The Nothing Girl

by Jodi Taylor

  Someone approached with a tray of glasses. ‘Fruit punch, madam. Red is alcoholic and green is not.’

  I took a green. So, I was in. I had a drink and I hadn’t yet had to say a word. Excellent!

  Remembering Thomas’s instructions, I walked slowly around the hall. Soft lights were gently reflected in the wooden panelling and lovely and unusual objects were displayed on the walls. I itched to look more closely. Daniel and his parties were popular and the place was full. People had spilled into the nearby rooms. I could hear bright chatter everywhere. Soft music played. I looked around and did see one or two people who’d come to our house occasionally. One woman waggled her fingers which was nice. I smiled back.

  I found a quiet spot – not a corner – and sipped my drink, looking, I hoped, enigmatic and thoughtful. And here came Thomas.

  ‘Don’t you like your drink?’

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely. Why?’

  ‘You had a funny expression on your face.’

  ‘I’m doing International Woman of Mystery.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Seriously, no.’

  ‘You’re a horse,’ I said. ‘You can’t even have an expression.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong there, clever clogs. Watch.’ He pulled his lips back and wrinkled his nose, exposing huge horsey teeth.

  ‘Please don’t ever do that to small children or pregnant women.’

  He snorted again. I liked it when he laughed. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘ You look a little more relaxed now. Shall we take a gander round the place?’

  We moved towards the stairs. I said, ‘Upstairs first, then downstairs. Library last – the big finish.’

  ‘Good plan,’ he said and we had started up the handsome staircase when we saw headlights flash against the windows.

  ‘Late arrival,’ said Thomas and we paused to see who it was. The stairs were directly opposite the front door so we had the best view in the house.

  The door opened and a single male figure walked into the room. All conversation stopped dead so I could clearly hear his footsteps on the tiled floor.

  He stood, seemingly unaware of the consternation he was causing. He looked confidently round the room, seeking his host. Or more likely, his hostess. His tie was askew, his hair rumpled. He dug his hands in his pockets, relaxed and rude. I could hardly believe my eyes and stepped nearer to the banisters for a closer look. The movement must have caught his eye and he looked up. He stood staring up at me for far too long and I was unable to look away.

  It was Russell Checkland and he was very, very drunk.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ said Thomas. ‘This is going to be good.’

  Chapter Two

  For a second nobody quite seemed to know what to do. Even Francesca seemed transfixed. She stood in a doorway, slightly behind him so he hadn’t seen her yet. The moment dragged on endlessly until Daniel Palmer, wearing the politest smile in the history of the world, stepped forward.

  ‘Russell, how good of you to come. We weren’t sure if you would be here or not.’

  I suspected this was Daniel-speak for: ‘You weren’t invited and you’re certainly not welcome but let’s not make a scene.’

  ‘I was invited,’ he said, very carefully, swaying gently. ‘Got the invite here somewhere to prove it,’ and looked vaguely around as if expecting to see it dangling in the air nearby. Someone, somewhere, gave a nervous giggle.

  ‘He’s had a few,’ muttered Thomas. ‘Why do you think he’s here?’

  Because, I thought, he can’t stay away. Like a moth to a flame. And she encourages him.

  Francesca moved to his side, beautiful in black and white. ‘Oh, here you are at last, Russell. Still, better late than never.’ She took his arm. ‘Daniel, dear, I thought it would be nice for Russell to meet a few people socially, now that he’s trying to re-establish himself in Rushford, and this would be a good start.’

  Daniel’s pause was only infinitesimal. ‘What a good idea, Francesca. Why don’t you take him around and introduce him?’ and stepped back to resume his conversation, apparently uninterested in the new arrival, leaving Francesca and Russell somewhat isolated in the centre of the room. A message had been sent.

