by Helen Cooper
“You’ll be okay this weekend, won’t you, love?”
“Yes,” I mumble. “We’ll be fine.”
Halfway home we bump into Linda, the Irish lady who lives below us, next door to Nick. I’ve sometimes thought about asking her: Do you ever hear anything? Noises that don’t seem right? But surely Nick’s too clever for that.
We chat to Linda for what feels like ages. She and Mum talk about Linda’s son, who’s nineteen—Becca flirts with him whenever she comes to visit. I can’t stop looking toward the tower block, wishing for telescopic vision, until finally the conversation ends.
It takes us a while to climb the stairs because the lift’s still broken. I grab another bag from Mum to lighten her load. The whole of our floor reeks of Nick’s bacon and eggs. Mum sniffs the air and I can barely keep my tone casual as I explain he made himself a snack.
She goes in ahead. My whole body’s braced: Will the plan have worked, or will Nick come whistling from the kitchen, asking Mum if she’s ready to hit the road? How fast might the pills take effect, if at all?
Mum calls out a greeting but nobody responds. A second or two later, Becca comes out of my room. She still looks pale and her smile doesn’t bend right. I try desperately to read her expression, catch her eye. I’m hot again and the label on my school shirt is niggling at my neck.
“Where’s Nick?” Mum asks.
“Bathroom,” Becca says.
My heart speeds up. Does that mean . . . ?
“Have you colored your hair, Becca?” Mum asks as I try to listen for noises from behind the bathroom door.
“Yeah,” Becca says distractedly, twirling a purple strand around her finger.
Mum’s gaze moves to the towel lying rumpled on my bedroom carpet. “Hope the stains come out of that,” she says in the tight voice she’s started using more and more lately. It’s almost like she chooses Becca to take out her stress on, like she’s afraid to provoke Nick, and she’s habitually soft on me, so somebody has to bear the brunt.
Today’s exchange doesn’t get a chance to escalate. There’s the sound of a flush, and a lock being drawn across, the bathroom door opening.
And there is Nick. Looking normal. Fine. Smelling of minty soap.
He smiles at Mum and kisses her. “Was wondering where you’d got to. Ready to go?”
* * *
—
I watch from the kitchen window as they leave. Two miniature figures walking away from the tower block toward a taxi. Nick somehow manages to carry all the luggage while keeping one arm around Mum’s shoulders. If other people are watching from the flats, they’re probably thinking what an attentive boyfriend he is. I press my face against the steamed-up pane as the taxi door closes behind them.
“We tried, Kate,” Becca says. “Maybe it’s for the best that it didn’t work. It’s only three days . . . Your mum will be okay.”
I say nothing, just stare at the frying pan and the bowl that held his scrambled eggs, now dripping slow bubbles onto the draining board.
* * *
—
We channel-hop our way through the evening. I don’t want to use the money Nick left us for a takeaway, so Becca digs a pizza out of the freezer. We leave it in the oven too long; it tastes like ashy cardboard. She drinks one of Nick’s beers and the smell makes me feel like he’s in the room.
Why hasn’t Mum rung to say they’ve got there okay? Did she promise she would? I can’t remember now. Everything’s muddled. I search the kitchen for the address of the B and B they’re staying at. Where did Mum say she would leave it? I wish I’d concentrated. I was just so intent on stopping them going.
“I can’t find the address,” I say, banging drawers open and shut. “I don’t even know where they’ve gone!”
“Kate, you’re exhausted.” Becca pulls me away from the drawer I’m riffling through, closing it gently. “You should go to bed. I’ll find the address.”
She’s right. I’m so tired. I sleepwalk through my bedtime routine, but when I wriggle under the covers my brain refuses to rest. I’m having a feverish conversation with Mum inside my head, telling her to get far away from him, begging her to come home.
Becca comes into the room not long after, smelling of the almond oil she slicks through her hair every night to keep it glossy. The dark room fills with shuffling noises as she adjusts her sleeping bag. Her breathing smooths out almost instantly, and I wonder if she’s really as anxious as me, or if she’s just been enjoying the drama. As the night crawls on, my waking worries and half-asleep nightmares smear together: I see Nick standing over my bed; I hear a violent argument in the next room, can’t move any part of my body to stop it.
