Whatever Happened to Vicky Hope's Back Up Man?

by Laura Kemp

  Vicky’s house, Roath, Cardiff, November 2000

  Vicky hears banging at the door and curses her hand for jumping.

  The eyeliner flick she’s been practising looks like it’s been done by a toddler with a crayon, she thinks, as the knocking comes again. God, it’s like the filling in the Pulp and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? sandwich of sound going on between the music in her bedroom and the shit telly Mum and Dad are watching downstairs. The walls are so thin in this stupid house. Sometimes she hears them doing it and it’s the most revolting thing ever.

  She throws her handheld mirror and Rimmel liquid eyeliner on to her faded and bobbly pony duvet, which dates from her ninth birthday when she was into horses, but it’s the softest thing and it smells safe.

  She holds her breath, irritated, ignoring the rumble in her stomach: she pretended she wasn’t hungry at tea because she felt humongous in netball today. Isn’t someone going to answer it? Checking her Nokia for the time, she refuses to budge because it’s late and it won’t be for her. It never is, mind. Probably one of Gavin’s mates: she’ll know if she starts gagging on a waft of CK One.

  Gav thunders down the stairs. Vicky waiting, she watches the red wax rise and fall dreamily inside her purple lava lamp. If it’s Dylan, his fit friend, she’ll go and get a bag of crisps so she can have a perv – he’s worth breaking the diet for.

  He’s clearly out of her league but no harm in window-shopping, like.

  Thank God I haven’t got my pyjamas on yet, she thinks, pulling at a fraying thread on her ripped combats. She fluffs her fringe just in case and strains her ears, craning her neck towards the crack in her door.

  ‘Shit… Mum,’ Gav says, piquing Vicky’s interest. Nothing exciting happens round here.

  ‘Fetch your sister,’ Mum says.

  Her heart stops. She leaps off the bed, checks her nose for whiteheads – all clear – and considers whether to change out of her pink Hello Kitty T-shirt. It’s ironic, obviously, but will this visitor get it?

  ‘Victoria!’ her mum calls.

  Too late to do anything, she thinks, sucking in her stomach, although why she bothers she doesn’t know because she still feels so fat. If she doesn’t go now, it’ll look like she’s made an effort and that’d be tragic.

  At the top of the landing, she sees Mum’s arm guiding someone’s back through the hall. ‘You poor dab.’ Her voice trails into the kitchen and Vicky follows the coos of concern.

  ‘Your boyfriend’s here,’ Gav says, sarkily, crossing her on the stairs, still with one of his dumbbells in his hand, completely uninterested now that it’s nothing to do with him.

  ‘Mikey? He’s not my boyfriend,’ she says, giving him evils, trying to cover up that he's here so late, before chucking him a ‘dickhead’.

  She swings round the banister, catching Dad, who is hovering by the lounge door in one of his hideous nylon golf shirts to see if it’s men’s business. ‘Give me a shout if you need me, bun,’ he says.

  For God’s sake, Dad, she thinks, rolling her eyes at his brown bank manager hair and leathery face, is it really appropriate to call Mum by her pet name ‘bunny’ when something’s clearly up? What’s wrong with calling her Mo? He’s so embarrassing.

  ‘Mum? Mikey?’ Vicky says as she breaks into a trot, catching her right arm on the door frame. ‘Ow,’ she says, rubbing herself. Then, ‘Oh, Mike…’

  He looks up from where he’s sat on one of the steel breakfast bar stools and he’s nursing a bad hand. It looks all mangled, bits of skin are hanging off and it’s grazed. His eyes are red and he’s sniffing into the sleeve of his flimsy army jacket. Her stomach flips at his injuries and because he looks not normal. It’s weird him being here like this. Dad would never let any old boy come calling for her in the house at this time of night. Not that that has ever happened, but she just knows he’d make up some humiliating excuse at the door, just to shame her, like she was playing with her toys.

  But then Mikey isn’t a boy – he’s her best friend. Somehow Dad can tell the difference, or more likely Mum has explained it to him that members of the opposite sex can be friends. Like, der, Dad.

  ‘Let me take your coat off, love,’ Mum says softly and she helps him jiggle out of it with shared winces. ‘Brave thing,’ she says, ruffling his hair which is all messy like Nicky Wire from the Manic Street Preachers. Amazing how Mikey lets her do that.

