'Listen,' I say, 'take some time off. You must have stacks of holiday saved up still. I’ll tell Martin for you. You need to recuperate.'
'I think I will,' Cynthia says slowly. 'More holiday is always good. And I need to think about things.'
I don’t even have time to answer before a fresh wave of shock rises up out of nowhere.
'I don’t know what I’ve been doing these last few weeks,' she says despairingly. 'I don’t know who I’ve been. I’ve been so insane and careless and insensitive. And look at what I’m wearing.'
She looks down at her anorexic skirt and tube-top.
'I don’t wear this sort of thing. I would never wear this sort of thing,' she says, half amazed. 'I feel cheap and exposed and…cold.'
I almost want to laugh at that, but I don’t.
'I don’t want to go back to being what I was,' she continues, 'but I don’t want to be this person either. I need to…figure out some sort of balance.'
Beth comes back in.
'He’ll be here a.s.a.p.,' she reports.
Which is good because, selfish as it may be, I can’t wait for her to leave.
**
'It’s all my fault,' I sob as soon as the door closes behind her.
Beth turns from the door and comes back to me. 'It’s not your fault,' she says firmly. 'It isn’t anyone’s fault except that bastard’s.'
A small part of my brain registers that Beth’s never used that word before, but the rest of it has more important things to think about.
'I’m the one who told her to go out and be wild,' I say in despair. 'I’m the one who didn’t tell her to slow down when I should’ve done. I’m the one who laughed at Will for being cautious. If I hadn’t encouraged her in the first place, this would never have happened.'
I knew she was going too far. I thought it and I could have said it so many times.
I could have gone with her tonight. I shouldn't have let her go alone.
I should have…
Beth crouches down beside me.
'Mel, she had a classic reaction,' she says gently. 'Her world was suddenly turned upside down and she responded by going off the rails. It happens and she would have done it with or without you. Blaming yourself will change nothing.'
What if she hadn't been able to get away? What if she'd drunk more, or he'd put something in her drink? What if he'd knocked her out, or tied her up? What if he'd chased after her?
What if he'd had a knife, or a gun? What if she was lying in that alley right now, bleeding?
What if she was dead?
'I should still do it,' I sob. 'I should have kept out of it, but instead I interfered. The way I always do. Why do I do that?'
'I don’t know,' Beth says, patting my shoulder. 'You need to figure that out for yourself.'
Since when am I any good at figuring out what I should do.
'It doesn’t matter,' I say, suddenly resolute. 'As of this moment, I am never interfering again. No matter what. It’s over.'
And I absolutely definitely mean that.
Chapter 20
God only knows why I agreed to visit my parents this weekend. In fact, I don’t even know why I was invited. I can only assume that they get some weird, perverse pleasure out of reminding themselves what a failure their elder daughter is.
On the way, I nearly turned back each time I changed buses. In fact, I nearly got off one and went home. My mind, needless to say, is fixed on Cynthia. I called her this morning and she sounded perfectly fine. More like the old Cynthia than the new. But still, all I can think about is what might have happened. Because of me.
Mother Nature has decided to mock me by making this day entirely devoid of all things one naturally associates with England. Rain. Mud. Clouds. Sheep – although admittedly they’re fairly rare in the back gardens of Greater London. Umbrellas then. Wellington boots. I’m in a crappy mood and I expect weather to match it, not this sunshine extravaganza.
As a result of this I’m expected to sit on damp blankets in the garden, eating off a flimsy paper plate that’s determined to tip all my food onto the floor, and feel fat, ugly and clumsy next to Brittany – who looks like a sodding Flower Fairy. Even James is quiet and clean for once.
I’ve been here one hour. That’s one. And already we’ve touched on my non-existent career, my foolishness in going to university and my apparently permanent place on the highest, most dusty shelf in the warehouse where men choose wives. Still, I suppose it could be worse.
I don't know how, but I'm sure it could be.
