Only We Know

by Simon Packham

  ‘I’m not hiding for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Everything was going fine. Why do you have to be like this?’

  ‘Look, I’ve made up my mind, so just leave it, yeah?’

  ‘Typical. Do what the hell you like and sod the rest of us.’

  ‘I’m your sister, Tilda. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

  ‘You’re not my sister, okay?’

  17

  WALK LIKE A WOMAN

  They’ve marked out a catwalk in white tape on the sports hall floor. Izzy and Magda insist on calling it ‘the runway’ – the correct term for a classier, more intimate type of show.

  We take it in turns to practise walking towards them, trying to keep pace with the thumping techno beat. Katherine and the boy from the sixth-form college who everyone calls ‘Grunt’ are exchanging sly witticisms over the CD player, experimenting with sound levels and smirking like satirical gnomes.

  Magda and Izzy have obviously opted for the good cop bad cop approach:

  ‘No, no, no,’ screams Magda. ‘You mustn’t forget the stops. Bend your front leg, put your hand on your hip and pose. How hard can it be?’

  A trio of Year Seven girls are millimetres from tears.

  ‘Look, I know it’s difficult in school uniform,’ says Izzy. ‘But try and be a bit more … you know, girlie.’

  Katherine and the boy in the Give Quiche a Chance T-shirt snort in perfect harmony.

  ‘Right, let’s have the next lot please,’ says Magda. ‘And try to put some feeling into it.’

  A couple of girls and the goalkeeper who can’t kick straight manage to make it to the end of the runway without totally embarrassing themselves, but the only ‘shoot’ the rest of them are fit for is the type that involves a firing squad. And the teachers are even worse: Mr Catchpole takes dad-dancing to a whole new level, Miss Hoolyhan should be walking behind the coffin at a Victorian funeral and Mr Peel, the time-warped history teacher, looks like an ageing rock star with piles.

  So when it comes to my turn, I’m actually quite confident about it, even when I realise who my partner is.

  ‘All right, Dizzy?’ says Conor Corcoran, who for some reason fancies himself as the next face of Versace. ‘Don’t worry, babe, I’m right behind you – nice arse, by the way.’

  As soon as I start walking, I forget him completely, gliding down the runway as smoothly as I’d always imagined. I may not be Kate Moss exactly, but I’ve been practising this in my head since the Year Six leavers’ barbecue, and now that I’m up here at last, I have to admit, it’s even better than I thought. For once in my life, I’m in the right place at the right time.

  ‘Thank God someone knows what they’re doing,’ says Izzy. ‘You’re a natural, Lauren. You sure you’ve never done this sort of thing before?’

  ‘Only in my sister’s bedroom.’

  ‘Okay, stop the music,’ says Magda. ‘I said stop the music. You two on the sound system, quit messing about.’

  The music eventually splutters and dies.

  ‘Now as you can see,’ says Magda, ‘we have a lot of work to do.’

  ‘Sorry about the stops, guys,’ says Mr Peel. ‘I’ll be better when I get some decent music.’

  Magda isn’t quite so optimistic. ‘Some of you girls have absolutely no idea. And you’re not even in heels yet.’

  ‘Why don’t you show them, Lauren?’ says Izzy.

  ‘Show them what?’

  ‘How to walk properly. They look more like a herd of cage fighters at the moment.’

  Magda claps her hands. ‘All right, you lot, shut up and listen to Lauren.’

  I step out in front of them, hiding my anxiety behind a semi-hysterical smile. But at least I know what I’m talking about. ‘Right, the first thing you’ve got to do is take smaller steps, yeah? And turn your elbows in towards the waist, so your palms face the front. Okay, guys, can we have some music please?’

  This time the sound system works perfectly.

  ‘Right, let’s just walk around the sports hall together. There’s no need to be self-conscious, no one’s judging you. And always remember, you’re doing this for yourself, not to look good for some guy.’

  The Year Sevens are really getting into it.

  ‘That’s great, much better. Now smile, and lift your chins. It’s such a boy thing to stare at your feet. And take in the sights as you go, don’t focus on your final destination.’

  Miss Hoolyhan looks almost carefree for once, sweeping round the sports hall in her long black skirt, her head held high.

  ‘Now, last but not least, swing your hips – but make it subtle.’

  I’m not pretending they’ve suddenly turned into supermodels, but at least they don’t look scared any more.

  And Magda looks happier too. ‘Yeah, not bad,’ she admits grudgingly.

  ‘By George, I think they’ve got it,’ says Katherine, exchanging a nerdy high-five (minimal hand contact, shoulder level at best) with her bearded associate.