  ‘Nicely done,’ observed Thomas. ‘ She really is a complete nitwit, isn’t she? I wonder if she realises the damage she does. I doubt it. If she’s got any sense she’ll introduce him to Mr Splash of Cold Water, Mrs Strong Black Coffee, and Miss Taxi Home. Still, we don’t want to miss any of this, do we? Shall we go downstairs? We can do upstairs later. ’

  I agreed and we re-joined the now wildly gossiping throng downstairs. There was absolutely no sign of Aunt Julia or Uncle Richard, both of whom would have been magically absorbed into the woodwork at the first signs of social awkwardness.

  We meandered from room to room, from picture to picture, admiring and criticising until we got to the library at the end. The lights were on, but the room was empty. Long and narrow, it ran along the back of the house. Every inch of wall space was shelved. Heavy crimson curtains hung at the windows. The furniture was all dark wood and soft leather. It was a very masculine room. The only sign of Francesca here was the famous portrait over the fireplace, but, typically, it dominated the room.

  The portrait was magnificent. The intricacies of the costume were wonderfully rendered, the folds and creases in the full silk sleeves being particularly eye-catching. The lace collar at the neck was delicately beautiful, drawn in with a swift, sure hand. The face was pure Francesca. She looked directly out of the picture, a small enigmatic smile on her lips, plotting something unpleasant; or more likely, knowing Francesca, wondering what to have for lunch. An unseen light caught her hair, highlighting red-gold curls amongst the dark shadows. It was, as they say, a work of art.

  ‘Well,’ said Thomas, quietly. ‘I forgive him everything. This is remarkable. What’s she holding?’

  I stood on tip-toe. ‘A small glass phial.’

  ‘Do you think she’s on her way to poison someone or has she just done it?’

  ‘We’ll never know.’

  ‘Why did he stop painting?’

  I shrugged. ‘His Muse left him.’

  ‘Do you think she regrets that now?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t know either.’

  ‘Well, he certainly does. Poor old Russell.’

  I looked at him in surprise.

  ‘He got a raw deal. I wonder if she realises she’s probably ruined his life.’

  I shivered. Suddenly, this wasn’t a mildly amusing soap opera, to be viewed from a safe distance and speculated over. This was three people’s lives. And yes, if Russell Checkland didn’t pull himself together, his life was probably ruined. And I suspected Daniel and Francesca weren’t that happy either. All at once, my quiet life in the attic didn’t seem so bad.

  ‘Imagine,’ said Thomas, softly. ‘ Just imagine. You have your whole life ahead of you, glittering and full of promise with a woman who is your inspiration, whom you adore, who is everything to you. Then one day you wake up and she’s waltzed out of the door to be with someone else who can give her the new toys she wants. How must he have felt? You know he trashed his place, don’t you? Ripped up his canvases and threw the whole lot in a skip. And he had such talent, Jenny. There was so much joy in his paintings. And now it’s all gone. I wonder if he can ever get it back. I wonder if he even wants it back. ’

  He sounded so sad. I turned to him and reached up and gently touched his forehead. I don’t often stroke him. He’s not a pet.

  ‘You quite like him, don’t you?’

  ‘ I do, yes. His father was an unsympathetic man. His mother, who might have been a buffer between the two of them, died when he was still young enough to need her. The love of his life left him. Even his talent deserted him. So yes, despite all his efforts to alienate the world, I do like him. ’

  I remembered that long look on the stairs. ‘I do too.’

  We stared at the picture for a while. I finished my drink and lo
oked for somewhere to put the glass. A hand came out of nowhere and a voice said, ‘Shall I take that?’

  I’m really quite hopeless in social situations. I didn’t know what to do. Give him the glass? Recoil in horror? Ignore him? Give him a smile? Struggle through a long hello? And where was Thomas when I needed him? Oh yes, down the other end of the room, helpfully peering at first editions.

  I turned and looked at Russell Checkland properly for the first time. His hair was damp. I suspected he had been under the cold tap after all. He hadn’t changed that much since I last saw him, but there were new lines at his eyes and mouth. His face was thinner and if Thomas was right, and there had been joy, then there wasn’t any now.

  The silence had gone on for far too long.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said defiantly. ‘I’ve been told I can stay if I behave myself and who better to behave myself with than you? Although actually, as I say that, I realise it wasn’t the most flattering remark to make. Feel free to box my ears.’

