That night, I go to the kitchen to make some tea. When I dump the tea bag into the bin, I see the jewelled glint of the denim skirt that Freya had been wearing. The band of skulls and crossbones that we had spent hours gluing on together. I pick it out, shaking off bits of eggshell and bacon fat and toast crumbs. I smell it. Smoke, CK One and something else: a slightly soury, metallic smell with damp undertones that hits the back of my throat and makes me panic. I take the skirt, stuff it under my bed. I then pack my bags and leave, scribbling Father a note.
Couldn’t wait for you, I write. Had to go back in time for choir practice. Love J? Or Josephine. In the end I go for just J and place an Eiffel Tower paperweight over the thick, cream paper. I order a taxi on Father’s work account. I intend to get the train but, since it’s only half an hour away and knowing Father won’t object to the cost, I end up asking the taxi driver to take me all the way back to school.
‘Put it on your account?’ he asks, stilling the fir tree that dangles from his rear-view mirror.
‘Please,’ I say, hunting for a tip. I give him five pounds and spend ages counting out the change. The iron gates loom over me like vultures and for a moment I can’t bring myself to go in.
The girls seem settled into old routines when I get back. That first afternoon, I hear of three arguments in our year, so-and-so told so-and-so that so-and-so slept with so-and-so. Kitty Archwright has accused Flora Jones-Bardam of sabotaging her friendship with Olivia Buckingham and so on and so on.
Whispers fill the school. The younger girls press themselves against the corridor walls as the older girls swish past. Teachers already look tired and the new girls are brazen with having passed initiation in the form of midnight dares (run down the front stairs in just your bra and knickers, ring the gong in the middle of the night, that kind of thing). Eleanor from my dorm has long forgotten her homesickness and is all jokes and shrieking and I have to tell her twice to be quiet after bedtime. I go to bed with the rest of the girls, even though lights out for non-sixth-formers is at ten o’clock. I wonder if Freya came back on the seven o’clock evening train like she normally does, or whether she decided to come back before class tomorrow morning. When I think of her, I’m all prepped not to be able to sleep, terrified that after last night I’ll scream out, but my brain and body are totally numb. I can’t feel a thing. As soon as I shut my eyes, I’m gone.
2014
The ride to the airport is mercifully quick. Neither of us speaks. Jeremy tries to hug me as I am about to walk through the departure gates but I hold myself rigid against his touch. He lets his arms fall to his sides. ‘I’ve got everything,’ he says. ‘I promise. Don’t think about work.’ I nod and turn away.
I’ve always loved plane rides. I even look forward to the compartmentalised food plates, where everything is neatly packaged and set in front of me. I love the swooping feeling of the plane taking off, even the turbulence. It is the only time these days I will watch a film. Today’s offering is some romcom that I’ve never heard of but which requires little concentration. I feel guilty every time I sit back and relax. I should be thinking of Mother. The green cashmere cardigan she always wears, her nails yellowing from all the smoking. I’ve only seen her three or four times in the past two years and on each occasion she was more and more hunched and silent, the drugs taking hold of her shrivelling body. The air stewardess comes round with a clinking tray of glasses.
‘Wine?’
I take one, reclining my seat and then the name drops into my brain like a boulder.
Freya.
It’s OK, I tell myself. I will never see her again and she will never know of the volcanic swirl that has been erupting in my stomach since I read her email. I imagine what would happen if we met again and it goes something like this:
‘Freya!’
She would look at me, giving me the swift up and down she always does when first meeting someone, and then flick her ponytail onto her left shoulder and twirl the end through her fingers.
‘J!’ No, I shake my head remembering the formal tone of address in her last email. ‘Josephine.’
‘How are you?’ I would stand a few steps away from her for fear she might try to touch me, and she’ll understand, always able to read my cues like no other. And then I fear she will start talking about it, about school, and that night and the horrors that follow. What would I do then?
‘You could have helped me,’ she would say.
I could have helped you, I would think.
