by Amy Lloyd
‘Yeah, six,’ I say again.
We agree to meet in the foyer on the day and as Jack hangs up one of his friends is shouting, ‘Is she moist?’ I shudder and wipe the earpiece of the telephone before putting it back on to its base. Over the following days at work I hope that I’ll see him so I can make an excuse and cancel. Maybe if he sees me again he won’t want to go out either, but we don’t seem to have any of the same shifts and before I know it it’s Saturday afternoon and it’s too late to do anything except go.
When I arrive at ten to six and see Jack isn’t there I feel relieved, like he may not come at all, but I wait until six just to be sure. I stand near the ticket machines and read the showings. If he doesn’t come I can still watch something on my own. Then it’s six, then two minutes past six, then five minutes past. I make my way to the counter and buy a ticket for a half-past-six screening. I’m handing over my money when someone grabs my shoulders.
‘You’re keen!’ Jack says. He grins, all teeth, and I am assaulted by the various smells that come from his body: hair gel, powerful cologne, strong mint on his breath. I take a step back and he replaces me at the counter. ‘What are we seeing then? One for me, too, mate,’ he says, pulling out a twenty-pound note.
When he receives his change, I watch as he forces his wallet into his back pocket. His black jeans are skintight and give him a bow-legged appearance. He wears black patent-leather shoes with no socks and the toes come to sharp points at the tips. His white shirt is also tightly fitted and slightly see-through so that I can’t help but see the impression of his nipples beneath. There’s not a crease in sight and his hair is moulded into crispy peaks.
I look down at my boot-cut jeans and loose grey T-shirt, the wrinkled navy hoodie I pulled from the washing hamper last minute, and realise that perhaps this date actually means something to him. This makes me feel guilty and embarrassed on his behalf.
‘Popcorn?’ he asks me. I am conscious of his hand resting on my lower back as he guides me on to the escalator.
‘No thanks,’ I say.
‘I need food. I’m fucking starving! I thought we were eating first.’ Jack rubs his stomach the way a child might and then adds, ‘Nando’s after?’
‘I’ve already eaten,’ I lie.
He looks hurt and I look away.
Jack orders himself some nachos and a slushed-ice drink.
‘How long is the film?’ I ask the person behind the counter, holding out my ticket.
‘About two hours,’ he says, bored.
Jack seems quiet and I wonder if I hurt his feelings but then I remember that it doesn’t matter because I don’t want to see him again.
We’re so early that not even the adverts have started and we are practically the only people in here. Even so, I can’t help but feel embarrassed by how loud Jack is talking.
‘So I do mixed martial arts three nights a week and we do sparring and stuff but the coach reckons I could compete so I’m just moving back in with my mum so I can focus more on that and drop my hours …’
He talks and talks and I can hear a woman giggling behind us and I’m sure it’s about him. If even I know that people are laughing at us then it’s obvious but Jack doesn’t seem to notice.
‘I got my black belt three years ago,’ he’s saying. ‘But I wanted a new challenge, you know? And I always loved watching MMA, before it was popular …’
The lights dim and an advert starts but even then Jack doesn’t stop talking until I shush him.
During the trailers he puts his feet up on the back of the chair in front of us and even though there’s no one there it’s rude and embarrassing. Jack chews loudly and talks about the previews: ‘She is banging’ or ‘Looks shit’. But as people start to come in I realise that all of them talk and use their phones, too.
Mum only took me to the cinema for special treats. Birthdays, because there were never any parties, never any children my own age. Just me and her, a bag of sweets from the corner shop and a carton of juice, snuck in in her bag. And when the lights went down it was time to stop talking because you weren’t supposed to ruin it for anyone else. If you really needed to talk because it was scary or confusing or you needed to pee then you whispered into her ear, the hair that had escaped her ponytail tickling your nose, cupping your hands around your mouth so the noise didn’t escape.
