How they will always be.
And that’s it for conversation. Until he’s taking my plate away.
‘Do you think we should get you a course of vitamins, or something, you know, after the cold?’
When I recover from the shock, I say, ‘It’s OK. Gran got me some.’
‘Really?’ He looks guilty, like it was something he should have taken care of. ‘Oh. Right. OK.’
After a few minutes’ silence, he gets up and carries his plate to the sink.
If it was anyone else, I’d help clear up.
Sunday morning. When I come down for breakfast, he’s sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper open, like normal dads do. He could almost be an engineer. He looks up and smiles.
‘Would you like an omelette?’
I feel like telling him to stop trying. ‘Where’s Barbara?’
‘Having a lie-in.’
I go get my cereal. ‘Haven’t you work to do?’
‘It’s the weekend.’
‘Hasn’t stopped you before.’
He looks at me for a long time. ‘And I’m sorry about that.’
I shrug, sit at the other end of the table and pour my golden flakes of corn.
He gets up, goes to the hob and starts to make himself an omelette. And, suddenly, I do have a memory of him cooking. Frying something. I close my eyes and try to remember the smell. Burgers. That’s what it was. Burgers. I was very small. But I remember – he used to make burgers. Good burgers. I’d forgotten that. He joins me at my end of the table and peppers his omelette.
‘I was thinking,’ he says. ‘Would you like to bring Homer for a walk after breakfast?’
At the word ‘walk’ Homer’s head and ears pop up.
‘What, you mean with you?’ Weird.
‘Yeah. I was thinking we could bring him to the beach. Retrievers like water, don’t they?’
‘It’s OK. I’m just going to walk along the road. And the path isn’t wide enough for us all.’
‘No problem,’ he says, but his smile looks like it took a lot of effort.
TWENTY-SEVEN | TRIANGULAR SANDWICHES
He can’t tell me what to do. Not anymore. He can’t just waltz back into my life and order me around. He’s lost the right. This is the conversation I have with myself on the DART, on the way to Louis. Because this is the conversation I need to have to get me there. So many times, I plan to get off at the next stop and go back to the shop, forget the whole thing. But, somehow, my feet take me there.
Louis opens the door, looking like he just got out of bed. His hair is all over the place. His black T-shirt and denims look like they’ve been slept in. And he’s in his bare feet. I ignore his smile and walk past him. Weird, coming into Sarah’s house. For this.
‘So,’ he says, following me in. ‘How are you?’ He says it like he feels he should.
‘Louis, there’s no need to make conversation.’
He laughs. ‘God, I love you!’ He grabs my hand and starts towards the stairs, energised suddenly.
I’ve never seen his room before. It’s pretty plain, just an old drum kit in one corner and a punch bag in another. There are clothes on the floor and a half-eaten pizza on his desk. He hasn’t bothered to make the bed. Holding my eyes, he starts to strip. My gut reaction is to turn away, but I make myself not. Then he is with me, and it starts. I don’t set out to think of David. But the mouth on mine is his. The touch of a hand, his. The whisper in my ear, his. I’ve worked so hard to push him from my life, from my mind. I can let myself have this, can’t I? Just for one second?
But the second becomes a minute. And then I’m falling, letting myself go, having what I denied myself for so long, going over the edge with him, giving myself to him, to us.
And then it’s over. Too quickly. I open my eyes. And it’s Louis, not David lying beside me. He looks relaxed and goofy. And maybe even a bit vulnerable. I feel guilty. For him. And for David. He offers me the famous cigarette. I take it out of guilt. He doesn’t talk (which helps), just blows smoke rings like an extra young Marlboro Man. I lie, watching ring after ring defy gravity.
He rolls his head to look at me. And smiles. ‘You were really into it today.’
I’m very still. ‘Was I?’ I feel myself blush.
He turns on his side and moves his face right up to mine.
‘Hope you’re not beginning to like me.’ He grins.
‘Fat chance.’
