by S. E. Lynes
‘Try not to worry,’ I said as I tucked you in with your hot-water bottle. You’d already had a fair few trips to the loo. I’d put a bucket next to your bed just in case you couldn’t make it to the bathroom. ‘Try and breathe and don’t fret. Fretting won’t help – it won’t help at all.’
You were crying so much you became short of breath. Your auntie Bridge came to your room and sat on the end of your bed. She glanced at me and we shared a look.
‘Oi, Squirt,’ she said, ‘what’s all this, you big skiver?’
But even she couldn’t cheer you up.
‘Should I take her down to A&E?’ she said quietly.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘It’s just an upset stomach at the end of the day. She’ll need nil by mouth and just sips of water for another twenty-four hours.’
‘You’re the nurse.’
‘I’m beginning to think we need to leave this audition business for a year or two,’ I said. ‘It’s all too much too soon, isn’t it?’
‘Stop talking about me in front of me,’ you wailed. ‘Don’t say that. I just need to do my do re mi and I’ll be fine. Just stop talking about me as if I’m not here!’
I stroked your forehead and shushed you as best I could. I didn’t shout or get cross. I knew you were taking your anger out on me because I’m the closest one to you. I took your empty milk glass and your plate into the kitchen. I could hear your auntie Bridge trying to cajole you, you whining back at her, miserable. After a minute or so, even Bridge gave up and joined me in the kitchen.
‘Poor kid,’ she said, sitting down.
‘We’ll see how she is in the morning,’ I said. ‘I’ll text Emily now and give her the heads-up, but frankly, it’ll be a miracle if she rallies in time.’
‘I think you’re right,’ she said.
‘About tomorrow?’
‘About too much too soon. She’s been through a lot. She’s only fifteen, Tones. I didn’t do anything serious until after drama school.’
‘Do you think she’ll ever be able to face it?’ I said. ‘Out there, I mean?’
‘Out there in the world? Of course she will! Just maybe not now. Not yet. She’s still so young.’ Bridget got up and opened the wall cupboard nearest the stove.
‘There’s no wine in,’ I said.
‘I’m not after wine.’ She moved aside a bottle of cooking brandy and pulled out the Glenmorangie that Helen had given her for Christmas. She grinned. ‘Medicinal.’
‘How old were you when you did that play at the Wimbledon theatre?’ I said.
Your auntie Bridge screwed up her eyes a moment. ‘I’d forgotten about that one.’ She pulled down the two crystal glasses, put them on the table and poured two small measures. ‘Eighteen? It wasn’t serious – I didn’t get paid or anything. When was that then? Was that before I went to Central?’
‘The summer before. You were in the local paper. The toast of Hounslow! We went to Pizzaland with Mum and Terry, that disgusting boyfriend with the gold tooth she had for a bit. It was a big deal.’
Your auntie Bridge shrugged. ‘Your memory’s better than mine, but yeah, maybe she should stick to the youth theatre for now, you know, where she feels safe. There’s no rush, is there?’
‘Exactly. I want her to have a childhood, Bridge.’
We exchanged a glance, the smallest nod. Neither of us said anything, but I knew she was thinking about me, about what happened to me. My childhood was finished at thirteen.
* * *
You slept all that night and all the next day. I rang in sick, checked on you every hour. At least asleep, you looked as if all your fears had dissolved and as if, wherever you were, you were at peace. I didn’t check your phone. I didn’t think to. I was too caught up in my mother’s vigilance, eyes fixed with terrible concentration in one direction, little realising that, like the victim of a dodgy street magician, following the marble in the cup, the ace in the pack, the rabbit in the hat, I was oblivious to the sleight of hand, ignorant that what I was training my sights on had been taken long before.
Thirty-Seven
Rosie
I’m on the swings. My daddy is there. His face. Near, far, near, far… we’re in the park. He’s gone behind me now. His hands on my shoulders, then not, then on again. Where are you? You are on the bench. You look up from your magazine and wave. I can’t take my hands off the T-bar because I’m concentrating on keeping the swing going, so I shout:
Look at me! Look at me, Mummy. Daddy, I’m doing it!
