I scroll through his Facebook page; he has been to the gym in Boston.
Bella has tweeted that she is going to try out a hot yoga class this morning.
I poke around, as usual. It never does any harm, and even when I lived here there were always things that were useful to copy or keep hold of. Because you never know in life, you just never know. There’s nothing that stands out as new or unusual, so I wash and dry my cup, replacing it on the mug tree, then triple-check that everything is in order. I stare at the fridge door; there are patches of smoothness among the few photos and leaflets. It used to be crammed with brightness. Nate bought me fridge magnets or mugs from each new country he visited. Proper tourist souvenirs because he knew I loved things like that – to me they aren’t tacky. He said he did it so that I would ‘know I think of you whilst I’m away’. I’ve kept them all packed; I won’t use them again until I can put them back here in their original home.
I take one last look around my former and future home, then force myself to leave, taking the train back to the shoebox. Once there, I dial the number of Bella’s hairdresser to make an appointment. Bella still lives in Bournemouth, near her family home, and it’s not that far away. I settle down on the sofa and study for my driving theory test. Nate is not going to recognize the confident, independent future wife he let slip through his fingers.
He won’t stand a chance.
I rise early for a short return trip to Frankfurt.
Once back, I change in the airport toilets, hand my uniform into the dry-cleaners, and catch a coach to Bournemouth.
‘What can I do for you today?’ asks Bella’s favourite stylist, the smiley Natasha.
I pause. I was going to go blonde, like Bella, but come to think of it, Amy is so confident with her auburn hair. She portrays the right mix of confidence, yet is still disciplined enough when required. Maybe I could learn something by imitating her.
‘I’d like to experiment,’ I say. ‘I’m thinking of doing something a bit more drastic . . .’
Over coffee, I point to the colour chart and select the shade closest to Amy’s, then relax and flick through a magazine. Whilst Natasha styles and cuts my hair – ‘Just a trim,’ I insist (I don’t want exactly the same style as Amy) – I chat away about some of the more difficult passengers I encounter, trying to get her to open up about her trickier clients. I’m sure Bella must be one. I simply can’t picture her treating anyone with respect. Natasha, however, doesn’t bite. I leave a big tip to ensure that she is chattier next time. I stroll to the station with the coastal wind blowing my hair, surprising me each time I catch sight of auburn strands.
As I approach the platform, my eyes catch sight of a name on the departures list. It is the name of the village where my boarding school was located. There is no reason for me to travel there but I feel an impulse to return, even though the school is now a care home. Before I can talk myself out of it, I buy a ticket and board the next train. However, I’ve made an error by not checking the timings as it takes over an hour to be transported into deepest Dorset. It is a half-mile walk from the station to the driveway entrance. A shiny gold sign reveals its new name, beneath which it states that: We care. I hope that they care more about old people than they did about teenagers. I continue past, wandering along the narrow village pavement – a long-ago, familiar route.
The village newsagent remains. During afternoon break, between 4 and 4.25, we were allowed to brave the three-minute walk and stock up on junk food. I push open the door. I can’t remember the staff, so I’ve no idea if the man behind the old-fashioned till used to serve me, but I suspect he did.
‘I see the school has changed hands?’ I say, pretending to browse the magazine shelf.
He nods.
‘I used to come in here as a teenager.’
‘Did you? There were so many of you.’
He doesn’t mention the village boys who used to stand on the street opposite, laughing at us. We were always instructed to ignore them, but I didn’t blame them. Any breach of uniform regulations was an immediate fortnight’s curfew, so if we weren’t in summer straw boaters, we were in winter cloaks – not coats, like normal students – marking us out as figures of fun, as though we were teenagers from a strict religious cult or another era.
I select two bridal magazines. Whilst handing over payment, I spot brown paper bags. I used to fill mine with as many treats as possible; a blatant attempt to bribe others into spending time with me. We exchange goodbyes and I leave in the direction of the care home. I have no idea what to expect, but now that I am here, it can’t do any harm.
As I approach the Victorian building, I can immediately see that the reception area is in the same location, although the main entrance is wider. Double doors open outwards instead of the old wooden white door that creaked. A metal wheelchair ramp rests at the side. Leaves spin, trapped in mini whirlpools. The cars are new; gone is the headmistress’ old Rover and the drama teacher’s VW Polo. From where I’m standing, I used to be able to see a black door to my left. Instead, in its place is a brick wall. During morning break, the old black door would open and the prefects would hand out any parcels or post from home: birthday cards, valentines, or postcards and letters from older relatives, especially those who hadn’t yet embraced email.
I take a deep breath now and step inside my old school. The space is totally different, but the institutional smell remains. It is a shock, I expect to see her or to hear her distinctive footsteps. Rooted to the spot, I remember something – Bella telling me that I couldn’t sit next to her at the dinner table one evening because she’d saved the space for Stephanie. It took humiliating minutes to find a spare seat in the crowded dining hall. I add it to my mental list of slights.
