Nuclear smiles and an extravagant dimple aren’t enough. How naff. He has to add a wink.
Zara, you and I go to IKEA to buy a plastic tree and some cheap decorations. However hard we try to balance the tree it keeps falling over. Even Christmas seems difficult these days. You and Sebastian sort out our party playlist. Far too Seventies. Slade and Wizard. Slade is Sebastian’s favourite Christmas song. Surely he is too young for stuff like that? His invisible parents must have poor taste.
And now we are sitting together on the sofa, drinking mulled wine in plastic cups just before the party starts.
‘Mmm, not as bad as it smells,’ I say.
‘Told you so,’ Sebastian replies, putting his arms around both of us, making me wince.
He rummages in his jeans pocket and pulls out a handful of coloured pills. I stiffen. E. What is Sebastian doing now? E, the preserve of irresponsible teenagers, when he is over thirty. He holds his hand out and offers the selection to you. I watch you studying the pills carefully, then choosing a pale blue one and swallowing it, washing it down with a slug of mulled wine. He takes one too. And then you both turn your eyes and fix them on me. He stretches his pill-filled palm towards me. I shake my head. I have never taken E. I have always managed my life without party drugs.
‘Come on, Miranda; it’s the friendship drug – try it. Give friendship a chance,’ Sebastian pushes.
‘It’ll help you relax,’ Zara says. ‘You know, Miranda, you really need to relax.’
‘Is that how it works? By making people feel relaxed?’
‘Yes. Why do you think it’s so popular?’
I don’t know what is happening to me but because I have been feeling so low lately, I am considering it. My heart is racing. My stomach almost constantly tied in knots. Perhaps I would feel better if I could relax. Slowly, I reach my fingers towards his outstretched palm. I choose a pink one, lifting it cautiously to my mouth and swilling it down with mulled wine. It slips down easily enough. I sit on the sofa with you both and wait. Nothing happens. I feel just the same. The same knotted feeling in my stomach as Sebastian exhales onto my cheek. The doorbell rings. I jump up and go to answer the door.
The first guests. Three girls from your photography course, Zara; I don’t recognise them. All dressed in black with garish red lipstick, as if they were auditioning for the Rocky Horror Show; black and red and fishnets. One of them, the curviest, has pornographic breasts and a ring piercing in the middle of her nose – at the front, like a bull.
‘Come in,’ I say as you appear behind me.
They push past me as if I am invisible and engulf you in their arms.
Soon my compact flat is teeming, pumping with Seventies music. Sebastian is dancing in the middle of the living room, waving his arms around in the air, bending, waving, thumping, surrounded by an entourage of people copying him. I stand in the corner, sipping mulled wine and watching. Watching, as I usually do, not wanting to join in.
But then the world moves towards me. The music grows inside me and I become part of it. I am in the middle of our sitting room, shoes off, gyrating behind Sebastian, shadowing his every move. He turns towards me, his grin high-wattage. Jumping to the music. Faster and faster. Through the sound barrier. We are the music. The pulse. The beat. The sound. We dance all night. Sometimes you are there, Zara, gyrating with us. Sometimes you are with your coven of red-lipped girls, rotating around each other: a red and black kaleidoscope in the distance.
And then Sebastian takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor. He runs me a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen.
‘Drink this,’ he commands.
Where are you, Zara? Still dancing with your coven of girls?
I sip the water; it tastes like nectar, so refreshing. I am feeling very peculiar now. Light-headed. Sebastian’s face looks blurred.
‘If I finish with Zara,’ Sebastian says. Even though I feel strange, his words stab into me. What is he talking about? Finish with Zara?
‘If I finish with Zara, will you go out with me?’ he continues.
I stumble backwards slightly. ‘No! Of course not. Why would I want to?’
‘But,’ he stammers, ‘I’d be free.’
