by Sarah Lawton
‘Why do you care?’
‘Just trying to make conversation.’
‘I saw you trying to make conversation with Molly the other morning.’ As usual my mouth snipes quicker than my brain can think. He laughs.
‘Ah, Molly. She’s really pretty, isn’t she? I bumped into her on the way to school.’ I don’t like him saying Molly is pretty. Is he here with me because he wants to get in with her? Jealousy pricks me. It’s always Molly.
‘I’ve not seen you walking that way before,’ I tell him.
He just smirks, and changes the subject back to London, again. ‘I’m from London, too. Why did your mum want to leave? I don’t know why anyone would choose to come here if they didn’t have to.’
Despite the repetitive questions, which annoy me, he’s surprisingly easy to talk to. He asks me loads more. People usually just want to talk about themselves, integrate themselves by comparing their experiences to yours, take over. We talk and talk for ages. I do eventually tell him about where we used to live in London and I even talk a little bit about how awful it was there, about the bullying and how the other kids were so horrid to me. I’m telling him about Tristan trying to touch me last weekend after the party when I notice that his eyes have gone all flinty; he looks angry.
I swallow more of the suddenly sour-tasting liquid in my glass – the last of the bottle I see now, empty on the table next to us – a bit disconcerted by the look on his face. We both put our glasses down at the same time, and then he reaches out, pulls me towards him and kisses me, hard. He drags me up onto his lap and I go with it willingly, feeling a rush that surprises me, straddling his legs like Molly did to Matthew, wrapping mine behind him. When he crushes me against him, pulling my hips down, it almost steals my breath. He slips his hands under my top, smoothing them up and down, and it feels like they are big enough to circle my waist entirely. His thumbs rub the skin at edge of my bra, back and forth, bumping along my ribs.
His tongue is in my mouth properly now, and I always thought this would feel completely disgusting and cold like a fish, but it isn’t. It’s hot and fierce, and I want it all. I drag my fingers through his hair, pulling on it, and he tips us over on the sofa, and he starts to rub himself against me through our clothes, and I realise that he’s got an erection and it’s the best feeling ever, that I’m doing this to him, that he wants me – me! Not Molly, me.
His hands are in my hair now, twisting fingers, tugging, pulling. I wrap my arms around him and pull him down against me, like he could melt into me, like every inch of our bodies could touch all at once.
The friction he’s creating between us as he rocks his hips between my legs is building up into something that I’ve never felt before. I can feel a flush rising up my chest, and I’m making stupid noises in my throat because my mouth is still full of his and I can feel that something, something is about to happen inside me when he suddenly stops and pulls away. The disappointment is crushing. I can’t speak, I can’t breathe, I could scream.
He looks at me and his eyes are darker than ever and his hair is sticking up where I’ve ruffled it.
‘I’d better go,’ he says, dipping his head and kissing my collarbone and nipping at my shoulder. I want him so badly to keep touching me it is literally hurting; I want to pull his head and his mouth back to me, but he sits and then stands up, arranging himself in his jeans, running his hands through his hair.
‘See you later, Vivian.’
And then he’s gone, leaving me feeling frustrated and more than a bit drunk. Did any of that even happen? Are we together now? I don’t even have his phone number!
I’m furious he’s just come over and done that to me – who does he think he is? – and I need some air, so I decide to go to the Lav and see Mum and Steve. They will probably be pissed by now and won’t notice if I’m being weird. My legs are shaking as I get ready to go.
The field is getting really dusty now, the path is almost bare apart from some raggedy, yellow stalks of grass. The air is humming with heat, it matches my insides. I never thought that anything people did together looked enjoyable, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I would like to do those things. With Alex, if it feels like that. I can’t believe I liked it.
I’m almost at the pub when I bump into bloody Tristan again, sitting on the bench by the duck pond, and he’s just as drunk as he was last week, but not so amorous this time, thank god. He looks up at me as I walk towards him, briefly confused, but then he focuses.
