by L. V. Hay
JoJo looks like she’s about to jump out of her chair, storm off. But she doesn’t. I wonder what could have happened to JoJo in the last four (nearly five) years to change her so radically. Or maybe I just had her wrong, all those years ago.
‘There was a man. Someone I shouldn’t have got involved with.’
Join the club, I want to reply, thinking of Matthew’s taunting touch the previous night at Elemental. I wait, expectant as JoJo fiddles with her lighter. For one sickening moment, I wonder if she means Matthew. Surely not? But then a vision of Matthew on the bench at the churchyard spears its way into my brain: People change.
‘I knew she’d go off on one. But to do that … to me?’
‘What did she do? Tell me, exactly.’ I’m going through the motions, playing for time. I worry I already know the answer.
‘Put my picture on rating apps…’ She sees my confused look: ‘Shitty platforms where strangers can go on about how ugly you are. She got me trolled on Twitter, tried to get #JoJoMusgraveisaslut trending. She doxxed me as well.’
‘Doxxed?’
‘Shared my personal information online. I got all these self-righteous moralistic pricks – strangers! – contacting me, telling me what a slut I am. Some of them even called here. That’s when it got really bad. But they couldn’t fire me, not for this. I checked. And I’m not ditching my career, not because of that … bitch.’
JoJo’s lip trembles. I can see the struggle etched on her face. She’s in her own little world, remembering the arguments between her and her childhood friend. All the wrongs that can never be put right now.
‘Who was the man?’
‘No one you know.’ JoJo is defiant, guarding her secret jealously.
Now I can see the teenage girl she was. But JoJo would have seen Matthew with me at the Coach House all those years ago, more than once. Hope burgeons in my chest. Maybe her clandestine lover wasn’t Matthew, after all?
I try another tack. ‘Show me a picture, then.’
JoJo grabs her phone from her pocket, slides through her photos. She turns the handset around, almost sulky, like I’m a parent demanding proof. I brace myself.
But as I’d hoped, it’s not Matthew.
It’s a white guy. He’s in bed, bare-chested. His mop of blonde hair is mussed, falling over one half of his face. I’ve seen him before, but he’s smiling this time, propped up on his elbows, looking directly into the camera.
It’s Jayden Spence.
Thirty-one
Ugly Sister
Stubby fingers, chipped nail polish. Friendship bracelets, greying bra straps pinching rounded flesh. Ribbons on your DMs, honesty in your eyes.
Where did it all go?
You gave it all up for him.
Is he worth it?
You thought you could step out of your skin, be transformed. You shed us all like a snake would, seizing on what you wanted, squeezing for all you were worth.
Even when you felt the give of brittle bones, ground to powder, you would not let go. You thought you could rise above us, become Lady of the Manor, but now you are alone.
Who you are deep inside will always follow you.
Is he worth it?
India
POSTED BY @1NDIAsummer, 3 December
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Thirty-two
‘Take a picture for us.’
I rolled my eyes as I looked up from my desk, my Art History homework, my English Lit revision cards. I was revising for my A Levels, I wasn’t interested in India or any of her dorky friends, like JoJo. India was experimenting with make-up; she was going through the inevitable orange phase. JoJo’s flushed round face was framed by pigtails. A pair of tweens, dressed in clothes a tiny bit small, their pre-pubescent bodies changing daily.
India stood over me, holding her phone, a hopeful look in her eyes. For reasons I don’t know even now, I wanted to crush that hope out of her. Perhaps because I was older, so I could. Or, more likely, because she had bested me at something else that I don’t remember now, so I was getting my own back.
‘Take a selfie, I’m busy.’
‘We’ve got loads of those! Pops! Take a nice one … For us … Pretty please??’ India grabbed one of the heart-shaped scatter cushions from my bed and hit me lightly in the chest with it.