And Becca sleeps. I’m just beginning to get really worked up, convinced that her deep, dreamy snores are some kind of betrayal, when I hear her voice: “Kate? Kate?” A sound of covers being thrown back, floorboards creaking, and then I feel her climbing into bed beside me, warm arms squeezing me close. That’s when I realize I’ve woken her with my sobs, and she’s wiping tears from my face, kissing my cheek. I cuddle against her like I used to with Mum in those early mornings, just the two of us, and I realize it’s not Becca I’m mad at, it’s myself and it’s Nick and it’s Mum and it’s everything.
* * *
—
I don’t know what time it is when I next wake. There’s milky light at the windows and Becca is still beside me, our limbs tangled together, her almond-scented hair tickling my nose. It takes me a few moments to realize that the phone is ringing from the hall.
The phone is ringing.
In a heartbeat I’m up, scrambling over Becca, who mumbles and stirs. I glance at the clock as I streak past. Five a.m. It’s not good, it can’t be good. My head roars as I grab the receiver.
38.
EMMA
Yet again, Emma had not made it to bed. She sat cross-legged on her living-room floor, encircled by photos, occasionally lifting one up and angling it toward the light.
Intermittently there were footsteps from above. Steph was still awake, too, maybe listening to Emma’s movements just as she was hearing Steph’s, feeling the other woman’s presence and trying to predict what she was thinking. Emma glanced at the Chertsey address lying just beyond her moat of photos, a reminder of the decision she had to make. It seemed even more complicated now that she suspected Zeb hadn’t told her the whole truth about Freya. She kept picking up her phone to text him, then putting it down again. I’ll Skype him in the morning. Look him in the eye and ask calmly.
The pictures she was sifting through were mostly of him. In one, he was six months old and she held him on her knee, still a kid herself, the baby seeming physically to overwhelm her. Perhaps most parents divided their existence into the era before they’d had children and the era after, but Emma often got the feeling she’d lived her life on shuffle. At times she felt ancient compared to her friends, who used Tinder, drank fifteen-pound cocktails, and never seemed afraid. Other times she would try to embrace her early thirties: She’d allow herself to be set up on dates but would usually chicken out, telling herself she was a mum and a businesswoman, no room for romance.
She stalled over a picture of herself in school uniform, year ten, not long before she’d fallen pregnant. Automatically, she started picking faults. Her arms were awkward twigs, her chest was concave, eyes too big for her face. Suddenly she was that girl again: that spiky, slow-to-develop teenager, who felt as if a layer of her skin peeled off each time she was taunted by the class bully.
Not even the class bully, in fact. Her own personal bully, or so it had seemed, who would relentlessly single her out, always accompanied by two silent, smirking disciples.
Alien Girl, he used to call her. He would draw cartoon aliens with goggle-eyes and pinched faces, leaving the sketches on her desk or sticking them to the back of her school sweater. They really did bear an uncanny
resemblance to her—Emma could see it and so could their sniggering classmates. Sometimes he would point at her braless chest, in front of everyone, and declare that her species obviously didn’t have tits. Maybe all your species are actually lads, even the ones pretending to be chicks. What have you got down there, Alien “Girl”? She recalled how his eyes had dropped toward the hem of her skirt, how he and his two mates had roared with laughter when she’d hovered a protective hand in front of her crotch.
One lunchtime—and Emma’s stomach still liquefied at the memory—he’d crept up behind her while she was eating sandwiches with her small group of friends, and she’d felt something cold and wet touch the back of her neck. She’d let out a shriek of surprise, but her bully had stayed silent for once, his fingers delving into her hair, spreading slimy wetness. She’d tried to pull away but he’d pushed her head forward and ground the gunge into her roots. Only as he’d extricated his fingers had she heard his familiar guffaw, cueing the obedient snickers of the other two.
