by S. E. Lynes
She pulls on her cigarette. There is a little grass in the tobacco, which she mixed in, anticipating this moment when she would unpick the tangle of herself after saying goodbye to Titch. And here she sits, teasing and laying out the tattered threads one by one.
I’m going to fucking kill you, you fucking sick bastard.
She had thrown Eric against his bedroom wall so hard his head made a dent in the cheap wallpapered plasterboard. She won’t forget the whites of his eyes, the flash of black, panicked iris. His sweat, his stale tobacco breath, his stale, spunky room.
‘And after that, I’m going to call the police myself.’
‘Aw, Bridge. Bridge, mate. Don’t. Don’t be like that. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He was shaking like the coward he was. Not admitting it even now that his grimy secret was out. And then, when she had her hands around his revolting little throat, when, gasping for breath, he confessed to what he’d done, he had the audacity to blame it on Toni. She’d led him on. She’d given him the eye. She was a slut, a prick-tease.
‘She’s fucking fourteen, you fucking piece of shit.’
She never called the police. No one did. Her family don’t do police, and family affairs are no one else’s business. If she went back to that moment, she’d do the same: the threat, the pact, everything. But sometimes, on dark and lonely nights like this, she realises she never anticipated the practicalities. Does anyone, about any kind of choice? Marriage, children, anti-establishment, corporate, free spirit, committed partner, raise your voice in protest, stay silent… everything, everything has a practical side.
Everything has a price.
Thirty-Five
Rosie
Sometimes everything is clear. I know where I am and when I am and who is there. It is coherent. I like that word. Opalescent. I like that word too; I used it in a poem, but it’s not relevant at the mo. Sometimes an image flickers but then it’s gone. Sometimes it’s cloudy, like when you dissolve painkillers in water. Or Alka-Seltzer, like you take, Mummy, sometimes, in the mornings. In those cloudy bits, I don’t know when it is, or where I am, or even if I am.
Like the tin space. The back of Auntie Bridge’s van. Is that what the tin space is? And if it is Auntie Bridge’s van, then why am I so scared when I’m in it? The funny chemical smell in my nostrils. The tape being ripped from my mouth. White light stinging my eyes. A silhouette at the door of the van… who are you?
Now I’m in my room, I know that. My Hello Kitty duvet cover, my lava lamp that Auntie Bridge got me for Christmas glows pink… blue… green. On my desk is an empty glass where I’ve had some milk. On a plate, there are chocolate crumbs from a Rice Krispie cake. You make them every week. It’s your thing – you’ve made them since I was little. But this glass, this plate, are not from today – they’re from yesterday, and I haven’t brought the empties back into the kitchen yet. You will tell me off about that. It’s hot in my room. The milk will start to smell like sick. I am revising for, like, the billionth test. It’s near to GCSEs. The teachers are so stressy they test us all the time; it’s so annoying. In my exercise book, there’s a crap drawing of a Bunsen burner and a conical flask. Underneath, the teacher has written 1 in red biro. That means top effort, but my drawing is so lame I wonder what I’d have to do to get a 2 or a 3. Chemical reactions are so boring. I can’t wait to finish my GCSEs and study only interesting subjects like French and drama and English literature.
You’ve forgotten to take my mobile, as you always do. You are always totally done in when you get in from work. After, like, two glasses of wine you practically pass out in front of the telly, and right now you’re making dinner so there’s no way you’ll check on me. I promise myself I’ll only go on Instagram for a bit. For, like, a few minutes. I tell myself I’m literally just going to scroll through, see who’s posted, do my likes, check my notifications, but really there’s only one notification I’m interested in.
There’s a red circle! A message! Let it be him let it be him let it be him.