‘Where’s your little blonde friend today, Vivvy?’
‘Shut up, Tris. I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘You’re as stuck up as she is. Happy to fuck me when she wants it though, isn’t she? Likes a bit of my cock when it fucking suits her.’
‘What are you talking about? Shut up, Tristan, you pervert!’ I shout at him now, head hurting and feeling sick from the wine, remembering now the look he gave Molly last week. Surely she wouldn’t go there – not with Tris, of all people? He’s Tilly’s brother! Even if he was attractive, and he is not, that’s so gross. Something clicks in my head. This explains our fight in the canteen. Molly thought I knew about her and Tris, the dirty bitch! I’m utterly revolted at the thought of Molly, beautiful Molly, polluting herself with this horrible, grabby-fingered goblin.
‘Ask her,’ he says. ‘Ask her, and when she lies, ask her how many moles she’s got on the inside of her leg. I know how many, because, because I saw them when she was sitting on my fucking face!’ He stands up and staggers off, almost falling. ‘And tell her I’m going to tell everyone what a slut she is! You can’t just go around fucking with people’s heads, using people. See how fucking popular she is then!’
He’s almost in tears as he stumbles off, his shoulder bouncing off the wall of the pub. I forget about going in to see Mum; I should go and find Molly and tell her what he’s saying about her.
It’s not far to her house and when I get there I go straight around the back because I know that if she is home, then she’ll be sunning herself like a cat in the garden, as always, and I’m right. She’s lying on a sun lounger on her front in shorts and nothing else, reading Jane Eyre in the last of the evening light.
‘Put some clothes on, Molly!’ I yell at her, covering my eyes. Now that I’m here it suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea how to speak to her about this. Do I just say, Hey Moll, how is it having sex with every boy that moves? Is there anyone left you haven’t felt up? By the way, our best friend’s brother – you know, the really manky one with the horrid, greasy hair who spends his days getting intimate with dead chickens – is about to out you as a big slag to the whole village.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asks, pulling on a vest top. ‘You look all hot and bothered, what have you been up to?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, immediately defensive, putting my fingers to my hair to make sure it’s straight.
‘Liar,’ she says, seeing straight through me in a second. ‘Tell me.’
‘I haven’t been doing anything! I was at home revising, then I was going to go and see my mum in the Lav and I bumped into Tris again, and he was drunk again and…’ I trail off.
Molly’s eyes suddenly go very cold, blue chips of ice gleaming. ‘And what, Viv?’ She leans towards me and tilts her head to one side. ‘And. What? Did he touch you again? Because I will fucking kill him if he did.’
‘No,’ I blurt out, ‘he says it’s you who’s been doing the touching.’ I look at the ground because I don’t want to watch her lie to my face again, it makes me so mad.
‘Ugh,’ she says, leaning back on her sun lounger and stretching her arms above her head. ‘Please. We hooked up once when my parents were out and I was bored. It didn’t mean anything, and I’m sure he’s exaggerating what even happened and there’s no way anyone would believe I’d touch him with a barge pole, even if he did say anything.’
This I can agree with.
‘Why did you touch him with a barge pole?’
‘Li
ke I said, I was bored.’
‘So much for your virgin status, you liar! I think Tilly would be upset if she found out. And I think Serena is still upset about last week, you and Matt.’
‘What with me and Matt?’ she says, and I look up. She’s got a coy look on her face and it doesn’t suit her.
‘You know what,’ I say, looking away again. ‘I heard you in your bedroom with him, that’s why I left.’ I don’t confess that I watched, and that I think about what I watched. ‘This is why you hurt me yesterday, isn’t it? You thought I was going to tell Tilly about you and Tristan. You thought I knew about him, as well as you and Matt.’
‘You do have a nasty habit of finding things out.’
This is true, but I’ve clearly taken my eye off the ball recently if she’s been managing all this extracurricular activity without me knowing. ‘Who else have you been doing this with? Why?’