I try to shift myself out of my reverie but the dialogue continues to whirr: I could have helped myself. But that’s OK, Freya, because you have no bearing on who I am now. The memories – they have no power over me. None. I will stay in London only as long as necessary and then I’ll leave, back to Jordan. But her email was so persistent. The plane starts to judder and the vibration of the captain’s voice through the loud speaker tickles my ears, warning of turbulence. The voice is jarring and, as I think of bumping into Freya in London, I start to panic. The narrowness of the plane seems to be too small and constricting for the noise in my head.
My lungs shrivel and I cannot breathe. It is that night all over again, the music pounding in my ears. Doof. Boom. Doof. Boom. Make it stop, I think, and the plane flails, wings rattling.
Flashes flit through my brain, things I have not thought of since they happened: the sweet smell of the smoke machine mixed with sweat, strobe lights, the whoosh of chemicals taking hold of my body, the eyes of the dragon tattoo staring at me, daring me on to do what, I never knew, and then again, Freya’s eyes. They are with me right now: it is like someone is wringing all the fear from her and it has risen up into her face trying to burst its way out. Her eyes are huge, shimmering with terror at what is happening.
My thoughts start skidding, piling up into one big mountain of entangled horrors. The whirrings slow down, replaced by echoes of memory from what followed that night: my behaviour when we got back to school and how Freya reacted. An image of Rollo forms and he is smiling, squeezing me tight in the soft pit of his arm. He is telling me that no matter how bad it gets with my mother, he’ll be there to pick up the pieces.
‘I promise you, I promise you,’ he is saying and I start to cry.
I drop my head between my knees and I feel a light hand on my shoulder. I am too weak to throw it off.
‘Excuse me? Miss? Excuse me? Would you like something? Water?’ The immaculate, russet-haired air stewardess smells of violets and face powder.
‘Vodka,’ I murmur. I can hear the liquid being poured and the ice being chucked in and I drink it gratefully. The huddled mass of thoughts disperses and subsides.
‘You look better now, sweetie. Do you want some food?’
‘No thanks.’ Do not call me ‘sweetie’ again, I think. The next two hours speed up with the help of a few more vodkas and by the time I go through arrivals and bag retrieval, the episode on the plane feels like a dream I had pretending to be someone else. London sinks back into my psyche as though I had never left. The thick, sweet smell of Amman replaced with warm gusts of hamburger odours wafting out of restaurant extractor fans; the bright lights of the baggage reclaims and the people, marching about their way with much more intent than the cigarette-clouded languor of those in Jordan.
When I arrive at my parents’ house, I find Father is out. All the furniture and ornaments remain in the same place as that fateful night with Freya. I had emailed Father from the airport with my flight details, so he knew I was returning. The initial hollowness that he hasn’t stayed in to be with me is quickly replaced by relief that I can postpone any discussions about Mother. I can unpack, relax. Try to find some warmth and cosiness in the draughty rooms and corridors of home. I find a note on the kitchen table, underneath an empty glass vase.
Josephine, Welcome back. Got dinner with the PM – couldn’t reschedule. Only round the corner. Will be back afterwards and hope for a catch up drink with my favourite daughter. Your mother is steadier today. W
e’ll get Max to drive us to see her tomorrow. X
There’s also a letter from Amy, with a new mobile and phone number. I spend time copying over my contacts wondering how many of them I’ll ever use. I climb the stairs to the top of the house. After the dust and sand-covered floor in my room in Jordan, the thick, white carpet feels luxurious under my toes. My old bedroom takes up the entire top floor, with a large en-suite bathroom attached. The same wartime prints are still hanging on the walls from when I was about six. Freya would always tack pictures around my room, of men from bands I had never really heard of. ‘Eddie Vedder,’ she would say. ‘He’s so hot!’ After she left I would always take them down.
I sit down on the huge white bed, fresh and plump, and from underneath it pull out a wooden box full of letters and old keepsakes that I haven’t looked at for years. Not since I left Greenwood. Everything is kept in plastic sleeves, filed in order of year. I take out a green one that’s splitting at the seams. There are postcards, birthday cards, letters, flyers and little notes in there. I tip them all out on the bed, then lay them out in date order.