Hey, Sexy Lady. Was thinking shall we swap mobile numbers? Only if you want. Then we can text. Easier? And maybe soon we could even chat. Like chat chat. Chat chat chatty chat, LOL. This is my number anyway…
I’m flapping my hands in front of my face, which has gone all hot. Oh my God. He’s given me his number. I think about calling Naomi, because I’ve waited so long for this and now there’s really something to tell her. It’s legit. But I don’t, because Ollie is my secret, and I’m not ready to take him out of the box. I’ll tell her at school tomorrow. But she’ll have to, like, swear not to tell anyone else. Oh, what do I do? I know I don’t know know him, but we’ve been friends for ages and I know him soooo well. It’s like those quizzes in magazines where they ask you a question and you have to pick an answer, like multiple choice but for fun, e.g. A hot guy asks for your number. You’ve never met him but you have friends in common. Do you:
a) Tell him he has to write a letter to your parents requesting permission
* * *
b) Say yes, but maybe we should get to know each other better first
* * *
c) Say hell no, back off, what kind of girl do you take me for?
* * *
d) Give him your number immediately – what are you waiting for, girlfriend?
I don’t think it’s right to send him my number if he has an actual girlfriend. I’ve had loads of chats with you about this kind of stuff and you always say that if you’re talking about a friend behind their back, make sure you’re not saying anything you’re not prepared to say to her face. I do say things I wouldn’t say to my friend Sasha’s face. But she’s such a bitch, and I would only slag her off to Naomi because I trust Naomi with my absolute life, and anyway Naomi says that’s not bitching, it’s just venting. Also, we don’t criticise Sasha’s clothes or her legs or anything; we just, you know, offload, like the time we were at a party and she knew that Naomi was really into this lad and she went over and started flirting with him, and then when Naomi asked her what she was doing she was like What? as if she didn’t know exactly what she was doing, so I think it was OK to talk about that because otherwise we would have exploded or something because she is SO ANNOYING.
Whoops. I’ve just told you we were at a party. I mean, I know you can’t hear me but I’ve told you in my mind. I’ve been to three parties, Mum. I said I’d been to one, but I’ve been to three. You may as well know that now. I told you I was staying over at Naomi’s and that was the truth, but we went to parties those nights and one of them was in Barnes at a friend of Naomi’s I didn’t even know. We got back at one in the morning.
Soz.
Anyway, I don’t want to ask Ollie if he’s got a girlfriend ’cos then he’ll know I like him in that way, so I check his Facebook page and go back through his pictures. There are a couple of him with girls, but there’s more than one girl and the pictures look like they were taken at parties. The girls are hot and that makes me feel like why am I even bothering? but I carry on. In another photo, he has his arm around a girl, but it’s not just her and him, there’s another boy and he’s got his arm around the girl too. She is very pretty and she is laughing in a confident way and again I feel rubbish because I know I couldn’t laugh like that, like when you throw back your head and push your shoulders forward. I have tried this in the mirror and I look like I’ve got problems with my bones or something.
Rosie! Rosie love!
You’re calling me for my dinner.
Coming!
I copy his number into my contacts under OT, because, well, why not? If you check and ask me I can say it’s Ophelia Thomas or Olga or Olivia and she’s just a mate. I text him quickly:
Hi. It’s me. You have my number now.
I put a heart emoji but then panic and delete it and send the message like that. I’m about to come to the kitchen when my phone beeps.
What, no kisses? Crying emoji. Heart-broken-in-two emoji.
&
nbsp; Heart broken in two! OMG! My hands clench into fists. I want to squeal but I can’t. I don’t want you to hear.
I text kisses. One big, one little. And a heart.
Coming now, I call down the hall. I race to the bathroom, pretending I need to wash my hands, which I do, but really I want to splash my face with cold, cold water. Scream – that’s actually what I feel like doing. So I press the towel to my face and say aaaah.
It sounds like someone who has been kidnapped and gagged and is trying to shout for help.
That sound.
That sound.
That sound is me.
That sound is me.
Help. Help me. Is that what has happened to me? Is that the bad thing? Is that why I’m here in the soup?
Here she is, says Auntie Bridge when I come into the kitchen. We were about to send out a search party.
