by Sara Barnard
This is the moment Dawson walks into the room. He freezes in the doorway, three mugs balanced in his hands, eyes widening at the tableau in front of him.
I smile helplessly, still patting Hugo’s shoulder.
‘Oh, mate,’ Dawson says.
Hugo sits up abruptly, dashing the tears from his eyes with a still-bloodstained wrist. He sniffs a few times, coughs, then looks away from us both.
‘Hey, don’t stop on my account,’ Dawson says. He sets the mugs down on the coffee table and kneels on to the carpet. ‘No shame in crying, you know. And you’ve had a fucker of a year.’
I nod. ‘Plus all the drugs.’
‘And the fact you’re stuck here with us,’ Dawson adds. He grins at me, and I laugh.
To my surprise, Hugo lets out a hoarse little chuckle. ‘Yeah, it’s not what I had planned, that’s for sure.’
Dawson holds out a mug to him and he takes it.
‘Cheers.’
‘What actually happened tonight, Hugo?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘I don’t even know. I just wanted to forget for a while – this fucker of a year. But I lost my friends, and whatever I took messed with my head, and someone punched me . . . I don’t know. And then there was Dawson.’
‘An unlikely saviour,’ Dawson says.
‘All right, don’t get carried away,’ Hugo says, and this time all three of us laugh. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry to ruin your night. I should just get back to . . . wherever the hell I’m meant to be.’
‘Nah, you’re staying here tonight,’ Dawson says, casually but firmly.
‘On the sofa,’ I add, just to be clear.
Hugo rubs the back of his neck, frowning. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Course,’ I say. ‘Sleep it off at least. But maybe you should call one of your friends so they know you’re, you know, safe. Not arrested or dead.’
His shoulders lift. ‘Oh, no one’s worrying about me.’ He says this quietly, softly. The way people say true things.
‘Then you need better friends,’ I say. And then I hear the unlikeliest words come out of my mouth, maybe because he looks so sad and pathetic, or maybe I’m just getting soft. ‘You should try hanging out with the group again.’
‘From the lift?’ Hugo asks uncertainly. ‘Don’t they all hate me? After, you know . . . Velvet?’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But you could always try apologizing for that and just seeing what happens. Sorry can go a long way, sometimes.’
I see something cloud his eyes, and I guess he’s thinking about his dad, but he doesn’t say so.
‘Maybe I . . .’ He hesitates, glancing at me, and then away again. ‘I wouldn’t know how to start.’
I pull out my phone. ‘No time like the present.’ I open our WhatsApp group and wave the screen at him.
‘Wait a sec,’ he begins, looking alarmed. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Starting,’ I say. ‘On your behalf.’ I click on the camera icon and hold my phone out in front of us. ‘Give me your best “surprise-Hugo-in-Ibiza” face.’
For a moment, I think Hugo is going to yell at me and flounce off, but instead his face crumples into a defeated laugh.
‘You are nothing like I thought you were, Kaitlyn.’
‘Well, same to you,’ I say. It’s not quite true, but saying anything else would be mean. ‘Dawson, get up here. You should take this picture, what with you being able to see properly, and everything.’
Dawson climbs up between us, shaking his head and laughing. ‘Are we really doing this?’ he asks as he takes the phone from me, positioning it in selfie-mode in front of our faces.
‘We really are,’ I say. ‘Ready? Say . . . Ibiza!’
VELVET
Sasha’s dad is watching me like I’m a potential criminal while I wait at the bar. It’s unsettling. Particularly with cheesy retro pop music playing in the background and drunk old people shuffling around – today’s been a bit surreal.
All day, I’ve seen how Sasha can’t get away with doing anything without her dad noticing – and, by extension, neither can her friends. It makes me wonder what it must be like to have a parent like that, who tells you what to do and cares about what you’re up to. I honestly can’t decide if I’m madly envious, or relieved that’s not me. I don’t even see much of my mum these days, since she got together with her latest boyfriend. I don’t really see much of anyone.
