by Sara Barnard
Still, she loves her bedroom: loves the white fairy lights she got from Poundworld in the Arndale that she’s wound around her wicker headboard; loves her narrow single bed and her pillows that she can’t sleep without, even at her nan’s; loves her noticeboard of things that she’s ripped out of magazines she’s picked up in cafes and waiting rooms, pictures of beaches and mountains and big blue skies that make her feet – and heart – itch. It’s not much, but it’s hers. And right now, it’s exactly what she needs.
Sasha grabs the pack of wipes from the top of the chest of drawers and begins taking off her make-up. The red wine they’d drunk in the playhouse had stained her mouth the colour of an old bruise, so she’d borrowed Velvet’s lipstick to cover it up in case her father noticed. She doesn’t know what brand it is, but it’s holding like a grudge. It takes two wipes, but eventually she gets it off and sits on the bed with a weary sigh. She can hear her father moving around downstairs; hear him switching the channels on the television – the news, the weather, what sounds like a football game, that ad for car insurance with the pirate – before he turns the television off altogether.
She hates this, the silence. She wishes he’d just say something, yell at her, call her a terrible daughter – and granddaughter – for blowing out the wake to go and get drunk in a playhouse with her mates. She thinks it would make him feel better, even if that isn’t what he’s really upset about. At least then it would be out in the open.
She can hear him in the kitchen now, opening and closing the cupboard doors, then the fridge. There’s nothing in there, she knows, so she isn’t surprised when he swiftly closes it again. She’s hungry as well. All she’s eaten is the crisps she had with Joe and Velvet. The wine hasn’t helped: she feels numb and heavy-headed, her stomach aching.
She suddenly remembers the bag of Haribo Starmix that Velvet gave her. She leans over to grab her clutch from the end of the bed, and a choir of angels bursts into song as she opens it to find the bag of sweets. Of all the things to give her – not a bunch of supermarket lilies or a ‘With Sympathy’ card with a soothing quote from the Bible, but a bag of Haribo Starmix.
It was exactly what she needed.
Sasha rips into the bag, grabs a cola bottle and bites the top off, then pretends to drink it before popping the rest of it into her mouth. She hears her phone buzz on her bedside table and winces as she grabs it. She’d promised to text Velvet and Joe that evening, but she hadn’t.
Sure enough, there’s a string of messages from them. Joe had even created a WhatsApp group just for the three of them, which Sasha is grateful for, because she doesn’t want the others to have to put up with a string of messages about her nan’s funeral. Not that they’d even notice. They have enough to deal with, it seems.
Joe Lindsay created group ‘Hey!’
Joe Lindsay added Velvet Brown
Joe Lindsay added Sasha Harris
Joe:
Everything all right, Sash?
Velvet:
Yeah. Let us know!
That lipstick really suited you, BTW! You can keep it
Sasha:
Sorry! Yeah, I’m home and eating Starmix in bed
Velvet:
Nice!
Joe:
I’m jealous. I’m eating an egg and cress sandwich on the train. It is not good
Sasha can see Velvet is typing something and holds her breath.
Velvet:
You really OK, Sash?
Sasha:
Yeah. Fine
Joe:
You sure?
Sasha:
Yeah. I mean, today wasn’t fun, but you guys being there really helped
Velvet:
How’s your dad? He seemed super stressed
Sasha:
He’d just buried his mother
She regrets it immediately.
Sasha:
Sorry
Velvet:
It’s OK. It was a stupid question
Sasha can feel her cheeks burning. It’s not worry, she realizes; it’s shame. She’s ashamed. Ashamed that they’ve been talking about her, about her father. So she decides to deflect before they can push further.
Sasha:
I’m more worried about you, Velvet
Velvet:
Me?
Sasha:
Yeah
Velvet:
Why?
Sasha:
About Hugo . . .
Velvet:
Oh, him
Sasha:
Are you sure you’re OK with him being on the scene again?
Velvet:
It’s fine
Joe:
If it makes you feel uncomfortable, we can tell him to do one
Velvet:
Seriously, guys, it’s fine. All of that feels like forever ago. I’m over it
Sasha:
You sure?
Velvet:
Deffo. Plus, did you see the state of him? Karma kicked his arse
This makes Sasha laugh so hard, she has to cover her mouth with her hand in case her father hears.
Velvet:
Forget Hugo. WHAT ABOUT DAWSON AND KAITLYN?
Joe:
I KNOW!
He never uses all caps, but if there was ever a time to use all caps, this is it.
Sasha:
I had no idea, did you?
