The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  ‘Thanks, J,’ Rollo says. ‘Always make us feel better. I do know. That you know what it’s like, I mean.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I say, ‘but sort of.’

  Freya grabs my hand. We all troop into the den and Freya pulls out the beanbag that Molly their Labrador used to lie in before she died. It’s still covered in her hairs, which always make me sneeze.

  ‘J?’ She points to it.

  ‘No,’ I reply, pointing back at my nose.

  ‘Ah yes. Doh.’ She flattens herself on it and Rollo, Leon and I sit on the cream sofa. Rollo is resting his feet on the beanbag and Leon and I are squashed up on one half, my elbows squeezing into my ribcage for fear of getting too close. Leon. He’s never resented my presence in their house. Never asked why I’m there. Accepted me all those years ago, when things really started going so wrong with Mother. I find myself desperate to snuggle into him, unsure if this is because I love him, or because he represents everything in Freya’s family that I don’t have in mine. I had wanted a brother, so badly it had hurt. Father had sat me down by the big fireplace in the drawing room when I was six, my hot palm in his. ‘Darling, you know . . . your mother,’ he had said. ‘The timings . . . They are not quite right. She’s going away. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Warm enough?’ asks Rollo. I nod. It’s never cold here. Everything always feels warm; the white fluffy sofas, the light cream carpet, the ornately carved Indian tables, even the marble kitchen surface, which gets more and more cluttered every time I visit. There are still the framed collages, lining the walls: pictures of when Freya and I had first met, up until we were about fourteen and Freya’s mother had died. There’s the photo I love: the one that was taken the day Freya and I first laid eyes on each other. We had been four and hated each other at first sight. I had threatened to cut off her pigtails, secretly pulling at my own short hair, willing it to grow. ‘It’s no good,’ I had heard my father say to Rollo one lunch. ‘You can’t force them to get on.’ And then when things started to unravel with both of our mothers, things changed, our friendship sealed overnight. And then Leon. I can feel him next to me, as Indiana Jones plays in the background. The intake of each breath, the warmth of his arm next to mine. I can’t concentrate on the film. I’m counting the breaths next to me and thinking of the scholarship and our celebratory big night out tomorrow and what I’m going to wear and if we should leave early to avoid the nightclub queue and if I can get my prep done on the train back to school.

  ‘OK, bedtime.’ The film ends, and Rollo heaves up off the sofa and doesn’t look back.

  ‘Night,’ we all shout in unison.

  ‘Me too,’ Freya says and rolls off the beanbag. Leon and I are left to flick through random TV channels. There’s The Word, showing an uncircumcised versus a circumcised penis and it’s too awkward to move and I begin to feel light-headed.

  ‘Right, bed for me,’ Leon says. He musses my hair in an annoying, overly fraternal way and leaves me to curl up on the sofa.

  I watch the news and then a video until three in the morning, until my thoughts settle into sleep. Five hours later, I wake up to a loud cough in my ear.

  ‘Didn’t make it to your room last night?’ Rollo sits on my feet. I want to yelp but manage to hold back.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  With my parents away so often, I have my own room at Freya’s house. It used to be her mother’s dressing room and it’s large and bright and yellow. I love it. It’s full of my books and Freya’s old clothes, boxes of her mother’s jewellery which they couldn’t bear to get rid of: thin gold necklaces, chunky coloured bracelets and feathered earrings, hanging off a large white dressing table mirror. It still smells of old perfume and there’s dust in the corner but it’s mine. It’s about four times smaller than my own bedroom but it makes me feel safe. It makes me not want to go back to the coldness of my own house.

  ‘Pancakes?’ He pats my knee and I smile. ‘Girl after my own heart,’ he laughs.

  However, when Rollo brings me my breakfast, I find the nerves and excitement of the night ahead are all too much, and I am completely unable to eat.

  2014

  The dig is going as planned. If we are on target, we’ll get more private funding, so I’m working the team extra hard. We rise at dawn, when it’s grey and chilly, and work away as the flamingo-pink sun orbs its way over our heads and sinks back into the valley below.

  We take sandwiches with us, wrapped in wax paper and soggy with the heat. I still haven’t eaten much since Toby left. He had stayed two nights until he returned to London.