  Oh, good. I was a safe option. Just what every woman wants to hear. For a brief moment I wished I was dark and dangerous, and did not allow my eyes to flick to the portrait.

  I knew how to get rid of him. I took two deep breaths, focused on the ragged knot of his tie and began the struggle.

  It had completely the wrong effect. He didn’t wait politely, or try to help, or sigh and edge away. He said, ‘Good God, Jenny, that’s got worse since I last saw you. Wait here a minute,’ and disappeared, leaving me still clutching my glass and struggling to catch up. I had forgotten his nervous energy and how quickly he could move.

  He was back in seconds, clutching a cup and saucer and a glass of the red punch. ‘Here you go. Get this down you.’

  I reached for the cup and saucer, but he said, ‘No, that’s for me. This is yours,’ and thrust the glass at me. I took a cautious sip. It seemed OK. A little tangy, but otherwise quite innocuous.

  He started talking again while I sipped. I had also forgotten he could chat for England. ‘So, what have you been up to while I’ve been away? The last time I saw you, you were clutching a sheath of exam results and grinning fit to bust. Did you go to college? University? What are you doing now? Are you still in Rushford?’

  I stared at him hopelessly. He grinned down at me and that stupid fringe fell over his eyebrow and suddenly, I was determined to do this. I would do this. I would.

  Nothing happened.

  I tried again.

  Nothing happened.

  He was waiting expectantly and then I saw the penny drop. He reached out and gently touched my forearm with two fingers. ‘I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. And I’m drunk. And I’m angry. And none of it’s your fault. Would you like me to go away?’

  As far as I could see, Thomas had completely disappeared. So no help there. I shook my head and gestured to an old leather sofa set back from the fire.

  ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘My legs feel as if they belong to someone else at the moment. I wish my tongue did. I didn’t mean to frighten you. You look so pretty tonight that I just forgot.’

  Did I also mention he was a silver-tongued charmer?

  He sat down very carefully. I sat alongside feeling a little more confident and warmly glowing.

  ‘Right, let’s start again. It’s good to see you. Are you well?’

  I nodded and raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine too. Not at the moment, obviously, and tomorrow I’m going to hate myself and probably the rest of the world too, but I’ll worry about that tomorrow. What are you doing now? Do you have a job?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘So what do you do? Of course, you probably don’t have to work, do you? You’ve got your parents’ money. Where do you live? Wait, are you still living with the Kingdoms?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Hang on. I’m twenty-nine, you must be, what, about twenty-eight, and you still live with those dull old sticks? Why? What happened? Oh, sod this for a game of soldiers, Jenny. Drink your drink and say something.’

  What could I say? I couldn’t tell him it was either Aunt Julia or some sort of institution. He put a finger gently under my glass. ‘Drink up. It might help. If not, you can write me an essay. Five hundred words on “Why I choose to live with the most boring people in the universe when I could be out being a good-time girl”.’

  I choked, sipped, and choked again.

  ‘That’s my girl. You’ll be chattering away in no time. When I’ve had a few I can’t shut up.’

  It doesn’t work like that, but it occurred to me that I could be sober and awkward, or drunk and awkward, and I’d been sober and awkward all my life. I took a few more sips and leaned back.

  ‘That’s better. Now, tell me. There’s no rush. The longer I’m out of the way the happier people seem to be.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  Now where had that come from? Oh, yes. I peered into my half-empty glass. Perhaps he hadn’t heard me.

  He was staring into the fire. Without him looking at me, my heart slowed down a little. I began to feel more relaxed. Things unclenched. I thought of what I wanted to say and reduced it to the fewest possible words.

  ‘They thought it … best I stayed there. Sometimes, things get … so I … it was easier. Better. I read. I study. I did get my … degree, you see,’ I said, desperately trying to make myself more interesting to someone who did more in a day than I did in a year.