You are. Keep going; keep going.
You stand up and half walk, half run over to me. You are smiling a big smile, your eyebrows up near your hair.
Brilliant, Rosie!
I can do the swing!
Concentrate; concentrate… Daddy’s voice behind me. Legs straight and lean… That’s it. That’s it, Rosie. Keep going. Bend… and legs… that’s it… Look at her, Bun, she’s got it. You’re doing grand, Rosie – you’re flying to the moon. You’re a star in the sky…
I’m a star in the sky, Daddy. I’m a red star in the sky… I am a red jewel in a gold crown… look at me… look at me… look at me look at me loooooook at meeeeee…
* * *
I’m in bed. You are beside me. You are holding my hand… Is this now soup or long ago soup? I think it’s now… I think it’s now, Mummy! I’m coming up… wait for me… I’m coming up… I’m coming up… I’m…
Listen. I was thinking, would you like to meet up? I mean, only if you wish to.
Wish to? I laugh. Ollie is soooo posh. Who says wish to?
He laughs too. Want to, wish to, whatever. So, would you like to meet?
Er, yeah. I can’t believe this is happening. My legs are literally shaking.
I hear him smile. Don’t ask me how smiling sounds, but I do, I hear him. I hear him because I know him so well.
All right, he says. I’m going to say… do you know Hampton Hill? Is that near you?
Mm hm. Yeah. I know where it is but I haven’t been there by myself, just gone through it in the car with you or in Auntie Bridge’s van.
There’s a coffee shop opposite the park gate. It’s Hampton Gate, I think. The café’s called Thyme for Coffee – thyme as in the herb – do you know it? It’s by the zebra crossing.
My stomach does a somersault. I know where he means but I think, I’ve never been there before and what if I get the wrong bus? But then I remember Emily telling me I can do things, that maybe you have made me feel like I can’t because you’re always so nervous. I can do this. But I’m not going to tell you I’m doing it. I’m going to protect you from YOU, Mum, from your worrying.
Yeah, sure, I reply. I can get the bus.
Will you come alone?
Of course! I’ll tell my mum I’m meeting Naomi in Twick or something. Genius plan. Even you can’t say no to that.
Good. Good. Shall we say Saturday, eleven thirty?
Cool.
He rings off. I scream into my sleeve and throw myself on my bed. Oh my God. It’s, like, an actual date. That’s it. I’m actually going to see him – for real.
I text Naomi. She’s cool. She’s excited. She says I have to take a selfie with him. I don’t tell you, obvs. I think of you though when we check my computer. I think of the way you make me say the rules out loud, as if I’m an idiot:
Do not make friends with someone you don’t know.
Never agree to meet someone you’ve only got to know online.
If a teacher or an adult tries to befriend you, tell your main carer… blah blah…
But this is going to be broad daylight! There will be loads of people around! And I know girls in Year 11 that use Tinder and they’re, like, fine. This girl Tash, she’s been with her boyfriend for, like, six months and they met on Tinder, and she said he’s really sweet. Ollie has over twenty Facebook friends in common with me and one of his friends is Stella Prince, and she’s the coolest, most savvy, most dank girl ever. So I know I’ll be fine.
I wait until Saturday morning to tell you. After breakfast, I pretend to check my phone and then, all casual, I’m like:
Oh, Mum, Naomi’s saying she wants to meet. Can I?
You’re in a good mood. You’re going to hang out with Auntie Bridge. She is going to take you out for coffee too! She is going to buy you a bun the size of your head. Apparently.
That’s fine, you say. Where, what time?
I am so ready for you.
Caffè Nerd. I say it fast because you don’t hesitate when you tell the truth. We did that in drama.
Good, we know where to avoid, says Auntie Bridge, and winks at me. Don’t want these squirts ruining our image, do we, Tones? Embarrassing us in public when we’re trying to dance. Not that I’d be seen dead in that fascist joint.
Your face is weird, like you’re giving Auntie Bridge some sort of look.
All right, you say to me. What time are you meeting her? And what time will you be back?
Half eleven. I’ll be back by, like, three?
