounds. I’m frankly disappointed in you, Molly.’

  Why isn’t she disappointed in me? I’ve never had a detention in my life!

  Rachel

  I always enjoyed it when Molly stayed over, but it made me feel guilty too, because I would always catch a secret part of myself wishing Vivian could be more like her. I loved my daughter madly, but I longed for an easier, more tactile relationship. I missed human touch. Vivian hated it when I tried to hug her, or kiss her – anything at all really. She’d always been like that, even as a small child, pushing me away. She allowed it as she got older, sometimes reciprocated and did try to be affectionate – her friends were good for her like that – but I could always sense the tension it sparked in her. I didn’t know if it was just me, or if she was like that with everyone. The psychiatrists at the hospital told me that she had delayed empathy. One suggested that she had an attachment disorder, that I was not loving or caring enough, that perhaps bringing her up without any contact with her father and then working too much had scarred her. I was never sure, and I didn’t believe their suggestion that she might be autistic, either – she was who she was, and I had to love her in spite of what she had done, because I had brought her into the world. Nothing seemed to be holding her back from life now anyway, and I had given up everything to devote myself to her full time, like a proper mother. And I was always watching.

  I didn’t see Alex that week at the Thursday life class, where Geoff was magnificent as always, and I assumed he had changed his mind about coming along, or having lessons, and I was surprised at the pang of disappointment I felt. I found myself thinking about him and wondering what he might be working on as I was in my studio.

  After school on Friday Vivian rolled in and was about to run up the stairs when I caught her. She’d been avoiding me all week, hiding in her room like a little mouse.

  ‘Darling, come and have a drink before you disappear into your pit.’ Her face creased with annoyance as I deliberately offended her – she was obsessively neat.

  ‘Ugh, Mum, I’ve got loads of revision to do. We’ve got exams next week.’

  ‘Yes, but it can wait ten minutes while we have a chat, can’t it? You’ve been holed up in your room all week. It’s not like you – you’re all usually out and about.’

  ‘Yeah, I just said, I’ve got revision?’ She looked at me again like I was an insufferable moron then sloped into the kitchen, begrudgingly plonking herself at the table. I moved in behind her and made us both a squash with ice from the freezer, enjoying the crackling noise the ice made in the tall glasses.

  ‘So,’ I began, ‘how is everything at school? Are you worried about the GCSE mocks?’

  ‘Not really.’ She lifted a slim shoulder in a shrug, tucked her hair behind her ear.

  ‘Why were you back from school so late yesterday? You didn’t really answer me when I asked you at dinner. What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just hanging out at Molly’s, we were revising. Sorry, I meant to text you.’

  ‘Are you out with the girls tonight?’

  ‘No. But I’ll probably go out for a walk or something. I need to do some sketching for our art coursework.’

  ‘Is everything okay with you guys? I haven’t seen much of anyone this week.’

  ‘You saw Molly, didn’t you? You two were having a lovely time flipping pancakes yesterday,’ she said, looking into her drink, a small frown on her face. ‘Everything is fine.’

  ‘Are you sure, Vi? You know you can always talk to me about anything at all, anything you want to?’

  She looked up at me with her funny half-smile. ‘Yes, Mum,’ she said, with a fake-weary sigh. ‘I know you are the super-cool young mother that I can talk to about sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll. But I’m not having any sex or drugs, and rock ’n’ roll is shit, so I’m fine, okay? Are you going out tonight? I wouldn’t mind the TV to myself.’

  ‘Is that a hint? I could pop out to the pub, I suppose. I didn’t go yesterday after class. Steve probably missed me.’

  ‘I’m sure he did. You should go out, I’ll be fine.’ She picked up her squash and gave me a rare kiss on the cheek before going upstairs. Everything seemed fine, but something she said had left me with the unsettling image of her watching me cooking with Molly from the kitchen doorway, silent and jealous, on the outside. I needed to be more careful of her feelings.