Anyway, right now I’m just glad when some ranty old bloke accosts her dad at the bar, so I can grab my bottle of wine and sneak back outside, where Joe and Sasha are still huddled in the comically small playhouse. I am full of fondness for them both as I climb back into our secret den.
‘You’re a star,’ Sasha says as I fill up her glass. ‘You both are.’ She smiles at Joe. ‘I really needed this.’
‘I’m really glad we could come,’ I say.
‘Me too,’ Joe adds. ‘I mean, imagine if you only had Michela and Billy – sorry, I mean Will – for support. What a shame they had to leave in such a hurry . . .’
The three of us giggle guiltily. I have to admit, I felt a very mean sense of satisfaction when Will got so drunk as soon as we got to the social club that Michela – with a face like pure thunder – had to take him home early. She tried to get Sasha to help out, but Joe stepped in and told her that, today of all days, Michela could deal with the mess herself – literally – when Will puked on his own shoes and a little bit on hers. Joe just calmly left them to it, taking Sasha with him. He handled the whole situation beautifully, I’ve got to say.
The thing is, even though I’ve been joining in Joe’s good-natured eye-rolling behind their backs, Michela and Will today reminded me a bit too much of my past self. Of me and Griff last summer. Of everything I used to be. Thinking about it makes me cringe. I feel like a completely different person now.
‘Couldn’t have happened to a nicer couple.’ Joe chuckles.
His knee accidentally nudges against my thigh as he shifts to try and get comfortable in the cramped space. I wonder how ‘Old Me’ would have felt about being in such close proximity to ‘New Joe’. It’s not hard to guess. I mean, obviously I’ve noticed that Joe has suddenly grown more handsome. It’s hard to put my finger on how – whether it’s his haircut, or because he’s been going to the gym or something. It’s mostly a new sort of confidence. He’s become more solid. I suppose he’s grown up.
And so have I. That’s why Joe suddenly becoming all sexy and getting a girlfriend doesn’t have much of an effect on me. I can be genuinely happy for him, as a friend. As a good human being. Because I don’t measure my own worth by trying to get boys to fancy me any more. I’ve realized there are more important things to think about.
‘I’m so embarrassed!’ Sasha wails. ‘I can’t believe I ever went there. You know, with Billy. And Michela’s not much better these days. You must think I’m such a loser. I mean, Michela’s meant to be my best mate. It’s all so pathetic.’
‘Don’t think about it like that,’ I say. ‘We know you, Sasha, and we love you. You’re not defined by other people, especially not them. We’d never judge you like that. If anything, it’s all because you’re too nice. You just need to think of yourself and what you need sometimes, that’s all.’
This all comes out sounding much more serious and intense than I intended it to, and it’s only as I say it that I realize I could just as easily be talking about myself. From the way they’re both looking at me, Sasha and Joe are obviously thinking the same.
‘What happened, Velvet?’ Sasha asks gently. ‘I mean, after last summer with Griff and everything . . . ?’
Disappearing from the WhatsApp group was the least of my concerns at the time. It was all such a blur, I’m momentarily surprised that she even noticed. I managed to style it out, hide what was happening from pretty much everyone, forget the whole thing. I just went dark for a while. Yet from the looks on their faces now, it was these unlikely distant friends who noticed, who worried about me.
I’m about to laugh it off and make a joke of it, like I always do. Say that today’s grim enough without them hearing about my sad life. I don’t want them to think I’m a total disaster, these people who have already seen me at my worst. Sasha’s even seen me naked, that terrible time in Hugo’s flat. Between Sasha and Joe, the two of them know a lot of things about me that I would rather forget.
But they’re both looking at me like they actually care, and I realize that these are the people I want to talk to. Finally.
When I try to speak, my throat closes up. It’s like I don’t even have the language for this; I don’t know how or where to start. I haven’t said any of it out loud before. Not to my mum or Chelsea – not to anyone. I’ve been on my own with it for nearly a year, hoping that if I can forget about it, then it never really happened.
I’ve been trying to focus on the future, and I’ve been doing pretty well, but sometimes it’s so hard to move forward when you’ve got this big secret that nobody knows about.
