by Laura Tait
‘Things have been going well between her and me,’ I say.
Holly hints at a smile but doesn’t put it into effect.
‘She keeps going on about wanting to meet my dad. You know her own dad left when she was tiny?’
‘Explains a lot,’ Holly says into her glass.
I stare at our silhouettes once more. ‘I just don’t know if she and I want the same things. I thought we did, but lately . . .’
I stop myself. I don’t want to talk about Melissa, not until I’ve figured out what I need to do. Our eyes meet again but now neither of us is willing to submit. I stare into Holly’s brown eyes and I’m reminded – how did I forget? – of the peculiar ring of hazel that separates her pupil from her iris. I’ve never seen it on anyone else.
I want to ask her why she didn’t respond to the note I wrote before she left Mothston, why she didn’t get in touch at all for so long, and I want to tell her what I wished for that night I saw the shooting star/Boeing 737, but if I do it might not come true.
‘I don’t understand why anyone would want to keep you a secret,’ I say, and I become aware that the atmosphere has changed, has become charged. ‘Most men would shout it from the rooftops if they got to come home to you at night.’
Holly says nothing. She is still holding my gaze, her glass tilted against her chin, but I cannot read her expression. Then the facade breaks. A tear emerges from the corner of one eye and begins a solemn journey down her cheek. I move to hug her, to comfort her and ask what’s wrong, but at the last moment her head turns so that her glass of wine, still propped against her chin, is all that separates our lips.
And then it is happening, and I’m holding her face in my hands, holding her face like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Still clutching her wine, she fumbles blindly for the coffee table, her lips not leaving mine, even as the glass shatters to the floor.
We inhale one another, our hands now exploring, and I think about how no one has ever been able to compare to Holly, not in eleven years. I think about all the times I’ve dreamt of this, and about the day all those years ago when I tried to make it – us – happen.
The day that could have changed everything.
Chapter Twenty-nine
ALEX
March 1999
I ring the bell and take a step back from the doorstep, not wanting to startle whoever opens the door. I put my hands in my pockets but immediately pull them out again, folding my arms before settling on putting them by my side.
A cramp starts to swell in my stomach as I wonder why no one is answering the door when the TV is on and they’re clearly in.
I fold my arms again and realize that I have no idea what I’m going to say if it is not Mr or Mrs Gordon who answers the door but Holly.
Do I just come out with it? Or does there need to be a prologue, a few chapters, a slow build-up before the narrative accelerates and I tell her what I’ve been waiting to tell her from the very start.
After what seems like several minutes, and with my arms back by my sides, it is Mr Gordon who finally answers my knocks.
‘Oh, hello, Alexander. Long time, no see. I thought you’d be Dean.’
Five months is all it’s taken Dean Jones to usurp me in the Gordon family consciousness. ‘What about Camber Sands?’ I feel like saying, but Holly and Dean have just split up, so what does it matter?
‘Well, you’re always welcome here, no matter who Holly is courting.’
I know he means well, but he’s clearly way behind the latest news, and I’m grateful when Mr Gordon sweeps his hand towards the stairs to indicate that I can go ahead. Now I’m here, I just want to get on with it.
Holly is sitting upright on her bed reading a magazine. She’s dressed in combats and a white tank top, left hand pocketed in a packet of salt and vinegar Discos. Wavy tendrils of hair are escaping from the messy bun on top of her head, falling softly onto her neck and shoulders. She looks amazing.
‘Hey, Al,’ she says, holding out the crisps.
I shake my head. I’m not sure my stomach could take anything right now.
‘So you said you wanted to talk to me about you and Dean?’ I say, tiptoeing over the carnage of her floor to sit cross-legged on the end of her bed, already knowing what she’s about to say.