Not now. The flash of a camera; someone is taking a picture. Of what? It happens again and I turn. They are taking a picture of themselves. There is an advert telling people to put away their phones but even then they still talk and I have to poke Jack when he pulls his iPhone out of his pocket again.
It doesn’t matter that the film isn’t really good; every giggle and exclamation and buzzing phone feels like a finger jabbing me in the chest, and the person behind me keeps kicking the seat every time they move and there’s a smell of lager-burps wafting from the person next to me.
Suddenly I am standing and I’m throwing my bag over my shoulder. Jack keeps his legs up, blocking my path.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks without lowering his voice.
‘I have to get out,’ I say, my breath fast and my heartbeat thumping in my temples.
Jack brings his knees into his chest and looks absurd. It’s like a birthing pose, his hands on his knees, his feet in the air. I squeeze past him and dash out and into the toilets. Someone has spilled a drink in one cubicle and another is clogged with toilet paper. I go from door to door, each toilet stinking and filthy, the panic rising with the anger, until I find one that isn’t disgusting where I can close the door and cry.
This is why I didn’t want to come back out here; why I wanted to stay in the unit, where it’s clean and there are rules and everybody follows them. I think of the three meals they serve every day, how there are no decisions to make and I don’t end up hungry and tired because I forgot to eat lunch again; how I never needed to worry about things like money and what to wear and whether people thought I was weird. I was never bored and I was never excited. The nurses and the assistants made sure the time passed, always going forward, always accounted for.
The last time I was in the unit Dr Isherwood told me she couldn’t move again and so we’d have to see each other less. There were weeks and weeks without her, though she sent me letters and she called. The new doctor read all my notes but he didn’t understand everything, so that when I said things like there’s a gap inside me he would make me explain it even though I couldn’t. Dr Isherwood knew without me having to explain it, so the gap just felt even wider without her. I did what he told me to until I could be released again because Dr Isherwood promised that she would come with me when I was, and she did.
And that’s why I’m here.
I look around the cubicle and lean a shoulder against the wall. Dr Isherwood made me leave the unit and now she isn’t here for me.
I think about it more. I think about how this is the only appointment she ever cancelled. Something really bad must have happened to make her miss our session and I am only worried about myself and that makes me a selfish person.
I say inside my head, I hope Dr Isherwood is OK and that nothing happens to her and that her family is OK. When I think it, I realise I really mean it: I am worried about her, for the first time.
I dab my eyes dry with toilet paper and wash my hands before leaving. I’m thinking of going to Tesco and getting something for tea but then I see Jack in the corridor, head down, his phone glowing in front of him, and I know I can’t go past without him seeing me. Before I can go back into the toilets he spots me.
‘Charlotte! Where are you—’ he says.
‘I don’t want to watch the end of the film,’ I tell him. ‘I just want to go home. I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t go home. We can get some food?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ I lie. I am starving. I have forgotten to eat again.
‘Well, then I’ll take you home,’ he says. His eyes are shiny and serious. ‘Where do you live?’
This isn’t an option. I can’t have Jack see where I live. All the mistakes I’ve made pass through my mind. Stealing from work, taking his phone number, actually calling him. They have led to this.
‘Come on, Charl,’ he says. ‘Don’t mug me off, yeah?’
‘It’s Charlotte.’
‘Charlotte then. Come on, babe. I did you a favour, didn’t I?’ Jack winks.
I think about it for a second.
‘Just food?’ I ask.
‘One meal,’ he says. ‘If you want to go home and never see me again after that then that’s fine.’
‘OK,’ I say. There’s a strange feeling just out of reach. Like when you’ve forgotten something but you can’t remember what you’ve forgotten. Then it catches and it’s almost a relief to realise what it is: Jack is a bad person.
16
Her: Then
After the funeral we all go to the pub and there are big plates of sandwiches and sausage rolls like they have in school at the end of term. I’m not hungry but Uncle Paul puts lots on a plate and rubs my hair and says, ‘Come on, love. You have to keep your strength up.’