  ‘Got to file my story,’ he said just before he left, patting his breast pocket where his Dictaphone normally sits.

  ‘Internet?’ I asked.

  He had said nothing about the baby and we had carried on talking as usual, but I could feel his guilt. It was in every attentive movement: the pulling out of chairs, opening doors and noticing when my glass had been empty. And there was the ‘hovering hand’, constantly, near my back. A guilty hand that could never quite bring itself to touch me.

  When I took him to the airport, he had patted my head like a faithful pet.

  ‘Speak soon?’ I said. I had wanted to say a hundred other things but, instead, I had a grin so fixed that it hurt the backs of my eyes.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied. And now, as I chewed at the foamy bread and ham that I brought for my lunch, I still didn’t know whether he had meant it.

  ‘You look tired,’ Jeremy observes as I scrunch up the rest of my wrapping.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say, shielding my eyes.

  ‘You sure? You look thinner, too. How about a drink tonight? I promise we don’t have to go mad like last time,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve got some work to do. But thanks.’

  ‘I’m not going to stop asking you, you know.’ I think of Toby.

  ‘Well. OK, look let me get some stuff done and I’ll see how I feel.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Back to work.’ I hand him a spade. We work hard and, by the end of the day, I’m gasping for a shower. I am sodden with sweat. I clamp down my armpits so Jeremy can’t see the seeping patches under my arms. I wonder why I care. Despite my earlier protestations, we end up in the hotel bar once again, scoffing salted peanuts and drinking ice-cold beers in frosted glasses. It’s just us two and I’ve washed and put on make-up – Mia commented on my face when I passed her in the lobby. I felt self-conscious and wiped my cheeks.

  ‘No, no, you look really nice,’ she said. ‘Just that we don’t dress up much here.’ I feel bad I didn’t ask her to join us.

  Jeremy and I talk until midnight. He laughs and rolls a cigarette and I’m suddenly, painfully, reminded of Leon expertly rolling tobacco, crumbling smooth Moroccan hash into a Rizla, smoothing it down with his butternut-coloured fingers. Leon, who still talked to me, even when things had got to breaking point with Freya, and told me not to worry and that of course it seemed desperate, hopeless – but that it would be OK. And as Jeremy is flicking the flint of his silver lighter, I feel as though I’m about to cry.

  ‘You look sad,’ Jeremy says.

  ‘I’m OK. I’m just . . . thinking about things.’ I turn my head, hoping he’ll shut up.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ He reaches over, cups my chin and I feel so angry with him, so intruded upon, that I find myself pushing his hand onto the table.

  ‘Whoa,’ he says, and I feel even angrier. I want to tell him to stop being so fucking nice and to grow a backbone and just . . . for God’s sake.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘Just having a tricky time at the moment. Toby.’

  ‘Toby?’ He raises his sandy-coloured eyebrows and again, I feel inexplicably annoyed.

  ‘Toby. He’s got someone pregnant.’

  He puckers his mouth into an ‘O’ shape and I nod. His mouth stays in the same position and, although I haven’t smoked since school really, I hold out my hand for his cigarette.

  ‘He’s quite pitiful really.
Would never commit. Poor girl who he’s got pregnant won’t know what’s hit her,’ and, as I say the words, I know how horribly untrue they are but I carry on. ‘He’s so emotionally defunct. He’ll probably scar that poor baby for good. And let’s hope it doesn’t inherit his temper. Or his nose.’

  ‘I thought he was very good-looking.’ Jeremy stubs out his cigarette and starts rolling another. I screw up my face.

  ‘You look seriously ugly like that,’ he laughs. I am so relieved and grateful he hasn’t said something sweet and kind that I punch his arm and laugh. In fact, it’s made me feel so much better that I contemplate kissing him. Later on, though, he doesn’t try. I make a clumsy movement towards his face but he hugs me and goes to his room.

  ‘Bastard,’ I say out loud but at least this time I’m smiling.

  The next day Jeremy comes to see me again with a large pizza box. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to eat with me or anything. But you look like you’re fading away.’ Normally I would be pleased with a comment like this but I’ve begun to worry about how little I have been able to eat since that first email. Every mouthful makes me feel sick. Chewing is too much effort and every time I swallow the food sticks in my chest. ‘Thanks,’ I tell Jeremy, pulling the box from him. He steps back, releasing his hands in surrender. ‘Alright, alright, I get it. You’re either hungry, or you don’t want to talk,’ he laughs. I shut the door in his face and go back to my computer, and still after fifteen days I’m waiting for Freya’s reply.