‘When I saw you all last summer,’ I begin, ‘well . . . it made me realize a lot of things. I know I went quiet for a bit, so you don’t really know the full story. I mean, obviously you know I’m not with Griff any more. But I broke up with him that day, straight after I watched you all drive off.’
‘Good riddance,’ Joe mutters.
‘Yeah, I know. Best decision I ever made. Except it wasn’t that easy . . .’ I literally take a deep breath, just like people do in films when they have to say something big. I realize now, that’s quite realistic. ‘I was pregnant.’
Even saying it feels weird. Like it happened to someone else. I’m unbelievably grateful that both of my friends try their best not to look shocked by this news.
‘It was super early. I hadn’t told anyone. I even considered not telling Griff at all, just getting rid of it without him ever knowing, but I didn’t think I could live with myself.’ I force a sort-of laugh. ‘So, as you can imagine, that was a great conversation. It all came out in one go, the poor bloke. I’m dumping you, I’m pregnant, and I’m having an abortion.’
‘Bloody hell, Velvet,’ Joe says quietly, while Sasha is clearly incapable of forming words right now, let alone sentences.
‘I knew having an abortion was the only option. I couldn’t stay with Griff; I couldn’t have a baby. It would have ruined my life. Actually, worse – it would have stopped my life from ever starting. Griff tried to stop me. He threatened to tell everyone that I wanted to leave him and kill his baby, heartless bitch that I am. That didn’t bother me half as much as he thought it would. I’m not ashamed; I don’t care what other people think. But in the end, he said he’d leave me alone as long as I never told anyone and we could forget any of it ever happened. That seemed easier, so I agreed. He’s got a new girlfriend now, and he cuts me dead whenever I see them around town. Which is fine by me, really. But it means nobody knows. I’ve never told anyone any of this. Anyway, I went by myself and I did it. Had an abortion.’
‘Was it horrible?’ Sasha manages to ask.
I have to think about this. I can’t remember much about the day. I had to get the train to Leeds. Two hours each way. I wore my smartest outfit, so they wouldn’t think I was some kind of chavvy teenager you read about in the Daily Mail. I put on a lot of make-up that morning, trying to look older. But now I think I was just trying to not look like myself. So I could pretend it was happening to someone else. Not me. This could never happen to me.
Everyone at the clinic was actually really kind to me, even though I sort of didn’t want them to be, because I was worried their kindness might make me cry. I just remember a lot of hanging around and not making eye contact with any of the other girls in the waiting room. I was the only one on my own. That’s what I remember: feeling alone. It was the loneliest day of my life.
The actual procedure – they always said ‘procedure’; nobody ever said the word ‘abortion’ – didn’t take long. They gave me a cup of tea and a KitKat after, asked if I had someone to take me home. I lied so I could get out of there.
It was rush hour in central Leeds; I had to stand up on the train. I was so tired. That was what made me cry in the end, the only time. All the respectable commuters pretended not to notice me. Just a girl weeping on the train, too young to feel this old. A little bit pale, trying her hardest not to faint. All alone.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It was. It was horrible. But I knew it was the right thing to do. And then I just had to get on with it, you know?’
I felt like dying when I had to drag myself out of bed at crack of dawn the next morning to go to work at the hotel. But I had to. I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. And from that day on, I’ve felt stronger. If I could get through that, I can do anything. Well, maybe not anything. Let’s not get carried away. But something.
‘I can’t believe you had to go through that all by yourself, Velvet,’ Joe says.
‘I’m glad you told us,’ Sasha says, reaching for my hand.
‘I mean, don’t go feeling sorry for me or anything. I wish none of it had happened, but it’s OK. I’m OK. Griff was a shit boyfriend, and I wasn’t ready to have a baby. Life is getting better now. I’m starting a part-time college course, English Literature. I don’t know exactly how, but I’m going to get out of there. I’ve got to.’
It’s true – the world seems bigger to me now than it ever did before. That’s the good side of everything that’s happened. I might feel older and sadder than I used to, but for the first time I’m also starting to feel a lot more like myself. I guess, like Joe, I’ve become more solid. Like Sasha too, who’s just lost her nan and is still thinking of other people and always trying her best to do the right thing.
