by Jane Robins
Shouting to make himself heard, Wilf says, “Daphne seems okay. As a boss.”
“Yes. She’s fine,” I yell back.
“What is she up to all day, writing . . . ?”
“She’s a novelist.”
“Oh yeah. I did know that. What sort of stuff does she write?”
“Crime.”
“Oh. Fine.”
We sit together for a bit, a vortex of silence in the commotion. Then: “I was just trying to make conversation, Callie.”
I don’t say anything, just sip the dregs of my cider and worry about my ability to communicate with people without alienating them. Wilf tries again: “It would be nice to know something about you . . .”
“I don’t see why; I’m very ordinary.” Oh God!
He looks almost angry, and I sense he might give up trying to talk to me. I can’t blame him, and I feel like explaining—I can’t help it; I’m doing my best—then he has another go:
“Just tell me something about your life. What’s it like having a famous sister?”
“Not that again!” I’m screeching over the din.
He puts down his lager and leans his head on his hand in a way that suggests For fuck’s sake. I think, This attempt at meeting up is going really badly, and I want to say something to repair the situation, but I can’t think what, so I gaze at my empty glass while Wilf examines the multicolored drinks bottles behind the bar, the whiskies and brandies and vodkas, then he turns to me and I see that his eyes are dark blue, with green flecks.
“Shit. I didn’t mean to pry. I guess everyone asks about her. . . .”
“Yeah, they do. . . . It does get annoying. Actually she’s more than a sister. We’re twins, and we’re close. We look out for each other.”
“Good. Let’s change the subject.”
But I’ve decided to make a superhuman effort to match his attempts to close the gap between us, and I say, “It’s okay. The problem is people always want to know about her career and her love life and what she’s like, but for me she’s my sister and ‘what she’s like’ is private; I don’t want to tell any old stranger. In fact she can seem mean and self-centered at times, but she’s not really. She helps with my rent, and she practiced my interview technique with me when I applied for the job at Saskatchewan Books, so she does nice things. And she used to buy brownies and bring them to my flat and we would watch old movies . . . The Postman Always Rings Twice and Fatal Attraction and The Silence of the Lambs. We like classics.”
“You make it sound like you don’t do that anymore.”
“No . . . it’s different now. She has this rich boyfriend who comes between us and I don’t trust him. He has a controlling personality and doesn’t like her seeing me, and doesn’t like her working. Actually, I’m worried that he’s violent.”
“Bloody hell, that sounds ominous.”
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? Sometimes I think she’ll never work again. Sometimes it seems . . .”
One of the shrieking girls leans over and asks me to pass a menu. The interruption jolts me into thinking that I’ve gone from being the silent type to splurging and being indiscreet. Luckily, Wilf changes the subject and we start discussing books. I tell him about my favorite Scandinavian crime writers, like Henning Mankell and Camilla Läckberg, and he talks about Jo Nesbø. I learn, also, that he lives in Kensal Rise in a flat share with two guys called Josh and Frank, and he doesn’t see himself as an estate agent employee forever. He wants to start his own business designing gardens. I splutter into my cider, “Gardens! If you’re so interested in gardens why aren’t you working in a garden center or something?”
“For a start, the pay’s rubbish. And there aren’t any garden centers near here anyway. Anyhow, the estate agent suits me for now—I’m on commission, and I’m saving my money.”
“Don’t you miss gardens?”
“Oh, I have a couple of projects on the go. I do them on my days off and at weekends. I’m pretty professional about it. I studied landscape gardening at college. How about you?”
“Oh, I didn’t go to college. I messed up my A-levels and I worked in a supermarket for a year or more, and then the bookshop while I figured out what to do next. Whether to re-sit my exams, or not. But I’ve been working for Daphne for six years now. Six years! I don’t know how that happened.”
