by Sarah Lawton
Alex smiles up at me as I reach him, his face silver.
‘I think there’s room for a little one.’ He reaches up and steadies me as I clamber in next to him. There’s not a lot of room but I’m not going to complain about being pressed up against him, half on top of him. My body fits perfectly along his, my shoulder under his, my head nestled into his neck. I’ve never felt comfortable being near anyone, but this is different, somehow, I can cope with this. Maybe because I want to do this. After the endlessly horrible, miserable day, to finish it here, with Alex, looking at the stars, it’s perfect. He takes my hand in his, threads our fingers together. They look like pearls in the moonlight.
Rachel
Vivian decided to go into school the day after Tristan’s accident, though I wanted to keep her at home. I think she’d had enough of my concern. The shock of the accident seeped into me, it froze my bones. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Maureen must be feeling. What if it had been Vivian, in that car? I saw her, over and over, crushed, bleeding. I couldn’t stop. I kept picking at those images, deliberately hurting myself with them.
I knew from sorry experience that Tristan’s family had suffered a horrible trauma losing someone so close to them, and that it was going to change everything for them for ever. I’ve always known that life is cruel, and fragile. I was seven years old when my dad went out to meet friends one night and never came back. I was cross, sulking he was going out without me and leaving me and Mum by ourselves, and I refused to say goodbye or give him a kiss, and then he never came back. I remember the policemen on the doorstep, deep voices. Mum slowly crumpling to the floor as they asked her if they could come in. I was sitting on the stairs, looking out through the door at the lashing rain, neon light on puddles hurting my eyes. He’d been hit by a speeding car on a crossing in town. I had delayed him. I had kicked off, made him late, sulked, cried. If I had just let him go, he wouldn’t have been there, at that moment, on that road. I had killed him as surely as the car had.
It’s taken me most of my life to try and forgive myself for ruining those last moments I had with him, to try and stop blaming myself for the horrific accident. I know my mum never blamed me, but it’s always there, that lumpen guilt, that pain. Sometimes I think that’s why I stayed with Ciaran for so long, that I thought I deserved everything I was getting, that I was being justly punished. I still don’t think I’m capable of having normal relationships with people. Our therapist in London, the one who recommended a fresh start, I knew she thought it was all my fault, what happened with Vivian. That I had neglected her somehow. I just didn’t want to smother her like I had been smothered, in a cage made of my mother’s fear of losing me like she had lost my father. My disinterest in the minutiae of my daughter’s life had allowed what happened to happen – I always thought it was more my fault than hers.
I was quite literally saved from that spiral of dark thoughts by the bell. Well, the tone on my phone, which trilled and told me that someone was thinking about me. Alex, as it turned out, wanting another lesson, that day if I could manage it. If I was okay. I wasn’t in a good place, but I knew company would force me back to a safer one. It always did. I wondered if he knew that, sensed that I was vulnerable. Maybe. It was enough to get me up, washed, dressed, anyway.
* * *
‘Rachel?’ He stood in the doorway of my studio, taller again than I remembered every time I saw him. His hair was still damp from his shower and it curled slightly, flopping into his eyes. I had to resist walking up to him and brushing it away. He was puppy-like in his enthusiasm to get started again on his foxes; he’d sketched out a new one especially. At first, he was content to stand beside me quietly and watch as I painted, keen eyes taking in ratios and blending. He was a quick study, soon using the same techniques to mix a beautifully rich russet red for his fox. He followed up with creamy paws and tipped perky ears with black, using the same for the eyes that looked up at us from the page, peeping through green stalks of long grass topped with feathery tufts. It was so joyful, alive. He was so incredibly talented.
‘Are you feeling okay, Rachel?’
‘Hm?’
‘Are you feeling okay? After yesterday, I was worried. The accident.’
‘Not really, darling.’ The endearment slipped out easily, and I saw him glance at me, and felt embarrassed.
