‘Any restaurant nearby, Max,’ I say, speaking for us both. ‘That would be great. Thank you.’
We find a small, empty Italian cafe. When I get out of the car, the sun hurts my eyes, my legs tickling with weakness. My neck is heavy; iron clad. Seemingly unaware we’ve stopped and parked, Father sits, waiting for someone to do something. I open his door. He frowns. ‘We’re here,’ I say. ‘At a restaurant.’ He gets out, holding onto the door frame and still wearing that weird smile, fiddling with a red handkerchief from his pocket.
‘Here. Come on,’ I say. He takes my arm and leans into me. I bolt myself upright to stop myself from falling.
We sit down in the restaurant in total silence. I take charge, asking the small, buck-toothed waitress for the menus. She nods, licking her two front teeth. ‘Can we also have a bottle of wine, please?’
I sit up straight and place the menu in front of him. He doesn’t open it so when the waitress comes back and pops the cork, I order for him. ‘Two margheritas too.’ I have no idea whether he even likes pizza but the action makes me feel strong. Like I’ve got everything under control.
‘She’s comfortable,’ I say, bolstered by my apparent emotional strength and Father’s lack thereof. ‘That’s all that matters. OK? She’s going to be comfortable.’
Our wine sits, untouched. The pizza finally arrives. That too sits congealing on the brown-speckled plates. Father picks up and sets down his glass, without drinking anything.
‘She looks like a . . .’
He doesn’t finish and I don’t try to fill the void of his lapsed sentence. I take a large sip of my own wine.
‘Everything OK?’ The waitress leans over me to put down the salt and pepper, her necklace dangling in my face.
‘Fine,’ I reply.
‘So funny, isn’t it?’ he says suddenly.
‘What?’
‘Just . . . She won out in the end, didn’t she? I didn’t even see it coming. She seemed peaceful the other times. Today . . . she didn’t. Why is it so cold in here?’
‘It’s not,’ I say, passing him the brown Indian print scarf I’m wearing. ‘Have this.’
He folds it over his legs like a napkin.
Unexpectedly I ask him the question that has always haunted me. ‘Why did you marry her?’ The question comes as a surprise to both of us.
He takes a moment to consider this. ‘Because she was such a mysterious beauty before. God that makes me sound awful, doesn’t it.’ He rubs his face, skewing his dark eyebrows. It makes him look comical; at odds with the painstakingly put-together front he normally displays.
‘Before what?’
‘Before things really went wrong. Before the pregnancy.’ Abruptly he stops talking. In a physical attempt to displace his own thoughts, he wraps my scarf around his waist like a cummerbund, squeezing the ends together and tying small knots into the black fringing.
I swallow hard. ‘Before the . . .?’
‘Pregnancy. You, I mean. She was OK before that. Looking back on it there were signs, of course. They only started getting worse later on, though. When she stopped her medication. And then it just . . . it totally spiralled. And none of us could get a check on it.’
Pregnancy. It was my fault. The perfect circularity of this both comforts and scares me and then I wonder: if my birth triggered her illness does that mean her death will trigger something in me? The thought is irrational, I know. But it gathers pace, creeping and crawling under my skin. Father’s now smiling, as though he’s telling me a story of long lost beauty and love.
‘And then of course,’ he goes on, sliding his finger around the rim of his wine glass, ‘and then it got worse and worse of course. The hoarding in case of war. Her “devil voice”. And then, the bathroom incident. After that it was just a nightmare. Terrifying.’ There’s nothing in his face to give away that he actually thought any of it was terrifying. As though he’s telling me it’s a very nice day and that he’s off to work soon. The absence of any obvious emotion makes me think that it was, indeed, too terrifying to deal with at all.
‘What bathroom incident?’
‘Just . . . just the beginning of the worse parts. You’ll probably remember it all very differently.’
