Eden Summer

by Liz Flanagan

  ‘How do you know?’ she snapped.

  I stared her out.

  She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ She gave a little sob and grabbed my hand. ‘OK! OK! You win. If you really want it, you do it. I don’t even know why I’m fighting it. I’m so glad to have you here in one piece, I shouldn’t mind if you tattoo every inch of your precious skin. Come here, love.’

  After our hug she pulled back and looked at me. ‘But if it’s really you getting better, no more skipping school. Deal?’

  I recognized that jut of her chin. Yep, she cared, but nope, she’d never be a pushover.

  I told Eden all of this as she walked with me down to the tattoo studio, down the quiet end of the longest street in town, next to the yoga place and the garages.

  ‘So she gave you the full Sarah Mayfield?’ Eden teased lightly. She knew all about my mum.

  ‘Yep, the full treatment. Talked her round, but she bargains hard. Perfect attendance from now on.’

  Eden gave me one of her sideways glances, checking I was OK. ‘Sounds like a fair deal.’

  ‘Oi.’ I elbowed her gently. ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘Yours! Always. Thing is, I like it when you’re there, at school. I’ve missed you.’ And she smiled to soften her words. ‘Here it is.’

  My legs unhelpfully turned to cheese strings as we arrived at the door. The studio was on the first floor, signposted by a massive hanging board covered in Celtic designs. I stopped, staring up at it.

  ‘Ready?’ Eden asked. ‘We can still walk away, any time you like, you know.’

  ‘I’m not changing my mind.’ I glared at her.

  ‘Knew you’d say that. Just checking.’

  I shook my head, pushed the door open and started climbing the wooden stairs. Inside it smelt strange: like ink and something strong and chemical.

  We reached a light, airy, space at the top of the stairs. Bright sunshine streamed in, so the posters on the walls gleamed and dazzled. The woman leaning on the counter watched us without speaking. She had her hair in one of those old-fashioned rolls at the front, wrapped in a spotted scarf, and her eyes were thickly ringed in liquid eyeliner. I made a mental note of the way she’d done that. She wore a bright-pink floral dress, fifties style, and her arms were covered in old-school tattoo work: large roses and leaves.

  A man came out from a back room to join her: slightly taller, bald, with a goatee, and his ears pierced with those round discs that look like rubber coins. His bright blue eyes checked us out.

  They waited, not hostile, but not welcoming either.

  I held it together, knowing both of us had passed for eighteen before, even without the borrowed ID I was clutching in my sweaty palm.

  ‘Hi. I made an appointment for twelve thirty. I’ve brought a picture of what I want.’ I pulled out the artwork to show them, after I’d flashed the ID. ‘Can you do this? Down my arm?’ I’d worked on it for ages – red poppy heads and falling petals, lush and bright.

  ‘Who did this?’ the man asked.

  ‘Me.’ I stared back.

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You got any more like this?’

  ‘Yeah, plenty.’ I felt the atmosphere change. ‘So can you? I mean, will it work?’

  ‘Yeah, that red though … It’ll have to be one I mix myself. Come in, I’ll show you what I mean …’ and he held a curtain aside.

  I wobbled through. Eden followed. We were in! My heart was beating so fast I had to concentrate hard to think over it.

  ‘Here’s what I mean about the red – this one’s closest. Right?’

  I nodded, mouth too dry to speak. He was right. I knew he was good. I’d read the reviews.

  ‘You doing art at college, is it?’ And with that, it was like a cloud moved from the sun: he didn’t exactly smile, but his eyes were warm and they focused on me. ‘I’m Mo.’

  ‘Jess.’

  ‘Eden.’

  We talked a bit and I made up stories about my life, as I wanted it to be three years from now, hoping I wasn’t jinxing it with the lies. Eden smiled, listening.

  Mo said, ‘Why don’t you call by some time? Bring your portfolio. You could work up some new designs for us.’

  I looked at him hard to check he wasn’t mocking me. I shrugged and nodded, as if that wasn’t a big deal.