‘And your daughter?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your daughter, is she okay?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose she is. I guess that’s a relief.’
‘Really?’ His unbelieving tone caught my attention.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I was wondering why it would be a relief. I thought she would be upset – isn’t she friends with Tristan’s sister?’
‘I, well, I guess it just hasn’t really sunk in yet. She struggles with expressing her emotions sometimes.’
‘You don’t seem like that. Is she not like you?’
‘No, we’re very different in a lot of ways. I definitely wear my heart on my sleeve.’ I thought again about her callous disregard of Tristan, of the tragedy of him losing his life at such a young age. It must have shown on my face, a grimace, because he turned away. Should Vivian have been more upset? Was it wrong to judge her for not being upset by Tristan’s death? I couldn’t actually remember how she’d reacted when Mum had died. Everyone reacted differently to grief. Vivian had always been a stoic, inward-looking child, bottling everything up until… well. She wasn’t like that now.
‘Maybe she takes after her dad?’ He put down his paintbrush and looked right at me, tilting his head as he waited for my response. My mouth went dry, and before I could answer he said, ‘My mum raised us on our own, too. I wouldn’t know if I was like him, either. My dad, I mean. I don’t see him any more. I haven’t seen him in years.’
I felt sick at the thought of Vivian being like her father. It was a thought I had spent a lifetime trying not to have, to not let poison my mind.
‘No, she’s not like him. She’s her own person, that’s all. She’s just processing it all in her own way.’
‘Everyone is different I suppose,’ Alex said, putting down his brush. ‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ His hand reached out, slipping across the small of my back briefly as he passed me, not waiting for me to answer, leaving me with dark thoughts.
* * *
‘I haven’t put sugar in this one,’ he said, as he came back into the studio, eyes on the tea in his hands. ‘I can go and put some in, though, if you want?’
‘No, it’s okay, I’m sweet enough.’ I felt silly immediately after saying it, but it was something I always said. I couldn’t remember who I had got in from. Maybe one of my parents’ sayings, nestled into my memory, a small treasure. He just laughed.
‘What are you working on at the moment? Are these from a fairy tale?’ He started nosing through my sketches, completely at ease with his surroundings. I was impressed with his confidence, the way he moved as though he belonged exactly where he was in every moment of his life. I was always so awkward, shy at his age. Easy pickings for Ciaran. He flashed into my mind, unwelcome, and I shuddered. Ever observant, Alex was there again with his cool hand briefly on my shoulder. He didn’t say anything, only smiled gently until I answered.
‘Kind of. I’m doing illustrations for a book. There’s an indie publisher in London trying to bring back the concept of drawings in books. Lots of old stories have them, but they cost so much extra to print it fell out of fashion.’
‘I think it’s great. I love those old books with illustrations. We had some at home.’
‘Where did you live before?’
‘Here and there.’ He turned away, picking up his palette. ‘I just need to go and rinse this off.’
I watched him walk back to the house, back straight, easy strides. He didn’t have that bouncy teenage boy walk. I thought to ask him how he had ended up here in the village, about his mum, but by the time he got back I
was entirely engrossed in drawing Arabella walking through the veil from her world to the Fae kingdom of her future, and I had forgotten.
London
Carol was beginning to wonder if she’d offended someone. Usually, when she came to pick up Vivian, some of the mums would wander over, make the usual small talk about that week’s spellings or a lost piece of kit, but for the past couple of days she had found herself standing alone.
It wasn’t even that people weren’t speaking to her: judging by the quick looks and nods in her direction, they were speaking about her instead. About her, or her granddaughter. The cupboard incident had obviously not gone under the radar. Carol felt the invitations for Vivian’s birthday party burning a hole in her handbag. Taking a breath, she walked over to a group of the girls’ mothers.
‘Hi, Alicia,’ she ventured. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ said the other woman, sliding her eyes to those of her companions and back again. Carol had to stop herself from frowning at the rudeness. She was far too old for schoolyard antics, and she thought the women in front of her should be, too.