I breathe in the scents of her room – hairspray, perfume, fresh sheets – and think about tomorrow. How I’m going to feel when I wake up in the morning. How different my life is going to be. Before Holly. After Holly. I realize that I won’t need to say anything at all. I am on her bed, she is just there, close enough to take in my arms and kiss, under the light of a lava lamp. Some people actually believe it is real lava inside, when in fact it’s a mix of wax and carbon tetrachloride in liquid.
‘Well . . .’ She pauses while she gets off the bed to shut her bedroom door. I’m almost certain that Holly can see my heart beating through this T-shirt. I focus on her lips, not really listening to her words now but preparing for what I’m about to do.
‘I’ve been thinking of, you know . . .’ She nods at her bed sheets, and though I see her gesture clearly, I don’t immediately grasp what it means. I examine the two bodies of wax and carbon tetrachloride in Holly’s lamp dancing around one another, both of them shaped like a number 8. At times they resemble two human beings poised for a hug, but the hug never happens. The laws of heat and density won’t allow it.
‘I just feel like the time’s right for us to make the next step. It feels right, you know?’
I’m still not certain what Holly is talking about, but then I notice that her cheeks have become blushed, and that now she has turned away, slightly embarrassed, and in that moment my stomach collapses.
I realize what I’m hearing, realize that she’s telling me she’s going to sleep with Dean Jones, realize that I’m a blob of fake lava. Every time I get close to telling Holly how I feel, it’s as though something stops me.
It is all I can do to concentrate on not swallowing, because if I swallow, my Adam’s apple will confess everything. Why I came here, the lot. I keep my gaze fixed on the lamp, and the one thing I’m grateful for is that I didn’t blurt it out or go to kiss her.
‘Are you OK, Alex?’
Part of me wants to get out of here, away from the words I’ve just heard, but if I leave now things might become awkward between us. And she can’t sleep with Dean Jones while I’m here.
I speak without thinking. ‘But Kev said that you and Dean had a bit of a . . .’
‘One of his mates, in front of everyone, started going on about the size of my tits. So you’d think Dean would tell him to shut it and tell everyone else to stop laughing and that they shouldn’t objectify women like that. Especially not his girlfriend. But he doesn’t do that. He laughs too. I felt like a right . . .’
I zone out, my own stupidity having dawned on me. ‘He came after me and apologized. He’s a big softie, really. I think he just . . .’
I distract myself by standing up from the bed and inspecting the map on her wall, pins dotted around the world.
‘I can’t imagine Dean getting his backpack on and doing the Inca Trail,’ I interrupt, trying not to let my voice betray how I’m really feeling. I don’t think I do a very good job.
When I turn back to the bed, Holly draws her knees to her chest and hugs them.
‘What?’ I say, noticing that Holly is giving me a look, a weird kind of look that I haven’t seen before, as if I wasn’t a person but a static object, a picture on a wall. She goes to say something but holds back.
Then eventually: ‘I guess I don’t know if me and Dean are going to be together forever. I’m not going to miss out on uni life by pining over a bloke for three years.’ Her eyes flick to mine for a second, searching for support for her principle. I offer it with a half-smile. ‘I’ve just been thinking that I want my first time to be with someone special and . . . Oh, I don’t know.’
I’m grateful when Holly stands up and suggests going for
a walk, grabbing her keys and coat and then padding downstairs in front of me. I have no idea where we’re walking to and I don’t intend to ask. If I ask she’ll plan a route, and routes always have an end. Whereas this way we might end up losing track of time and spending the whole night together.
The wind picks up as we pass a row of ivy-clad terraces, sending strands of her hair into flight. She zips up her jacket and giggles to herself.
‘What?’ I say, still feeling sorry for myself.
‘You know whose house that is, don’t you?’
Holly is jabbing her forehead in the direction of a detached cottage across the road. It’s the biggest house on the street but, unlike the other houses, it doesn’t have a front garden. It belongs to our headteacher, Mr Henderson.
‘So what?’
‘Remember when we used to knock and run?’
Holly is already crossing the road.
‘It’s still light – someone’ll see.’
