“You don’t need to know.”
Oh, but he did. And in a small town like this, word got around quickly. He needed to prepare himself for the gossip, the barbed comments, the backlash. “Mum, just tell me. Do I know the guy?”
“Noah, I told you. It’s very new. We only met a couple of months ago and it might go nowhere. I don’t want to broadcast this all over the town. You know what this place is like.”
A couple of months ago? Dear God, the woman was good at keeping nasty little secrets when she wanted to! How had he missed this? “It’s not a teacher from school, is it?”
“No comment.”
“Or any of the neighbours?”
“No comment.”
“Is it someone whom I speak to? Someone from the town?”
“Noah, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why not?!”
“Because this is about me having a little bit of me time. I’ve been a hard-working, career-orientated woman for fifteen years…”
He let that go. Career orientated? Ha!
“I’ve slaved night and day to bring you up,” she continued, “and this is about me reconnecting with my femininity. It’s about me saying, ‘Hey, know what? I’m a woman. I have needs.’”
Noah wrinkled his nose at the word “needs” and felt the beef stew try to come up again. What sort of mum basically tells their kid she wants sex? It was disgusting. Harry’s mum would never say she had “needs”. She was demure and pure, and would make sacrifices for her child – including not grossing him out.
“Why are you doing that face?” she demanded.
“I’m not doing a face.”
“You did that thing with your nose when I said I have ‘needs’.”
“I didn’t do a face.”
“You’re uptight about sex,” she declared.
“What?” Oh God, were they really having this conversation?
“Newsflash, Noah, newsflash! People have sex. People enjoy sex. It’s normal. Most boys your age would be trying to get laid themselves, rather than spending every evening locked in their bedroom, stalking people on Twitter and masturbating.”
Noah looked at her, open-mouthed. He had never been locked in his bedroom, stalking people on Twitter. The accusation was outrageous.
“Honestly, Noah,” she continued. “I’d already lost my virginity by your age.”
“Sixteen years, nine months, Mother!” he said, triumphantly. “According to Google that’s the average age at which a boy loses his virginity. I’ve still got nearly ten months! So, who’s the abnormal one now?”
“Noah,” she said, sitting down next to him, “don’t get upset. I want you to find love, to have fun. You’re such a … gorgeous hunk, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have them banging down our door.”
She was quite possibly high. “You know what? If I find someone I really like and we want to have sex, maybe we will. But I don’t see what the rush is. I don’t need sex to validate who I am as a person.”
“Where did you get that line from?”
“From me.”
“It’s from my OK! Magazine, isn’t it?”
“No.” It totally was. “I’m top set for English, I’m more than capable of saying intelligent things.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Don’t make me feel guilty, Noah. In two years’ time you’ll be eighteen and you’ll probably piss off to Nepal on a gap year or something. Do you want me to be all alone? Do you want me to die lonely and bitter?”
He snorted. That was exactly what she deserved.
She looked at him like she might whack him one. “Do you know how hard the last six years have been, Noah?”
He shrugged. Of course he knew. They’d been hideous.
“No, you’ve no idea,” she continued. “I’ve had to borrow money from loan sharks, I’ve pawned my jewellery, I’ve scraped and scratched to keep a roof over our heads. And that whole time, I haven’t seen anyone else. Didn’t even think about it because the only thing on my mind was how we got by. And now … someone new has come along and he makes me feel happy and young and carefree again. Like there’s a bit of something fun in my life again.”
He wanted to say “Don’t I make you feel happy? Am I not enough for you?” but didn’t. He’d said enough, and maybe he was just selfish and stupid and didn’t understand anything about normal human relationships. Maybe she was right. He was uptight. So he just sat there. Not saying anything.
“Well, then. Goodnight, Noah.”
He sighed and walked out, then turned back at the door. “Just one more thing—”
“And don’t even try to do a Columbo close on me,” his mum said. “I’m saying nothing more about … my new fella. And you’re not going to trick me into it.”