Nice try. You can be back at one, for lunch.
I don’t need lunch. I’m stuffed. I’ll get, like, a muffin or something. What about two o’clock?
Now Auntie Bridge is giving you a look.
OK, two, you say. But no later. If you’re a minute late, it’ll be a no next time, all right? And don’t forget your phone and your Zip card.
Mu-um. For God’s sake. I’m not stupid.
* * *
On the way there, I’m nervous because I haven’t caught this exact bus before and I can’t remember how far down the high street the café is and what if I miss the stop? In the end, I get off too early, but it doesn’t matter because I have Google Maps on my phone and it’s just a bit further down in a straight line. Actually it’s easy. Piece of piss, Auntie Bridge would say.
I cross at the crossing. I know it’s the right crossing because there’s a gate to Bushy Park about a metre further on, which is what Ollie said. I pass a church and a shop on the corner but by now I’m, like, check me out, because I can see the café right there and it’s 11.29 a.m. See? I can do stuff on my own. I get to the café at 11.30 a.m. on the dot! What’s genius about this plan is that you and Auntie Bridge will never find out I’m not in Caffè Nerd, because no way will Auntie Bridge let you go in there and spy on me.
Gene. Ee. Yus.
Inside the café, I look all around but I can’t see Ollie or anyone who looks like him. But he’s got to come all the way from Kingston, which is much further, and Saturday mornings are pretty busy on the roads and there’s always, like, roadworks and stuff. In the corner of the café at the back there’s a group of two families with four little kids between them, and a golden Labrador; in one window there’s an old man with a bald head with, like, strands of hair going over the top and thick glasses reading a newspaper; in the other window, two women about your kind of age are having coffees and sharing a raisin Danish.
At the till, I order a hot chocolate.
‘Sit,’ the waitress says. ‘I bring.’
She has a foreign accent; I think she is Polish or Romanian. I wish I was confident enough to talk to her so I could listen to her accent. The accents I can do so far are Scottish, French and Spanish, but Welsh is impossible, and when I try Polish, Auntie Bridge says I sound like the Count, which is some lame vampire puppet or something from the olden days, so that needs practice. Anyway I keep looking round in case Ollie arrives. I begin to worry he’ll stand me up. Then I think he defo will.
What am I even doing here?
He’s probs just stringing me along.
I’ve been an idiot.
I am an idiot.
I basically loop through those four thoughts, round and round. There’s another waitress, with blue hair, thick black eyeliner and about ten piercings in her ears. She wears black jeans, black Docs and an old White Stripes T-shirt. She looks so cool in a way I could never be.
I sit down at the table next to the old man’s. He has a pot of tea, not coffee. If Ollie checks through the window he’ll be able to see me from there. The man smiles at me and I say hello, to be polite. He goes back to his paper: The Times. I’m hot in what I’m wearing so I take my jumper off and flap my T-shirt to cool myself down. Still Ollie isn’t here. I check my phone. There are no messages.
The waitress comes over with my hot chocolate. I get the Wi-Fi code and go on Instagram. There are no messages on there either, nothing on Facebook, no texts. I like everyone’s posts on Facebook. After that, I go on Instagram and like everyone’s posts on there as well. There are pictures of a gathering from last night. I didn’t even ask you if I could go. What would be the point?
‘I hope he’s not stood you up,’ says a man’s voice. It’s the old man. He’s put down his paper and he’s drinking his tea. He looks at me over the rim of his cup and his eyes crease up as if he’s smiling.
‘No.’ I shouldn’t answer, but it’s rude not to and we’re in a public place.
‘I wouldn’t wait too long,’ he says. ‘You don’t want him to think he can walk all over you, do you?’ He puts down his cup. ‘Or is it a girlfriend?’
