Seth nodded.
‘Seth,’ I said contemplatively.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing, I was just turning the name over in my mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever said it before.’
From the corner of my eye I saw Dylan’s head turn towards me before he frowned.
‘What’s your name?’ Seth asked.
‘Clemency Smittson. I’m only telling you my surname because my friends call me Smitty. My dad started it when I was about twelve, drove my mum wild with annoyance, but it stuck.’
‘I see.’ He nodded. ‘The question for me then is: are you a Smitty or a Clem to me?’ It was Seth’s turn to receive a small, suspicious frown from Dylan but Seth didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. Seth got to his feet, still staring intently at me. ‘I shall ponder which one I think you are to me on my way to the bar. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?’
‘Actually, I think I will. Half a lager and lime, please.’
‘A half with lime it is.’
Once Seth had left our vicinity, Dylan sat back in his seat, his body slid down a bit against his part of the corner sofa we’d commandeered and he stared at me with his head slightly to one side as though sizing me up. Eventually, when he’d watched me study Seth at the bar, he said to me: ‘Don’t go there, Smitty.’
‘Go where?’ I asked.
‘You know,’ he hissed irritably. ‘Don’t do it. Not with him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just don’t, all right?’ He glanced over at Seth, which made me look at him too. ‘We’re all young, just starting college … don’t be getting involved with blokes like him.’
‘Why? Is he a complete bastard?’
‘Nah … He’s a nice guy. And if you do it with him, you’ll fall in love with him or something equally stupid and he’ll probably fall in love with you. It’s too soon when you’re still in college.’
‘You are pulling my leg,’ I said to him. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing.
‘No, no, I’m not. Not really. I just don’t think … Look, being honest, I wouldn’t like it. You’re my friend, not his.’
Dylan and I had been ‘friends’ since the first week in college when I sat next to him in our Political Foundations class. I had turned to ask him what time the lecture was due to finish and found my voice had abandoned me. He was simply the most beautiful man I had ever seen. With his dark olive skin, close-cut black hair, huge brown eyes, and easy, natural smile, I fell for him straight away. It was impossible not to. Over the next few lectures we’d discovered we had the same sense of humour and liked the same music and films so I rather easily slotted into becoming one of his groupies. For the most part I didn’t mind because very few of the other groupies had all the same classes as him, so didn’t get to spend as much time with him in and out of class as I did. What he was saying now, though, was that I was a cut above the entourage of good-looking women who seemed to draw his attention; I was different. He would be bothered if I slept with someone else.
‘Are you seriously saying you wouldn’t like me going out with Seth because he’s a nice guy?’ I asked.
‘Going out?’ Dylan said despairingly. ‘Smitty, you’ve just met the guy. I’m only saying I don’t think you should go there, all right?’ He shrugged. ‘Please. I’ve known him a long time, me and him are good mates. Me and you are good … well, whatever. Just don’t.’
‘It’s nice of you to care about my feelings so much,’ I replied casually. Inside … Inside all my internal organs were dancing: Dylan liked me enough to be jealous.
‘I’ve thought long and hard,’ Seth stated. He placed our two drinks on the table, ignored Dylan’s grumbles about being left out and focused on me. ‘I’ve decided you’re going to be Smitty to me. Mind if I call you Smitty?’
My grin must have taken him by surprise. He had done me the hugest favour – he’d made me interesting and desirable in Dylan’s eyes. Dylan wanted me. I never thought that would happen. Not ever. ‘You certainly can call me Smitty. In fact, I’d be offended if you didn’t.’
‘Excellent,’ Seth replied.
Really excellent, I thought as Dylan sat up, and with one hand picked up his almost empty glass and took a sip, while under the table, his other hand moved possessively on to my leg and stayed there. Really, really excellent.
Mr Wallace finishes his call and starts his way back to us. I am furiously blinking away tears, trying to sweep aside the pain from my mother’s words and slowly the agony starts to recede while calmness takes over. Mum is still staring at me but I ignore her and focus on Mr Wallace, concentrate on not revealing how much she’s hurt me. ‘Many apologies for that, ladies,’ he says. ‘Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you into your new home.’