  He looks really skinny, even more so than before. His chest has sort of caved in.

  ‘Can you get me the first aid kit, Victoria?’

  ‘What’s happened, Mikey?’ she says, ignoring Mum. She thinks about giving him a giant cwtch of a hug but she’s a bit stunned. If anyone's hurt him, she swears she's going to kill them. Or go so mad at them or whatever.

  ‘I need the Savlon, cotton wool and bandages, Victoria.’

  She chews a nail and nods, feeling stressed and sick because there might be blood and Mikey still hasn't said anything.

  ‘Where is it?’ she asks, frightened.

  Mum keeps her eyes on Mikey as she says ‘Far right top cupboard, bottom shelf, next to the emergency torch and batteries.’

  She’s doing her nothing-to-worry-about smile which makes the tip of her nose move. That really gets on Vicky’s nerves, the way the tip of her nose moves. That’s one of her greatest fears, that she’ll turn into her mum, along with her habit of wearing sad comfy tracksuit bottoms which save her clothes and crap middle-aged newsreader hair. Then she feels bad because Mum is being really kind and she’s like a second mother to Mikey. His is weird and mental, a bit OCD. But she doesn’t bake cakes or fuss about uniform or drive him anywhere or give him lectures. She doesn’t even care that he goes into Queen Street on a Saturday to man the anti-vivisection campaign stall without a coat.

  Vicky unzips the kit and lays it down next to her mother. Then she slips onto the stool next to Mikey. He smells of fried food and it makes her gulp. It’s not often she feels lucky. Most of the time she hates everything about this family: the way Mum and Dad always sit next to each other on the settee holding hands while they watch the telly. When she catches them slow-dancing in the kitchen to Steve Wright’s Sunday Love Songs. Or when Dad turns up Simply Red in the car and gives Mum that look. That every day she knows what they’re having for tea: fish on a Friday, Dad’s curry on a Saturday, Monday is rissoles from Sunday’s roast and tonight was Mum’s spag bol. No one ever takes her vegetarianism seriously. They’re so institutionalized, she thinks. Then she feels terrible when Mum asks if Mikey’s eaten and he shakes his head.

  ‘I sort of missed tea,’ he says, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

  ‘Got plenty here for you,’ Mum says. ‘Micro the Tupperware in the fridge, Victoria. And grate some cheese for on top.’

  Vicky does as she’s told without a word, knowing the leftovers were for Nanna Tupperware, that's how they distinguish her from their other Nanna, which Mum takes her every Wednesday when she helps her get her large-print books at the library.

  She sees her give him a lovely warm smile and, for a second, Vicky feels really bad that she can be a bit harsh on Mum.

  ‘My God, you’re freezing, Michael,’ she says, cleaning the cuts. It’s his left hand, he’s one of those cool left-handed people who can write upside down, and there’s like a gross gouged bit on his ring finger. He’ll be made up that he can get out of PE. ‘We’ll warm you up, love.’

  How come Mum hasn’t asked him what’s happened? If Vicky walked in like that she’d get an interrogation.

  The beep goes, so Vicky pops the bowl in front of him and gets him an apple juice. She knows for a fact there’s only ever corner shop fizzy pop at his, which at first she thought was great but that was before she started counting calories.

  Mum quickly safety pins the bandage so he can eat.

  ‘There we are, all done. Tuck in,’ she says, tidying up. Somehow, she knows to give him space, that he’ll talk when he’s ready. Vicky watches him eat. He’s like a dog
, the way he shovels it in just in case someone else tries to nick it off him. Her appetite is gone now – she still feels a bit funny, like she’s seeing this as a child, not really getting what’s going on. But Mikey is getting his colour back. Vicky feels a flush of relief: she didn’t like him looking all grey and scared. It worried her in a way she can’t explain.

  ‘Lush, Mrs. H,’ he says, relaxing a bit, letting Mum fuss over him. ‘I needed that.’

  Mikey lets Vicky in then, meeting her eyes with a smile. And just like that, like a snap of the fingers, it’s the two of them again, like normal as Mum goes back to tidying up.

  He holds up his hand which looks part-mummy part-boxer.

  ‘Got caught in The Matrix,’ he says, grinning.

