by Laura Tait
And now, after Mum got cancer, after the worst thing I could ever imagine happening happened, the one good thing to come out of it is that Holly and I have become closer.
‘He’s . . .’ My sentence falters before it gets going, and from nowhere tears start to form an unorderly queue at the top of my cheeks. Holly stops walking and I stop too, and she is staring at me intently. She begins to offer me a hug but, even though I can’t think of a single thing in the world that I want more than a hug from Holly right now, I pretend not to notice her gesture and start walking again. It’s the only way I can stop the tears coming.
Rothers traces my gaze to the door of the school canteen. ‘Who you waiting for?’ he asks.
Kev replies on my behalf. ‘The girl of his wet dreams.’
His answer isn’t strictly accurate. I’ve never actually had a wet dream. Whenever they’re mentioned my face goes red and I have to pretend I know what people are on about.
‘I should’ve guessed,’ says Rothers, and I roll my eyes as though they’re way off the mark.
Truth is, I am waiting for Holly. I want to see her to make sure we’re OK after things got a bit weird this morning.
‘What you’ve got to realize is that Holly isn’t going to shag a lad who wears cords,’ jibes Kev, and I pat my fingers over a pretend yawn.
‘You haven’t seen us when it’s just me and her.’
‘Obviously.’
I tut. ‘We chat about everything, Kev.’
‘Do you tell each other about your periods?’
He bursts into a chorus of ‘Ooooooh Bodyform, Body-form for yooooouuuuuu’, swinging his arms as if he was rollerblading. I tell him it was the Tampax advert where the woman wore rollerblades, not Bodyform.
Kev spits on his right hand. ‘Two squid says I’m right.’
I wince. ‘We don’t need to shake on it.’
‘Actually,’ says Rothers nonchalantly, ‘I believe both adverts had rollerbladers in.’
I steal a look at the door again, but am distracted by the sight of Dean Jones locked in an arm wrestle with Shaun Harmston. As an illustration of his confidence, Dean pours ketchup on his chips with his spare hand.
‘I’ve got to admit,’ says Kev, stabbing his fork into a whole sausage and craning it towards his gob, ‘she’s got a cracking pair of mammaries.’
‘Shut the fuck up, will you?’ I snap.
Rothers freezes mid-chew.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Kev. ‘Who’s pissed on your chips?’
An uneasy silence settles among the three of us and I realize it’s my fault. I overreacted when, actually, all this is a relief. The ‘nice’ Kev who revealed himself after Mum died last term – the one who didn’t make up nicknames for me containing references to genitals, the one who didn’t make a ritual of laughing at my cords – was disconcerting. I’m just irritated by his refusal to believe anything could happen between me and Holly.
‘Have either of you ever had a girl try to stick a finger up your arse?’ says Kev.
Neither I nor Rothers answer him.
‘It’s happened to me a couple of times now. I’ve had to cut things short and say, “Sorry, I’m not into that.”’
He looks at us for a reaction but doesn’t get one. We know Kev is a virgin, but ever since Megan Robinson let Rothers go to final base two weeks ago, Kev has been boasting about his own non-existent conquests.
‘I reckon one of those women’s magazines must have written that we like it, or something. A whole generation of female minds corrupted in one fell swoop.’
I zone out, thinking about the postcard Holly sent me last week: Wish you were here xx. I injected her ‘Wish’ with a dose of longing, and every time I’ve closed my eyes since then she’s been there, stamped on my eyelids, lying stomach down on a sunlounger, using a hardback book for support as she penned my postcard with sorrow in her eyes.
I might not have had a wet dream, but that doesn’t mean I don’t lose whole weekends daydreaming about Holly lying naked in my bed, her wild hair strewn across my pillow; whole weekends scripting the conversation where I tell her. And it’s not the fear of rejection that stops me, that means I’m suddenly jaw-locked. It’s knowing that if I am wrong and Kev is right then things would never be the same again.
‘Oi, oi,’ says Kev, eyeing the door where Holly is standing with Ellie and some other girls I recognize from a collage of photos on her bedroom wall.