Oh yes, like things aren’t bad enough, my mother is also moving in with me.
2
Abi
To: Jonas Zebila
From: Abi Zebila
Subject: Purple Day
Monday, 25 May 2015
Dear Jonas,
Today is a purple day.
That’s what Lily-Rose told me, anyway. Not quite sure where she got that from, or what it means, but when I came in from work earlier that was the first thing she said to me. It made me smile and it made me think of you. And I had to ask you what you think it means. Today is a purple day. It’s also two years since you’ve been in touch and that’s long enough now, don’t you think?
Brother, dear brother, you’ve been gone from her for nearly half her life. You are her favourite uncle, she still talks about you. And I still think about you. We were a team, you and me.
I’ve read all this stuff online about how when a person decides to go ‘no contact’ with their family they have to cut everyone out, including the people you love because they’re the ones who drag you back into the toxic mess, and I get it, I really do. But it’s not fair. I didn’t do anything. Remember? I’m the one you actually like.
I have no one here, apart from Lily-Rose and Declan, obviously, but no one knows I’m still seeing him – they all assumed we’d finished, which is why I moved back here. Yes, I came back to live with Mummy and Daddy. Really, I moved back in because Gran’s seriously ill now and I decided to help Mummy with her meds and feeding her (most days she can’t do that for herself) and other stuff.
So, what’s new in the past two years apart from me living back here? Well, nothing much is the short answer. Ivor still lives here, and shows no signs of leaving – ever.
Mummy and Daddy are still the same. They don’t argue, argue, but they do snipe at each other a lot still. It’s definitely got worse since you left. Mummy blames him for you cutting us off but she won’t say it, and Daddy pretends it hasn’t happened.
The other bone of contention is that Mummy thinks Gran should be somewhere where she’ll get specialist care. I hear them talking about it sometimes. Daddy’s not having it. They talk quietly, but I swear, Daddy, when he speaks, raises his voice on words like ‘duty’ and ‘loyalty’ and ‘respect’. ’Course, he can say all that because he doesn’t have to do much. He talks to Gran whenever she makes it into the lounge, he goes in to say hello and goodnight to her most days. Yes, I wrote that right – most days he goes into her room. He has to pass her room to leave and enter the house but he doesn’t even make it in to see her every day. Denial about how sick his mother is do you think?
And then there’s Lily-Rose, Lil’ ‘Purple Day’ herself. She’s my entire world. You should see her now, she’s so big. Tall, beautiful, funny. Remind you of anyone?! You never got to know how funny she was, properly. The other day she disappeared and after I looked in all her favourite hiding places in the house – I eventually found her in Gran’s room, telling knock-knock jokes she’d made up. They were all pretty random, a lot didn’t make sense, but some were hysterical. I could tell it was just what Gran needed.
Look, please get in touch. Two years is long enough. You used to think life was t
oo short to hold a grudge, that you should let bygones be bygones. I know Gran was terrible to you and Meredith, and the results of what she did were devastating, but deep down, don’t you still believe in not holding a grudge, especially against the people who didn’t do what she did? Aren’t you even a little bit curious about us, about Lily-Rose?
Today’s a purple day. What does that mean to you?
Love,
Abi
xxxxxx
3
Smitty
I slide open the side of Lottie, my red and white camper van, and am greeted with a great wall of brown cardboard boxes. The suitcases, holdalls and bags have all been transported up to the flat in the last eight trips, and now I have the boxes to start on. I stare at them. I’m sure they’ve quadrupled in number since I stacked them in there last night.
Last night, he was out like I’d asked him to be so I could move the boxes into Lottie ready for today’s trip, but I wasn’t sure how long he’d stay out or if he’d be back to try to convince me to give us another chance, so I had shifted boxes without really noticing their number or weight. There were still some left in our flat, which is why I didn’t want to tell him to leave me alone. I’d have to arrange a time to go and get the rest. Now, I don’t really understand how I have so much stuff. It’s not as if I have lots of clothes and shoes and bags, and the like. I took no furniture, I took no appliances, I left them all for him back at the flat, and yet … I have what seems like a million boxes.