Funny. I shake my non-existent belly with my hands and sit down.
Auntie Bridge’s made pasta, you say. You look at me all weird, like you’re wondering what’s wrong with my face.
What?
Nothing. Have you washed your face or something?
So? I say. It’s not illegal, is it?
It’s tuna bol, says Auntie Bridge. We’re going veggie this week.
Pescatarian, I say. Because fish.
Which you’ll be wearing in a minute, you cheeky monkey. Auntie Bridge winks at me and I laugh.
Now when I think about that meal, I remember you laughing too. It was like we both realised at the exact same moment that we were being grumpy cows. I love our family. Our funny triangle family. We are jokes, but we look after each other.
Whichever way up we are, you say, there’s always two of us at the base, supporting the other.
This triangle is how we are, how we have become, how we have had to be.
At dinner, you ask me if I had a nice time with Emily, and I know we’re friends again, but I get a stomach ache because I know we talked about you, and now that you’re there in front of me, I feel bad.
Yes, I say.
That all? What did you talk about?
Nothing really. Acting stuff.
OK. You raise your eyebrows at Auntie Bridge even though you know I can see you.
She’s a secret agent apparently, says Auntie Bridge, smirking.
I don’t laugh. For once, Auntie Bridge is being a bit annoying. Keeping anything to yourself in this house is a big crime. Apparently.
What’ve you been up to today? you say.
I shrug and I’m just like, Stuff.
Fascinating.
After dinner, Auntie Bridge goes to get ready for her gig. I rinse the plates and pass them to you to put in the dishwasher. I wipe down the kitchen table. You hold out your hand for the dishcloth so you can wipe the hob. Your expression is sad.
I’m sorry, you say. About before. With Emily. I was just worried. I get worried.
I know. I’m sorry too.
You throw the cloth in the sink. I sit on your knee and press my face into your neck. I’m not sad or happy or especially anything, but the fruit smell of your skin makes me cry.
Hey there, baby girl, you say. It’s all right; it’s all right.
I love you, Mum.
I love you more.
Wrong, I love you more. Idiot brain.
Don’t be cheeky.
I want to tell you about Ollie. So much. I want to show you our messages and his pictures and giggle with you about how hot he is, even though he’s not my boyfriend and I know deep down that he never will be.
But I don’t tell you.
I can’t.
I’m sorry.
* * *
My phone is vibrating. It’s Ollie. He’s calling me. He’s CALLING ME. I never thought this would happen. I can’t believe it. When is this? Is this the same day or, like, way after? Oh my actual God, this is more than a worm in the beak, this is a total move! I close my eyes, open them. I slide the screen.
Hello, beautiful. It is a man’s voice. Oh my God. A man, all deep and posh. I’d expected a different voice, more like the lads in my year. But he’s eighteen, nearly nineteen, so obvs he’s more mature.
Hello? Is that Ollie?
Finally I get to talk to you. He sounds so, like, Downton or something. My stomach flips right over.
Finally. I laugh, like a nerd.
You sound nice. I like your voice.
I like yours. You sound older.
I’m very old. I’m actually seventy-three.
I laugh. I can’t think of a comeback – way too gassed.
So did you finish your studies?
Just had dinner actually.
What did you have?
Just pasta. What about you?
Steak and chips. Ice cream. Not together obviously.
I laugh.
So what’ve you been up to?
I tell him about my trip to the café with Emily.
You have an agent? That’s exciting.
Yeah. Well, sort of. She’s, like, mentoring me? She’s a bit old, but she’s funny and kind and she has a lot of contacts and stuff.
She sounds… cool.
She’s so not! I laugh again, tell myself to stop laughing all the time or he’s going to think I’m a dork. But she’s only my first agent. I’ll try for a bigger agent next year or the year after, once I’ve done more shows or maybe some adverts and stuff like that.
Have you thought about modelling?
I think that’s mad but I like him saying it. Er, no!
You should. You’re easily beautiful enough and it pays really well.