She jumps off the lounger, putting her hands on my shoulders and looking down at me. I can see her nipples through the thin white material of her vest top and I think she knows it.
‘Vivvy, Vivvy, it doesn’t mean anything. Serena doesn’t know for sure anything happened, I’m not going to tell her and neither are you. That goes for that piglet Tristan, too.’ She pokes me hard in the chest. ‘And at least they know where to put it now!’ She laughs and I feel angry, again. I think she is being blasé about what Tristan might say, and I worry about what might happen, that this might be the final straw for our group, even as she wraps her arms around me, presses herself to me, and tells me everything is fine.
I don’t believe her. Something needs to be done.
London
Rachel had needed to run to make the meeting, and when she arrived she already felt wrong-footed, and on edge. She didn’t like Vivian’s new year three teacher; in fact, she thought she was a bitch, and probably in the wrong profession. Why teach little kids when you clearly didn’t have the right temperament for it? She shifted uncomfortably on the tiny wooden chair outside the classroom where she was being kept waiting – deliberately, no doubt.
‘Mrs Sanders, would you like to come through?’
‘It’s Miss, actually.’
‘My apologies, Miss Sanders, come through.’
Rachel looked around the room. It hadn’t changed in the twenty-odd years since she had last seen it herself: words stuck on the walls, splashes of colour in paintings, messy handprints with names beneath. Nothing seemed different at all, except the size of her arse on the ridiculously small chairs.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Sanders,’ said the teacher.
Rachel felt the beginnings of a headache bloom above the clench of her jaw. ‘No worries,’ she lied. ‘You said there’d been an incident you wanted to talk to me about—?’
‘Yes, well. More of a series of incidents, really.’
‘Go on.’
‘We lost one of Vivian’s classmates for an hour today.’
‘I beg your pardon? You lost a child?’
‘Not quite. Vivian had locked him in the PE cupboard. She didn’t tell anyone this, despite us clearly looking, and asking the class where he was. We were very worried.’
‘It took you an hour to find him? Was he not shouting?’
‘The sports hall is kept locked outside PE lessons. Vivian stole my keys from my handbag and lured him inside on the pretext of pulling a prank. She locked him inside the cupboard, locked the hall again, and put my keys back in my handbag. He was extremely upset by the time we found him. He was on the verge of wetting himself.’
Rachel pressed her lips together to stop herself laughing with shock. The little madam!
‘We’d called his parents – can you imagine how worried they were? I have given Vivian lunchtime detention all this week, as we do not suspend year three children. But this isn’t the first issue we’ve had. We had the biting incident last year – which we chose to move past – and it’s not the first time Vivian has taken things that don’t belong to her.’
Rachel felt aggrieved on behalf of her girl. ‘Look. She’s only seven, and she’s highly intelligent – you’ve said so yourself. Do you think maybe she’s bored? Obviously I will be speaking to her about this, and we’ll come up with a suitable punishment at home, but I do think there’s something you need to work on here. The biting clearly has nothing to do with this, I don’t see a connection.’
‘Mrs Sanders, I really do think you should consider taking Vivian to a child psychologist – I—’
‘It’s Miss! And you’re joking! A psychologist, for pulling a prank? That the boy was in on, from what you’ve just told me.’
‘The boy wasn’t aware that he would be the “prank”, Miss Sanders. It concerned me that Vivian thought it was funny to leave him for so long. She is still denying having anything to do with it, though obviously the victim has identified her.’
‘Victim! They’re children, not murderers! Look, this was clearly unpleasant for the little boy who got locked in, but it was obviously a joke gone wrong. My daughter does not need to see anyone. Is this victim one of the children who has been bullying her, per chance?’
‘We haven’t seen any evidence of bullying. I have been watching. I wonder if Vivian’s idea of bullying and actual bullying are the same thing. We’ll be keeping an eye on her.’
‘How do you even know for certain it was her?’
‘Well, like I said, the victim—’
‘So, it’s just his word against hers? It could be him lying and saying it was her because he doesn’t want to get a friend in trouble?’