After making such an effort, I retreat into profound embarrassment about myself, and my featureless life. I’ve never had a boyfriend who has lasted more than a few weeks. Boyfriends find me too intense, I think, and I’m sure my lack of a past must be obvious to Wilf, like a bad smell.
“Do you have a dream?” he says. “Something that you secretly want to do, as a career?”
“No.” I look away at the builder guy, at the noisy girls, and I mumble, “I mean, sometimes I think I’m better at observing things than doing them. I like watching. You’re lucky. You have something you really care about.”
“It’s one of the many things I like about you,” he says. “You notice small things that other people miss.”
“I think it would be good for me to notice less and do more.”
“There’s plenty of time. Most people are doing stuff and giving it no thought at all. You’re different, when you decide to start doing something, it will be special.”
We both grin and drink our drinks, totally self-conscious but maybe a little more confident.
• • •
When we leave the pub, I walk beside Wilf and point at trees and plants: “What’s that?”
“London plane.”
“What’s that?”
“Beech hedge.”
“And that?”
“Have a guess.”
“Grass.”
He nudges me and grins. And when we part we kiss each other on the cheek.
At the shop Daphne says, “How was your date?” and I tell her I’d appreciate it if she didn’t refer to Wilf in that way. But inside I feel surprised. I start thinking about him stomping about in gardens in Wellington boots, sleeves rolled up, dirt in his fingernails. I want Daphne’s comments about him to stop, and I hope Wilf asks me to lunch again, but I’m confused. The lunch had been wonderful, but I worry that when he gets back to Willesden Estates he’ll remember my lack of social grace, my verbal clumsiness, my vacant life.
• • •
At home in the evening, I see I’ve missed a call from Tilda. She hasn’t phoned since our awful meeting at the Albany—or answered my calls for that matter. Feeling suddenly optimistic, I allow myself to imagine that she wants to mend things between us and maybe will suggest the sisterly gathering that I described to Wilf, offering to come to my flat to watch movies, like we used to do.
I listen to her message, which is short and unrevealing, just “Tilda here. Don’t call me back; I’ll phone again.”
Hearing her voice and its severe tone changes my mood, making me worry that I was stupid when talking to Wilf at lunchtime. Tilda always warns me against gossiping, because of the way private information ends up on the internet, twisted and exaggerated. It’s happened to her several times, rumors that she was anorexic or was in a relationship with some famous actor, and I hope I haven’t said anything too revealing. I need to distract myself, so I microwave my supper, a chicken korma and rice, and I sit at my table eating it, looking out at the bindweed in the jungle of a garden (in need of Wilf Baker to sort it out) and thinking that I’ll log on to controllingmen.com. But then my mobile rings, and it’s Tilda. She sounds whispery, like she doesn’t want Felix to hear:
“I thought I’d let you know Felix and I are going away, and I wanted to check that you’re okay. You were so bloody paranoid when we met up for lunch. Neurotic and aggressive—it worries me.”
“I’m fine. There’s no need to worry about me. Where are you going?”
“Martinique. Remember, I told you? It looks divine there, all turquoise seas and white beaches.”
I think, And sharks and snakes and mosquitoes,
but I don’t say so. Instead I’m suddenly inspired to tell her that there’s a problem with the water supply in our building. We’ll be without water while the plumbers are in, I say, and it would be great if I could stay a night at the flat in Curzon Street while she’s away.
She comes back quickly, in a harsh voice: “No, Callie, that’s out of the question. Felix has confidential business papers everywhere. Not possible.”
“I’ve nowhere else to go. . . . I’m desperate.”
There’s a pause and I feel dreadful inside because I’m lying. And if Tilda thinks about it, she’ll realize that I could always get a bucket of water in, rather than move out. My argument is so obviously flawed that I find myself hanging on the line, waiting for her to tell me that I’m being an idiot. But she surprises me, saying that if I really am desperate and it’s an emergency, I can collect a key from the cleaning lady, Eva, and she gives me a phone number.