  1996

  It’s three hours before our celebratory night out. I haven’t eaten lunch and I can just about fit into the black skirt I bought last month. Yes yes yes. We left Rollo after Freya had eaten her pancakes and got the bus all the way to my house. There’s a huge display of lilies on the mantelpiece in the corridor; Amy’s trying to make the house look nice. Then I see she’s left a short note under the big, glass vase: My mother’s sick – had to go see her. Fresh flowers and beds made. A

  ‘Freya, looks like we’re alone tonight. Hooray. Amy’s buggered off. We’ve got the house to ourselves.’

  Amy has been with us for eleven years and now feels at ease to do what she wants. My father wouldn’t notice if she was there or not, as long as his bed is made in the morning. Freya does a little bottom wiggle and I follow suit, feeling immediately foolish. ‘You dick,’ she laughs.

  ‘Deep Forest or Massive Attack?’ she asks.

  ‘Hmmm. Massive Attack.’

  Freya fiddles with the large hi-fi system next to the hall and comes back in.

  ‘How do I look by the way?’ she asks, presenting herself in her short denim skirt. She’s wearing big army boots artfully left undone, fluorescent beads threaded through the laces, and a green fur-hooded parka jacket.

  ‘You look amazing, as always.’

  She grins at me.

  ‘You too, your legs look long in that skirt.’ She slicks on some pink lipgloss and hands it to me. I shake my head and point to a nude colour that I’m holding.

  ‘What about my make-up?’ I prompt. I want her to say I look pretty.

  ‘Fine.’ She curls her lashes and pouts. ‘Here, put some more mascara on.’ She hands me a black tube. ‘Gotta make the most of your eyes. People would kill for that green. And your hair too. It’s too flat. Hang on.’ She works her fingers through my scalp. ‘There. That’s better.’ She steps back and nods. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Do you think Fred and Guy will be there again?’ I ask.

  ‘Hmmm. Not sure. But I know that hot guy you fancied last time said he was coming this weekend.’ Freya puckers up her lips and runs her hands down her body.

  ‘Shut up,’ I laugh.

  ‘I’m sure he liked you back. He asked where you were when you went to get drinks. And, well, of course he would fancy you. Obviously.’

  I want to ask her why but stop myself, convinced I won’t be able to live up to her answer. ‘What about you?’ I redirect. ‘What if Guy is there. Think you’ll . . .?’

  ‘Me and Guy? Nah. Too immature.’

  ‘Immature? Freya, he’s twenty! And you seemed pretty into him last time.’

  ‘I know. It’s just that . . . Don’t. I feel bad about that. Anyway, I’ve gone off them. Him, I mean.’ Freya shuts her eyes and smiles, hugging herself as though she’s lost herself in a dream of someone else.

  ‘Wanna eat?’ she asks suddenly.

  ‘Nah. I can never eat before we go out, you know that.’

  ‘Fag?’

  ‘Yummy, that’ll do.’ We both spark up, and Freya rolls a joint too.

  ‘Want some?’ she asks. ‘It’s nice. I got it from that guy at the Serpent’s Summer Rave. Remember? Mr Rainbow . . . the guy with the orange trousers.’

  ‘Hmmm. Vaguely. I’m alright, thanks.’

  ‘Come on J. It’s a spliff, it’s not going to kill you. They aren’t drugs-testing, you know.’

  ‘I know. It’s just. You know . . .’

  ‘Head Girl?’ Freya exhales and puffs out little rings of smoke. They float out of her mouth like little polo mints.

  ‘Well. Yes. You know. If I have some now, I’ll want other stuff later on. I’ve just got to keep my head clear. I might smoke some of that in a bit –’ I point to Freya’s hand ‘– and, anyway, I’m just . . . my mother . . . you know.’

  ‘Oh.’ Freya stops for a second, afraid she’s upset me. ‘What about her? She won’t find out, you dummy.’