Beautiful! He said I was beautiful. And he is so posh!
I do a little modelling here and there, he says. It’s not what I want to do though – it’s just to fund me through university. Ultimately I want to be a doctor and do voluntary work overseas. I’m hoping to finish my studies without too big a loan and then I’m going to go to Kenya or join Médecins Sans Frontières.
Wow. Oh. My. God. That is so cool. And his French accent is très chaud.
A text comes in – holy frickin’ crap, it’s you!
Come and say goodnight, you have put, which is Mum-speak for go to bed. I realise it’s 10 p.m. and I still haven’t done any homework. Like, none. My chemistry test is tomorrow.
I’ve got to go, I say.
That’s OK. I’ll miss you though.
There is this pause, but it’s more than a pause, it’s like a moment, like we are talking without words. I can hear him breathing. I wonder where he is – lying down, I think, in his room, on his bed. In his boxers, his hair kind of flopping over one eye, one hand on his stomach. OMG.
Chat tomorrow? he says.
I can barely speak. I don’t know what else to say so I say, Bye then.
Bye, Sexy Lady.
Bye, er… Bye what, Rosie? Say something, say anything, you total loser idiot brain.
Darling? he says, and I can tell by his voice that he’s sort of smiling down the phone. My prince? My knight?
I laugh. Er, yeah. Bye.
I hang up and cover my face with my hands. Oh my God, that was the biggest cringe EVER. I am such an idiot; he will think I am a total nerd. If I was him I would never call me again. Literally, I would unfriend me, delete me, block me for crimes against… crimes against banter.
* * *
You’re on the sofa drinking red wine in front of the news. I don’t want you to see my face in case you can tell I’ve been talking to a boy, so I kiss the top of your head from behind the sofa.
Night, Mum.
Homework go OK? You’ve got your chemistry test tomorrow, haven’t you?
Yeah. It’s fine.
All right. Night, baby girl.
Night.
After I’ve cleaned my teeth, I get into bed. I pick up my phone to switch it off but there’s a text from Ollie. Now that we can text, I will have to remember to delete them.
Great talking to you, Sexy Lady. Check your Instagram message
s. Winking-face emoji.
I bring up Instagram and see the red circle. My stomach flips over. There is a photo from him, like a mouth in an O. But it’s not a mouth. It’s his belly button.
Underneath it says:
Send me yours.
Thirty-Six
Toni
‘Rosie? Rosie love?’
I thought I saw your eyes flicker just then, but no. Nothing. Under the white cotton sheet, the landscape of you rolls out: your feet the highest peak, your knees, sharp hips, your breasts that don’t budge an inch even when you lie down, and you’re too young to even know how incredible that is, how much you’ll miss it one day.
‘Everything all right here?’ It’s our nurse, the nice one.
‘Thank you, yes,’ I say. ‘Actually, I was just thinking, will that water in the jug there be stale? Maybe I should freshen it up in case she wakes. The doctor said it could be any time.’
She lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘You stay where you are, Toni. I’ll change it right this second.’ She smiles, takes the plastic jug from your bedside table and off she goes. I watch her leave; let my eyes drift across the ward. Those two beds won’t be empty for long, I’m sure. The young girl is asleep.
In my text, I told Emily you’d had a funny turn, that’s all. It didn’t feel right not letting her know you were here, but I didn’t think she had to know the whole story. She’s stuck with you when others might have given up. She’s been very patient. When you got sick for the third audition, I thought she’d fire you. Very gently and nicely, of course, but you’re no use to her if you can’t make auditions, are you? No use at all. And the third audition was a film, a terrific opportunity that would have had you filming in France!
You were so elated I thought you’d got on top of your emotions, found a way to turn your nerves into excitement. She’s going to do it this time, I thought. But you followed the same pattern as the two previous times: all right the day before, didn’t seem too het up about it, but by that evening you complained of stomach pains and I thought, Uh-oh, here we go again.