  The back room had a huge window so the light was good, and that reassured me. Then I saw the chair – a massive black leather job, like a cross between the dentist and Mastermind – and I almost bolted.

  I managed to sit down and wriggle my left arm out of my T-shirt, pushing bra and cami straps aside, telling myself the guy saw naked skin every day of his working life. ‘Here?’ I traced the line from my shoulder to my elbow.

  ‘That works,’ Mo agreed.

  I sat tense and upright.

  ‘I usually draw it on first, check we’re both happy?’ Mo said, holding up a biro.

  I nodded, bracing for the contact. The biro touched my skin. I felt sick. I breathed in, slow and calm.

  Mo felt it. ‘You OK?’

  I nodded, steely. It didn’t count. It wasn’t touch. It was a pen. I was the paper. I knew all about that. ‘I’m fine.’ And somehow I was. I even made him draw it three times, till it was perfect.

  Then came the needle.

  ‘Ready?’ Mo said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I told him. Then I gasped.

  Without asking, Eden held out her hand for me to grab, and kept talking. ‘D’ya think it’ll get addictive? Y’know, you’ll come back each year, till you look like you’re dressed with nowt on?’

  I gripped her fingers tightly. ‘Dunno. Start small, I reckon. Now I know how much it hurts …’ I talked through my teeth, breathing the sting away.

  The needle burred away, spattering ink. The pain was hot and small. A five out of ten. I knew what ten felt like, and this was nothing.

  ‘What do you want, J? I can talk, or I can shut up. Your call. I’ve downloaded all sorts – film, last night’s TV. I’ve got quality gossip, been saving it all week.’

  My gratitude swelled, almost broke into tears. ‘Beyond the call of duty, E.’ She’d been like this all year. Eden gave me what I needed, before I even knew what it was. Brought my schoolwork round every single night, walking that steep mile in all weathers when I was still off.

  ‘Yeah, well. What are friends for?’

  I squeezed her hand so hard that her knuckles were bruised by the time we finished.

  Afterwards we went to the riverside café. It was just about warm enough to sit out. The water rushed past, a comforting background constant, like white noise. I could see ducks paddling across the weir and the metal sculpture on the overgrown island turned silver-gold in the cool spring sunshine.

  ‘Cheers for coming with me,’ I said to her as we sipped our juices. My whole arm buzzed, hot and tender, but the joy rose up, pure and clear, every time I thought of the half-finished design hidden under the gauze. I was tempted to whip out my ice cubes and press them on my arm. ‘I did it, E! I finally did it.’

  ‘Yeah, you did good,’ she said. ‘And he wants you to design for him: result!’ Then, after a pause, ‘I’m kinda jealous.’

  ‘I knew it, you do want one!’ I crowed, though it wouldn’t really go with her look. ‘Hey, I could draw something, just for you …’

  ‘Not that.’ She was serious now, looking down her straw and playing with her drink.

  ‘Eden, what?’ I looked over at her, feeling my smile slipping away.

  My best friend, the one who had it all: looks, brains and confidence. We didn’t match, me and Eden. We started the same and grew up different. Eden was tall and blonde and model-perfect. I was short and skinny and pale, with added colour and piercing. My mum thought I was a goth. I’d been called worse.

  It didn’t matter that Eden and I were mismatched: we just got each other. We knew each other so well: the big stuff and the small. I knew her favourite food (sticky to
ffee pudding, but always with ice cream, never custard) and why she didn’t like spiders (haunted by an incident at Charlotte’s party when we were ten) and what she’d choose from the sale rail (anything blue, to match her eyes). We understood each other; we made each other laugh. That was all. That was everything.

  Till now.

  Now I had no idea what she meant. ‘You? Jealous?’

  ‘Yeah, of you. Marching in there with a picture you drew, knowing you’ll never regret it.’ She still didn’t meet my eye. ‘You’re so brave. And strong. Even after what happened. Especially then. Knowing what you want and who you are.’

  I stared at her, astonished. ‘So do you!’

  ‘No. That’s where you’re wrong. I only have negatives. Minus wishes.’