Later, she’d discovered that it was a large blob of “alien ectoplasm” from a joke shop. Green and sticky with a strong rubbery smell. She’d spent the rest of the day in the toilet trying to get it out of her hair, crying as she’d snapped her friend’s comb and the knotted, gluey mess had just got worse. Eventually she’d been forced to hack into it with a pair of blunt school scissors, leaving bald patches that she’d covered with a hat for months.
She’d felt powerless, not wanting to tell her mum or the teachers, even assuring her friends it was all fine, quite funny, really. But whenever she reached the limits of what she could laugh off, he would decide to be nice to her for a while. Perching on her desk, calling her “Em” and asking if she knew what this quadratic-equation bollocks was all about. After months of humiliation, one friendly word could melt her into a puddle of gratitude. She’d never known how long these interludes would last, though, could never predict when she’d next find her chair drowned in black ink (“Alien Girl blood”), or adorned with a dead frog that had been squeezed to make its eyes bulge like hers.
She remembered the day he’d followed her home from school. The thrum of her heart as she’d sensed him on her heels, the shock and relief as he’d caught up with her and behaved like they were buddies. When he’d offered to carry her bag she’d been sure he would bowl it into the river; when he’d flirtatiously poked her ribs she’d waited for some comment about her figure.
She’d been spellbound with fear and fascination. That knife edge of pride and dread as she’d gone into a pub with him, as he’d managed to get served, as cheap vodka had bubbled through her veins and he’d asked if she’d got a boyfriend.
Uh . . . no. I haven’t. She had to admit, it had flattered her that he’d even thought she might.
A slow smile had spread across his face. Good.
Her heart had started to pound, the vodka setting off stars in her head.
Good, he’d said again. Because Robin really likes you.
She hadn’t understood at first. The tipsiness had slowed her brain. Her bully, Andy, had nodded toward the corner of the pub and she’d followed his gaze to notice his two loyal followers sitting there. When had they come in? Emma had often thought of them as one entity: Andy’s audience who validated his bullying with their devoted attention, their emotionless laughter.
For the first time, across the pub, she’d contemplated them separately. Robin was the quieter of the two, with brown hair and freckles, not the redhead whose gormless grin exposed the fillings in his back teeth.
Emma had returned her gaze to her lap. Yeah, right.
I mean it, Andy had insisted. He thinks you’re really fit. And he likes how clever you are at school.
She’d wanted to believe that part. Often she’d fantasized about a boyfriend who would admire her intelligence instead of mocking it, but who would fancy her, too, be proud to be seen with her. Nervously, she’d considered Robin again. He’d been looking at Andy but he’d glanced at her and their eyes had met. She remembered how he’d shuffled, seemed awkward; she’d recognized that awkwardness and, somewhere in her woozy head, had convinced herself they had things in common.
Andy had beckoned Robin over. He’d hesitated, and Emma had considered bolting, to save herself from any possibility of humiliation. But she’d felt glued to her sweaty seat as Robin had approached and Andy had urged them to sit next to one another, widening his legs on their shared bench to force them closer together. Of course, looking back now, she could see that Andy had been reveling in yet another game of control. But she’d lapped up the attention, blushing as Robin had paid her compliments under Andy’s instruction.
You like how smart she is, don’t you, Rob?
Maybe Robin’s next words had been the real turning point. Eyes to the table, he’d mumbled: Yeah, and good at art.
The warmth in her cheeks had deepened. Robin had noticed she was good at art? She’d been pretty sure that hadn’t been part of Andy’s script. But clearly he’d thought, Nice one, Rob, because he’d stood up then and declared he was going to stop playing gooseberry now.
Emma had seen his suggestive wink as he’d left. Could replay it to this day. But at the time, her skin still aglow from Robin’s comment, she’d chosen to ignore it.
An awkward silence had fallen once they were alone. Robin had moved a few inches away, especially when a group of popular girls from school had sauntered in. Emma’s glow had started to die. Memories had returned: The frog on her chair . . . had Robin sourced that for Andy? The ectoplasm: Had Robin been the one holding her still as Andy had mashed it into her scalp, or had it been the other guy, or had she imagined the hand on her arm? Goose bumps drove any last warmth from her skin and she’d come close to fleeing, until Robin had murmured something.