  Vivian

  Mum taps on the door and tells me ten minutes until dinner, so I shut dull Jane Eyre which I’m revising from and pick up my phone instead. There aren’t any messages. Everything has been really weird since last weekend, and the fight yesterday made it even worse. We’ve all been kind of acting like nothing happened, and that everything is normal, but it’s like we’re all dancing on ice without knowing the steps. It could break at any second and then we’d all drown, freezing in dark waters. I still have a bruise on my hip from where Serena threw the ball at me – I know she did it on purpose, but what did I do? I wasn’t the one who went after the boy she liked; I just lied for Molly.

  I haven’t seen Alex all week. I haven’t stopped thinking about what Molly said about him fancying me, and about what being with him might mean. I wonder where he might be, and if he’s with someone already. I decide I don’t like the imaginary girlfriend I’ve concocted, unless it turns out to be me, of course.

  ‘Viv!’ shouts Mum from downstairs. ‘Tea’s ready!’

  I leave my phone on my desk and go downstairs to eat. I decide I can’t be arsed to do any more revision tonight. Mum – who is looking a bit glammed up for once, which is weird – leaves to go and see Steve and tells me she’ll be back before ten, so I can take over the front room and binge-watch my shows. I’m feeling pretty smug about getting rid of her for the evening so easily, without getting an inquisition.

  I make myself some popcorn and a drink and I’ve literally just sat down when the doorbell goes. I really hope it’s not for me, as I’ve had enough of this week and for a second I think about just sitting here quietly, but no doubt Door Knocker’s next step will be to peep in the window right at where I am, so I get up and answer the door.

  It’s Alex.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him. I realise I’m still angry about what he said about Molly last weekend, even though it might have been true. ‘Here to tell more lies about my friends? And how did you know where I lived?’

  He shrugs, looking irritatingly cool and collected in a white T-shirt and cut-off grey jeans. I’m a sweaty mess and I wish I’d had another shower and not eaten so much of Mum’s lasagne. He’s caught me off-guard, which is rude.

  ‘I know where everyone lives. It’s not a big place, is it? Can I come in?’

  I begrudgingly agree with this statement, and I step aside to let him come in. I catch that earthy, smoky scent again as he walks past, and the clean smell of his skin, and I feel my heart beat faster. His dark hair curls at the back of his neck onto his collar and I have to stop myself reaching up and threading my fingers through it. What is wrong with me?

  He walks straight into the front room like he owns the place, flops on the sofa and starts eating my popcorn.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ I accuse him.

  ‘Which one?’ he replies, throwing a piece of popcorn in the air and catching it in his mouth, like a dog. ‘Okay, I was bored, I wasn’t lying about your friend, and I already told you I know where everyone lives. What are we watc
hing?’

  I’m mildly embarrassed by the ‘recently watched’ list that pops up as I turn the TV on, so I quickly flick to movies.

  ‘I don’t really want to watch a film,’ Alex says suddenly, turning to look at me. He takes the remote from me, fingers brushing mine, and switches off the TV. ‘Has your mum got anything to drink?’

  Feeling a bit like I’ve fallen asleep without realising and gone into a lucid dream, I go into the kitchen and open the fridge. There are a couple of bottles of white wine in there and I know there’s a box in the cupboard too, because Mum gets a wine club thing, so I think I could pinch some and she wouldn’t notice, even though I haven’t really drunk it before as we usually get cider. I grab a bottle and two glasses and go back in to the front room, trying not to shake with nerves. I don’t like not knowing what to expect.

  Alex is looking at our books.

  ‘I like that one,’ he says, pointing at one of Mum’s. I don’t see which and I don’t really care, because books are boring. I sit down and he takes the bottle from me so I can put down the glasses. He pours us both a glass then goes and puts the bottle back in the fridge.

  ‘Warm wine is the worst,’ he says, coming back in and sitting next to me, closer than he was before. ‘So, pretty little Vivian, tell me everything about you.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much to tell.’

  ‘You don’t sound like you’re from here. You haven’t got a farmer twang.’ He’s leaning back on the sofa, scuffing lines in the suedey material, then rubbing them out again with his long fingers.

  ‘No, we moved here from London. We’ve been here since I was nine.’ I find myself leaning back too, mirroring his position. I read somewhere that it’s what people do, to make other people feel comfortable. I don’t, but I don’t want him to know that.

  ‘Why did you leave?’ He looks so directly at me, and I try to do it back.