  ‘E, what are you on about?’ I asked gently, leaning in and wincing as my shirt caught on the dressing.

  ‘I only know what I don’t want. I want Iona to get off my case and stop being a bitch. I don’t want to mess up the exams. I don’t want to disappoint Mum and Dad any more. I want them to stop looking at me like I’m a freak who ate their perfect little girl … But if you ask me what I actually want, I haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘That’s not true—’ I started, but she hadn’t finished.

  ‘You’ve got your mum who loves you: a lot. Your running that you love: a lot. You want to go to art school: a lot. You will, because you’re talented: a lot. You worked at getting better: a lot. You wanted this tattoo: a lot. I bet you know exactly what your next hair colour will be too, because you’ve thought about it: a lot.’

  I sat back, feeling got at, smoothing away a tendril of dyed red hair. ‘So what are you saying, E? Is my hair colour a big deal now?’

  ‘Not just that, no. But if you add it all up, it’s a life. I’m drifting along, trying to please people, but it’s like I’m a shadow, Jess. You’re a proper person, and I’m just … nothing.’

  I stared at her, shocked. Then I got up and went around the table and pulled her up, made her stand. I grabbed her and hugged her hard. ‘Don’t you say that, Eden Holby. You’re not nothing. No one thinks that and you shouldn’t neither. You’re my best friend and you seem pretty proper to me, all right? Ouch!’

  She was hugging me back and it banged my tattoo, and then we were both laughing, even though I could see her eyes shining.

  Chapter Seven

  10.10 a.m.

  I leave school in a daze and go home with the memories swimming through my mind. I find the next three steps along the way:

  1. Talk to Mum

  2. Talk to the police

  3. Talk to Eden’s folks

  This keeps me together till my key’s in the door. Then here, in my hallway, I feel safe. Everything looks as it should: worn wooden floor, yellow walls, my running coat hanging limply on the hooks next to Mum’s smart jacket. I peek into the kitchen and through to the living room. It’s calm and tidy. I hear the kitchen clock ticking and notice a curl of steam above the kettle. Fluff is dozing in a patch of sunshine, and only one ear twitches when I shout, ‘Hello? Mum?’ I hate to admit it, but my cat is getting old: twelve years since I chose that stupid name for him.

  ‘Mum?’

  I can hear the burble of Mum’s voice in her office above me. Either she’s got a client in there or she’s on the phone.

  She’s a coach, not a counsellor she always says, even though no one else knows the difference. She used to cut hair and listen. Then she retrained, and now the listening pays better, I think. People pay to talk to her. It must help cos they usually come back. Half her work is corporate, coaching business types to greater success, or maybe just helping them accept there’s no escape from their boring dead-end jobs. The other half is for charities, like down at the women’s shelter. I can tell which kind of day it is by what she’s wearing: lipstick and a dark suit, power jewellery; or faded jeans, no make-up and an unthreatening cardie.

  I don’t mind: it seems like an OK job to do. It pays the bills, helped by what Dad sends. I just hate it when we’re talking and she forgets I’m her daughter, not a client, keeps asking those positive questions – ‘How do you want it to be? What do you want to achieve?’ – as if everything can be solved through wishful bloody thinking.

  She and I both know that’s not always true.

  On the plus side, she listens well. It’s what she’s trained to do. Also, she’s never minded about the ever-changing hair colour. She made me explain myself, and then told me which hair dye would hold best.

  And maybe it’s easier, just me and her. She split up from Dad when I was three, came out as a lesbian not long after. That’s so not a big deal in our town. Anyway, I don’t remember anything different.

  I go see Dad most half-terms and two weeks each summer. He married Rachel ages ago and they’ve got the twins. Hope and Esther are five years old and never stop talking or moving unless they’re actually asleep. I love them. I love being a big sister, even though I suspect they see me more like a cousin. Remembering Eden and Iona’s fights, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

  I love Dad and Rachel’s cramped London flat too – in a dark redbrick building with white plasterwork like icing around the door and windows – full of life and colour and mess and noise. I love the streets near their house, full of people no matter what time of day it is. I love that you could do almost anything and no one would bat an eyelid. If I ran naked down a street in London, it’d be like chucking a pebble into the Thames: gone in a second. If I did that here, it would be around school in five minutes and the rumours would stick till the day I died.