My mind wanders back. I think of her when I was young. My first memory; not really a memory: an imprint. The wholeness of her, even though she never quite seemed complete. The heavy smell of talcum powder and cigarettes, the impossibly high heels. Her slender calves and the awkwardness of her touch. Hugs with me would make her leap backwards, as though she had been slapped. And then the imprint becomes clearer as the years pass, forming into cogent outlines. The precision of her walk, which later on became a shuffle. And then the gross protrusion of her belly as her back became more and more hunched. The thinness of her legs and arms. The stare. Those eyes, always looking for something. Never finding. Those tight scars, laddering right up her arms. The way I felt when she came near me: like a skinned rabbit, ready to be gutted. And now, her organs shutting down, purple eyelids. Blanched skin. I take a bite of pizza but the dough starts to swell in my throat.
I point to the bottle-green water carafe, which is near my father. He doesn’t notice and the waitress is forced to intervene, whacking my back until my heart feels like it might pop out of my blue T-shirt. I think back to what my mother said to me. That she and I are the same. My brain feels like it’s melting and Father’s face starts drooping. Jowly and wax-like. Like the faces of that night with Freya. And then I freak out and I wonder if I’m freaking out because of the association, or whether the hallucinations have started, just like they did for Mother and I try and slow down my thoughts but . . . but . . .
‘Umm, actually . . .’ I begin to say.
‘Yes?’ He looks up. It’s OK, I think. I don’t sound mad.
‘Nothing. Nothing. Just wanted to . . .’ Yes, I’m thinking. I can still talk. Still make conversation. Still be normal. There are no hallucinations. No voices. And then it hits me again. A hint of something. It feels like my thoughts have swerved off course. Like the centre of each one is being sucked into some weird vortex. Shit. I’m beginning to unravel, so I tell my father I’m going to the bathroom and I run the tap and take great gulps of water because, of course, if I can still open my mouth, drink, swallow, repeat then I’m still functioning and I’m still OK and I’m still not like her. I sit on the loo sweating, tearing bits of loo roll off and then I start needing to pee but I find I can’t.
When I make it back to the table, Father has finished my wine too. I signal to the waitress to bring me some more and I down it. ‘You too?’ I say to him, pointing to my glass. He nods. After three more and a vodka and orange, my thoughts unclench and the fruity liquid steamrolls calm through my blood. I slump back into my chair and eat the cold pizza.
When we get back home, we say a quick goodnight. I lie awake in my room, sluggish from drink. My mind has settled. I’m too scared to move in case the panic sets in again, so I forgo my desperate need for water, instead counting the headlamps from passing cars. Mother’s probably dead now. I wonder if I’ll be able to sense it when she goes. The thought brings a lift of freedom, then guilt.
Two hours later I can still hear Father rustling papers in his study. The tone of light outside my bedroom window starts to shift; the blackness gearing up towards a blueish-violet. The static in my brain peaks and drops, until it eventually flatlines. And dreaming of Freya and Mother morphing together, haloed in beautiful golden hair, I fall asleep.
1996
The next morning I wake up at six thirty and get dressed, my back turned to the rest of the sleeping dormitory. I pull on my blue woollen school cape that I wear on special occasions. I’m giving my first speech as Head Girl during morning chapel. I haven’t had any time to prepare – although I had thought, or rather fantasised, about it for the entire year before I was appointed. I’m going to talk about personal strength and that’s OK because, after th
e weekend, I feel strong. Or rather, I am not feeling much, which seems to me a very good thing indeed. Gives me space to concentrate on Freya, Oxford, the scholarship and The Lens.
I sit on the staff table at breakfast (which no one thinks odd – they’ve probably assumed it’s a new school policy) to escape the chance of anyone talking to me. After I’ve eaten a piece of toast, I walk up to chapel and stand at the old wooden lectern. The girls and teachers file in. Everyone is facing me, sitting upright and eager to hear what I have to say. Shafts of sunlight from the stained glass windows throw themselves onto the stone aisle, brightening up the dark wood pews. The choir balcony balustrade that lines the chapel walls is overhung with attentive heads and the teachers at the back are all standing up to hear what I have to say.