The room is moving beneath my feet. I’m continuing to sway to the music; it’s slowing my mind down, making it difficult to think. Difficult. But not impossible. Through the pulse of the room and the music, I ask myself, who does he think he is? Where is he coming from? I know he has deliberately tripped me up at work. What is he doing now?
‘Do you think it matters whether you are free or not? Except that I don’t want you to hurt my sister?’ I reply. Then I pause and sigh. ‘I don’t want to go out with you. You’re not my type. And even if you were my type, she’d never forgive me.’
‘So you love her more than you love me?’
Knots curdle inside me. ‘I never said I loved you, Sebastian. I’m only putting up with you for the sake of my sister. Don’t make up lies about me.’
I walk away from him, slowly, trying to hold my body and mind together. I find you, Zara, and dance with you for the rest of the night.
48
Zara
Thumping, gyrating, pounding at the Christmas party to the beat of the music. Dancing with Sebastian. Dancing with my friends from my photography course. Miranda, you call them my coven because they are all wearing black. Dancing with you, Miranda. Ecstasy suits you. You are the pulse of the party. The party gyrates around you. Earlier Sebastian was dancing with you too. Arms in the air happy. I’m so pleased you are getting on. At last. I’ve wanted you two to connect for so long. When Sebastian dances with me he pulls me towards him. He tells me how much he loves me. Life, he says. Our love is for life. How beautiful is that? Life. Love. Life. A beautiful life.
49
Miranda
We’re sitting in a sandwich bar on Park Street.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your condescending to come for lunch with me?’ Sebastian asks the Monday after the party, eyes sparkling too brightly into mine.
I breathe deeply to calm myself. ‘Because I want to ask you why you’re still with my sister, when you were talking about the end of your relationship on Saturday.’
He leans back in his chair and folds his arms. He raises his eyebrows, staring at me contemplatively. ‘You won’t be with me. Staying with her is the only way for me to be close to you.’ He reaches across the Formica table and tries to take my hand in his, but quickly, instinctively, I pull mine away.
‘I don’t believe you.’ I pause, hands behind my back now. ‘And how fair would an attitude like that be on her?’
He grins, a slow contrived grin. Too slow to be real. ‘It’s your choice, Miranda. It’s not my fault.’
Anger and claustrophobia contort inside me.
‘You’re impossible, Sebastian,’ I retort.
‘That’s what you like about me.’ His voice is calm and measured.
My jaw and teeth are clenched as I try to suppress my emotion. Despite my desperate attempt, ‘That’s what I hate about you,’ whistles out. My voice sounds venomous.
‘There’s a fine line between love and hate,’ he replies, grin widening.
‘Don’t speak to me like that. Our relationship’s not a cliché.’
‘So you think we have a relationship?’
His tongue slithers provocatively over the word relationship.
‘No.’ I shake my head in frustration with the way he torments me. ‘I don’t think that. I never will. I never have.’ I pause for a second and my anger builds into a torrent. ‘Piss off, Sebastian. You need to leave me alone. Stop harassing me.’
His grin is no longer a grin but a snarl. ‘Such eloquent language.’
I inhale deeply. ‘I really mean it – from now on, you must leave me alone.’
‘I’ve told you, I can’t keep away from you. I can’t leave you alone.’
His eyes are like black holes pulling me in. Making me feel frightened.<
br />
‘If you hurt my sister, I’ll kill you.’ I pause. ‘You need to treat her with respect. Fairly. If you don’t want to be with her, then let her know.’
He lifts his eyebrows again and leans back a little. ‘Should I tell the police you’ve threatened me?’
I lean towards him. ‘Just try causing any trouble and you’ll find out what happens.’
His snarl is softening to a grin. ‘It’s touching how much you love her.’
‘It’s crazy how much she loves you. The poor girl needs help.’
50
Zara
I am looking around the flat trying to find where I’ve left my watch when I tell you my news, as nonchalantly as possible.
‘Miranda, I’m not coming home for Christmas. I’m going to stay with Sebastian.’