‘Thank you,’ I say, meaning it. ‘I know that was pretty heavy, but I’m really glad I could tell you two.’
I’m still holding Sasha’s hand, and Joe puts his arm around me. The three of us sit in silence for a moment, and it doesn’t even feel weird. I’ve been feeling so isolated from all my family and friends this past year, so different. All I’ve been able to think about is how I’m going to change my life, how I’m going to move on; trying to make myself stronger, working hard. This is the first time I’ve felt contented just in the moment for a long time. It feels like a sign that things are going to be OK.
The silence is only broken when someone’s phone dings. Joe automatically reaches into his pocket.
‘Is it Carly?’ I ask, patting his knee fondly. ‘Is she after more of that Joe Lindsay Blue Steel?’
‘Nah, it’s not Carly.’
His brow furrows slightly as he scrolls through his messages.
‘It’s Kaitlyn, on the group chat. Let’s see what she – Oh my God, what the actual . . . ?’
‘Take that dress off. You look ridiculous.’
It’s the first thing Sasha’s father has said to her since they left the social club. Even then, he didn’t say much. By the time she, Joe and Velvet had emerged from the playhouse, warm and giggly from the red wine, the buffet had been picked clean, and aside from a few stragglers lingering by the bar, almost everyone had gone home.
Velvet had suggested they grab something to eat, but when Sasha saw her father sitting alone with a half-empty pint of beer, she told them that she’d better go. Before they could protest, her father rose and snatched his suit jacket from the back of the chair he’d been sitting on. ‘Let’s go,’ he said without looking at her. She turned to Velvet and Joe.
‘Bye,’ she said brightly. ‘Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it.’
They didn’t say anything, just hugged her: Joe first; then Velvet, who held her so tight it squeezed fresh tears from the corners of her eyes.
‘Text me tonight,’ Velvet said when she let go, then hugged her again.
‘Me too,’Joe said softly, the skin between his eyebrows creasing as he squeezed the top of her arm.
Sasha just nodded, scared that if she did anything else it would all spill out of her. Not just
the tears, but everything else. How miserable she was, how she didn’t want to get in the car with him or go home with him, back to their cold, dark house with the empty fridge and the sullen silence that would suffocate her if she let it. She wanted to go to her nan’s, eat biscuits and drink milky, sweet tea while she filled her in on the gossip from bingo. But she couldn’t. It wasn’t her nan’s house any more, was it? It was just a house, each room cluttered with cardboard boxes, the walls bare except for the clean white rectangles from where the photo frames had been. Her grandparents’ wedding day. Her parents’ wedding day. Her Aunt Chris’s graduation photo. That picture of Sasha on Blackpool beach when she was three in her yellow bathing suit. Christenings, birthdays, holidays. Their whole lives playing out across the walls of her nan’s neat little terrace. Now it was all gone – the photos, the heavy crystal vase that used to sit on the windowsill in the living room – her whole life packed up into boxes.
So Sasha went home, because where else was she going to go?
In the sanctuary of her bedroom, she opens her wardrobe and looks at herself in the full-length mirror. She thinks he said it because he was pissed off with her for wearing her mother’s dress. And maybe he was right – maybe she does look ridiculous. It’s too tight and too short – far too tight and short for a funeral. She peels it off and kicks it into the corner of the room by the laundry hamper and grabs a pair of sweat pants and a jumper from the chest of drawers.
The flat is always cold. Always. Michela doesn’t like coming over any more – she says that it ‘smells funny’. It does smell funny. There are damp patches in every room. Sasha has to be careful that she doesn’t brush past the one in her bedroom, otherwise she gets black stuff on her clothes. In the summer, it’s a relief, but in winter, it’s unbearable. She has to sleep in sweat pants, a jumper, a dressing gown and two pairs of socks . . . and even then, her nose is cold. When she wakes up in the mornings, the inside of her windows glisten with frost. She used to draw things in it when she was a kid, hearts and stars and flowers, but now she doesn’t bother opening the curtains.