‘I’ve got some invitations for Vivian’s birthday here. I’ve got one for Sophie – shall I just give it to you?’ She started to feel in her bag for the hard edges of the little envelopes. Alicia reached out a hand, a patronising smile appearing. ‘We can’t make it,’ she said, eyes again straying to those of her friends. ‘Sorry.’
‘I haven’t even told you what day it is,’ said Carol, feeling an embarrassing flush running up her chest, anger heating her.
‘Sorry,’ said Alicia, who looked anything but. ‘We’re busy. Actually, I think we all are, aren’t we, ladies?’ The others at least had the grace not to say anything; they just looked away, leaving Carol rooted to the spot with shame.
‘Have you got Lexie’s there?’ came a voice from behind her.
Carol turned, feeling shaky and sick, to see Lucy, who was smiling in the manner of someone who was gritting their teeth. She stepped in, put her arm around Carol’s shoulders and walked her away across the playground.
‘Ignore those nasty bitches,’ she whispered. ‘They think their shit doesn’t stink.’
Carol found herself laughing because mild-mannered Lucy was not usually a swearer. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Do you think things are that bad with Vivian? She hasn’t said.’
‘Lexie said none of the other children are speaking to her after she locked Jaxon in the cupboard. She said she doesn’t seem that bothered, though, and that boy is a complete toerag.’
‘She never said. I asked her if everything was okay and she said it was fine.’
‘Maybe she thinks it is fine. Does she know she’s having a party?’
‘Not really – I was thinking we could just do something at our house, cake and games… I can understand the kids being a bit mean, but why is Alicia being such a hard case?’
‘Jaxon’s mum is her bestie, isn’t she? They went to the girls’ school together. Makes them think they’re Walthamstow Village royalty.’
‘Village royalty!’
‘I know. Pretentious cowbags. Look, why don’t we do something with just the girls for Vivian’s birthday? I’m sure she’d prefer that, anyway. We could do an old-school birthday, with a cinema trip and McDonald’s.’
‘Thank you, Lucy. That sounds perfect. I really appreciate it.’ Carol could feel a lump in her throat and her eyes felt tight. Poor Vivian! No one wanting to come to your birthday party was every kid’s nightmare. What was she going to tell Rachel? It might be better if she thought this was her idea, not that she had even mentioned doing anything for a party.
‘Chin up, it’ll blow over. It was a stupid prank that she didn’t know how to stop. No one died!’ laughed Lucy, shaking her thick blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘Look, here’re our girls.’
Carol turned to see Lexie and Vivian walking out of the class, hand in hand, and she thanked her stars that at least Vivian had this one loyal friend.
‘Do you want to come back to mine for a sneaky wine?’ said Lucy, nudging her. ‘I can give the kids dinner.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Carol, thanking her stars again that maybe she had a loyal friend, too. She’d been lonely since Rachel had got her promotion, and since she had taken on so much childcare her old friends had drifted away, full of plans for cruises and jaunts that Carol couldn’t go on. None of them were even grandparents yet, let alone full-time ones. It wasn’t exactly what she had planned for her retirement, she thought, watching the two little girls skipping up the road.
Vivian
I don’t know why I bothered coming into school today. Hardly anyone is even here – they are all skiving because of Tristan. The people who are here are miserable and everything feels so heavy. We don’t have any air conditioning so wherever you go it’s like walking into an air bath, but no one is getting clean: half the boys stink, and I’ve already been in the bathroom twice to check that I don’t, too.