He got into bed and stared into the blackness, wiping a rogue tear from his eye.
It wasn’t because of her. It was his dad. He was on his mind now, and he couldn’t stop thinking about him, however hard he tried to shut it away. Strange. Sometimes he longed for him; other times, like now, he hated his guts, because all this, everything, was his dad’s fault. All roads came back to him and his leaving.
And then, at other times, he was embarrassed about him. Other kids had divorced parents, but they would usually see their dads at weekends and stuff. But not him. It was the stupidest things that hurt the most. Like in French:
“Je vis avec ma maman, papa et ses frères,” other kids said.
Noah had to say:
“Je vis avec ma maman.”
And half the class sniggered and made snide little comments to each other about his dad “still being on holiday” and “Hey, miss? Shall we do a fundraiser to get Noah’s dad released from the kidnappers?” And he’d gone bright red and looked down at the floor, crippled by his intense shame, even though it was no fault of his. That’s what his dad had done to him. And he hated him for that.
But even so, more than anything, he wanted him back. And if he couldn’t have him back, he just wanted to know he was OK. That he wasn’t in trouble. Or living rough on the streets – cold, or hungry, begging for food…
Noah stopped himself. Even though he was alone, and it was dark, and no one could see him, he didn’t want to cry. He’d done enough of that over the years. And maybe it was time to accept the truth. He was never going to see his dad again, and he was never going to know what had happened to him. Because once you accepted it, you could lock it away and you could move on. And that’s what he would do.
From tomorrow.
But until then, he did the thing he always did, when thoughts of his father kept him awake. He stared into the darkness and said, ever so quietly, just in case the message could somehow get to him,
“I love you, Dad.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Screw it all. He was going to be normal. He was going to do normal things. Be a normal boy. That would show his mum!
It was the night of the party.
And he was going to kiss Sophie.
Maybe. If she wanted to. Because he wanted to kiss her. Almost definitely. And not because he was using her to gain popularity. Because she was a girl and he was a boy and … and … that’s what happens.
At the very least, he would flirt with her. He would make a start on the first stage of a romantic progression that went:
(1)Holding hands.
(2)A kiss (not with tongues but using the lips of both parties).
(3)Tongue kissing and full snogging.
(4)Wriggling around on top of each other with clothes on, whilst saying things like “Ooh!” and “Yeah, baby.”
(5)Wriggling around with clothes off, with heavy breathing and groaning.
(6)Bow chicka wah wah.
But as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror the following afternoon, he sighed. He wished he was just a little bit taller. And a little bit less skinny. He wished his side parting and glasses made him look a bit more cool, like geek-chic rather than just geek. His jeans were probably
too casual for a party where he had to impress. But he didn’t like the way his chinos made him look like he didn’t have a bottom. And then his T-shirts were either too baggy or too tight – nothing was just exactly the right size and fit.
In the end he decided the best option was to be brave and play the quirky card. He would wear the suit he’d worn for his granddad’s funeral, with a shirt and bow tie. Fashion being as it was, he felt sure he could get away with it. Plus, it would make an impact. And an impact might equal another party invite!
“You said casual!” complained Harry when he arrived, all skinny chinos, hoody and loom bands – even though he wasn’t a ten-year-old girl. Although, upon reflection, Harry looked good. He looked like someone their age probably should look.
“Well, it wasn’t working out.”
“Brave choice.”
“Thanks,” Noah said, as his confidence about the outfit started to seep away.
“No, seriously, it’s kinda cute,” Harry said, tweaking his bow tie like everyone does when you wear a bow tie.
Noah felt a familiar flutter in his stomach. “God, why do I feel so nervous?”
“Is it ’cause you lurrrve her?” Harry grinned.
“Look—”
Harry’s eyes nearly popped out. “Oh! There’s a ‘look’? I was expecting an outright denial, but now there’s a ‘look’! So…?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I was just thinking … I might flirt with her a bit, that’s all.”