They can’t all be work-related. I read the words on the boxes as if I didn’t label them myself: ‘Tools’, ‘Old Tools’, ‘Wire’, ‘Polishers’, ‘Finishers’, ‘Rollers, Barrel Roller, etc.’, ‘Journals, Books, Swatches, etc.’, ‘Finished Pieces’, ‘Toolboxes’, ‘Findings’, ‘Beads’, ‘Resins, Glues’, ‘Samplers’, ‘Texturisers’. Maybe because I’d worked at Karina’s Jewels for so long and I had a lot of my regularly used tools there and my other stuff at home, I didn’t notice how much work stuff I’d accumulated.
I’m a jewellery maker, much to the upset and disapproval of my mother. With a good political science degree I was obviously on the road destined for Parliament, final stop Prime Minister. I had a different path to tread, though. We’d frequently rowed about it over the years (and I’m sure she still holds out hope for my great political career to emerge) but nothing gave me joy like making jewellery. From coming up with the initial design to handing over or displaying the finished piece, my job gave me real pleasure. My true love, though, was reloving people’s old jewellery.
Nothing was sadder than jewellery that languished in a drawer or box, mostly forgotten, partially unloved, because it didn’t fit into someone’s life. I made people want to love their jewellery again. Unwanted things that used to be precious, could be precious again, were my speciality. I would do my best to make the jewellery fit the person’s life, make them look at it again and see that they could love it, they did want it, they didn’t want to forget it existed because for a time it wasn’t quite up to scratch.
I sit on the edge of Lottie’s footrest, momentarily defeated by the number of boxes I have to unload, by the task ahead of me. I have to start again. Establish my business down here, find new clients, set up my workshop, open my shop, all while living with my mother. I’d lived with her when I left my flat, and for the months before that, but I’d always known it was temporary so I could endure it. This is permanent. I close my eyes, allow the ebb and flow of the sea to wash over me. I can do this. I know I can. I need to believe that. It’d be easier, of course, with him. But, I can do this. Because I have to.
With Dylan & Seth, Xmas 1998, Liverpool (end of term party)
‘How about we break with tradition this year and I kiss Smitty under the mistletoe first?’ Seth asked.
We had all arrived separately at the Social Sciences department’s end of term party in the dining hall, with me turning up last. Our department always went all out for their parties and waited until everyone had officially left so they could hire the dining hall and make it look spectacular. As soon as I walked in the door, Dylan and Seth both descended upon me – Seth was holding mistletoe. I looked from one to the other.
It wasn’t as if I was going out with either of them, or that either of them didn’t have girlfriends because I wasn’t and they did. But for the last two Christmases, whenever they spotted mistletoe, I was their first port of call.
‘How about we don’t make this a tradition which could be seen as Smitty being a bit “free” with her affections around two men who have girlfriends?’ I replied. Girlfriends who were probably in this very room, glaring at me.
Dylan snaked his hand around my waist, tugged me towards his body and kissed me full on the mouth, as he’d been doing for the last two Christmases, before anyone could say anything else. His lips, tasting of the rum-laced punch he’d obviously been drinking, lingered on mine. This was about to turn into a proper, full-on kiss where he would push his tongue into my mouth, he’d pull me closer to him and we’d forget anyo—. Abruptly, Dylan stepped away. As always his kiss was enough to tease me but not enough to promise me anything.
‘You are such a git,’ Seth complained. ‘You don’t even have mistletoe.’
‘I’ve got mistletoe in my heart,’ Dylan replied. He focused on me with his enormous black-brown eyes and I knew he was about to finish with his latest girlfriend. He always gave me that look, said something like that, when he was about to dump someone – it’s not like anything had ever happened between us, or that he’d make a move once he was free, he just did this to let me know what he was thinking. And the only time he ever kissed me properly was at Christmas.
‘Happy Christmas, Smitty,’ Seth said. ‘I’m still here, you know?’ he was actually saying.
I managed to tear my eyes away from Dylan, refocused on Seth. ‘Happy Christmas, Seth,’ I replied.