“This is against my better judgment, Callie. Promise me that if you stay you won’t go snooping on Felix and me. I know what you’re like . . . especially in this batshit crazy mood you’re in. And there must be no sign of you when we return. Nothing! No forgotten bras or knickers. Not even a crumb or a hair. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“But, really, don’t come here to the flat. Not unless it’s life-and-death.”
I promise, thinking maybe it is life-and-death. My voice sounds thin and strained, maybe because I’m worried about Tilda going so far away, out of my sphere of influence—I need to check where Martinique actually is. Before she hangs up she says, “Chip, chip,” like Mum used to, and after she’s gone I try to concentrate on the positives, like the fantastic fact-finding opportunity that has opened up.
12
Online later, all the talk is of Chloey Percival, the girl who was attacked in Debenhams. She’s still in a critical condition in York hospital, and most of the people chatting in the Controlling Men forum think she’ll die. Some say we should be praying for her. Belle, as usual, is online and discussing the new photos of Chloey that have been posted by her family—of her first day at school, and as a chubby teenage gymnast in a leotard, holding up a silver cup. Belle writes that Chloey was an innocent angel. I tell her to drop the angel and remind her that people are hardly going to point out shortcomings at a time like this. Then Belle says, let’s go to the Zone.
She has big news. Her friend Lavender will leave her abusive husband in two weeks’ time, so the secrecy and planning is intense. Belle and Lavender are busy with practical things—making lists of what to take and what to leave behind. They’re discussing the emotional side too, like how to explain the situation to the children. Belle says that on the big day Lavender will pretend to take them to school, then return home once X has left for work. Belle will arrive with a hired Renault Espace and they’ll load it up and drive to Lavender’s mother’s house five miles away. X will figure out what’s happened and turn up demanding 2 b let in, probably violent, Belle writes. So L will call police. She pauses, then adds:
Back to Chloey—Did u c there will be a CANDLELIT vigil for her in York? Its near me and I might go. Would u like to come? We could ACTUALLY MEET UP!
From nowhere, Scarlet pops up:
No, meeting up NOT a good idea. We shouldn’t be seen together. Don’t do it.
Scarlet always assumes she’s the boss, telling us what we can and can’t do. On an impulse, I send an email addressed only to Belle:
Let’s meet without telling Scarlet. I don’t know why she thinks we should follow her orders—it’s starting to irritate me. Also, I’d like to see York, and I could come by train on Friday, because I don’t work then. What do you think?
I think DEFNATELY YES!!! I dont have 2 work Friday either—so I can litrally meet you at the station. AND we can still Keep our identities secret—like Scarlet says.
I feel excited about the trip, but nervous too. I keep thinking about my meeting with Wilf and how awkward I was. It’s typical of me to be bad at socializing—and I’m worried that Belle will find me too difficult to be with.
On Friday, the anxiety returns, and on the train to York I keep going to the toilet to brush my hair and put on makeup. I’ve bought Fanomenal Lashes mascara and Miracle Touch blusher from Boots and I apply them, then worry that I’ve put on too much blusher, and smear it off again. I’ve tried to dress nicely, and I’m wearing clean jeans and a new T-shirt, white with a smiley face. I told Belle about the T-shirt, so that she can recognize me at the station, and she said she’d wear a green dress and carry a jute bag with a picture of a bee. I look for her through the window as the train draws into York station.
At first I see nothing but crowds of tourists, and when I do spot a woman in a green dress, standing apart, I have to stare hard because she’s nothing like I expected. I thought of Belle as a big, flamboyant person because of her larger-than-life messages online, all the exclamation marks and capital letters, and I imagined a made-up round face and blond frizzy hair, like a huge doll. In reality, she’s tiny—her skin is brown and her hair sleek and black, and she looks like she’s from somewhere like the Philippines or Indonesia. I walk towards her, cautiously, but then she spots me and holds up her bee bag, and I point at the smiley face on my T-shirt. When we meet, it’s embarrassing because we both don’t know what gesture to make—she leans forward to kiss my cheek, but she changes her mind and we shake hands instead.