I totally overreacted. Perhaps it was exam stress or hormones or both, but even as I did it, I knew I was going too far. It was like I was watching myself from above; I was powerless to stop myself. I leapt up from the bed and grabbed India by the arm. My fingers pressed hard into her flesh. I screamed something at her and frog-marched her across the purple carpet of my bedroom, propelling her out of my face, my space, whether she liked it or not. JoJo trailed after us, her eyes wide, her mouth a perfect red ‘o’ of shock. I slammed the door after them both and leant against it.
‘I’m telling Mum!’ I heard India burst into tears on the other side of the wood. She rained fists on the door. ‘You bitch!’
‘Yeah … bitch!’ JoJo echoed.
This was enough to get my back up all over again; her words preventing me from going out and apologising. I was jealous of India and JoJo. I knew that even then, deep down. That was the real reason I hadn’t wanted to take the picture of them, arms draped around each other, posing for the camera. India and JoJo were so close when they were kids; they’d been like sisters.
Ugly Sister.
JoJo is not a pretty girl, it’s true. But India was always fiercely loyal to her oldest friend. It wasn’t like my sister to make such a cheap shot. But worse than just writing an angry blog post, it seemed that India set out to destroy her ex-bestie. She even tried getting JoJo fired. It seems totally out of proportion from my sister. I recall JoJo’s bewilderment, her betrayal and anger that can now never be resolved.
How could JoJo targeting Jayden Spence have changed India’s feelings for her so radically? Had Ana written it, it would make more sense. JoJo (and Jayden) wronged her, carrying on behind her back. And it wasn’t just Ana’s partner JoJo had tried stealing either, but the father of her child: the little girl Ivy.
I am perturbed at my sister’s blog’s disgust with her oldest, childhood friend. What could be the reason for it? As far as I am aware, India did not know Ana that well, if at all. Would my sister really burn JoJo over one mistake? Though India was always somewhat high-handed in her morals, it’s difficult to fathom why she would choose them over her best friend.
I imagine the shit storm (noun. Scandal. Related words: fiasco, train wreck, clusterfuck) that must have erupted when Ana got wind of the affair. Then there would have been Alan Temple’s rage at some chav bitch taking advantage of his little girl. I shudder.
It can’t be much better for JoJo now. I recall her trembling defiance over not leaving The Obelisk. The Temples must have applied extreme pressure on the Spences. So JoJo Musgrave really is her mother’s daughter, hanging on by her nicotine-stained fingernails.
But JoJo had claimed she was at The Obelisk all night on 22nd December, tending to an office Christmas party for one of Brighton’s many big insurance companies.
There must have been a hundred people there, how’s that for an alibi? Her face was triumphant, delighted to prove me wrong. She also let me know she’d already given a statement to the police, too: DS Rahman, no less – our own family-liaison officer.
JoJo cannot have been the one to push my sister from the bridge. But who else could it have been?
After another quiet evening and a fruitless attempt to get Mum to eat anything, I manage to coax her to drink some hot chocolate. Tim arrives late from the arcade
, exhaustion carved into his features. Every night he meets my gaze first, the unspoken question in his eyes: Any change? I usually answer with a barely discernible shake of my head, but tonight I present the empty, cold cup as if it’s a trophy.
‘Maybe she’s turned a corner.’
As soon as the words trip off my tongue I realise how false and wooden they are. Perhaps these clichés and platitudes are lurking in the wings, ready to jump into our mouths and make us say them. Time heals all wounds? What a crock.
A wan smile tugs at my stepfather’s lip. ‘Maybe.’
I go to my room. Unable to sleep, I gravitate back towards my sister’s laptop. I open Google and type in ‘The Obelisk Resort’. The Spence family’s visages fill the screen. Gordon Spence stands behind a chaise longue, his tapered fingers on his wife Olivia’s shoulders, as if holding her still. She is wearing a sleeveless dress and a pained expression, beneath her uber-white smile. Her eyes turn upwards, cat-like.
Next to his mother is Jayden, hands in his lap, slouching against the back of the chaise longue. He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed; maybe he has. Like his father, he’s wearing a tie, but it’s much looser and his cuffs are undone.