Our first Christmas apart. I have thought long and hard about this. Riddled with guilt for not going home to be with you and Mother, but Sebastian and I feel we need some time to be together – alone. You look up from sorting through your accountancy books. Open-mouthed. Shocked. As if you can’t believe it.
‘Mother will be so disappointed not to see you. Can’t you invite him to ours?’ you say softly.
The journals that were in your hands have fallen to the floor, but you do not seem to have noticed. I pick them up and place them on the coffee table. You are staring at me as if I am a criminal.
‘Stop looking at me like that,’ I beg.
You continue staring. Mouth still a little wide.
‘We just want a bit of time together on our own whilst his parents are away. That’s why we’re going to his house.’ I pause to take a deep breath and shrug my shoulders. ‘It isn’t that weird for a young couple to want time together alone.’
‘Isn’t it a bit weird that his parents are away again? Come on Zara, how much do you really know about him?’ There is a pause. ‘You need to know him before you can trust him.’
I raise my eyes to the sky. Not that again.
THE PRESENT
51
Theo Gregson is visiting her. He is wearing toffee-coloured chinos that tone with his eyes. Today she has had warning of his visit, so she has managed to spruce herself up a bit. Freshly washed hair. Subtle make-up. Her favourite Kid Rock T-shirt.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks.
‘Good,’ she says and manages to smile. ‘Almost enjoying my job in the library.’
‘Almost?’
‘Well, as much as I can enjoy anything these days.’
He leans back in his chair and folds his arms. ‘Well, you won’t enjoy this then.’
‘Do you mean your visit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m concerned you’ve not told me the full story about what happened between you and Sebastian.’
Their eyes are locked. She sits motionless. She doesn’t reply.
‘You need to,’ Theo continues. ‘Otherwise we won’t be able to get you the verdict you want.’
‘What makes you think knowing everything will help?’
‘When you’re charged the best way forward is to tell the truth.’
‘I can’t,’ she whispers. ‘I won’t.’
He leans across the table and takes her hand in his. ‘Please,’ Theo says. ‘Whatever happened, let me help.’
‘No one can help.’
THE PAST
52
Miranda
Christmas. Just the two of us. Mother, and me. Without you, Zara, our house in Tidebury is so quiet. No laughter in the hallway. No trance music pounding from your bedroom. No one to drink with in the local pub on Christmas Eve. No one to giggle and stagger towards midnight mass with, tinsel decorating our necks.
I am drinking too many cups of ginger tea, and not enough alcohol. Watching too many slapstick sitcoms. Listening to too much analysis of the news and the weather. Having too much dull conversation with Mother, without you to liven us up. At the moment it is a house with the fun sucked out of it.
Christmas Day. Despite your absence, Zara, we stick to the usual routine – opening our presents first thing in the morning before we are dressed. You left a scarf for me to open. Too infatuated with Sebastian, you didn’t remember. I never wear scarves. You didn’t remember we always said we would wait until we were old to wear them, when we had crinkly necks.
We eat at one p.m. in our compact dining room, piling our plates high with turkey, sausages, bacon, potatoes and sprouts. All the usual. Eating so much we can hardly move and then having to go to bed for an afternoon snooze. Then high tea. More food.
‘You don’t trust this Sebastian, do you?’ Mother says as she offers me a mince pie.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Every time I mention him you change the subject.’
‘You’re misreading me, Mother. Of course I trust him. He’s Zara’s boyfriend and she loves him. What’s not to trust?’
I can’t tell Mother the truth. When she worries, she tortures herself.
53
Zara
I miss you, Miranda. Despite your negative attitude towards the love of my life, Christmas apart from you doesn’t seem right. It’s the first time we’ve been separated at this time of year.
I miss watching your grey eyes turning lighter as we swap presents. Sebastian and I have agreed not to bother. I miss watching your regal profile that reminds me of a princess, your nose crinkling a little as you reach for another mince pie. I miss laughing with you in church. When Mother is taking the Queen’s speech too seriously. When carol singers, who can’t sing, caterwaul at the doorway.