We are supposed to be having our mock exams soon, so I walk around the school looking for somewhere to revise where other annoying people aren’t already slobbing about. All the other years are in their lessons and the year elevens have finished their exams and don’t even have to be here, so lucky. I quite like this, though, wandering around aimlessly. Without really realising what I’m doing I end up in the art block. There’s no one here. I’m alone except for the lingering smell of paint and glue, sharp in my nose. Feeling my pulse pattering with the small illicit thrill of sneaking where I shouldn’t, I look through all the work that’s been put out for display. Everything is pretty standard clunky rubbish, apart from one drawing but I don’t think it’s finished, so I don’t know why it’s here. It’s a sketch of a girl, but she doesn’t have any eyes. The rest of her is perfect, but she hasn’t even had eyes drawn that have been rubbed out – there’s just an untouched, creamy space under each arched eyebrow and above high cheekbones. She seems familiar somehow. I can’t stop myself taking it, rolling it up and hiding it in my bag. I haven’t stolen anything for a long time. It’s the sort of thing that gets you noticed for the wrong reasons, however much fun it might be, but I want it.
I wish Molly was here. The buzz of stealing the drawing fades quickly. I’m so bored and I’m no good at talking to people unless they talk to me first, which they don’t if Molly isn’t with me. If it wasn’t for Molly, I don’t know if anyone would ever speak to me. I wonder if they’d speak to me if Alex was my boyfriend. I bet they would. I think about going home, but if I did I’d only have to see Mum and she’s probably still revelling in having something to be all sad and moody about. Why did Tristan have to go and die? What an idiot. Any normal person would have just broken their legs or something.
The rest of the day drags and drags and I spend most of it sitting in the library, watching people. Chloe is there for a while, counting on her fingers and chewing on her nails. Becky is scribbling away next to her, head close to the paper, leaning to one side like the scratching of the pen is a language that maybe she could understand if only she can get close enough. She’s making revision flash cards. I don’t need those. I can remember pretty much anything once I’ve read it, though eventually I’ll forget it if it’s something pointless. What’s the point of memorising loads of dates of when boring dead people did stupid shit in real life? It’s not going to help you budget your crappy wages from your dead-end job, is it? Not that I’m going to have a crappy job. Once I’ve figured out what will make me the most money with the least amount of effort I’ll be set. Probably banking or hedge funds or something. I thought about studying law, but I don’t think I’d like the hours you have to work. I’d also rather have a job where you don’t have to speak to idiots, but I’d imagine being a criminal lawyer might be interesting. Or a psychologist, full to the top of everyone’s darkest, slimiest secrets. Maybe that. Not that any of the ones I spoke to were particularly clever: they sucked up everything I told them and just regurgitated it in a way tha
t made them sound clever, but certainly didn’t fix me in the way they wanted, the way I made them think they had. There’s nothing about me that needs fixing.
I’ve texted Molly again, but she still isn’t answering, and I don’t know what to say to Tilly so I haven’t sent anything to her. I guess we’ll get her some flowers or a plant or something useless that’s supposed to make you feel better. I might have a picture somewhere with Tristan in it. I went through a phase of taking photos of everyone, secretly, if I could. Posed photos are the worst: you can’t see people when they are posing. I’ll have a look later. Maybe, if I can be bothered.
‘There you are.’
After I get down off the ceiling a warm thrill runs through me. It’s Alex, he must have been looking for me. He’s not supposed to be in our library, he could get in trouble.
‘Hey.’ I brush my fringe out of my eyes and peep over to where Chloe and Becky are sitting. They’ve both noticed, perking up their ears. Alex slides into the seat next to me and puts his arm over the back of my chair and both their mouths drop open at the same time. This. Is. Amazing. They are looking at me! Alex doesn’t notice, he just trails a finger over my shoulder, back and forth. I can feel it through the thin material of my shirt and my chest gets tight. His touch burns me. I can feel heat creeping up my neck and before it can reach my cheeks, I reach up with my hand to link it with his.
‘Shall we go somewhere else?’
Picking up my bag, I smirk at Chloe and Becky and then I follow Alex out of the library and into the blinding sunlight. It makes me sneeze, like it always does, and then he sneezes, too.