Gordon and Olivia Spence are new money, like the Temples, so spared absolutely no expense in raising their only child. Born out of privilege like that, a little prince like Jayden Spence was used to getting his own way. His arrogant expression in the photo seems to confirm this. I’m more certain than ever that it was him at the cemetery, the day of my sister’s funeral.
Ana sits poised next to Jayden. It must be an old photograph, because Ana’s stomach is rounded with the swell of pregnancy. Like Olivia Spence, she looks as if she’d rather be anywhere but in that room, in front of the camera, playing happy families. They all look like mannequins. Stiff. Unreal. False.
The Temples probably closed ranks on the Spences when news of Jayden’s affair with JoJo broke. The fallout must have been one of the first consequences the playboy had ever had to face. Jayden would have found himself subject to the bewildering fury of Alan Temple. Maybe even his own parents, as well. No one likes a scandal. It’s said that Gordon has always been careful to try and ‘erase’ any of his own past misdeeds.
Could Jayden or Gordon have ‘erased’ my sister?
Since I’m online already, I type in the URL of my sister’s blog: www.1NDIAsummer.com. The little wheel of doom goes round and around, before settling on a 404 message. FAIL. I sigh, thinking the Wi-Fi has timed out on me. But then I notice I have full bars at the top of the screen. What the hell?
I retype www.1NDIAsummer.com into the browser.
Another 404 message.
Trepidation settles over me. Could I have deleted the blog by accident? Surely not. I may be bad with computers, but even I can avoid the big DELETE button on the dashboard.
India’s blog is gone.
But how?
I’ve read about how nothing is ‘really’ deleted online. There must be a way of getting India’s blog back. I grab my mobile, press redial. I don’t care that it’s late and neither does Mike, because he answers within one ring this time.
‘My sister’s blog is gone. Have you done something? Like … from afar?’
Mike slurps something through a straw before he answers. He sounds exasperated, as if he were expecting my call.
‘Yeah, I frequently delete stuff to make annoying clients come back. It’s my world-domination plan. I’ll be Bill Gates five years from now.’
I grit my teeth. I need his help, after all. ‘Then how do you get something back, that’s been erased?’
I can hear the tip-tapping of keys. ‘Check the cache.’
‘What the hell is the cache?’
Ten minutes and four explanations from Mike later – plus a quick read of eHow – I think I know how to restore the blog. I thank Mike and hang up. Taking a deep breath, I copy and paste the code he emails me into the browser. It all looks like gobbledy-gook to me. Whatever.
I click on it, then press the shift key.
Nothing.
I take a deep breath. I call up another browser and try that.
Again, nothing. Shit!
I feel panic surge through me again.
‘If whoever deleted the blog knows what they’re doing, they won’t have left a trace; the cache will be empty,’ Mike warned.
Wait. Maybe Jenny can help me?
I type in www.blithefancy.com. I expect to find Jenny’s single-page profile of the sugar skull, plus the email contact button, as I did just forty-eight hours earlier.
It’s been replaced with a 404 message, too.
‘Fuck!’
Feeling sick, I open my emails, searching for Jenny’s email address. It’s [email protected]. I fire off a test email and press SEND. It bounces back in an instant, complete with yet another 404 failure notice.
I can’t believe it. I have no way of getting back in touch with Jenny. And I need to see her again. I gulp in deep breaths, attempting to calm my anxiety. It’s OK. I can go to the Prince Albert and look for Jenny there, right? Right?
But then another realisation hits me, something my panic-addled brain has refused to accept until now.
If India’s blog is gone and so is Jenny’s online profile, the evidence points to one very obvious conclusion.
Jenny deleted both.
Thirty-three
The boy slumps in the passenger seat, arms folded. Wind whistles off the beach and buffets the car, as rain pelts against the windscreen. The hypnotic swish of the wipers slides across the glass as the boy’s eyes, harsh and accusing, reflect in the rearview mirror. A magic tree hangs from it; the counterfeit pine scent pervades the car, like their unspoken words.