  It’s his favourite film – computer hacker doing bendy shit in an alternative reality. Vicky likes it too but mainly because she really fancies Keanu Reeves.

  ‘You defo need to get one of those long coats,’ she says, with a grin, relieved to get back the Mikey she recognizes. ‘You’d look proper awesome.’

  ‘I’d look a goth twat, I would,’ he says, thinking it’s out of Mum’s earshot but she hears everything. Although she doesn't flinch tonight because of the situation.

  ‘A cybergoth twat.’ Vicky swears, feeling bolder.

  They both laugh at that. Then Mikey looks tired all of a sudden. He takes a wobbly breath. Vicky is really glad Mum is still in the room because she’s not sure she can cope with hearing what’s coming by herself.

  His eyes dart from his hand to a bit of fluff on his jumper. Then he starts talking quietly. ‘So… Cardiff were losing and Dad was pissed up, listening to it on the radio and he was getting his hair off. I was just ignoring him, playing Grand Theft Auto, and he started on me. Asked why I didn’t give a fucking shit.’

  He glances up at Mum. Vicky feels a bubbling up of hatred for his dad, talking to him like that.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs. Hope, ’scuse my French. So, he kept on, asking what was wrong with me, was I a poof and all that, not liking sport. The usual. Then Mam brought in tea but I didn’t see her because I thought she was doing one of her office cleaning jobs and I told Dad to eff off and he went mad that she’d heard me swearing. I lost it then.’

  Dropping his chin, his eyelashes mask his eyes. All she wants to do is to protect him, Vicky thinks.

  ‘I punched him,’ he murmurs.

  ‘You punched your dad?’ Vicky says, horrified by the violence because she’s never seen anything like that apart from on the telly. ‘Was he hurt? Did he hit you back? What did your mam do?’

  ‘It was a crap punch, he moved at the last minute, I got his shoulder, didn’t actually hurt him. I did my hand in punching the brick wall outside when I’d legged it. He tried to take a swing but Mam got in the way with the ketchup and stopped him.’

  ‘Your Mam? But she’s only five foot!’ The image of Bernadette breaking them up takes the wind out of her angry sails.

  ‘Irish blood,’ he says, shrugging.

  ‘What about Orla?’ Mum says, from over her shoulder, pausing as she wipes her prized worktop for the millionth time today. Mikey’s little sister is the sweetest thing, she’s part of the package, always hanging out with them. My God, if she'd been there…

  ‘She’d gone over to a friend’s after school. Wasn’t back yet.’

  Vicky sees Mum’s shoulders drop with relief and feels it too.

  ‘But that must’ve been ages ago. Where’ve you been?’ Vicky says because it’s arctic out there and he only lives ten minutes away.

  ‘Just about. The park, walked round the lake for a bit.’

  Mum switches off the main kitchen light so the room goes cosy from the fancy spotlights which sit under the wall cabinets.

  ‘Right, well I’ll ring your mother, tell her you’re here. You can stay tonight. Better to let the dust settle.’ She says it like fact and Mikey doesn’t even argue, he just nods. It’s no biggie - him and Orla have stayed over a few times before when things have been heavy at home.

  ‘Victoria, go and get some of Gavin’s clothes, please. Then give me your uniform, Michael, and I’ll wash it for the morning.’

  She picks up the cordless phone from the side and calls to Dad in the lounge. ‘Can you come and help me make the bed, Bob?’ she says.

  This is just an excuse to fill him in – the spare room is always ready. It’s really confusing seeing Mum take charge of all of this. Dad’s the one who carves the meat and makes the official complaints. Usually Mum is all ‘I’ll have to ask my husband’, but tonight she’s wearing the trousers. Really bad saggy-kneed trousers. It’s troubling and unnerving because Mum can flap a bit. Like when the potatoes boil over, she acts like it’s a disaster, as if the kitchen’s going to get flooded. So why is she mega-calm now?

  Then Vicky gets it: Mum is scared, because this is a proper emergency, but she doesn’t want Mikey to know it. Vicky feels really worried now – as if she’s crossed a line into adulthood. She’d rather not know that Mum is concerned because if she is then it must be really bad. Vicky scrambles around in her head for something to say. Food. That’s the best comfort. So she goes with that.