  But she can take the piss as much as she likes for all I care, because right now I’m feeling pretty good about myself. No one’s laughing at me. No one’s trying to kill me. They’re actually listening to me and even doing what I say. It’s almost like I’ve found my voice at last.

  Mr Catchpole is loading babies (the type they hand out in Year Ten to stop you getting pregnant) into the back of his yellow Corsa SXi. I try to glide past him, but he stumbles across the grass verge towards me, modelling a late-twentieth-century Marks & Spencer jacket.

  ‘That was … fascinating, Lauren. I think you could teach us all a thing or two.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, baby in one hand, Tesco bag in the other. ‘I thought you might like to know that I’ve made contact with your last school.’

  A hand grenade explodes in my stomach. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘They called me actually.’

  ‘What for? Who was it?’

  ‘I can’t recall the name, I’m afraid. But it was someone from the senior management team.’

  ‘And you’re quite sure it was really a teacher?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Look, I’m sure there’s nothing sinister about this, Lauren. They just wanted to know how you were settling in.’

  ‘And what did you tell them?’

  ‘I told them you were doing fine.’ A troubling thought crumples his overripe features. ‘You are doing fine, aren’t you, Lauren?’

  I was until about twenty seconds ago. ‘Yes, yes I think so.’

  A baby is wailing in the boot of his car. He turns towards it like an anxious parent. ‘I’d better … Goodnight, Lauren. Look, I’m sorry if I upset you just now. I thought you’d be pleased to know that someone from your old stomping ground was still thinking about you. There’s really nothing to worry about.’

  But I’m still a bit shaky as I pass through the school gates and head down the hill, which is probably why I overreact when a perfectly manicured finger taps me on the shoulder.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ says Izzy. ‘Calm down, Lauren, it’s only me.’

  ‘Oh … right … it’s you. Sorry, you made me jump.’ Why’s she on her own? That’s a bit scary in itself. ‘Where’s Magda?’

  ‘We’re not joined at the hip, you know.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard Izzy raise her voice. A millisecond later, the familiar smile is back in place. ‘She had to pick up her little brother from football.’

  Izzy really does have the most beautiful highlights. I half wonder about asking where she gets them done. ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘You were great back there by the way. Thanks for helping out. Poor Mags was getting really frazzled.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed.’

  ‘She just wants it to be perfect. We both do.’

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  ‘Listen, Lauren, what are you doing o
n Saturday night?’

  The same as usual: watching Casualty and putting up with my dad’s crap jokes. Of course I don’t tell Izzy that. ‘Oh, you know, busy busy busy.’

  ‘Well, there’s a “gathering” at my place if you’re interested.’

  ‘Er, yes, I —’

  ‘And your mum will let you come?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘She sounds a bit full on, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh no, she’s not that bad really.’ A half-truth slips out. ‘My … sister had some trouble with bullying, so she tends to be a bit overprotective.’

  ‘She should tell old Catchpole. It’s his favourite subject – and STDs, of course.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed.’

  ‘So you’ll try and make it then?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. It’s not your birthday, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s my parents’ wedding anniversary.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘So they’re in Florence for the weekend. You can stay over if you like.’

  ‘I doubt I’d be able to —’

  ‘But don’t bring that awful girl with the pigtail. Magda can’t stand the sight of her. I have no idea why you let her follow you around all day.’

  ‘Well, she —’

  ‘Just you, all right?’

  I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual, so I’m probably doing Katherine a favour here. ‘Okay, fine. But I don’t even know where you live.’

  Izzy waves at the blue Citroën C4 Picasso that’s pulled up on the other side of the road. The door opens and she walks towards it. ‘I’ll Facebook you.’

  18

  IT’S MY PARTY (AND I’LL PUKE IF I WANT TO)

  Have you ever met someone with trichotillomania? Well, if you haven’t, Tilda’s doing a pretty good impersonation of one right now. She’s pretending to watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on her laptop, but as far as I can see she’s far more interested in trying to pull her hair out.

  ‘You look nice, Lauren,’ says Mum, surreptitiously running her eye over my ensemble. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be warm enough?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, I’ll be fine.’

  I’ve had too many ‘You’re not going out like that, are you?’ conversations with Dad to risk the strapless dress we bought in the States. That’s why I’ve opted for a knee-length red skirt, white scoop-neck top and my old bomber jacket. No heels either – or someone’s bound to go on about how tall I am and I hate that – just my favourite blue Converse All-Stars. I’m keeping my hair up too. No point confusing everyone with a total makeover, but I think I’ll still pass.

  ‘Will there be any … alcohol there?’ says Mum, reaching for her pre-Casualty glass of red.