'Pass the potato salad, please,' is my mum’s only response to this process of ritual humiliation. Apparently God infinitely prefers sacrifices of human self-esteem to the more traditional goat.
'There are five double bedrooms,' Brittany says, 'two bathrooms, a charming balcony and a very superior garden.'
The house that she and Phillip are buying in Cornwall. The one that is no doubt just down the road from the one I’ve tried to forget that my parents are buying. When they casually abandon me and all my childhood memories. From when they actually liked me.
At least, I used to think they did. Now I'm not so sure.
'Have you found a house yet?' I ask dully.
'Looking, my girl, looking,' my dad says, rubbing his bulging stomach. Can't get enough of Brittany's perfect cooking. 'Can’t rush these things. Very important to find the right house if you’re buying. Got to add value while you're there. Not that you’ve ever had to do that, have you?'
'No,' I say dutifully.
'No,' Dad repeats, satisfied. 'And most likely never will. Not much point in taking on a mortgage for a proper house if you don’t have a family to put in it, is there? Or a husband with a secure income. No, I predict you’ll just stay where you are. Keep on living with Susan, two old maids together. Maybe you could adopt a couple of cats.'
'Susan moved to New York,' I say shortly. 'I live with Beth now. And I’m allergic to cats.'
'Since when?' he demands.
'Since my entire life.'
We cat-sat for Great Aunt Marion when I was eight. My eyes puffed up so much I could hardly see. You’d think a father would remember that.
'Don’t be ridiculous, girl. You were fine when we took care of Marion’s cats.'
You’d be wrong.
I give up. What’s the point? They haven’t even moved yet and already they’ve forgotten me. He can recite the play list from Brittany’s wedding, but he can’t remember me wheezing so much I almost lost consciousness. Way to make you feel loved.
'Don’t want to end up in some ramshackle old place in a bad neighbourhood,' Dad says, returning to his earlier train of thought with no warning. 'We’ll be staying there the rest of our lives. No reason to come back here.'
Whoever said blood is thicker than water never met my family.
'That reminds me,' Dad says, helping himself to more chicken drumsticks. 'George MacKensie’s going to call you.'
Two questions spring to mind. One, how precisely was he reminded of that? Two, who is this person?
'Who’s George MacKensie?' I ask warily.
'No need to say it like that,' Brittany says reproachfully, pausing in feeding James. 'He’s a delightful man.'
Brittany always, always makes me feel like I’m some ugly kid she’s stuck looking after. I am not a child. It’s enough to make me want to tip the bowl of potato salad over her head.
'The single one,' Dad booms, in case the people three roads over were unclear on that point. 'The son of that friend of mine from the gardening club.'
'Undertaker Guy?' I ask in disbelief. They can’t be serious. This is not My Girl, I am not dating a man who voluntarily works with corpses.
'It’s a very respectable profession,' Brittany says, looking innocently at me.
She’s loving this. Every single minute of it. So smug, like she’s a better person than me because she got a doctor to sign on the dotted line. It’s not fair. I mean, why did he have to be a surgeon?
Why couldn’t he at least have been a sodding gynaecologist or something?
'I’m sure it is,' I mutter.
'There’s no need for that tone.'
She’s going to need a stretcher in a minute if she doesn’t shut her trap.
'She always was ungrateful…'
'…only trying to help...'
'…never thought I’d see one of my girls left on the shelf...'
'…throwing it back in our faces…'
'…should’ve married that nice Alan Marshall, but no…'
'…no wonder he dumped her…'
'…shame on the family...'
The voices meld into one big ocean of noise and suddenly something snaps.
'Shut up!' I scream at the top of my lungs.
The ocean of noise dries up. Or possibly freezes over. Either way, it’s gone. Dad and Brittany stare at me in shock.
'If you say one more word,' I shout, consciously trying to make the people three roads away clear on what’s going on, 'I will strangle you with my bare hands. I’ve had it, I can’t take anymore.'