Freya used to write to me often. I would always find little notes and cards under my pillow at school, wishing me luck for an exam or for no reason at all. ‘Josephine,’ she’s written on one card. ‘Happy Birthday to my oldest and bestest. Giving this to you a few months early because I’ve got us tickets for the Serpent’s Summer Rave next week. Love, F XXX’.
And another: ‘J, Good luck for your exams. Not that you’ll need it, obviously! Number one student . . . One day maybe I’ll catch up with you. Love, F xxx’.
And then I find it – a small, crumpled flyer, a muddy footprint shading the black and white outline of a dancing figure. It’s the flyer from that night. ‘THE FRIDGE, THE ANNUAL RETURN TO PEACE PARTY, 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. AFTERPARTY AT BANANA MOON.’
I sit and look at the familiar shadings, the Buddhist symbols curling their way around the page. Freya, I think. What happened to you? And then I wonder if it really was that night that ruined everything, or whether something else was at play – whether our friendship might always have been doomed.
I find an old diary, corresponding to that time. In it are daily entries about work, the teachers, Freya of course, boys. Until after that night. Then it goes blank, other than a few scribbles about my Head Girl jobs and what Mrs Allen needs doing. I throw the whole lot back into the box and push it right under my bed, then remove it and take it outside and put it in a cupboard which has all my old school folders in it dating right back from when I was four years old. I flick through a few; my writing was so neat, so old-fashioned, even then. I close the cupboard door quietly, placing my head against the mahogany. I push a large chest of drawers against the cupboard, to shut away the contents and keep them further away from me. Afterwards, I feel like the breath is being squeezed out of me, like an old, wheezing accordion, so I go downstairs, slug back my sixth vodka of the day and go to bed, restless but somehow exhausted.
He doesn’t look up when I come into the kitchen. Flicks the pages of his newspaper whilst writing notes on a small yellow pad next to his empty bowl. ‘Hello,’ I say, my voice small. He’s still in his dressing gown. Patterned blue, perfectly pressed and turned up at the sleeves.
‘Josephine, coffee?’ He finally moves his eyes away from the news and stares just to the left of me, as though he’s embarrassed at being in his nightwear. ‘Nice to see you. Sorry about last night. Are you alright? Had a good flight?’ He doesn’t wait for me to answer, so I know these questions are merely perfunctory. ‘Your mother’s comfortable. She’s . . .’ His eyes take on an unfocused look. I nod, letting him off the hook. ‘Here,’ he says, ‘drink this.’ He takes a blue mug from the shelf and pours it full.
‘Thanks.’ I sit and read the newspaper over his shoulder until we get to the Sports section.
‘Right. Best get ready. We’ll get a car to see your mother? Will you come?’
‘Of course.’ I give a sarcastic laugh. ‘I didn’t come all this way to see you.’ Father looks down, swills his empty cup around and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks as though he’s about to say something. Shuts it again and clears his throat. ‘I mean . . . I was joking,’ I say, surprised at his reaction.
‘I’ll get dressed,’ he says. ‘Meet me back down here in fifteen.’ He sounds sharp, professional. I want to tell him again that I was joking but something stops me. The fear that I’ll sound insincere; that it’ll make it worse.
I’m ready in ten minutes. I’m wearing the brightest coloured clothes I can find: a light-blue jumper and a brown scarf, which don’t go but the oddness of the colours takes my mind off things. Father comes down three minutes later, in a smart suit.
Max, Father’s driver, arrives to take us to the hospital. He swings round to the Wentworth-Miller patient wing. I stride into the hospital quickly before I become fearful.
‘Room three hundred and two,’ says the receptionist, as she recognises Father, who is coming up behind me. We go down to her room, past gilt-framed pictures of roses; red, yellow, orange and pink. Nothing but roses. I start to feel weird, looking at them all. They’re so beautiful. So perfect.
Neither of us bothers knocking at her door. When we enter, she looks like she’s staring outside the dark-glassed window but, when I get closer, I see her eyes are shut. She’s thin and smells of sick. Her skin is yellow and her arms are puckered with tape holding down tubes that are sticky with blood.