‘Alex, we’re not going to be able to mess around in Mothston for much longer, so let’s make the most of it, yeah?’
It feels like a weird thing to say, but there’s no time to ponder because Holly is less than three feet from the door now. She stops and inspects me for a second.
I step towards Holly, expecting her to wait for me to join her, but her fist begins to pound against the glossy black paint and before I can respond she is fleeing, trailed by an outstretched arm as if someone was about to hand her the baton in a relay. I don’t have a baton, so the only explanation is that she’s inviting me to hold her hand as we run away together, away from Dean Jones and all the words that have been spoken during the last hour. I start running, chasing Holly’s long shadow and clasping her soft hand in mine. I keep one pace behind her so she won’t let go until finally, at the gates of Weelsby Park, she slows, retracts her palm and falls onto the clammy grass, where she’s overcome by breathless laughter. When she finally composes herself my stare is there to meet hers, and it’s at least three or four seconds before this thing is broken and Holly begins walking again, trusting that I’ll follow without instruction.
‘I thought you’d said they’d had a blazing row?’
Kev is peering out of my window, facing away from where I’m stationed on my bed. ‘You’re paraphrasing a tad.’
‘Everyone saw it, you said.’ I lower my voice as Dad makes his way past my bedroom door to the bathroom. ‘A massive scene, you said.’
‘OK, so I exaggerated – sue me. What’s it matter?’
‘It matters because . . .’
But of course I don’t want to tell him that it matters because I almost made a complete fool of myself.
‘Something’s gone on,’ he says, turning to me and stroking his chin like Sherlock Holmes. ‘You weren’t in classes today and—’
‘Who are you? My dad?’
‘And you’re acting strange. Stranger than usual. And it’s clearly something to do with Holly.’
I take a gulp of air and exhale loudly. I don’t know what to say to him. It’s not his fault, really. I know that 90 per cent of what he says is bullshit. It’s just that when Holly asked me around to her house to talk about Dean, I put two and two together and . . .
‘Your mistake with Holly is that you made it impossible for her to fancy you. You’re like a lap dog, always at her side, always ready to please, always obedient. I’m going to give you two pieces of advice, young Tyler.’
I want to tell him to shut up. I do. But where have all these years of doing it my way got me?
‘Firstly, quit with all this “Hols” crap. Try “babe” or “darlin’”.’
Kev grins gormlessly, waiting for me to acknowledge his genius.
I look at him wearily. ‘You said you had two pieces of advice?’
‘Er, what’s with the ’tude? I’m trying to help you here.’
‘Just get on with it, will you?’
‘All right, keep your Y-fronts on.’ He offers me a piece of chewing gum. I shake my head. ‘My second piece of advice is that you need to move on, find someone new. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? So get absent.’
I stare at him blankly.
He resumes: ‘Here’s an idea – why don’t you take Jane Ferrington out? You know she likes you – and it might make Holly stop and think.’
Jane Ferrington lives next door to Kev and is in the year below us at Mothston Grammar.
‘I don’t know she likes me,’ I laugh dismissively.
‘Alex, every time you’re at mine she pretends to be washing-up so she can perve at you from her kitchen window.’
‘She might just use a lot of crockery.’
‘Just do it, Alex. Then next time Holly phones you at two in the morning, don’t answer. And when she asks why, tell her you were manoeuvring your love prod into Jane Ferrington’s murky cave of lust. That should make her see the error of her ways.’
‘Murky cave of lust? This is the most ludicrous plan I have ever heard.’
‘Fine, have it your way. Sit at home with a sock over your cock – but don’t ever say I haven’t tried to help you.’
With that Kev stands and coughs up some phlegm, which he swallows immediately.
‘And one last thing, yeah? Stop dressing like Noel Edmonds.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Cords, Alex. I haven’t seen a pair of cords since Noel Edmonds was on telly with Mr Blobby. That was yonks ago.’
Kev starts to walk away, but he turns and walks backwards for a few steps to finish sharing his thoughts.