Harry was all agog. “Flirt with her? Really? Like … flirt with her?”
“So, I’m calling it Operation Flirty-Pants—”
Harry burst out laughing. “Seriously, Noah, just tell her you like her or something. Don’t call it ‘Operation Whatever’ like you’re a field commander in a war. Just … keep it real.”
“Real?”
“Yeah,” Harry muttered, looking down at the floor, “real.” He seemed a bit crestfallen. And Noah knew exactly why.
“Hey, listen. I haven’t forgotten The Rules,” Noah assured him. “If I manage to do anything with Soph, I’ll help you. I’ll fix you up with a lovely girl. Some of Sophie’s intelligent, sophisticated mates are bound to be there. You’ll see! They’ll love you.”
“Sure,” Harry said. “Anyway, you smell nice. Is it Lynx?”
“Well, since we both smell the same, I think you know it is.”
Harry stared into his eyes. “It’s very seductive,” he whispered in a sex voice.
“Haz! Stop pissing about! I was generous enough to let you come, don’t be an arse, OK?”
“Ooooh!” Harry said, doing a camp little pout.
“OK?”
“Whatever you say.” Harry turned and reached into his rucksack. “I brought vodka!”
“Vodka? But how? You’re underage!” Noah tried hard not to squeal. Harry had clearly got himself fake ID, been to an off-licence, put on a really deep voice and purchased alcohol. It was all happening. They were being illegal teenagers. His mother would bloody love this.
“Don’t fret, sweet-cheeks. Dad let me have it.”
Noah gawped at him. He’d never had Harry’s dad down as some sort of hugely liberal parent before. Would he be happily doling out cocaine and smack next?
“As long as Mum doesn’t find out,” Harry continued, “which, you know, she won’t. Have you got something to go with it?”
“There’s Ribena.”
“Er, OK. That’s cool.”
Harry fixed the drinks and they sank down into the sofa together. “To our first proper party!” Harry grinned, chinking his glass with Noah’s. “We’ve come a long way.”
Noah smiled. He was right – they had come a long way. The question was, how much further would they go? Or rather, how much further would Harry go? Harry with his cool attitude and Calvin Klein boxer shorts. Harry with his… OH SCREW IT ALL, HE JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE HARRY DIDN’T HAVE DESIGNS ON SOPHIE! “Um, so, do you think there’s anyone you might like at the party? You got your eye on anyone?”
Harry shrugged, a little smile playing across his lips. “Maybe.”
He tried not to scream hysterically as the panic bubbled up inside him. Take a breath. Play it cool, Noah told himself. Play it cool. “IS IT SOPHIE?” he squealed, completely unable to take his own advice.
“What?!”
“Answer me! It’s Sophie, isn’t it? You’re in love with her!”
“Um—”
“You do! You love her! Oh GOD!”
“Noah, it’s fine. I don’t.”
Noah stared at him for, like … a really long time. A liar would find that uncomfortable. Harry just stared back. Maybe Harry was a good liar? “Prove you’re not lying,” Noah said.
“How?”
“Take a lie detector test.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “OK, fine, but you haven’t got a lie detector, have you?”
“Upstairs. It’s new,” Noah said, without blinking.
“OK, fine. Bring it down.”
“OK, I will.”
“OK.”
Noah stared at him some more. “OK, so I don’t really have a lie detector, but you couldn’t have been sure of that and your willingness to take the test gives me hope.”
“I’m not lying. Sophie is all yours.”
“Well, merci beaucoup, merci beaucoup. And yet, you still have your eye on someone, you claim? An unidentified someone?”
Harry looked away and shrugged again. “Maybe.”
Noah nodded, but his insides were doing flips. Harry was acting like he had an amazing secret plan. Noah had always been playing catch-up where Harry was concerned. Harry got a bike first. Harry’s voice broke first. Harry tried alcohol first. It wasn’t that Noah was jealous, it was that he wanted them to be the same. To be equals. And he didn’t want Harry to have some fabulous grand plan about getting with someone tonight because, knowing Harry, he would probably achieve it. And inevitably Noah wouldn’t. And then Harry would have kissed someone first too and … and that didn’t seem fair. It didn’t matter if it was Sophie or someone else. It wasn’t the identity of the other person that was the problem here … it was because it was Harry. And Harry was… Well, they were mates.