‘Hello,’ I say. I look over to Father, who is gripping the end of her bed. Neither of us says anything more. She’s not with us, mentally, at least. I don’t know whether she’s sleeping, or just heavy with drugs. I notice her breasts drooping down each side of her ribcage. Those same breasts that used to cushion large diamond-egg necklaces, sapphires, or the flat gold lizard she used to wear, with the ruby eyes. I walk over and take her hand and motion to Father to do the same thing. A young-looking doctor, hair knotted up in one of those tortoiseshell crocodile clips that always remind me of Freya, knocks on the door.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Please.’ Father pulls up a chair for her but she waves it away.
‘Thanks so much. Better not sit down or I’ll never get up again. Right. You are her husband and daughter, is that correct? I’m your Consultant. Miss Mainwaring.’ We both nod. She clicks her biro and makes a few notes on her clipboard.
‘Mr Grey, how are you doing? If you would both step outside for a moment, I’d be grateful.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ Father adopts the tone of an eager schoolboy and we follow her back through the door.
‘Right. Well, as you know, Mrs Grey’s very heavily sedated at the moment. She . . . well, we think she hasn’t got long. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how much you know, Josephine, but she overdosed, aspirating on some of her vomit. She now has pneumonia.’
‘How long?’ I ask, before Father has to.
‘One, maybe two days.’
‘How?’ Father sags against the wall. I don’t know if it’s from relief, or pain.
But I don’t want to hear any more. I go back into her room, leaving him with Miss Mainwaring. There’s something unnatural about the way she’s sleeping, which might be the medication. The corners of her mouth are twitching and there’s a knot of hair curled up by her right temple. Her ear lobes are free from the pearls she always used to wear, which sit on the side of the bed. I pick them up, hold them against my lobes. I had never wanted to have my ears pierced, not since Mother had told me that if I did, she would buy me the same pearls so that we could be like twins.
And then I hear a movement. I think it’s her. I’m too afraid to turn around, so I put the earrings back and stand, frozen. Her eyes are shut but I start to remember the last time I saw her and I can almost hear her voice. The whisper: ‘You, Josephine. You and me. We’re the same. You will always be my daughter.’ I stay turned away for a while and when I do turn, she looks dead. I walk over and lift
her eyelids. I look through the hollows of her eyes, the black pupils. ‘I hope you are comfortable,’ I say, taking her hand. I’m shaking and can’t pick it up properly. I lean over and kiss her, something I don’t ever remember doing. She’s still breathing. The trace of veins on her eyelids looks like she’s smudged purple eye-shadow on her sockets.
Eventually, in some sort of unspoken tag team, I go and sit outside whilst Father is with her, for at least an hour. I focus on a small crack in the ceiling and I remember staring at that little point above Mrs Allen’s head, when she had announced Head Girl. How I had wished for Mother to react to my news in the right way. How I longed for her to tell me she loved me and that she was proud. And how I hungered for that badge. Wished on it so hard I thought I might burst. That badge was the symbol of the perfect trajectory to success – Oxford, a first-rate career that would, of course, mean I would never, ever end up like her.
Max is waiting for us outside the hospital. My senses sharpen, I feel as though I’m faced with an onslaught of one hundred hurtling juggernauts and have to work out which way to leap. The suggestion of death inhabits everything I look at. The broken branches of trees, the old lady across the road stooping to pick up her plaid purse, flower petals drooping, despite the sun. Father is wearing an odd, shiny smile, lips pulled right back to the top of his gums. He’s acting like he’s just closed the business deal of the century. His eyes are glowing, darting from one point to another. It crosses my mind he’s tried to anchor himself with some sort of pills, but then I see his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Something he does when he’s nervous, and I realise it’s a massive dose of adrenaline, careering through his body. He can barely keep himself still. Finally, he gets into the car and Max asks us where we are going and he doesn’t reply. Just looks at me, totally dazed.
The Exclusives Page 7