I eat the pineapple bit of the pineapple and cheese stick but then I feel sick again and when Uncle Paul isn’t looking I put my plate under the table and walk off. Auntie Fay is crying again and the vicar has one arm around her and a hand full of tissues. The dress Auntie Fay bought me to wear is itching and too tight on my arms. A woman I don’t know makes a weird face and then bends down and grabs me, holding me tight so my face is smushed into her dress. She smells of powder and perfume.
‘You’ll be OK, little lamb,’ she says. ‘It’ll all be OK.’ But she’s crying and I can’t believe her. When she lets go she kisses my cheek and I have to hold my hands behind my back to not wipe it off straight away. After she’s turned I rub my face with my shoulder and run to the food table and climb underneath where no one can see me.
I watch the legs and listen to the voices above them.
‘It’s so sad,’ one says.
‘Terribly, horrifically sad,’ another says.
‘That poor little girl. Can you imagine losing your mum when you’re six years old?’ someone else says. Her voice squeaks and then other legs appear to comfort her.
Then the vicar’s legs appear and I know they are his because he is the only one wearing a dress and trousers. There is a napkin stuck to his shoe and it makes me laugh. Auntie Fay’s legs aren’t far behind.
‘I can’t, honestly, I can’t,’ she’s saying.
‘Paul’s worried about you, worried that you’re not eating. And he thinks that because you’re not eating it’s affecting her, too.’
‘I’m trying to put on a brave face but—’
‘No one expects you to put on a brave face, Fay. But you are brave, we all know you are, and we know you care about her entirely. To look after her the way you want to you need to eat, you need to look after yourself.
‘In an emergency on an aeroplane, what do they say? They say you have to put your own oxygen mask on before you help others. If you’re looking after someone in a crisis you need to be at your strongest, don’t you? So come on, have a sausage roll.’
Auntie Fay sniffs and laughs. ‘It’s so hard though, Father,’ she says.
‘I know it is,’ he says.
‘Every time I look at her …’ She starts to sob. ‘I see him. She looks so much like him.’
I cover my ears. I don’t want to hear anything about him. He was a bad person and I don’t look like him. I look like my mum and I don’t know why she is telling the vicar lies.
When their legs go away I crawl out from under the table and into the room with all the games and fruit machines.
It’s smoky inside and quieter and because it’s quieter the men talk in almost whispers as if you’re not allowed to speak, like in a test or at church. I stand on my tiptoes and roll the white ball on the snooker table so that it bounces all over the place. The fruit machines flash colourful lights and I reach up and hit the buttons but nothing happens.
‘All right, angel?’ a man says. His face is dotted with little holes just like the dartboard. I nod. ‘How about you help me press the buttons?’ He takes a coin from his pocket and lets me put it in the slot. The machine makes a noise like we’ve woken it up. ‘Up you come.’ He lifts me so I can see all the buttons. I push the red one and the spinners whiz round. ‘Press the middle one, love. Nice one. Press that one there. Now spin.’
‘Are we winning?’ I ask but then the machine makes a sad noise and the man puts me down.
‘Can’t win them all, pet.’
‘Can we have another go?’
Before he can answer Auntie Fay comes in and starts talking really fast. When she does it at home Uncle Paul tells her to stop flapping.
‘There you are!’ she’s saying. Then she’s apologising to the man. ‘We were looking for her everywhere!’
‘She was no trouble at all,’ he’s saying. ‘We were so sorry to hear about … everything. Julia is in bits, she really is. If there’s anything we can do to help …’
‘Thanks,’ Auntie Fay says. ‘We know. Everyone’s being so kind.’ She turns to me and reaches to grab my wrist. ‘Come on then, let’s get some food inside you.’
‘NO!’ I tell her. I snatch my arm back and hide behind the man.