  ‘You know where everything is,’ she says to Mikey, pointing at the treats cupboard. ‘There’s cake, Mum’s done a Delia thing. And stick the kettle on. We can go up to my room, listen to “Common People” if you like. Or watch a Buffy or an X-Files before bed.’

  Hiding it behind a big smile, she can’t stand the thought of him sitting there alone while the rest of the house bustles around, fixing things and making him feel safe. He’ll be thinking how different his house is to this, she can see it in his eyes. They’re all watery and he’s swallowing hard too. And she feels so desperately sorry for him, because what’s the solution? He can’t move in here because he’s only fourteen. And he’d never leave his sister or his mam.

  She wants to save him, but how? Then she feels helpless and ashamed that her problems revolve around deciding what ringtone to have, whether she can afford some new face scrub at the Body Shop when she goes into Cardiff with Katherine on Saturday and working out if there’s any way she can reconcile her hatred of NSync with her thing for Justin Timberlake.

  Vicky doesn’t want to leave Mikey by himself. Ever.

  But still she hops down from her stool, gives him a quick hug then dashes out of the room.

  Because she doesn’t want him to see her cry.

  Chapter Three

  K

  Pontcanna, Cardiff

  This was supposed to be one of those precious mother and daughter moments, Kate thought as she prepared to try on her eighth wedding dress.

  But not even the soft lighting, chaise longues and beautiful fabrics could mask that what was happening today was happening to the woman her mum wanted her to be: what had been happening to her her entire life.

  Behind the curtain, she couldn’t hide from the reflection of her gaunt face, which was momentarily permitted to show her strain. Her blue eyes in public were bright and inquisitive, but here, in private, they were brittle, like glass, owing to her guilt, shame, sorrow and regret at the life she’d formerly led as Kat.

  Her body, in precise white pants and matching strapless bra, never lied: taut, muscly and lean, it was punished daily in a finely tuned exercise regime which trained her mind to stay focused rather than wander into the darkness.

  Here, she teetered on the edge, knowing it would take one step to plummet into the mess which was always threatening. Do not go there, she warned herself, forcing her ears to tune into the classical bridal compilation CD which played in the background.

  Smoothing her straightened brunette long bob, Kate took a deep breath and stepped into the gown, which this time, thank God, wasn’t so fussy. How apt, she thought, hearing her mother Pam’s voice in her head telling her sharply ‘Don’t make a fuss.’

  Had she followed The Plan, then it would’ve been a different story. Her mother would’ve been shouting her success fo
r all to hear. Now it was about containing the failure, putting on a brave face, pretending nothing had happened even though her ‘mistake’ was right in front of them, day in, day out. Nobody but immediate family knew. And that was how it would stay, right, girls?

  That was why Kate was in a designer boutique in Pontcanna across town from the family home, sticking to the formula her mother had devised to save them. Why didn’t she rail against her? her heart whispered: her head answered that she’d tried it before and look where it had ended up. It was easier to submit: easier to do what was expected of her once more. To be the princess.

  Yet Kate felt like a mannequin: stiff, one-dimensional and frozen. How could people not see she was a screaming shambles inside? Luckily for her, as Mum said, people judge on appearances and ‘you have it in spades, darling’; as close to a complement her tiger mother could make.

  ‘God knows why she’s left it to the last minute to choose a dress!’

  Her mum was on the phone to Kate’s big sister, sorting out childcare arrangements for Charlotte’s seven-year-old son Griff, but not letting an opportunity go to hiss a barbed sneer. Good old Charlie, who’d saved her when she needed her, would be trying to stick up for her, Kate knew, telling Mum that five months is plenty of time to get one fitted. Older than Kate by six years, she had a different relationship with Mum – she was more her own woman, permitted to be because she’d never let herself down.

  ‘Why doesn’t Katherine listen to me? It’ll be a last-minute panic job as usual with her.’

  Tears wouldn’t come to Kate: she was trained enough to internalize the blows. Instead, she absorbed that which went unsaid: if you swim against the tide, disobey the rules, you will muck it up, just as you did before. And who sorted it out for you last time?

  ‘Need a hand in there?’ the assistant asked, hovering at the damask divide.

  ‘Not just yet,’ Kate said, as the sleek ivory dress sat on her hips. ‘I’ll give you a shout when I do.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll get some accessories, so you can see the whole package.’