‘And the fact he wore cords is probably the reason why he’ll never be on telly again.’
Chapter Thirty
HOLLY
September 2010
Alex slides his hand down my back, making me shiver. We’re both lying stretched out on the sofa: our private island in a sea of discarded clothes, broken glass and red wine.
He gently sweeps my hair away over my shoulder to nuzzle my neck and I groan as he—
‘Oi, slag bag. Are you listening to me?’ Jemma snaps me out of my daydream.
WHAT AM I DOING? Every time I think about what happened in Alex’s flat the other night, it goes a little bit further. I actually forced myself to break away about six and a half seconds into the embrace, mumbled an apology and ran away. But my mind has somehow turned it from the type of snog you get between lovestruck teenagers on Home and Away to the dirty bits in Sex and the City. If I’m not careful we’ll soon be re-enacting a scene from Basic Instinct in my head, and that’ll just be awkward for everyone.
‘Sorry, Jem, what did you say?’
‘Do you reckon if two people who have only ever been friends get drunk and kiss it means they secretly fancy each other?’
WHAT?
‘Why do you ask?’ I gasp. She must know something. But how could she? Only Alex and I know, and it’s not like he’s going to call her up for a natter. But why would she ask that?
‘Christ, chill out, doll – I’m only making conversation.’
Stop being paranoid, Holly. Jemma loves a hypothetical question, it’s a coincidence. Albeit, a totally weird one.
She goes back to whatever she’s looking at on her screen – Twitter, the last time I checked – and I resolve to think about this Alex thing logically.
Maybe my head is turning it into something it wasn’t. I mean, it must be easy to romanticize it and confuse my desire for Alex as something more, but if I step outside the situation and look at the facts then there is probably an explanation. Richard and I are having a few problems. Between him working so hard and his disappointment over the promotion, he is feeling stressed and I am feeling neglected.
Because all this also means it’s been a while since Richard and I had sex. We used to do it all the time. It’s no biggie – every relationship has a dry patch – but if we’re not doing it, and we’re not going out, what are we doing, exactly?
That’s why I got all confused. That’s why I need to talk to Richa
rd and make him realize that this has gone too far. It’s time we acted like a proper couple, because then we can deal with our issues like a . . . well, a proper couple.
Apart from anything else, Melissa is still on the scene, so even if I did want to dump Richard and jump straight into Alex’s arms – which I DON’T – then it’s not an option anyway.
It would be easier on my conscience if I could blame Alex. I lay in bed the night it happened trying to feel angry at him. I’d been drinking! He knows I’ve got a boyfriend! He kissed me anyway! But then I remembered he’d drunk the same amount, I know he has a girlfriend and I kissed him too. Then my mind started wandering, and it was hard to feel angry at the things he was doing after he unfastened my imaginary bra. His long fingers caressing my skin as he moves the straps down my arms, and . . . RICHARD. I need to talk to Richard.
His door is ajar and he’s reading something on his screen. I stand in the doorway and take a moment to study him – Christ, he’s handsome – before knocking, making him look up and flash me a brief smile.
‘Hey you,’ he says. He looks tired.
‘Hey yourself.’ I shut the door behind me and sit opposite him at his desk.
‘So, I’ve been thinking . . .’ And I tell him what I’ve been thinking. Not EVERYTHING I’ve been thinking, obviously – only the bits about us. How I want to hold his hand in public, and have dinner in a restaurant with him without worrying that someone we know will walk in the door, and refer to him as my boyfriend. His face remains impassive, so I talk and talk until eventually he nods slowly.
‘OK.’ He shrugs.
‘OK?’ I breathe incredulously. He’s agreeing?
‘I want all that too.’ He grins.
OMG, this is epic – he’s actually saying we should tell people.
‘I’m not saying we should tell people.’ Oh . . . ‘But maybe we can go away together.’ Eh? ‘I think we could both do with a holiday. Forget about this place for a couple of weeks.’