He held up the mistletoe, its white fruit unusually plump and large against its long, slender oval-shaped leaves. ‘Any chance?’ he asked. I hadn’t even got my coat off or unwound my scarf.
I glanced at Dylan. He stared down at his feet, prodding at something invisible on the floor as though he wasn’t bothered, his body language plainly broadcasting how bothered he was. I wasn’t the one going out with someone else, I was single and able to kiss whoever I liked – no matter how chaste it really was. Seth, though … The mere idea of him and me bugged Dylan. He hadn’t been bothered when I’d been out with or slept with other men, even with friends of his, but when it came to Seth, his jealousy was clear and evident.
‘If you want to,’ I told him.
Seth nodded in understanding. ‘Next year,’ he said. He tossed his mistletoe on to the buffet table, between the pile of greasy mini sausages and the large crystal punchbowl. ‘I’ll make sure that I get my kiss in first.’
Mum hasn’t brought much stuff with her. ‘I only really need my clothes and my photographs,’ she’d said, and she was as good as her word.
Considering her house in Otley was crammed with enough ornaments and knick-knacks to keep a small charity shop well stocked for a year or two, and she’d never shown any inclination to get rid of them, I was impressed that she really only brought her photo albums, clothes and beauty items. ‘I won’t take up much space,’ she’d said during the conversation where I asked her to move in with me. That’s how she tells it to anyone who’ll listen – she even tells that to me and I was there for the conversation. ‘Clemency was moving and she couldn’t do it on her own, so she asked me to come with her. She’s my only child, so I couldn’t say no.’ What really happened was this:
‘Mum, I know the timing could be better but I’m moving. I’ve got one more week to complete at work and then I’m going to tie up everything here and move to Brighton. Well, Hove, actually. That’s where the flat I’ve found is. It’s near enough to Brighton. I’ve got a workshop down there, too.’ I decided to tell Mum I’d also got a shop space another time – too much information gave her
too much to worry about and too much to mither me about.
‘Oh, that sounds like a fantastic idea, Clemency. I’ll get your uncle Colin to look after the house and I’ll come with you. Thank you for suggesting it.’
‘What?’ I replied.
‘Don’t say, “what”.’
‘Wha— I don’t understand what you’ve just said.’
‘Or maybe Nancy and Sienna could move in?’ she said to herself. ‘They’ll need a bigger space, I won’t need to charge them rent and they’re family so I know they’ll take care of the place. Or maybe I shouldn’t involve family? Maybe I should just look at renting it out through an agency.’
‘What are you saying to me, Mother?’
‘Your uncle Colin can help out. When are you going?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘Perfect. That’s plenty of time to pack and have an estate agent value the place with a view to selling or renting.’
‘But I’m moving on my own.’ (I’m still not sure if I said that out loud.)
‘This is perfect, Clemency. I won’t take up much space. Just my photographs and personal belongings and clothes. I was wondering what I would do with myself now. I don’t want to be here any more. Too many memories, especially from the last few months. But you’ve solved that problem for me.’
And created a whole world of problems for me. Mum and me in confined spaces, with nothing much to do … It is a bad combination.
‘Clemency? Is that you?’ Mum calls. I heft the first box through the front door. There are eighty-seven steps and three sets of doors between Lottie and this flat. I only noticed that while wrestling my way here with this box labelled ‘Tools’.
‘Who else is it going to be?’ I call back.
‘A simple “yes” will suffice,’ she replies.
‘What is it that you want, Mum?’ I ask. Down the long wide corridor with large block, parquet flooring in a rich honey-coloured wood, I follow the sound of Mum’s voice until I find her, in the second bedroom. Her bedroom. This was going to be my work-at-home place. It didn’t have the sea views of the other rooms, but it had an en suite shower and loo, space for a desk as well as a (guest) bed and, most importantly, a large amount of wall space to pin up my designs and have a shelving unit to keep all the tools and materials – wire, beads, findings, bottle tops, trays, glues, resins, cords, etc., etc., etc. – I used at home.
That Girl From Nowhere Page 2