I concentrate on the present-day surroundings. Stained-glass windows remain embedded in the high walls, and the original large open fireplace is still in situ. But nailed to the wall above is a shiny wooden plaque. My eyes skim the Latin, resting on the English translation: Fortune favours the bold. Whilst trying to figure out the motto’s relevance in an old people’s home, my thoughts are interrupted.
‘Can I help you?’ A female voice.
I swing round and smile at a receptionist who is dressed in a fussy, peacock-blue blouse. Her reading glasses are attached to a string around her neck. She looks like she cares.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I used to come to school here. It’s strange being back.’
‘When was that, then?’
‘I left about ten years ago. I wonder . . . can I take a look around?’
‘I don’t think so, I’m afraid. Not without prior arrangement. And if you don’t have any relatives, then I’m sorry, but no.’
‘What about the grounds, then? Does the stream still run along the bottom?’
‘Yes, it does, but I’ll have to check if you can go there,’ she says, picking up the desk phone. ‘But I don’t see why not.’
The stream is shallow. In my memories, it was deeper. Although the grassy banks are naturally overgrown, it is still accessible via the old pathway. I wonder if anyone comes here now. It’s not as if the residents need to sneak down for a sly cigarette or anything else clandestine.
This used to be my hiding place. I would take off my shoes and paddle in my bare feet.
They thought I’d instinctively shy away from water after Will. But instead, I found it comforting.
Weeping willows still sweep the water’s edge as a chilly breeze ripples the surface. I sit down on the uneven stones, then I turn back and glance at the main building.
I last sat here on the night of our school leavers summer ball.
Ten years ago.
Fifth- and sixth-formers from other schools – boys too – were invited, coached in from around the county. Rumours swiftly spread that the fruit punch was spiked by sixth-formers who’d shared their alcohol allowance. I sipped mine, even though it tasted like cough medicine, but in the back of my mind I didn’t want to end up behavi
ng stupidly, like my mother, all giggly and crass. I wore a red dress bought with some money Babs had sent me. But, although I looked different on the outside, inside I was still me. I grew bored of feeling insignificant, sitting on a hall chair at the side, next to Claire, so I slunk away from the main building when the supervising teachers weren’t paying attention and walked across the sloping lawn and down to the hidden spot. My throat burned a little and I felt hot. I took off my heels and dipped my feet in the water. The darker grey of approaching night thickened as the temperature dropped slightly. I felt almost happy; soon I’d be free of the place I loathed. A soft breeze brushed my limbs and I felt anonymous, safe and cocooned. I sat down near the edge of the stream, hugging my arms around my knees.
As the light faded further, I had intended to slip back to my dorm and make myself small beneath my duvet, but sliding pebbles and footsteps alerted me to someone else. I stood up quickly, ready to defend myself, but to my astonishment I could just about make out that it was a sixth-form boy, one of the well-known ‘cool’ ones who’d been part of the group of boys who’d clustered around Bella, Stephanie and their gang.
Alone.
I briefly wondered if he’d followed me, but his eyes wore a faraway look and he appeared puzzled at seeing someone else. He’d removed his black tie and two of his shirt buttons were undone. He clutched a glass with his right hand. I sat back down and he joined me, placing his drink on the ground and twisting it in the soil slightly to create a flat-enough surface.
‘Hi,’ he said, as he lit a cigarette, the flame of a match lighting up his face as he did so. He pulled off his shoes and socks with his free hand and wriggled his toes in the water. ‘It’s cold!’
I laughed.
The amber tip of his cigarette glowed. He offered it to me.
I didn’t want to say no, so I took it but only inhaled as gently as I could. I felt my head go light. I struggled for something to say, something that would make him laugh or want to stay here, with me, for slight hope had begun to take hold. Maybe, this evening would turn into something that could change everything.
‘Have you been to many balls or parties?’ I blurted out, inwardly cursing the clumsy, naive-sounding words.
‘Three, this season.’
I couldn’t think how to answer, even though he made me feel like I was worth talking to; that I wasn’t ugly. Or too overweight. My stomach felt hollow. I wished I had brought my drink down here with me.
‘Can I have a sip?’ I asked, pointing at his half-full glass.
‘Of course.’ He lifted it up and held the edge of the glass against my lips.
I took a small sip, then another, bigger one. It tasted better than it had earlier. I shook my head when he offered me another sip. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ve had enough. Why are you out here alone?’
I hesitated. ‘I felt like taking a break. Being with the same people day in, day out, it gets a bit much.’
He laughed. ‘Tell me about it. At least your school is large enough to hide in places like these. And there are loads more pupils than at mine.’
He crushed out his cigarette on the ground and I was surprised at how much light such a little glow had offered as I became acutely aware of the swiftness of the accelerating darkness. Neither of us spoke. I could hear the slight trickle of the water and, much further away, the thud of blaring music but I couldn’t quite make out the track. It struck me how surreal the moment was, like being temporarily removed from my real life.