Harry was his mate.
And Noah didn’t want to share.
God, he was a screw-up.
They’d had two more glasses of vodka-Ribena by the time Sophie rocked up, in light blue denim jeans that were ripped at the knee, some sort of strappy black top thing, and a checked shirt over it. She looked stunning. Like a person from a TV programme set in New York or something. She scooted upstairs for the loo whilst Noah and Harry fixed her a drink. “Should I have told her she looks attractive?” Noah whispered the moment she was gone.
“Tell her you think she has a ‘pleasant manner’ and it makes you horny.”
“Hilarious. But I mean, that’s what people say, right? ‘You look nice.’”
“Yeah. ‘You look nice’ is fine. ‘You look attractive’ is too much, borderline creepy.”
Noah topped her glass up with Ribena. “You told me I looked cute.”
“No, I said your outfit looked cute. It’s different.”
“So I should say her outfit looks cute?” Noah said, keeping his eye on the door for her return. “Wait. You don’t think I look cute?”
“No, you do. You look –” Harry put both his hands on Noah’s shoulders “– really nice.”
“Oh. Well, thanks,” Noah said, slightly taken aback by the fact Harry apparently meant it and wasn’t trying to take the piss. He ducked down out of Harry’s grasp and returned to finishing Sophie’s drink. Add a straw. Slice of … apple. “And you look … if I may say so, you look … stunning. Do I mean stunning? It’s women who usually look stunning, isn’t it? Maybe I mean … adorable? No, that’s wrong too. Um… I REALLY like that shirt. It’s really, really fit. I mean, a nice fit! No, I mean, it fits well. On you. It fits you well. It’s a nice fit that makes you look nice. Um. Would you like a p
acket of cheesy Wotsits?”
Harry blinked at him. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Why have you got a doll’s house?” Sophie said, reappearing in the doorway.
“You’ve been in my bedroom?!” Noah squealed, mortified. This was the worst thing ever. What else had she seen? The pile of dirty boxers that his mother had failed to put in the wash yet? The heaps of old Lego under his bed which he used to play with, but definitely didn’t any more because he was nearly sixteen and, really? Lego? Ha! No, of course not! Or worse, his revision wall chart, with its colour-coded subjects and timeline between now and next summer, ensuring all subjects and modules were covered six times over and put on handy postcard-sized reminders, but marking him out as a super-mega-geek to anyone who saw it?
“Only accidentally! I was looking for the loo!” she chuckled, like it was somehow amusing.
Noah narrowed his eyes at her. He felt violated. “It’s not a doll’s house. Well, it was. Harry and I made it into a 3D version of Cluedo.”
Harry nodded. “It’s got all the normal rooms from the regular board game on the ground floor, but the first floor then has five additional bedrooms, two with en suites.”
“Oh, right,” Sophie said, taking her drink from Noah.
“And we’ve added extra suspects, including an environmental activist, a disgraced politician, and a social media troll,” Noah explained.
“Plus, extra murder weapons,” Harry said. “There’s an overdose of prescription drugs, a machete, and wheat.”
“Wheat?” said Sophie.
“Gluten intolerance,” Noah explained. “It is actually a thing.”
Sophie nodded. Was she impressed? “And you … decorated it yourself?”
“Uh-huh!” Noah beamed. “We used craft knives and balsa wood for the main construction, then wallpaper and paint samples from Homebase.”
Sophie looked at them both. “Great,” she grinned. “Should we get going?”
“It’s legitimate!” Noah pleaded, worried that she found this amusing and therefore uncool. “Cluedo is a great game. The best game. But it’s too easy. This version is more involved. Takes more time.”
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