Without being instructed to do so, my left arm springs into a wave, and in my peripheral vision I can see Kev is shaking his head pitifully. Thankfully Holly comes over.
I stare at her in wonderment. Despite being best friends, we’ve never really hung out much in school, and the pressure of having an audience tightens my throat. Kev offers me a glare and I realize I need to say something but, before I do, Holly points towards the kit bag on the floor by Rothers.
‘You going to football training after school?’ she asks him, and when he nods, Holly says she is too.
‘But you hate football!’ I intervene.
‘I do, but the posters says it’s boys only.’
‘So what? You’re going to prove a point?’
Holly nods and Rothers laughs a little too hard for my liking. He’s been so cocky these past few weeks. I have to suppress an intense urge to shove him over as he rocks back on two legs of his chair.
‘Did you get a key-ring?’ I ask. My way of telling the others that Holly is my friend and that I know loads about her that they don’t. Like how she has a massive collection of key-rings – one for every holiday she’s ever been on, including the week our families spent together in Camber Sands when we were twelve.
She shows us her steel pendant of Turkey and I ask if she’s joining us, sliding my tray towards Kev to create space to my right.
Holly flashes her eyes towards her mates, who’ve congregated near Dean Jones and his gang.
‘I’m going to sit with Ellie,’ she says, biting her bottom lip apologetically. ‘We’ve got a party to plan. Start of sixth form and all that. But hey, why don’t you guys come over?’
Sit with Dean Jones? Us? I think not. Bobby Shepherd might have left to apply for the army but that lot still treat us like gypsies who’ve set up home in their garden.
A minute or two later I glance at where Holly and her friends have coalesced. She’s in hysterics – hands on belly, mouth ajar – at something Dean Jones has said, and in that moment, for the second time today, something approaching a sob rises through me. I have to stop myself looking at Kev, because one sight of a knowing smile that I’m almost certain will be on his face might be enough to make me punch him in the nose.
Chapter Ten
HOLLY
April 2010
Wow – it’s like my favourite scene from Pretty Woman. The one where Edward walks into the hotel bar to meet Vivian, and as he scans the room looking for her his eyes skip back to the beautiful girl with perfectly styled hair and an elegant cocktail dress sitting on a barstool. Then he tries to hide his surprise when she turns around and – OMG! – it’s Vivian.
Except Alex’s cords and woolly jumper have been replaced by a slim-fitting dark blue suit, rather than his miniskirt and thigh-high boots being replaced by a lacy black dress. And he no longer looks like a self-conscious teenager. As opposed to no longer looking like a self-conscious hooker.
But apart from all that it’s EXACTLY the same.
‘Holly!’ He jumps up from the sofa and holds out his arms, evaporating my greeting anxiety. I fall gratefully into his hug, breathing in aftershave tinged with red wine – scents I’ve never associated with my old school friend – as his unfamiliar stubble grazes my cheek.
‘Look at you!’ He doesn’t elaborate. Look at you – you look well? Look at you – what the hell happened?
I look at me. I’m in a white fitted Reiss shirt tucked into charcoal-grey high-waisted trousers. Hair is straight, make-up reapplied on the DLR, two dress sizes smaller than when he last saw
me – heck, let’s assume it was a compliment.
‘And you,’ I reply, shrugging off my coat. ‘You look great. Totally working a suit.’
I’ve only ever seen Alex in a suit once, at his mum’s funeral, but – and I say this fondly – at the time he looked like a refugee who’d been to a car boot sale. This jacket doesn’t hang off him, but fits snugly to his slim frame.
‘Why thanks.’ He tugs on his lapels. ‘It’s one of Topman’s most exclusive numbers. Let me get you a drink.’
‘Lovely.’ I nod towards his wineglass, suddenly excited about this. ‘Same please.’