Sorry about him.
Emma hadn’t known what to say. Sorry didn’t cover it, not even a fraction, but still there’d been a power in hearing it that had almost made her burst into tears. She’d felt light and soft and strange, and when he’d asked if she wanted another drink she’d nodded.
Let’s sit outside, he’d said. It’s too hot in here.
They’d perched on a wall in the pub’s deserted garden, chatting quite normally. Then he’d stubbed out his fag and shuffled closer. The kiss had been clumsy at first but he’d seemed to relax into it, and she’d tried to as well, tried to calm the tornado of her thoughts. This is okay. He’s not like Andy. He said he was sorry. He thinks I’m good at art. She’d even giggled as they’d rolled off the wall and lain behind it on the cold concrete, shielded by a row of stinking trash bins.
She’d been so nervous about going back to school the next day. Excited, though, about seeing him. Surely others would be able to tell how last night had changed her. Surely they’d guess she felt both ashamed and alive, that she hadn’t been able to look her mum in the eye, that she’d cried in the shower but hugged her secret close.
In the homeroom, people had started tittering as she’d arrived. Shooting glances her way, grinning behind their hands.
There’d been a new drawing on her desk. The usual goggle-eyes and tiny twig body, but this time Andy had made the lips bigger, poutier, redder. Emma had started to panic. More laughter had rumbled as she’d grabbed the drawing and screwed it in her fist, breaking her normal policy of not reacting. She would never usually sit down without checking her chair first, either, but she had done that morning, straight onto a condom blown up like a balloon.
The room had erupted. The effort of holding back tears had made her cheekbones throb. She’d gripped the edges of her desk and only when she’d been sure of not crying had she lifted her eyes to seek out Robin. He’d been looking at her, his face solemn, unreadable. Ashamed, perhaps? Of what was happening now, of what they’d done last night, of being associated with her at all? Emma’s expression had become pleading, but when he’d noticed Andy observing them, Robin had tu
rned abruptly away. He hadn’t laughed with everybody else, but he hadn’t stopped the laughter either. He’d spared her just one more glance before they’d returned to their places in the social order.
From then on Robin had ignored her. Wouldn’t look at her, speak to her, continued to watch Andy make her days a misery. Emma’s shame had brewed hot and angry. She felt like she’d fallen for their final trick. As if the loss of her virginity on grubby concrete had been the culmination of his mission—Andy’s, or Robin’s, or both.
By the time she’d discovered she was pregnant, it was too late to do anything about it. And year ten was over, the stress of school had melted into listless summer. All her peers were shopping for bikinis and trying not to think about next year’s big exams. Emma, instead, was plucking up the courage to tell her parents she had something alive and terrifying wriggling inside her belly. Her own alien baby. Her dad had been the one to fixate on who the father was, but Emma had refused to give a name, or to tell Robin he’d got her pregnant. She’d wanted to leave that school and never see him again.
And then there was Zeb. Zeb, with his little star-shaped hands reaching out from beneath a cloud of blankets. Zeb, with the tender swirl at the back of his head, the miniature feet that would kick as if air-swimming. Zeb, whom she wanted to pretend was nothing to do with bullies, or a patch of concrete behind a wall of trash bins.
They’d lived for almost eighteen years in their little bubble, Robin never knowing of Zeb’s existence, and Zeb seemingly content with his mum and grandparents and only a question mark of a dad. Emma should have known the bubble would burst, but she hadn’t expected it to happen quite so spectacularly. Five months ago, Robin had bumped into an old classmate who knew why Emma had moved schools and, assuming Robin knew, too, had casually released the secret Emma had kept for so long. Robin had tracked Emma down and had been bombarding her with emails ever since, insisting they should talk, meet, even asking where she lived, pushing for photos of Zeb. Each new message in her inbox had triggered the kind of panic she hadn’t experienced since school. Delete, delete, delete. Pretend this isn’t happening. Pray it will all go away.