As we walk out of the railway station I notice that Belle has a nervous habit of scratching her hands and arms. Also, she has a little chirrupy voice, as she tells me excitedly that the candlelit vigil had been at the hospital but has now moved to a small park by York Minster. “We can go there later,” she says. “It’s so lucky you came today, because Chloey’s brother’s going to speak. At least, that’s what people are saying. Have you heard of the Flicks? They’re a York band, and they’re going to perform their new song . . . Oh, it’s lovely to have you here! Perfect.”
She gives my arm a squeeze, then adds, “And you can stay at my flat tonight, in Dringhouses. I have a spare bedroom, and I don’t live far away. It’s just a bus ride. Really short.”
I don’t commit myself. Instead I ask Belle about Lavender, and soon we’re talking about her and Chloey Percival and Tilda (or Pink, as I continue to call her).
It turns out that being with Belle isn’t difficult at all, and we chat as we walk the streets. Then we stop for lunch at Pizza Express, which is by the River Ouse, and while we eat our dough balls she tells me that Lavender has changed her plans. Instead of escaping to her mother’s house with the two children, they’re going to Belle’s flat. She’s bought inflatable mattresses and bedding from Argos, and treats for the children—a Nerf gun for Alfie and a jewelry-making kit for Saskia. I think about telling Belle that she’s gender stereotyping, and also that she has revealed the children’s real names, but I don’t. I just nod and ask if she’ll be able to cope with having them crowding out her flat. She says, “It will be fantastic having them around, and there’ll be masses to do—finding Lavender a new home, consulting lawyers to get a non-molestation order to keep X away, and a consent order to get him to pay her maintenance money.”
“What if X shows up at your flat?”
She puts her head to the side so that her long hair falls from behind her ear. “Luckily he never sees me and doesn’t even know my address, or my phone number, or anything. I’m not sure he even knows my surname. And Lavender will bring her laptop and her phone, so he can’t go snooping there.”
“But still. He’s violent.”
She leans in, and her little voice goes up a note. “I know. And he’s been making threats, literally about killing Lavender, and he puts his hands round her throat while he screams at her, and makes her choke.”
“Oh God . . . He’ll go crazy.”
Our pizzas arrive, and Belle starts cutting her margherita up rather intensely. I can tell she’s mulling something over. Then she lowers her voice to a hush:
/> “Actually Scarlet has been talking to me about that in the Zone. She has some radical ideas for a way to fight back. She’s trying to figure out the details. . . . Scarlet has asked me to help her, and I am. I want to play my part.”
This is a surprise. I didn’t know that Scarlet and Belle plotted together without including me. I raise my eyebrows, encouraging her to go on. But she retreats.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Callie, I shouldn’t really have said that. Scarlet told me to keep everything a secret.”
“Fuck Scarlet!”
Belle looks shocked.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just that there are so many examples of Scarlet being bossy.”
“It’s because she’s prey; she’s closer to the danger than us. Of course she has strong feelings.”
“I suppose.”
For a while we eat our pizzas in silence, looking out the window. Six girls with ponytails row down the river, their oars slicing the water so that they are gliding along at speed and for a moment it seems like, on the other side of the glass, there’s nothing wrong in the world. We carry on eating, not able to think of anything to say, until Belle asks me about Pink’s holiday in Martinique, and my opportunity to get into her flat.
My mouth’s full of pizza, but I speak anyway. “I’m not sure what I’ll find. But I’m hoping that something there will unlock things. Make it clear what’s going on.”
“You might find notes. Lavender’s husband is always leaving her notes giving her instructions. ‘Clean this.’ ‘Buy that.’ ‘Wash the bedsheets. . . .’ ”
“I’m not sure that’s Felix’s style.”