  He wasn’t deceived at all. ‘But you could have done so much. You still could. You could still live in Rushford where your family and friends are. I’m not saying go to London or Leeds or Bristol, but surely …’ he petered out. ‘Sorry, it’s not my business, I know. It just seems such a waste of a life.’

  Something writhed inside me and for a moment I was back in those long dark days when my world was so small I couldn’t even stand up in it. And those long dark nights when I wondered why I was so insignificant and what would become of me and trying to stifle the panic …

  Something must have shown in my face because here came Thomas, galloping down the room to stand nearby, solid and comforting and protecting. My shield against the world. He breathed warmth and reassurance into my hair.

  Russell was already putting down his cup and saucer, not looking at me. ‘It occurs to me that I’m doing rather a lot of damage tonight and not just to myself. Huge apologies, Jenny. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t be allowed to mix with decent people.’

  From nowhere, I said again, ‘I know the feeling.’

  He sat back down again. ‘Yes, you do, don’t you. And you’re dealing with it much better than I am.’

  ‘No. No, I’m not. At least you’re … fighting back. You get out there and make the world notice you. You have the freedom to … come and go as you please. You have social skills. You have talent. You … could be whatever you wanted. Every day, I just sit in my room, hating it and unable to leave because I’m too … scared to take the consequences.’

  Oh my God. Did I just say that? Did I really say all that?

  He pounced. ‘What consequences?’

  Oh, what the hell. I tipped the glass back and finished my drink, relishing that rather nice, warm feeling. ‘I either live with my family or I have to go to some sort of … home. That’s the deal.’

  He was bewildered. ‘But why? What’s the matter with you?’

  I glared at him, exasperated.

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. The last I heard, having a bit of a stutter wasn’t any sort of reason for chucking a person into a secure facility.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think they meant … Broadmoor.’

  ‘They shouldn’t mean anything at all. It’s all bollocks, Jenny. I’m sure they mean well, but there is such a thing as over-protectiveness and it wouldn’t do you any harm to get out a bit more. You’re talking to me. I can understand you easily enough. You should go out and practise more. Talk to people in shops. Ask people the time. I mean it. You get anxious because you can’t speak proper
ly and you can’t speak properly because you get anxious. Break the circle.’

  ‘It’s not that easy. If it doesn’t clear up in childhood then the chances are …’

  ‘I don’t care what the chances are. Make your own chances. You’re talking to me at the moment.’

  ‘That’s the alcohol.’

  ‘In a fruit punch? I don’t think so. Give yourself more credit, girl. Or alternatively, start the day with a couple of vodkas. Works for me.’

  I tried to see Thomas’s face, but he was turned away from me. Was he laughing?

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Instead of waking … each morning wondering how to fill the hours ahead, I can … pull a bottle from under the pillow and …’ I stopped. And what? What would I do if I could? If I had a choice, what would I choose? Frightening chasms yawned at my feet. This was why I stayed in my room.

  ‘Well, I don’t mean you should hitch-hike across India, for God’s sake. Start small. Here’s an idea. What do you know about buckets?’

  OK, no more alcohol for me. I obviously had zero tolerance and it was already affecting my brain. However, I knew the answer to this one.

  ‘Plastic things,’ I said proudly. ‘In many colours. Or metal. Shiny. They have holes. There’s a … song about it. You kick them when you die.’ And sat back, pleased with the completeness of my answer.

  ‘Excellent, you’re obviously a leading authority. What are you doing tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, without hesitation.

  ‘Good. Meet me outside the post office at 10.30. No, better make it 11.00 – I’ll need a bit of a lie-in. You can help me buy buckets.’

  ‘Look out,’ said Thomas, suddenly. ‘Incoming.’

  I looked up. A very unhappy looking Uncle Richard was approaching.

  ‘Yes,’ I said to Russell, and then my uncle was upon us, his gentle face frowning.

  ‘Russell. I heard you were here.’

  Russell stood up, suddenly alarmingly sober. ‘Richard, good evening. Jenny and I have been catching up.’

  My uncle looked at me, then at the glass on the table and said in apocalyptic tones, ‘Jenny? Have you been … drinking?’