  But I also love leaving London. Coming home. Here, to my house, to my room, where everything stays where I leave it. To Mum. To Fluff. To my art. To the running club. To Eden.

  I go upstairs. I can hear Mum’s voice speaking softly now, so I can’t make out the words. I tiptoe closer to her door. Her voice gets clearer. It’s not a work call. She’s talking about Eden.

  ‘… Yes, since last night. The police are on their way here right now. We’re next on the list. Yes … Claire rang here just after Jess left. God knows what she’s thinking. Going through hell again: the police, the waiting. That poor woman. It beggars belief. Why do these things happen …?’

  There’s a pause. Who’s at the other end? Must be Steph, her girlfriend.

  ‘I know, I know. You’re right … Yes, please. I’m going to need the company. Just let me check with Jess first.’

  I hear the warmth in her voice. I know I’m the reason Steph hasn’t moved in yet, when they’ve been together four years. So far I’ve not done anything about it. One day soon I will. I like Steph: it’s not that. I didn’t want to give up me and Mum, just us, together. Not this year.

  ‘No, you’re right. Thanks. Poor Jess. It brings it all back … Jess.’

  I freeze. I shouldn’t be listening, but I can’t seem to move.

  ‘… Still feel so bad. It’s just …’ Her voice is thick with held-back tears. It moves to a higher pitch. ‘I know I couldn’t have stopped it. That it’s not my fault. Everyone tells me that. But I’m her mum. She’s still only fifteen: I should be able to keep her safe.’

  I can’t bear to hear this. I creep back to my room and yell, ‘Mum!’ even louder before slamming my bedroom door really hard.

  She comes out and I meet her at the top of the stairs. It’s a cardigan-and-jeans day, and her hair’s in a loose knot with a pencil stuck through it, streaked blonde-ish strands around her face. She looks tired and her eyes are watery. She opens her arms to me and I throw myself into them. She’s my mum, the safe place, the contact I can handle.

  ‘Oh, Jess.’ She strokes my hair. ‘Was it awful?’

  I nod into the softness of her grey cardigan, breathing in the comfort of her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I can’t believe it either. And you saw her just last night, right? You know the police need to talk to you? They’re on their way here right now.’

  ‘I know. Oh, Mum.’<
br />
  She pulls back and wipes my cheek with her thumb. ‘It’s going to be OK. You can do this. I’ll be here with you the whole time.’

  I nod.

  ‘What did school say? Let’s go down, I’ll make us some tea.’

  ‘Dunno,’ I tell her as we go downstairs. ‘They’re being weird about it.’

  ‘What do you mean, love?’ She presses the button and the kettle starts boiling, steaming away and fidgeting on its base. She lifts down the teapot, takes off its lid.

  ‘Like they know something I don’t. There was some text that Eden sent her mum last night, and no one will talk about it.’ I sit down at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. The pills are working: the headache’s faded to a dull throb.

  ‘You’ve tried ringing her?’ She goes to the fridge and gets out a bottle of milk.

  ‘All the time. And texting. I think something’s happened.’

  I look up in time to see Mum tense up. She’s reaching the mugs down from the shelf and she pauses halfway. ‘What about that boy? Has anyone talked to him?’ She busies herself with the boxes of tea – about ten different kinds jammed on top of the microwave – and I can see the tension in her jaw, clenching tight when the words are bitten out. ‘I know something happened last weekend. You weren’t yourself, last Sunday, Monday. What happened, Jess? What did he do?’

  ‘Mum!’ I don’t believe it. ‘That boy? You mean Liam? He’s my friend.’ That word does nothing to sum up what he is to me, but my anger saves me from the awkwardness. I use it to counterattack. ‘You know Liam. You let him sleep here, under your roof. You weren’t jumping to conclusions then!’