The way he says ‘girlfriend’ gives me the creeps. I know old people say girlfriend when they mean a friend that’s a girl, but it sounds weird coming from him. His hair is greasy and the lenses of his glasses have dry spots of what looks like milk on them. I don’t say anything. I sort of smile but go on my phone and pretend to scroll. I almost message Ollie but stop myself. I don’t want to seem needy. It is 11.38 a.m. I’ve been stood up for defs. How embarrassing. I should’ve known. No way would someone as dank as him go for someone like me. He’s probably got, like, a thousand girlfriends. He’s probably one of those boys who like to have irons in the fire. That’s what you call it when a boy or a girl keeps lots of people dangling by flirting with them just enough to make them think they have a chance but never actually committing. Sasha does that with boys so it makes sense that boys do it to girls. Sasha’s a bit of a bitch, to be honest. What’s the boy word for bitch? There isn’t one because sexism.
I drink my hot chocolate. I check the window again.
Mistake. The old man is staring at me, and when I accidentally meet his eye he doesn’t look away. It is 11.41 a.m. I’m just gonna leave. If that man follows me, I’ll call Auntie Bridge. She will rescue me without telling you, is what I’m thinking. But then I remember that you and Auntie Bridge have gone for coffee together. You don’t know where I am. You don’t know where I am ’cos I didn’t want you to know. Because I lied. I feel sick. I feel sick like when I had the auditions. My stomach cramps and for a minute I think I might actually be sick.
I stand up.
‘Off so soon?’ says the man. His eyes are red at the rims. He looks posh even though his hair strands are greasy. He is well spoken. But still.
‘I’ve… I’ve got to go.’ I’m still smiling, for God’s sake. Still being polite. ‘I just remembered, my mum is meeting me outside.’ That sounds lame. It sounds like a lie. Which it is, obvs.
‘Quite so. You’d better skedaddle.’ He stands up. He puts on his coat and pats his pockets as if he’s checking for his keys. Shit. Shit, man.
I throw my money on the table, walk quickly to the door. I get to the door before the man. I step out onto the street.
‘Excuse me,’ the waitress calls.
‘I’ve left the money on the table,’ I call back, but the door has already shut and I’m on the street. I look left and right but the traffic is heavy and I can’t cross. I don’t know which way to go.
The door opens again and the man steps out. Now we are both on the street. Whichever direction he goes, I will go the opposite way. I will not go into Bushy Park. No way. That would be suicide.
The door opens again. ‘Hey.’ It is the waitress.
‘I left the money on the table,’ I tell her. I want to tell her that the man is bothering me, but he hasn’t actually done anything and I can’t form the words. I can’t, it feel
s too rude, and he’s probably harmless – harmless and lonely.
‘You forgot change.’ She smiles, puts fifty pence in my hand.
‘Thanks.’
She goes back inside. The door shuts. Inside the café one of the nice women throws back her head and laughs. The man hasn’t moved. He is just kind of standing there looking all dithery.
‘Rosie!’ It’s your voice. ‘Rosie, love!’ Your voice is calling me.
I turn away from the man. You and Auntie Bridge are coming up the street.
‘Lovely day to you, dear.’
I turn back. The old man is walking away and I feel bad for thinking he was a pervert when he was probably just trying to talk to someone. He probably lives on his own, that’s why he wants a bit of conversation, why he’s got no one to tell him his glasses are dirty. He is already level with the zebra crossing. My heart is beating. The sun is in my eyes.
What are you doing here? you say. I thought you were in Twickenham.
I… I… Naomi changed her mind at the last minute.
You laugh. I can’t believe you’re being so relaxed. How funny. We came here because we didn’t want to cramp your style, didn’t we, Bridge?
I wanted to go to Caffè Nerd, says Auntie Bridge. I wanted to come over and sing some popular show tunes to you both, but your mum said no. Boo, hiss.
I put my hand to my forehead to block out the sun. The man is going through the gate to Bushy Park. He looks like he is talking on a phone. He doesn’t look back. My legs feel like jelly even though nothing’s happened. Nothing’s actually happened.
So where’s Naomi? you ask.
Oh, she cancelled.
What? You look like I’ve just told you she shat on my shoe or something. Oh, that’s not on. That’s not on, is it, Bridge?
It’s OK, she texted. She went to meet her boyfriend. I feel a bit bad because I’m making Naomi out to be a flake, but she’s not, she’s really nice.