I turn to Dad, fairly breathing fire. God, I feel good.
'Dad,' I say, 'I will not go out with an undertaker. Ever. Alan Marshall cheated on me with two other girls at the same time, one of whom was my best friend. I got great A-levels and got into a damn good university and you should have been proud of me for it. I only picked the subject I did to try and prove to you that you were wrong about how pathetic I am. And the reason I have such trouble finding a decent boyfriend is because you convinced me that I wasn’t worth one.'
I take a deep breath.
'And you’re right, I am a failure. I flunked my degree, I have no career, I have no boyfriend and I will probably never own a house with charming pine cupboards. I know it, I accept it, you don’t have to keep telling me. I am twenty-five years old and that must mean that the part of my life where I could actually achieve something is already over, even though I might well live another sixty years or even more.'
Tears start threatening to choke me.
'But none of that should ever matter to you, because once you sell this house and send my memories to the tip, you can just pretend that you only have one daughter.'
My dad stares at me like I’m some random nut case who’s just accosted him on the street. I ignore him and turn to Brittany.
'Brittany,' I say, feeling strangely calm and in control, 'is there any way you could be less of a smug, stuck-up bitch? You have exactly what you wanted and exactly what Dad wanted for you and instead of just enjoying it, so I can be happy for you, you have to torment me every chance you get because I don’t have it too.'
Adrenaline is flowing so fast I barely know what I’m saying anymore.
'I freely confess to being jealous as hell that you’re in love, that you live in a nice house, that you don’t have to spend forty hours a week bored out of your mind so you can afford to eat and knock a few pence off your student loan. Your life is perfect, you achieved your dream and you made Dad proud. I already have to live with the fact that I’ve done none of those things, so stop trying to make me feel worse.'
Brittany isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at the grass. James starts to whimper, but she doesn't move. I turn to Mum. She looks at me, quiet and sad.
'Mum,' I say, suddenly wanting to cry, 'I love you and I don’t want you to move. But I want you to stop acting like your opinion doesn’t matter. I’d almost rather have you criticising me like these two than always staying out of it.'
Then I get to my feet and stumble back up the garden to the house and out the front door.
**
I make it about a hundred yards up the road before I realise that I don’t have my bag. I left it in the hall and I literally can’t survive without it. No money equals no phone, no water, no electricity and finally, no home. Although I guess Will wouldn’t allow me to starve.
I have no choice but to turn around and go back.
When I reach the door, I bend down and get the spare key from under the irritating gnome holding a sign saying ‘Jesus is watching’. I hope Jesus is really enjoying the show. My life, a divine soap opera.
I open the door as quietly as I can, meaning to grab my bag and get out again. Instead I find my mother standing at the end of the hall. She holds my bag out to me.
'I saw that you’d left it,' she says, suddenly small and frail, but no longer ghost-like. 'I knew you’d come back for it.'
I walk up to her and take it.
'I’d rather come back for a family who loves me,' I say, my voice cracking.
She hugs me. Holds me the way she used to do when I was still a little girl. Strokes my hair.
'I do,' she whispers. 'Depend upon it, I do.'
A tear falls onto her dress. I pull away.
'I know,' I say, wiping away another one. 'But I want my whole family to love me. Or at least, like me. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask.'
And I leave that house, glancing back once to see my mother at the door, watching me walk away.
**
A bunch of yellow roses is at the door. Then they’re pulled down and Will appears attached to them.
'Congratulations,' he says, handing them to me. 'These are for you, in honour of this momentous occasion. I can’t believe you really said what you said you said.'
I take a deep breath with my nose buried in my flowers. Heavenly. There’s nothing worse than a flower without a scent.
'Neither can I,' I say, when I look up from them. 'I think I was possessed or something. I was worried about Cynthia and I just…snapped.'
'How is Cynthia?' Will asks, heading to the kitchen in search of a vase.