He laughs.
I make a point of looking at my watch. ‘Look, I gotta go.’
‘What’s the rush?’ he asks, lazily.
I start to grab my things. ‘Haven’t you lectures or something?’
His smile is lazy. Like James Dean. He says nothing. Just swings himself from the bed and drags on his jeans. ‘I’ll walk you out.’
‘Such a gent.’
At the front door, he asks, ‘Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?’
I land a quick peck on his cheek.
He laughs and shakes his head. ‘You’re weird.’ It’s the most sensible thing he’s ever said. ‘So, tomorrow?’ he asks.
I shrug.
Back at the shop, I work hard, doing things that don’t really need doing: cleaning glass that’s not smudged, rearranging perfectly fine displays. I’m extra helpful with customers. But it doesn’t stop the guilt. At six, Mike’s waiting outside to take me home for Day Three in the Big Brother House, Day Three of Being Grounded.
The house is unusually quiet. No music. No conversations. An empty office. No buzz whatsoever. But the biggest surprise is waiting in the kitchen – my father unloading the dishwasher.
‘Where’s Barbara?’
His head pops up. ‘Gave her the week off,’ he says, cheerfully.
‘Why?’
‘So, how was work?’ he asks.
Speaking of work, ‘Haven’t you an album coming out?’
‘Where does this go?’ He holds up a dish.
I shrug. ‘The album,’ I remind him.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not.’
This is seriously weird.
He knocks the dishwasher closed with a knee. I go to the fridge for a Coke.
‘So. What are you up to?’ he asks.
Getting the hell out of here, I think. It comes out as, ‘Going to my room.’
‘You know, Alex, if you ever want me to come watch a game of hockey or anything –’
I stare at him. ‘One: you’d look like a total perv. Two: I’ve quit.’
He seems to think for a moment. ‘Marsha mentioned some play . . .’
‘Weeks ago.’
‘OK. Right.’
‘Look. You don’t have to do this, OK?’
‘What?’
‘Whatever you’re doing.’
‘I’m just trying –’
‘Well, don’t. OK? Just go back to work.’ Because he will, sooner or later, and I don’t want to get used to this.
In the morning, he’s at the island, putting ham between two slices of buttered bread.
‘What’re you doing?’
He looks up and smiles. ‘Making your lunch.’
I watch him slice the sandwiches into triangles, the way I used to have them when I was a kid. It’s the kind of thing that would kill your street cred. But weird that he remembers.
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I want to.’
I shrug. And take the sandwiches he’s carefully wrapped in tinfoil. He’ll get tired of playing dad soon. Then we’ll all know where we stand.
Louis passes me the cigarette. I pass it back without inhaling.
This is the nicest bit. Maybe the only nice bit. Lying together. But not a couple.
‘You and me,’ he points the cigarette at me then at himself, ‘we’re the same. We know what we want and go after it.’
I feel like laughing because most of the time I don’t know what I want. And if I ever do, I run from it. I turn on my side, my back to him so he knows not to talk. He traces a f
inger slowly along my spine. It feels intimate.
‘Stop!’
He doesn’t. I turn to face him, seriously ticked off. But he just kisses me. ‘Let’s go again.’
I look at him, the guy I once thought was dangerous. ‘Will that shut you up?’
He laughs. ‘Alex Newman, I think you might just be the perfect woman.’
Give me until I’m walking out the door and I’ll feel the opposite.
All the way back on the DART, I wonder why I keep going back to him when I always feel so bad afterwards. It doesn’t make sense. In the shop, I catch Pat looking at me and know she’s wondering where the happy-go-lucky person she hired has gone. So I become that person and push everything from my mind. When I get home, I’m exhausted from the effort. Walking through the hall, I feel my shoulders relax. At least, here, I can be myself. But then, my father hands me a letter with a US postage stamp. My heart thumps hard. Until I see that it’s from New York.
‘It’s from Marsha,’ he says.