I’ve never been here before and it’s clear why. It’s a student pub. Its faux-traditional interior is full of modern replicas of traditional beer signs, and instead of a friendly landlord behind the bar who knows everybody’s name, there’s a bored-looking twenty-something who looks like he’d struggle to remember his own. Why did Alex pick here? We both look out of place in our smart attire compared to the eclectically dressed casual crowd, ordering their individual drinks despite being in groups.
While Alex waits patiently to be served I lower myself onto the leather sofa he’d been sitting on and immediately slide back into it. I’m still trying to sit up when Alex gets back from the bar – bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.
The fact I’m about to drink wine with Alex is surreal – it feels too sophisticated, like we’re kids playing at being grown-ups.
‘Cheers.’ We clink glasses, like we’d done with tons of alcopops in the past, while Alex attempts to position himself at the front of the sofa in the same way I did a moment ago.
‘Good first day?’ There are a thousand questions I’m far more curious to know the answer to, but none of them feels like an appropriate way to kick off a conversation with someone I haven’t seen in ages.
‘Yep, so far so good,’ he enthuses. ‘It’s everything Mothston Grammar wasn’t, which is perfect.’
I have to stop myself going in for an exploding fist bump like we used to do when I aced an essay or he accessorized well, even though I’d forgotten until this moment that we used to do that. It’s a shame his mum isn’t here to see how he’s followed in her footsteps – she’d be well proud.
If it felt weird when my mum told me he was a teacher, it feels even weirder hearing him talk about it. I keep picturing our teachers. They were PROPER adults. If I saw any of them now, I’d still feel like I had to do what I was told. Not that I ever did as I was told at school. Unless it was Mr Abel, the French teacher, but that was only because I fancied him. All the girls did at some point. We used to roll our skirts from the waist to make them an inch or two shorter before his lessons.
I wonder how many teenage girls roll up their skirts before Alex’s lessons. He laughs when I ask him if I have to call him Mr Tyler, revealing straight, white teeth. No surprise there – he’s the only person I’ve ever known to floss every day. To everyone else it’s a universal lie we tell our dentists. But Alex’s OCDness has definitely paid off.
‘I’d prefer “sir”, actually.’ His smile – wide and genuine, deepening the little creases beside his eyes – lights up his face. Not literally, like a glow worm. Just one of those smiles that means he always looked good in photographs.
‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘Your mum said you work in the City but she didn’t say what . . .’
‘I’m a PA.’ I shrug dismissively. Why did I do that? I love my job – I’ve never dreaded going in. My colleagues are a laugh, it’s a good company to work for – I’ve got BUPA and a decent pension. But when I see a flash of surprise cross Alex’s face, which he tries to take back by scratching his head above his raised eyebrows, I realize that’s what I was trying to avoid. Him being disappointed for me.
I can’t blame him. He was the one I told every time I changed my mind about what I wanted to do when I grew up. There was the English pub I was going to run in New York, with a big office out the back to do paperwork, although sometimes I’d serve behind the bar, where regulars would tell me their problems while I topped up their whisky. Or the cake shop in Paris, where I’d do all the baking, and serve bottomless cups of tea and leave the daily papers on all the tables. Or the bra shop for women with big boobs, where you could get pretty underwear even if you were above a C cup, rather than those ugly beige contraptions I had to make do with when I was sixteen.
But fickle as I was, none of my career plans ever involved opening someone else’s post.
‘I never saw that coming either,’ I insist, gazing at my fingers as I twirl strands of hair around them. ‘It was never really a decision I made – I just fell into it while I was waiting to wake up one day and suddenly know what I wanted to do.’
I drop my hair and divert my eyes to Alex. He’s listening intently, one elbow resting on the back of the sofa, one side of his head resting in his palm. The space between his eyebrows is furrowed slightly and I wonder what he’s thinking.
I’ve never said all this out loud before. Not sure why I am now. I used to do this with Alex when we were younger – volunteer more information than I did with anyone else. He wasn’t like my other friends, butting in after every sentence with their opinion. He listened without judging and made me see myself more clearly. Like I was seeing me through his eyes or something.