'She’s fine,' I say, trying to think yellow rose thoughts instead of thistle ones. 'She seems stronger, if anything. It’s me that’s not. I just keep thinking about what might have happened.'
Will abandons the search, after checking every cupboard, and starts filling an empty milk bottle with water. He doesn’t respond.
'You want to say it, don’t you?' I ask, watching him.
'Say what?' Will asks, removing the giant kitchen scissors from the wall and bringing them and the milk bottle over to the counter where I’m standing.
'I told you so,' I say, as Will gently takes my roses from me and amputates half the stems.
'I could say that,' he answers, threading the roses into the bottle, 'but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Cynthia’s not hurt, just had a scare.'
'It gets to you when I brush off your advice, doesn’t it?' I say, looking at my roses.
Will shrugs as he throws the cut-offs into the bin.
'If you started taking all my advice and didn’t go with your own instincts when you disagreed with it, you wouldn’t be you anymore,' he says lightly. 'Better you make a few bad choices than stop having a personality. Besides, it’s not like I’m a flawless decision-maker either. You’ve proved me wrong before now.'
'I’ve proved you right a lot more often,' I say.
Will laughs. 'Comes of being older and wiser,' he replies.
'Three years may have made a difference when I was in nappies and you’d already mastered talking,' I retort, 'but it’s nothing now.'
'Nothing’s an exaggeration,' Will amends. 'There’s still a difference between twenty-five and twenty-eight. You’re still young, free and expected to enjoy it. I’m supposed to be providing my parents with a charming daughter-in-law and lots of little brats to carry on the family name. They spent the whole of Sunday drilling that into me.'
A little Will would be just too cute. You don’t understand how cute until you’ve seen his baby pictures. Including ‘Butlin’s Most Beautiful Baby’ three weeks in a row. Oops, forgot, I'm not supposed to mention that.
'You’ve got stacks of time,' I say dismissively. 'That’s the one real advantage of being a man – no ticking biological clock. It would be nice to have a few more years before I have to start worrying about time running out.'
&nbs
p; 'Time won’t run out,' Will says comfortingly. 'Worst comes to worst, you can always be artificially inseminated.'
I’ve always been deeply suspicious of any method of conception that doesn’t involve having sex. It just seems like such a raw deal.
'By who?' I ask, just for the hell of it.
Will shrugs. 'Me?' he suggests.
My emotions are just a tad mixed about that one. I’m torn between ‘what a great idea’, ‘what a disturbing idea’ and ‘I think we’re turning into Will and Grace’. I definitely wouldn’t mind having Debra Messing’s hair.
'Weird idea, isn’t it?' Will says lightly, no doubt in response to what is probably a rather glazed expression on my face. 'Kind of a Will and Grace thing. Without the gay bit, obviously.'
'I was just thinking that,' I say, smiling.
Forget my parents, forget Brittany. Will is my real family.
Chapter 21
Job-hunting has to be the most depressing thing in the world. It’s actually worse than unemployment. Admittedly the novelty of all that free time does wear off after a while, but it does entail certain privileges. Such as, if you have the patriotic(ish) desire to stay up until 5a.m. watching Carry On Camping, you don’t then have to go to work on two hours’ sleep. Or you could go out and paint the town red, obviously. Or green, for that matter. Never quite understood that expression.
Plus, all this self-promotion ritual is crap. You’re supposed to show them how devoted you are to their company and how obviously you’d continue to come bouncing into work like a cross between Tigger and a lobotomised cheerleader, even if your Great Aunt were to die and leave you a hundred million. What a load of crap! I work because I have to, I don’t give a rat’s ass about their company and I only want to work there because it wouldn’t be quite as bad as working for Martin for the rest of my life. Plain, unvarnished truth. And there’s no way that I’m the only one.
But here I am, printing out yet more copies of my CV to send in for jobs I won’t get, that pay nothing and that anyone who’s learned to breathe is overqualified for.
The Dr Pepper Prophecies Page 16