‘Be of good courage,’ I say as I lean forward into the pulpit. My voice echoes pleasantly around the brick walls. Everything I say seems directed at Freya and what happened over the weekend. At first I can’t see her in the congregation but then finally I spot her, and what is she doing but laughing, with none other than Verity Greenslade. I stop. Firstly, as Deputy Head Girl, Verity is not meant to be talking during chapel and secondly, Freya hates her for trying to compete with me so much over everything. I’ve never really had that much of a problem with Verity but I know that, on plenty of occasions, Freya’s wanted to do more than pull at those bouncing, brown curls of hers.
‘She’s always looking down at me from that snubby little nose of hers,’ Freya complained. ‘And the way she’s obsessed with beating you at everything. Don’t you get sick of it? I mean it must be exhausting for her.’ I’ve always compared Verity to an enthusiastic games teacher’s assistant. Harmless but too perky for my liking. What could they be laughing at? Freya looks up and catches my eye. She looks ashamed but they don’t stop talking. I glare at Verity and make a subtle nod towards Mrs Allen, who half stands and shushes them both. Freya looks cross and, instead of being pleased, I feel worried. I have to be careful with Freya right now.
‘And now for our hymn.’ I lift my chin. ‘ “Holy, Holy Holy!”, number sixty-seven.’ The organ starts and I sit down. I can see Verity and Freya – shoulders shaking, hands clamped over their mouths. Verity would never normally behave like this, especially now she’s in a position of power. Verity’s now looking straight at me, one eyebrow raised. What is going on? I think.
After chapel, I wait by the entrance of Main School, purely out of habit. I’m still thinking about Verity, but Freya and I normally meet every morning to walk to class. She’s not there when I turn up. When I start to leave, though, I can see her looking at me from the end of the corridor. She’s washed her hair, at least. She’s doing this weird thing with her hands, wiping them on her jumper over and over. A bell rings and a crowd of girls rush through the space between us. She flattens herself against the wall and raises her arm in front of her face, like a shield.
I run over and drag her into an old sports changing room which is being renovated into sixth-form study space.
‘You alright?’ I ask as she slides down the wall onto the floor.
‘Fine,’ she replies. Her voice sounds deeper than usual.
‘You looked . . . you looked like you were going to faint out there.’
‘People. All those people,’ she replies and I can hear her tongue working at the back of her throat, trying to swallow.
‘Yes,’ I reply, unsure of what to say next.
‘Listen. What happened with Verity just then in chapel . . . I’m just feeling . . .’ For a moment, the old, kind Freya is back. I speak quickly, to try to let her know that I don’t mind. That it doesn’t matter. That we should just get back to normal.
‘Forget it. It’s nothing. Well, best get to class then,’ I say. ‘Bell rang and they’ll wonder where we are. Head Girl can’t be late.’ I laugh to show I’m joking but I can feel that instead of smoothing things over, it’s coming across all wrong.
‘Wait! Wait, please. I need to speak to you. I need help with this,’ Freya says, pulling my hand back down. Her wrist is so thin and it makes me think of my mother’s limbs; the sharpness of her elbows and wrists and the memory of her triggers a physical sensation – like someone’s pressing into my chest. I realise that if Freya can make me feel like this now, things would only get a lot worse if any of this got out. She smiles shakily and I want to reach down and hug her but stop myself just in time to think about how the course of things would change if I did.
‘With what?’ I say. I follow Freya’s eyeline around the room thinking she’s clocked someone, but I look around and it’s just us. She’s squeezing her finger and then I see she’s wearing her mother’s old silver ring, despite jewellery being banned during school hours.
‘What do you mean, with what? With what happened. I need your help. If we aren’t going to say anything, the least I need to be able to do is talk about it. With you, I mean. I need to know what to do. You’ve always been there for me, J – we’ve always been there for each other . . . Please don’t let’s stop now.’
‘I . . . I thought we’d agreed. I thought we agreed not to discuss anything,’ I reply. ‘That it was over. That we had to concentrate on our lives.’
‘You agreed. But not me. Can we meet after school today? Go for a coffee or something? Just please . . . just to talk it through?’ I think she’s about to cry but she squeezes the ring again and shuts her eyes. ‘So?’ she says, turning to face me.