I hand it back.
‘Come on, Alex. Hear her out. She’s always had a lot of time for you –’
I give him a ‘yeah, right’ look.
‘Just see what she has to say, then do what you like. Ignore it. Tear it to pieces. But you should read it.’
And, only because I know it won’t change a thing, I do.
Dear Alex
I am so sorry. I never meant for anything like this to happen. I admire your father so much. He’s been so good to me. Sometimes, people are just so lonely and sad, they do things they’d never normally do. I’m not excusing myself here. I hate what this has meant for you and your dad. I want you to know that I valued the friendship we had so much. You’re an amazing person. I mean that. I won’t be back – this is where you cheer – I’m giving up as a stylist. I’m going to start again as a fashion designer. I want to thank you for that. It was you who made me see what I really enjoy and what I’m good at. Good luck in everything you do, Alex.
Love Marsha
P.S. I’m only going to say one thing about your father – he is a good man.
I hand it back to him. ‘Doesn’t change a thing.’
But later, when I’m lying in bed, I think about the one line that jumped up and smacked me on the face. ‘Sometimes, people are just so lonely and sad, they do things they’d never normally do.’ I think of Louis. And for the first time, maybe I understand what’s going on. Doesn’t make me like myself any more, though.
I live three lives now. At work, I am one person. With Louis, another. At home, someone else. Sometimes people aren’t happy with that. Take Louis. Always wanting to talk. Always wanting to know more.
‘What’s your favourite Simpsons character?’ he asks, one day.
I laugh. Because if there’s one question likely to make me talk, it’s this. Still, I don’t talk.
‘Let me guess,’ he starts.
‘I don’t watch The Simpsons,’ I say, to cut him off.
He takes a long drag on the cigarette. ‘Then why call your dog Homer?’
I sit up. ‘Who told you about Homer?’
‘My sister just happens to be one of your friends.’
‘You haven’t talked to her about me, have you?’
‘Relax,’ he says calmly, the way he says everything. ‘I haven’t talked to anyone about you. I just have ears.’
‘Right, well, for the record, don’t talk to her, OK?’
He fakes hurt. ‘Don’t you want people to know about us?’
‘There is no “us”.’
He looks down the bed, as if to say, ‘What’s this, then?’
‘OK, enough! I’m getting up.’ But I’m stuck between him and the wall and have to wait for him to move. He doesn’t. So I start to climb over him.
Mistake. He grabs me around the waist and pulls me down.
‘OK,’ he says, smirking, ‘I get it. This isn’t serious. Now come here.’
Then there’s Pat, a grown woman, who talks to me like we’re friends. She’s almost as bad as The Stylist.
‘That was some lunch,’ she says when I get back. She’s smiling.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘There’s just something I have to do at lunchtime.’
‘As long as you’re having fun.’
And it occurs to me that maybe she’s being sarcastic. ‘I could work Saturdays to make up time.’
‘Absolutely not!’ She laughs. ‘I was only joking.’
‘It’s not like I’m doing anything anyway.’
‘You’re sixteen, Alex. I’m pretty sure there’s lots you do on a Saturday.’ She looks kind of wistful.
‘No, seriously. I’d be happy to work.’
‘You are not working Saturdays. I don’t mind you taking your time at lunch, seriously. You deserve it. I love having you here. And you’re great for business.’
‘Are you sure, because –’
‘I’m sure,’ she cuts across me. Then she stoops behind the counter. Next thing I know, she’s handing me a small, gift-wrapped box. ‘Here,’ she says, ‘something small.’
‘For me?’ I touch my heart. And there I go again. Someone shows me the tiniest kindness and I feel like crying.
‘I saw you looking at it this morning.’
It’s this really cute necklace – a silver chain with a square pendant that has a tiny heart at the centre, which moves. I look at her. ‘Are you sure?’
She smiles and lifts it from the box. ‘Here, let me put it on.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Alex, don’t give it a second thought. You wear this, and, mark my words, people will buy them. You’re a beautiful looking girl.’