‘And then it just worked out,’ I clarify, breaking eye contact and sipping my wine. ‘I’m happy at Hexagon. And me and Richard – my boss – we make a great team.’
I want to tell him we’re a great team in the nonprofessional sense too but Richard is a bit funny about people knowing. Which is understandable – it wouldn’t reflect well on either of us.
‘So what’s he like? Your boss, I mean?’
‘Oh, he’s great.’ I sip my wine again to disguise the way the corners of my mouth are twitching involuntarily. ‘We’re actually kind of together.’
Well, what was I supposed to do? He practically dragged it out of me.
‘Oh, wow.’ Alex leans back and folds his arms, and I can’t quite read his expression. I tell him more, before he jumps to any wrong conclusions. I tell him everything actually, aside from the teeny tiny detail about it being a secret. Because while I totally get why we don’t tell anyone, I’m not sure if I can summarize it eloquently enough to make him get it.
‘That’s great, Hols.’ Alex smiles warmly when I’m done. ‘I knew you’d be settled down.’
It feels like an odd thing to say, but before I can dwell on it, he asks what it is Hexagon does.
‘It’s a marketing agency. Richard thinks that blah blah blah blah, blah blah-blah blah blah blah-blah . . .’
I don’t say blah – I use actual words – but this is potentially what Alex is hearing. Why are we back on Richard? Have I become one of those smug, annoying girls who turn everything around to be about their boyfriend?
Anyone: ‘Can you pass me a napkin, please?’
Me: ‘Richard uses napkins, you know.’
Pause.
Anyone: ‘Er, OK.’
‘What about you?’ My eyes flick to his left hand. It’s ringless. ‘Is there a future Mrs Tyler on the scene?’
‘Nope,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Looks like I’ll be turning thirty single, but I’m not fussed.’
It’s evident he’s cool with his relationship status from the way he meets my eye. I still can’t get over his newly found self-confidence, which he manages to pull off without being remotely cocky.
Alex is definitely boyfriend material. Not for me, obviously, but maybe I should try to set him up with Jemma. On second thoughts, I’m not sure he’d be able to cope with her potty mouth – he’s still so polite.
Who’d have thought I’d be sitting here trying to think of potential girlfriends for Alex. It makes me want to ask about something I’ve been wondering for the past eleven years. I hadn’t planned to bring it up tonight if he didn’t mention it, but then I didn’t plan to tell him about Richard either, so what the hell – in fo
r a penny . . .
‘So how come it never worked out with Jane?’ I take a drink as I say it because somehow that makes it seem a bit more of a casual enquiry. The few seconds it takes him to answer seem to stretch on for ever, and my tenterhooks are such that the sound of crashing coins as the bloke on the fruit machine next to us wins the jackpot sounds earth-shatteringly loud.
‘Jane?’ Alex screws up his forehead in confusion.
‘That girl you starting dating at the end of sixth form,’ I remind him. ‘Well fit. Big boobs. Good kisser.’ I do that last bit in his thick Yorkshire accent.
‘Oh her.’ He sounds surprised. ‘Wow, Jane – I’d forgotten about her. I think we only went out once or twice. How did you . . .?’
But he doesn’t finish his sentence.
He barely remembers her. All these years I’ve considered Jane to have contributed to the way my life panned out. She’s gone through several incarnations in my head – from pretty, bookish brunette to sexy, blonde sporty-type to a stylish, raven-haired fashionista. And Alex barely remembers her. Would it have made a difference if I’d known the Jane thing would go nowhere? Maybe I’d have told him what I went round to tell him. Still, if anything had changed the course of my life I might not have ended up where I am today with Richard, so I guess everything happens for a reason. I decide to let it go.
I ask Alex how he’s finding London, and his face brightens in the same way it did when he was talking about school. He gushes about the museums and theatres with the optimism of someone who’s just moved here. I won’t kill his buzz, but I’ll remind him of this conversation in three months’ time when he’s complaining about it taking an hour and a half to visit a friend in the same city and fighting an urge to tut loudly at tourists who stand on the left side on escalators.