‘Freya. I . . . if we talk about this once, it’ll just drag it out. We’ve got to just focus. Come on. It’s class. I need to . . .’
‘You’re saying no? Is that it? That you won’t talk to me about it?’
‘There’s really nothing to talk about. I don’t know what you want to rake over? I told you –’ I sound all shrill and Freya looks at me, frowning ‘– I don’t want to end up in some rehab place. Do you? That’s what’ll happen.’
‘But what about the rest of it, J.’ Freya sounds calm. ‘We can’t just let it go.’
‘The rest of it? The booze and stuff? Under-age clubbing? We can and we will.’
‘The rest of it,’ Freya repeats. She’s now kneeling looking down at me. ‘You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Josephine?’
‘I’m not getting expelled for some stupid half a pill,’ I hiss.
Freya looks shocked, confused – and then seems to give up on the conversation. She shrugs. ‘I don’t know if you are deliberately ignoring this or not.’ Her words ignite a blast of emotion and a jolt of memory from the club night. Blood and sweat. Its unwelcome appearance forces me to push it away, deep into my subconscious.
I don’t reply and we sit in what I think is quite a companionable silence. I think she’s understood that I’m not going to talk. And then, she leans over and pinches me, hard, on the leg. I’m so shocked, I laugh.
‘Just checking you are alive,’ she says, and then she pinches me again, this time digging one of her nails deep into the skin of my thigh. ‘Are you? Are you alive?’ She’s still got her nail in my leg, twisting it round like a screw.
‘Look. Come on, Freya. Enough of this.’ The pain makes my ears ring and my voice won’t submit to what I want it to do and I’m beginning to shout.
‘OK. If that’s what you want,’ she replies. ‘But just so you know, I will never, ever –’ she’s standing up now, her legs kicking out like a show pony ‘– forgive you for this. Do you hear?’
I’m still reeling from the sting of her nail and the fact she’s physically tried to hurt me – Freya shouted at me the last time I stood on a spider. But the implication that she’ll keep silent is a relief somehow. I reassure myself that she’s just saying things now she doesn’t mean and I know Freya. I know that she’ll soften in time. That she’ll realise in the end, that I’m right.
‘I have to go, OK. We’ll catch up later,’ I say, my voice comforting, I think, but she’s looking at me with an expression I don’t recognise, a
nd which makes me catch my breath. Later in class and then dinner and finally in bed while I try to find sleep which does not come, I am still trying to figure it out, running through various epithets in my mind in a long and varied list searching for its meaning, but ultimately without success.
Freya and I don’t see each other for a few days, which I am secretly relieved by. We both need a bit of space, I reason, and I put it down to the fact of both of us being very busy; there’s the scholarship announcement looming and my UCAS application and essay for Oxford due in. I’ve got two free sessions today, which I’ll use to study. I make my way to the Mann Library to read the newspaper. All the tables are full, so I walk to the end of the room, trying to find somewhere to sit. Thankfully, no one looks up from their books; I feel like being anonymous today. I’m trying to be quiet, but the floor is stone, and I can hear my footsteps clacking around the room. I find a free space near the big, latticed windows overlooking the tennis courts. The thwack of the ball is going to irritate me, I’m certain. Bracing myself for annoyance, I realise that Verity is sitting on the next table. She’s reading The Times. I’ve already got a copy of the Independent and I can see that she’s only on the second page.
‘Verity,’ I say. ‘Can we swap when you’ve done?’ I flag up the Independent, for her to see.
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘I’m going soon anyway, to help Freya get organised for the thing tonight.’ I can see her eyes narrowing, trying to detect whether I’m going to Freya’s ‘thing’. I have no idea what Verity is talking about and then I remember that Freya had organised a small party in the house kitchen. Once a month, we are each allowed a couple of glasses of wine, given to us by our housemistress. Freya hosts a gathering with a few select guests to celebrate this honour. She’d been discussing it last week. Working out who to invite, whether to smuggle in some vodka. I wonder what it means that it’s still going ahead and whether I should turn up and try to get things back to normal.
The Exclusives Page 8