This time, he found the boy wandering down on the pebbles underneath the palace pier. His black jacket was perched on his shoulders like a cape. Seeing the boy dressed like that reminded him of a time when he himself had felt free. He’d been perhaps eleven or twelve, no older. He’d ridden his bike with friends, no helmet. Back then, his only protection had been his hood on his head, billowing out behind him as they’d all pedalled pell-mell down the steep hill towards the seafront.
He sighs as he recalls the whistling of the air past his ears, the feeling of lightness in his shoulders and chest, his cry of joy as loud as the gulls overhead. It seems like a million years ago. Just remembering the feeling brings a stab of grief so hard it feels like a punch to the solar plexus.
The boy cut a strange figure on the beach in the dying sunset. Almost regal. His arms were wrapped around his scrawny chest, as if hugging himself. There was a smell of vinegar and chips in the air; hot fat from the donut stalls above. Bright lights shone down, but rather than illuminate him, the boy was still mostly cloaked in shadow, dressed as he was, all in black. Only his eyes reflected the light. Like a cat.
The boy did not run from him. For a change. Instead, he sighed and offered up his slender wrists, as if for handcuffs. Not a word was spoken. In response, he took a deep breath, dampening his hot frustration. He betrayed none of this on his face.
He turned and led the boy back to the car. The passenger door thudded closed behind them like a coffin lid.
He looks over at the boy now. The weight of the boy’s stare makes him anxious, though he is unsure why.
‘I don’t want to have to do this, either, you know,’ he tells the boy, his voice soft, cajoling. Almost pleading.
‘Then why do you?’ By contrast, the boy’s voice is clipped and clear, piercing the silence and clawing at his heart.
As a band of orange streetlight journeys over the vehicle, the boy’s face is lit up in that feral snarl, so like his mother’s. But as this thought flowers in his brain, he pushes it back down. Just like he always does.
He grips the steering wheel. ‘You know why.’
‘You can stop all of this.’
India’s words. She had come to him, again and again, begged him to listen. But he already knew everyt
hing she had to say, and it didn’t change a damned thing. Life is simple to girls like her: black or white, left or right, right or wrong. She’d thought all it took was making a decision, being brave. Then it was over, like tearing off a Band-Aid.
If only.
Some things never end. They just morph and mutate, according to circumstance. He has dreams like this: He’s chewing gum. At first, it’s pleasant, minty. But then it changes. What was refreshing, now feels abrasive. It starts to sting his tongue as it expands. It’s sticky and viscous, gluing his teeth together. He forces his mouth open, yanks desperately at the gluey mass. It comes out in strings. He pulls at it, but somehow it’s connected to the back of his oesophagus. He gags. Still it grows; he can never pull enough of it out. As quickly as he clears it, there is more. He wakes choking, heart racing, clawing at his own throat.
But the boy does not seem aware of his discomfort. Instead he grips the ripped car seat. Whatever connection they had is lost.
The boy picks at the upholstery. ‘I’m an embarrassment, right?’
‘I never said that.’
Shame floods through him. How many times has he wished this was all different; simpler; the secrets and lies gone? But she decreed what they all had to do. They had to play the game; the penalty was simply too high to deny her. Besides, he owed her. He knew that. He can’t escape it.
‘You didn’t need to!’ the boy hisses, one part disgust to two parts hurt.
The boy turns away, puts one bare foot up on the dashboard. Behind the wheel, rage blossoms where shame was just seconds earlier. He grits his teeth, bats at the boy’s foot, trying to knock it from the dashboard. But the boy bares his teeth at him like an animal and swipes back at him, nails nicking the flesh on the back of his hand.
‘Put your shoes back on.’ The words come out as a dark growl.
The boy is belligerent. Unmoving. ‘Why?’
He yanks on the gearstick, grinding to a standstill in the middle of the road. If there was any traffic behind them, he would have caused an accident. But it’s a weeknight in January, out of season and before nine o’clock. The whole of the seafront is deserted. Only a dog walker, hunched into their anorak and making their way towards the steps behind an exuberant collie, turns and looks momentarily; then makes their way down to the beach.