Velvet:
NO!
Joe:
No way. Not at all
Sasha:
I thought he was gay
Joe:
Me too
Velvet:
Maybe he’s bi?
Joe:
He must be well confused
Velvet:
How long do you think it’s been going on?
Joe:
No idea
Sasha:
Why didn’t they tell us?
Joe:
I kind of feel bad. Did they think we’d be weird about it?
Sasha:
I was thinking that too. I’d never judge them.
I’m honestly happy for them
Velvet:
Don’t read too much into it. They’re probably still getting their heads around it themselves. I’m sure they would have told us when they were ready, but Hugo scuppered that plan
Say what you like about Hugo Delaney, but his timing was impeccable.
It’s been a long, weird day. Sasha’s whole body is aching with exhaustion, but she can’t sleep. Maybe it was the Starmix, or maybe it was two hours of furious texting with Velvet and Joe about whatever the hell was going on in Ibiza, but Sasha’s brain is more awake than it’s ever been. She can’t help but think of Joe.
He doesn’t talk about it, but she’s seen the change in him in the last three years. That day in the lift, he was all soft lines and pink cheeks, and now there’s a hardness to him. A quiet strength she doesn’t see in other boys. Billy may now call himself Will, but he’s just as childish with his that’s what she said jokes and his penchant for shoplifting supermarket beer. She doesn’t feel comfortable around him like she does with Joe. Joe has grown up, she supposes. Quicker than he would have liked perhaps, but he has. And as she thinks of him, she feels a tug on the invisible string that connects them, because she gets it.
Gets what it’s like to have a mother who’s there, but isn’t.
Sasha remembers looking over her shoulder, scanning the crowd for him before the service started, but there were so many people there she couldn’t find him. The crematorium was full, a solemn hum settling over the pews as they waited for the service to begin. It was interrupted every now and then by the rustle of cellophane as people clutching bouquets of flowers shuffled along to make room for the latecomers. That’s when she saw Joe and Velvet. They were standing at the back near the doors, and she recalls feeling a nip of panic as she wondered if they were going to leave. But then Joe stepped forward to help a woman with a walking frame towards one of the pews, and Sasha realized t
hat they were standing so that her nan’s friends could sit.
Michela would never have done that, and the thought of it – the thought of Joe and Velvet and their huge, tender hearts – made her own heart strain in her chest. When she looked back at the coffin, she felt it again when she saw Kaitlyn’s flowers, remembering what Dawson had told her about his aunt’s funeral, about the steelpans, and how everyone got drunk after. Everyone else had brought white lilies, so Kaitlyn’s bright flowers stood out like a parakeet on a washing line. Her nan would have loved those flowers. She would’ve put them on the windowsill in her living room in the heavy crystal vase.
What will happen to that vase now?
Then Sasha remembers the gerbera, the orange one she’d put on Steven Jeffords’ plaque, and the guilt is dizzying. His funeral was so different. Empty. Quiet. She still doesn’t understand why no one was there. How do you go your whole life without leaving your mark on anyone? The thought terrifies her. It terrifies them all, she knows. That’s probably why they kept in touch. Why they’re so unwilling to let go of one another. And with that, Sasha feels the question she asks herself every time she thinks about Steven Jeffords bob up. It was bound to happen today. How could it not? She was in the same crematorium, looking at the same velvet curtain, the same splinters of light from the stained-glass window scattered across the white walls like jewels. She tries to swallow it back but here it is again.
Was it my fault?
Sasha has played and replayed the scene in the lift over and over for the last three years, and each time she asks herself whether Steven Jeffords might have survived if she hadn’t pressed the STOP button. She’s wanted to ask the others so many times, but can’t. They may have progressed from sending each other funny animal videos and complaining about their day, but they never talk about what happened that day.
Never.
It was a mistake. Sasha knows it was a mistake. She was scared and panicked and pressed the wrong button. Besides, Steven Jeffords had a massive heart attack, that’s what it said in the Manchester Evening News the next day. Sick with guilt, she’d read every article she could find about him. One said that it was his third heart attack; another, his fourth. One said that he’d felt chest pains that morning.
Why didn’t he go to the hospital?
Sasha had even called 111 a few days later, weak with worry that it was her fault, that if she’d pressed the right button, those few minutes would have been enough to get Steven Jeffords to hospital and he might not have died. That’s not what 111 was for, she knew, but she had to know, so she’d lied, told the operator that she’d read about Steven Jeffords in the paper and was worried that the same thing would happen to her father, and that she wouldn’t know what to do if it did. The woman must have thought she was a right weirdo, but was very sweet anyway, telling her not to worry, that Steven Jeffords was probably dead before he hit the lift floor, and it made Sasha feel better for a while.