I don’t know who leaned forward first, but our lips touched and we kissed. He tasted of alcohol and cigarettes.
‘You smell really nice,’ he said as we broke away.
It must have been hairspray because I couldn’t afford perfume and I hadn’t risked stealing any of Bella’s. I leaned forward and took a tiny sip from his glass before replacing it. We kissed again. And then lay down. I felt the soil, stones and moss beneath my back and only momentarily cared about my dress. But then he kissed me harder and I forgot about everything. Nothing else mattered. Time began here. I remember thinking that this was it. He was my ticket to my real life and it was from today onwards that my life would begin afresh. Everything would be all right again.
I gave in to my feelings. I felt protected. It felt right.
When it was over, the whole moment seemed to dim, like a disintegrating shadow in a dream.
‘Have you got any cigarettes?’ he asked. ‘That was my last one.’
‘No,’ I replied, but I desperately wished that I had.
Before we could say much to each other, I heard him pull up his trousers and do up his belt. He put on his shoes. I struggled to gather myself together, my legs felt weak.
‘You coming back?’ he said.
‘Yeah. In a bit.’ It sounded cooler than Please, don’t go.
‘OK. See you.’
I stood up and tried to hug him. He gave me a quick squeeze and a peck on the lips. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, but I sensed it would be too soon. So, I let him go. I heard his footsteps negotiating the slope. Away from me. I felt around for his drink, but the glass had tipped over and was empty. I tried to make sense of everything, wondering whether I was an adult now, even though I was still fifteen, every now and then gently placing my fingers on my lips where he’d planted his final kiss. I focused on the thud of the music, finally able to make out a track – Will Smith’s ‘Switch’.
When cold and discomfort had taken hold, I slunk back to the dorm area and cleaned myself up. Blood, semen, mud. I forced myself to rejoin the party. He was back in there too, and I naively assumed he’d approach me, that he’d announce we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and that I’d instantly be elevated in social popularity, even if only temporarily. But he appeared to be sharing a joke with Bella. She laughed in response to something he’d said. Shortly after, he had his arm around Stephanie.
For the short remainder of the evening I watched from the side, forced to half-listen to Claire, taking pretend trips to the toilet, hoping that he would come over. I hated myself for not having the guts to go over and join in, just like I had every right to. I blamed Bella for my lack of confidence. I still blame Bella for that. Had she been a nicer person, a friend, I’d have naturally fitted into their social gathering. But I was scared of her. Scared that she’d make me look stupid in front of him.
Twice, I thought he looked over. But each time it was too fleeting for me to catch his eye. I looked at my watch, again and again; torturing myself, because at 11.45, the coaches were due to leave. By 11, I was starting to feel desperate. I downgraded my hopes to a brief promise that he’d call or email. By 11.15, I’d persuaded myself that he was embarrassed. But there were no furtive glances, no sense that anything had happened at all. His eyes never caught mine. I began to suspect that I’d imagined it – but I couldn’t have – and anger and hatred lodged inside me, along with bitter determination.
I vowed to myself that no one would ever treat me like that again. Never again would I allow myself to be discarded.
Yet I wasn’t quite ready to give up all hope. For the remaining few weeks of that term, I’d check my mails each time I went to the library. Or wait in view of the black door for a romantic card or small gift – something, anything – during every break. Each time the phone near the common room rang in the evening, I’d wish that it was for me. Because, intermingled with all the longing and hope, it would also have made a difference; made another horrible result of the evening more bearable. Even nowadays, I flinch when I’m caught off guard and hear certain words, the ones I was called when my mistake became common knowledge.
I stand up, feeling a renewed sense of optimism and belief in myself. It was good to come back here, to remind myself of my decade-long promise, which is that I deserve to be treated with respect by others.
Especially men.
Back on the train I naturally have plenty of time to think things through:
Nate had no right to dump me in R
eading as though I was worthless.
He definitely led me to believe that we had a future, that he loved me as much as I loved him.
I should’ve got pregnant. I allowed myself the luxury of a honeymoon period, and it has cost me dear, but I’m not giving up.
I’ll win him back and go to great, careful lengths to ensure that our lives are soon interlocked by unbreakable bonds.
I’ve read in so many self-help books that nothing in the past can be undone, that only the future holds hope for change. So, in between my forthcoming trips to Bahrain, Washington, Lusaka and Barbados, I need to fill my time with purely positive steps, such as squeezing in hours of driving lessons at any opportunity. And flat-hunting. I generally feel much better when I have a proper focus.
I flick through the magazines I bought in the village shop. One of the models looks similar to Bella. I will cut her picture out at home and add it to my pinboard collection, which is a work of art, a maze of hundreds of pictures of Bella and Nate: faces, arms, legs, outfits, bodies.
For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. Until death do us part.
Instead of my mantras, I repeat these words over in my head, fantasizing about my future with Nate to keep me occupied on the journey back to my temporary life.
The Perfect Girlfriend Page 5