  ‘No, no it’s not that. It’s . . . it’s just that I’ve heard it can . . . I just read something in the paper last Sunday, that’s all.’

  ‘It can what? What did you read? What are you on about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I finish lamely.

  ‘OK, well, it’s . . . they’re fine. I mean, it’s good. Like, if you want some, you’ll be fine. Anyway, will you look after me then? I think this is really good stuff.’ Freya giggles and pats her bra.

  ‘Yes. I’ll look after you. I’ll have a few drinks later. And a few smokes. Nothing much else.’ I feel guilty, pretending I’m only staying sober to look after her, but I can see no other way out. I can no longer risk it.

  An hour later and both of us are starfished on the deliciously cool marble-floored entrance of my family home, waiting for our taxi. I’m still smoking cigarettes. Freya’s eating crisps and rolling up another joint.

  ‘I can’t move,’ she giggles and slides her legs and arms up and down. The doorbell rings and I look at Freya.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Sod you.’ She hauls herself up. ‘You lazy toad. You wouldn’t make anyone else do that apart from me.’ She looks in the hall mirror, bares her beautifully white teeth, looks from side to side and then opens the door.

  ‘Taxi?’ says a thin, hooked-nose man clutching his car keys. We both laugh for no particular reason.

  ‘We’ll be there in a sec,’ I say. ‘Quick, Freya, hurry up, stop looking in the mirror.’

  The taxi flies through puddles, the raindrops on the window blurring the lights and the people and the shop windows.

  ‘Oh shit. Have you got your ID?’ I suddenly ask, rifling furiously through my bag.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Thank God,’ I say, and apply another layer of nude lipstick. ‘We can’t queue and then not even get in – do you remember that time with those French guys? When you couldn’t even speak.’

  Freya laughs. ‘We were only a year off for God’s sake. OK quick, let’s practise. You were born in nineteen seventy-nine and your birthday is the twentieth of August.’

  ‘No, you dimwit,’ I flick her head. ‘That’s my real birthday.’

  ‘Oh, crap. Yes. OK, so hang on, you were born in nineteen seventy-eight and your birthday is January eleventh. Right?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s right. Now you go.’ The taxi driver is looking in his rear-view mirror at Freya.

  ‘Shhh,’ she says to me, giggling and darting her eyes towards the front seat. ‘He’s going to dob us in t
o the club bouncers and tell them we’re underage. Then they might phone our parents.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ I say. ‘He’s looking up your skirt.’ She bends double, pulling it down.

  ‘Come on, pull yourself together, quick,’ I say. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  ‘OK. Hang on . . . when was I born?’

  ‘Freya, come on! You can’t screw this up – it’s our last one remember? I’m not spending it wandering the streets looking for somewhere else to go because we can’t get in. OK?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, linking my arm and squeezing it softly. ‘It’s going to be amazing. Don’t stress. This night . . .’ She opens the taxi window and shouts at the top of her voice, ‘This night, Josephine and Freya, best friends, best night . . . this night is going to be one that we never, ever, ever forget.’ She turns and looks at me. ‘Capisce?’ she says.

  ‘Capisce,’ I reply.

  2014

  I’ve taken three days off to go to the Dead Sea with Jeremy and Mia. The last time I took a break from work was when I went to France for my great-aunt’s funeral, two years ago. I had thought about asking Toby, then decided it would have been too full-on, even though by that point, we had been seeing each other on and off for over a year. I had returned to work more unrested and alone than ever. All those sunny days, full of false hope, had highlighted to me that, since Freya, there was no one I wanted to spend prolonged time with. And nor, perhaps, them with me.

  But when Jeremy asked me if I wanted to join them, I surprised myself in not hesitating to say yes. When I had agreed, I had almost jumped with shock: the sheer relief of not being in Amman, where Freya thinks I am. Although she said in her last email she wasn’t due for another few weeks, ever since she hasn’t replied I’ve been quietly terrified she would turn up unannounced. Jeremy hadn’t flinched when I agreed, smiled and told me he would hire a car and could I please leave my bags by my door so he could carry them downstairs.

  We leave on Thursday evening, the start of the Jordanian weekend, driving down the dusty pink roads towards the Dead Sea. I’m in the front, next to Jeremy. Mia is curled up in the back, asking us to help her compose texts to her ex.