‘Well, I doubt it, what with the past history…’
‘So, a half-hearted nip on the arm of a kid who was bullying her and now she’s prime suspect for everything? That doesn’t seem fair. Look, I’ll talk to her and try and get to the bottom of it, but I think you need to think about how you’re treating her. She isn’t a bad kid.’
Miss Avon looked like she wanted to say more, but instead she stood up and gestured to the door. Rachel left.
* * *
Carol was in the kitchen when she got back, dropping a teabag into a mug. She looked at Rachel expectantly, an eyebrow quirked in a question.
‘Don’t ask!’ said Rachel, as she sat down and put her face into her hands. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s upstairs playing. Should we talk about it?’
‘Talk about what? It wasn’t really anything, just a silly prank she took too far, if it even was her. According to Miss Dipshit, she locked some boy in a cupboard, probably one of the ones who’ve been teasing her, not that they ever fucking do anything about that. It’s ridiculous – how were they allowed to sneak off together anyway? It’s their fault.’
‘Locking someone in a cupboard doesn’t seem that extreme—?’
‘Well, he was in there for quite a while from the sounds of it. They thought he’d run off, called his parents and everything.’
‘God, that’s awful! Why would she let it go that far?’
‘I don’t know!’ Rachel threaded her fingers into her hair and pulled at it, groaning.
‘Don’t do that. It’s not the first time you’ve been up there, is it?’
‘That wasn’t her fault, either! That horrible boy she bit had been teasing her for weeks – she’d already told you about it, though you neglected to tell me, didn’t you? I’m always the last to hear anything about my own child!’
‘Well, you’re never here, are you? It’s probably a cry for attention!’ The accusing tone stung, and Rachel flinched, hot tears starting as her temper flared.
‘I need to make money, Mum! I have to feed and clothe us! I’m not neglecting her, I spend every spare second I have with her – I don’t have a life of my own outside work, or being here. What else am I supposed to do? I suppose you still think I should have just got rid of her, don’t you?’
‘Rachel, keep your voice down! She’ll hear you!’ Carol hissed, her face a picture of hurt. ‘How dare you throw that in my fac
e, after everything I’ve done for you? How dare you.’ She slammed her hand on the work surface, the noise making Rachel jump.
‘Mum, I—’
‘Don’t. I’m going out. You can feed your child and put her to bed. I’ve had enough of you not listening to anyone but yourself.’
‘Mum, please – I didn’t mean it…’ But Carol pushed past her, picked up her bag from the hallway floor where she always left it, and walked out of the door.
Rachel took a steadying breath before steeling herself and heading upstairs to speak to Vivian – what choice did she have?
Rachel
I was up first thing that Monday. It was unusual from the very beginning because Vivian had beaten me to it; she was already in the shower, even though it wasn’t yet six. I hoped she hadn’t been stressing about her exams or whatever it was going on with the girls. She buzzed around looking for things after breakfast, and then she was out the door with barely a bye.
I was in the studio later, finishing the fourth version of my third plate for Prince of Dark Wings, when my phone pinged with a message. I didn’t recognise the number but I assumed it was mystery boy Alex, because it apologised for the last-minute request and asked if he could come over now. I agreed, as I needed a break from drawing wings. The detailing on the feathers was imprinted on my eyeballs. I texted him back offering to make him a cup of tea.
I went into the house and put the kettle on, setting out two mugs with teabags and sniffing the milk as I always do, even though I’d only bought it the day before. It’s something my mother always used to do, but I don’t think I ever did it myself until after she passed away. It’s funny how we remember people.
There was a knock at the door and sure enough it was Alex, dressed for the ridiculously still-bloody-boiling weather in shorts and a vest top. He looked tanned and had that glow of vitality about him that somehow disappears over the years. I wonder when I lost mine.
I asked him how he took his tea – typical teenager: milky, two sugars – and then I took him out to my studio. To my gratification, he made a low whistle.