It’s midday on Christmas Day and Sebastian and I have already had too much champagne. My body feels thin and unsteady, not solid enough to balance properly. I have to strain to think. We are playing a dance compilation album through the Sonos system which is pounding around the house, and we are dancing a sort of funky waltz, bodies pressed together, singing along at high volume. Rocking through the hallway, gyrating around the living room, smooching into the kitchen. When we arrive by the sink, Sebastian suddenly stops and unwraps himself from me.
‘I need to FaceTime my parents.’ He waves the remote and snaps off the Sonos.
He reaches for his iPad from the counter in front of him, opens the cover, props it up with the screen facing away from me, and positions himself to speak. He spends ages arranging his body carefully on a stool in front of it, to give his parents the best view of himself possible, and then he presses to ring.
The watery ring of FaceTime tinkles into the room. It rings and rings as Sebastian continues to sit in a suitable position, angling his face and running his fingers through his hair. His parents don’t answer. My stomach tightens. I’m not sure I want them to. I’m not sure I want to talk to them for the first time like this, rather inebriated and usurping their home. Thinking about it, do they even know I’m here? The trilling continues. Sebastian cuts it off. He tries again. Then with a deep sigh he switches it off.
‘God damn it, I’ll have to go into the garden where I can get 4G, and ring them on my mobile. The internet reception is too bad in here.’ There is a pause. ‘You stay inside to keep warm.’
He grabs his coat and saunters out into the garden through the back door. I stand at the sink and watch him through the kitchen window, pulling his phone out of his pocket and pressing speed dial. Walking down the garden with his back to me. He’s got through. He’s speaking to them. Pacing up and down, chatting to them. He must be so close to his parents; he has so much to say. Laughing, smiling, nodding his head animatedly. They chat for ages. When the conversation is finally over he ambles back into the house, takes his coat off, and enfolds me in his arms.
‘Are they having a nice time?’ I ask.
‘Wonderful. Wonderful.’
His voice is overly jolly. Compensating too hard. Because he is missing them? Because they are so often away?
‘What are they up to?’
‘Relaxing on the beac
h.’
‘I thought they were at the elephant sanctuary first.’
‘That’s next week,’ he says as he leans down to kiss me.
‘I must have got it the wrong way round.’
‘They send their love to you.’
A fist tightens around my heart. He’s told them about me? They know I’m here? That I’m his girlfriend? The love of his life?
‘Maybe I’ll speak to them next time they call?’ I ask, looking into his eyes.
‘Maybe.’ His eyes darken. ‘Maybe.’ His voice has slipped into a whisper.
The fist around my heart releases and my heart beats faster. Or maybe this sending their love is a lie?
‘Christmas together alone, what could be more perfect,’ he says.
He holds me against him, presses my head against his chest as if I am precious. He runs his hands through my hair. I look up into his eyes. They crinkle into a smile, telling me that everything will be all right.
We drink another bottle of champagne, take two Es each and snort a line of coke. Then it’s time to put the Christmas pizza into the oven. The Christmas pizza. A special from the local artisan bakery. We went to buy it yesterday. Thick-crusted. A tomato, basil and mozzarella layer, topped with turkey, stuffing and meatballs. A little tarragon too, the baker said. Twenty minutes in the oven and bingo. No need for all the fuss that Mother makes over Christmas lunch.
Pizza and champagne at the kitchen table. The pizza is a little greasy, swimming in tomato-coloured oil, but the dryness of the champagne takes the edge off the food. Sebastian’s eyes take the edge off everything. We roll a spliff and smoke it. By the time we turn on the Queen’s speech, I can hardly hear or see her. She mentions some of Britain’s achievements in the last year, and we both start to laugh. Rolling around on the floor laughing. Laughing so much. Then Sebastian rolls on top of me, presses my hands above my head, and kisses me hard. A kiss so hard it feels like a bite. I close my mouth. I turn my head away.
Guilt Page 10