But what if he wasn’t? What if those few minutes they’d lost because she pressed the STOP button would have made a difference?
What if?
What if?
What if?
The funny thing is, they’d each asked themselves the same question at some point: Was there was something I could have done?
Dawson often wonders why he didn’t ask Steven if he needed help. He saw how flushed his cheeks were when he got into the lift, saw the pearls of sweat on his forehead. If he’d suggested that he sit down and drink some water, would Steven have done it? What if he’d got out at the next floor, where someone might have been able to help him? And why did Kaitlyn say that she’d done a first-aid course when she hadn’t? If she’d known what she was doing, could she have saved him?
Was there a phone in the lift? Why did no one think to check the control panel?
Why did no one try to force the doors open when the lift stopped?
Why did they just stand there, waiting for someone to rescue them?
All these questions they’d never have answers for.
Eventually, once the shock had passed and the guilt had become easier to ignore, Kaitlyn sent a message to the WhatsApp group. She didn’t say anything, just sent a quote she’d found on Tumblr:
Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.
– Maya Angelou
‘Shouldve taken the stairs’
Sasha Harris added Hugo Delaney
Hugo:
Guess who’s back?
YEAR FIVE
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‘Shouldve taken the stairs’
Sasha:
MY BODY IS READY FOR DOUGH BALLS!!!
Joe:
Dough balls, dough balls, dough balls
No lie, I dreamed about them last night. Only they were like ten times the size. And they had to serve the garlic butter in a dish the size of a bathtub. Make what you will of that, Dr Freud
Velvet:
Giant dough balls? Best dream ever!!!
I can’t wait to eat ALL THE FOOD . . . and see you guys!!!
Dawson:
Imagine if they don’t have any dough balls. Imagine it . . .
Hugo:
What the fucking fuck is a ‘dough ball’? Is this a sex thing I don’t know about? I find that hard to believe . . .
Sasha:
OH MY GOD, HUGO DELANEY YOU HAVE NEVER KNOWN TRUE PLEASURE. YOU DEPRIVED HUMAN
Hugo:
A ball made out of dough is ‘true pleasure’? My, oh my . . .
Hang on. Trying to override my urge to be a dick about this . . .
Joe:
Once you go dough ball, you never go back!
Does that make ANY sense??
Sasha:
It does to those of us who’ve experienced food heaven.
(Hugo, you will understand after tonight.)
WHY ISN’T TONIGHT *NOW*?????????????????????????
Dawson:
Just look at this as extra time to plan what you’ll have if they don’t have dough balls, Sash
Joe:
Which branch are we going to again?
Velvet:
Thank God for you, Joe. I guess there is more than one Pizza Express in Manchester??!
Joe:
*checking* OK, we booked the massive one near the uni!
Velvet:
Space for your giant dough balls
Joe:
Oh yeah!
K, you there? Or are you a poor sheltered dough-ball virgin too???
Not to worry, Sasha will convert you with pure enthusiasm alone. Right, Sash?
Velvet:
Pizza Express should def pay you some kind of commission, Sash
HUGO
‘Hugo, you really do look ridiculous in those rosary beads. Promise me you’re not going to actually wear them out.’
My fingers go to my necklace protectively, and I feel anger snake up in my stomach. A cutting retort sour on my tongue. But no. Not now. Not any more. I’m not ‘That Hugo’. So instead I take a deep breath, down into my ribcage, and imagine blue energy pouring through my body, calming me down.
‘So, what you up to tonight, Mum?’
I expertly change the subject. ‘I told you I was going out, didn’t I?’
She shakes her head slightly, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Yes, you did. You never used to let me know where the hell you were.’ She picks up her tiny cup of espresso. ‘India’s had quite the impact on you, hasn’t it?’
I nod and take a sip of my jasmine tea. I’ve got really into it since India. Before I went, I would’ve totally been the sort of person who thought jasmine tea was drunk by massive twats, but now I realize I was the massive twat.
Ganesh, I was SUCH a twat.
But not now, not any more. I have grown and changed and matured and progressed, and there’s nothing I can do about the past, or the future, all I have is the Now. All any of us have is the Now.
‘Well, let’s see how long it lasts. I can’t imagine you’ll fit in very well at Bristol wearing that necklace. I’ve actually got a phone call with the lawyers tonight,’ she says. ‘Your father is still trying to ruin us.’