I am totally stunned.
But the amazing thing is, she’s right: we sell three of those exact necklaces the same afternoon. And I find it hard to believe that anyone would want something just because I’m wearing it.
At about four, I’m arranging a display when I sense someone behind me. I turn.
‘Hi!’ booms a woman in a pale-pink tracksuit, blonde hair piled on top of her head.
‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’ I glance over at Pat who was supposed to be free for customers. She looks back at me and shrugs.
‘I’m looking for a ring,’ the woman says. Her accent is – I don’t know – Australian?
‘Of course.’ I smile.
‘An engagement ring.’
This isn’t the kind of shop that sells engagement rings, and you’d know that the minute you walk in. Everything’s modern and funky. There’s nothing that I know of that’s over 200 euro. Still, it must be an exciting time, so I congratulate her.
‘Oh, I’m not engaged,’ she says.
I squint at her. Like, what?
‘But I will be,’ she adds, beaming.
I wonder if the guy knows this. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But we don’t really sell engagement rings. It’s mostly costume jewellery.’
‘Where did you get that?’ she asks, pointing at my hand. Her nails are bitten right down.
I look at the ring my mum had made for me out of one of the diamonds from her engagement ring. I never take it off. After Homer, it’s the most precious thing I have.
‘It was a gift,’ I say quietly, slipping my hand out of sight.
‘From someone very special.’
I squint at her. ‘I’m sorry, but do I know you?’
She takes a step back. ‘No, no. It’s just, a present like that. . . must have come from someone special. That’s all.’
Suddenly, I need her out of my face. ‘Actually, I’m just here on work experience. Let me get you the owner. She might be able to help.’ I look over at Pat.
‘No. It’s fine. She can’t help. You don’t do engagement rings.’ She backs away. And, as quickly as she came, she’s gone.
Pat comes over. ‘Someone you know?’
‘No.’
‘Really? I was sure she knew you. She came in and walked straight by me as if she wanted to talk to you spec
ifically.’
I look at the empty doorway. ‘She wanted an engagement ring.’
‘On her own?’
‘She was kind of weird.’
TWENTY-EIGHT | THE BLACK HORSEMAN
One day, Mike pulls up outside the house, beside a car I recognise in the same way Frodo, from The Lord of the Rings, would recognise one of the black horsemen. One look at it and everything stops. I’m back ten months, to when the clock stopped and nothing else mattered. Mike and I exchange a glance.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ he says.
I want to tell him to reverse, get the hell out of here. I also want to rush in.
The front door opens. And the Black Horseman emerges, doctor’s bag in his hand. I remember that bag – as not carrying the solution. I look from him to my father. Then, slowly, I get out of the car.
‘Hello, Alex.’ The doctor says it with pity in his voice, like I’m the same person I was back then.
‘Hi,’ I manage but just want him gone.
‘Well, I’d better be off. You take care,’ he says to my father, the way an undertaker might say, ‘Don’t die.’
I watch him walk to his car. Then watch my father. His face looks tense and lined, like he’s in pain. Suddenly, I’m cold.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘It’s just my back.’
‘Just’ his back? Why did he have to say ‘just’? Mum had back pain. It wasn’t ‘just’ her back. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Slipped disc.’
‘Have you had an X-ray?’
‘No need.’
‘Then how d’you know what it is?’
‘I’ve all the symptoms of a disc.’
‘You need an X-ray. An ultrasound. Maybe even a CT scan.’ I know the drill.
His face softens. ‘Alex, this is a disc problem. Nothing more.’
‘How d’you know? How can you be sure? I mean –’
‘It’s a common problem,’ he says, firm now. Then adds, ‘For people my age.’ He smiles because normally he never admits his age.
‘I’d still like you to have the tests. Please, Dad,’ I say, surprising us both. I don’t know when I last called him that.
The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually) Page 20