‘What’s this about?’ Auntie Fay asks. Her eyes go all shaky. ‘Just come with me and we’ll put a plate for later. You don’t have to eat right now.’
She reaches again and I scream and I run and dive under a table and keep screaming.
‘I don’t know what I’ve done!’ Auntie Fay is shouting. She’s shouting to no one and to everyone. She’s crying but not with tears because they keep running out. I’m crying and there’s more tears because I’ve been saving them up. ‘I can’t do anything right! It doesn’t matter what I do, I – I – I …’
‘It’s not your fault, Fay love,’ the man is saying. ‘She’s just upset; she doesn’t know what she’s saying.’
‘She hates me,’ Auntie Fay says.
‘That’s not true,’ the man says.
‘Yes it is!’ I shout. ‘I do hate her!’
Auntie Fay wails.
‘You shouldn’t say things like that, love,’ the man says. He comes over and he kneels down, leaning on the table. It creaks like it might collapse on me. ‘Even when you’re upset you shouldn’t say that. What’s happened? You were all right a few minutes ago with me.’
‘It’s her,’ I say. ‘I do hate her. She told the vicar that I look like my dad but she’s lying.’
Auntie Fay is suddenly on the floor with us and she’s crawling on all fours under the table and she has her hand on my ankle.
‘That’s not what I said, darling girl,’ she says.
‘You’re lying – I heard you! I’m not like him!’
‘No, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She crawls further under and crushes me in her arms. ‘You’re not like him. You’re nothing like him.’
‘You said—’
‘Everyone looks like their parents a little bit, darling. I shouldn’t have said it. I was being stupid and awful.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you look like,’ the man says.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Auntie Fay says. ‘You’re not like your father. You’re entirely your mother, right to the bones of you.’
‘I’ll give you a minute,’ the man says, standing up to leave. The table creaks and Auntie Fay pulls me to her and curls around me.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again.
‘I don’t want to be like him.’
‘And you never will be. Never.’
‘Am I like my mum?’ I ask. Auntie Fay stares at me and wipes my cheeks dry.
‘You’re so much like her it scares me,’ she says. ‘Because she had such a good heart and bad people knew it. That was how she got herself into so much trouble.’
17
> Her: Now
We have to queue outside Nando’s and Jack can’t believe that I’ve never been to one before. He asks me several times, ‘Are you serious? You’ve never been to a Nando’s before?’
They seat us in a booth and Jack immediately slides close to me and puts a hand high up on my thigh while I look at the menu. I push it off but it finds its way back. His other arm drapes around my shoulders.
‘When are they coming to take our order?’ I ask.
He laughs too loud. ‘You have to order at the counter!’
I start to slide out but he stops me.
‘I’ll go, chick. What are you having?’
‘I’ll go myself,’ I say.
‘No, I’ll go. What are you having?’
I tell him and I don’t feel confident that he’ll even remember by the time he gets to the counter. I take out my purse and count out the money. It’s too expensive but I don’t feel like I have a choice.
‘Put your money away!’ he says.
I argue because the thing I learned before is that when men pay for something they can make you feel like you owe them something later and I don’t want to owe Jack anything, so I insist.
‘You’re a bloody challenge, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘I like a challenge. Fine, we’ll split it this time. Next time it’s on me.’
There won’t be a next time but for some reason this doesn’t help me relax. I sense the same thing about Jack that I’ve felt around men so many times, the ones that don’t stop trying until you give in just to shut them up, just so they’ll leave your house or give you the pills or go to sleep. The thing is that I was drunk back then and so it made it easier. Now, it’s hard to even be touched by Jack without shivering in disgust. It’s not that he’s ugly. I am not attracted to him but I can still tell he’s good-looking. It’s that I can sense there’s something cruel inside him, waiting to come out.
I watch him at the counter. The outline of a black tattoo on his shoulder. The girl at the till smiles uncomfortably, a smile that every woman must practise, one that men like Jack can’t decipher.