  Tilda lets go of her hair for a moment. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘So what if there is?’ I say. ‘I don’t drink anyway, you know that.’

  I’ve promised Mum I’m never going to hurt her again. Sometimes I have a feeling she doesn’t believe me. ‘Oh, it’s not you that I’m worried about, Lauren. It’s the others. Did you know that British teenagers caused over a hundred and thirty-four million pounds’ worth of damage at parties last year?’

  I can’t help laughing.

  Mum smiles too. ‘It’s not funny you know. She hasn’t put anything about the party on Facebook, has she?’

  ‘Izzy’s not stupid, Mum. You’d like her, she’s really nice.’

  Dad appears, grim-faced in the doorway, the spitting image of the guys who escort dead bodies to funerals. ‘You’re sure about this, are you?’

  Tilda looks up from her screen.

  Mum takes another sip/gulp. ‘She’s sure, aren’t you, Lauren? Now off you go and have a great time.’

  You know what really annoys me about my dad? The fact he genuinely believes his new Corolla is a ‘cool car’. I can almost hear his inner monologue as we turn into the main road and start accelerating: Eight airbags as standard, stain-resistant heated front seats, premium audio with navigation and a dedicated APP suite, not to mention automatic climate control – just slip her into cruise mode and away we go.

  But then, unfortunately, he starts to speak. ‘I see United are in for that Danish bloke.’

  ‘Are they, Dad?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean they’ll get him though.’

  ‘No, Dad.’

  He flicks on his favourite ‘old guy’ radio station. ‘You must know this one. I used to love the Sex Pistols. Nearly saw them live once.’

  Please don’t sing, Dad. Please don’t sing.

  And perhaps there is a God because instead of screaming along with it he turns the volume down. ‘I’ve had a letter from your grandma.’

  My belief in God wavers again. ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘She wants to see you. I thought we could drive down at half-term.’

  ‘I don’t get it. I thought she never wanted to see me again.’

  Dad clears his throat. ‘That’s not really what she said.’

  ‘So what’s her bloody problem then?’

  Even the Sex Pistols can’t quite cover the awkward silence. Dad reaches for a travel sweet. ‘I think you know what her problem is.’

  ‘Yeah, and that’s why I’m not going.’

  ‘Please, Lauren. She’s obviously desperate to see you. And, well, it … it might be your last chance.’

  ‘Grandma’s not dying, is she?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. But when you get to eighty-four, you don’t know how long you’ve got.’

  I’ve not seen Grandma in over two years. And I miss her. ‘What does she want, anyway?’

  ‘She says she’s got something for you. But I think she just wants to see how you are.’

  Every summer, Tilda and I spent a week at the house in Littlehampton. I loved Grandma more than almost anything. Mum and Dad were always in a hurry. But Grandma always seemed to have time. If you couldn’t sleep, she’d never pack you off to bed and order you to ‘think great thoughts’, she’d fix you sugary tea with a ginger biscuit and tell you the story of Auntie Mabel’s knitting and the toffee apple.

  ‘All right, if she really wants to see me, I’ll go. But if the old dear starts having another go at me, I’m out of there, okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ says Dad. ‘I’ll phone and let her know we’re coming.’

  The sat nav politely informs us we’ve arrived at our destination. Dad pulls up in front of an oak-beamed mansion (well, compared to our crappy new house it’s a mansion) with a double garage and a classic MGB roadster in the drive. Now that is a cool car.

  ‘Here we are then,’ says Dad, undoing his seat belt. ‘Do you want me to come to the door with you?’

  ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ says Dad, re-fastening his seat belt. ‘Now remember, I’ll be waiting out here for you at eleven. So don’t be late.’

  ‘That’s way too early.’

  ‘It’s what we agreed on. If you’re not out by five past, I’m coming to get you.’

  ‘Okay, fine,’ I say, jumping out onto the pavement before he can come up with any more ridiculous conditions. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  The passenger window slides down; Dad shouts some last-minute instructions. ‘Watch what you’re drinking, don’t say anything you might regret later, and make sure your phone’s switched on.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘And, Lauren?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You look … nice.’

  The house is throbbing at 120 bpm. I turn to face the music, acutely aware that Dad’s still monitoring my every move from the car. When I reach the front door, I start waving at him. And I keep waving until he finally takes the hint and drives off.

  It’s probably for the best, because just as I’m about to knock, my breathing goes all funny and I bottle it.

  I walk the streets for nearly an hour – only as far as the postbox and back, but over and over until the cracks in the pavement start to feel like old friends. That’s nothing – there we
re a couple of times last year when I slipped out of the house at two in the morning and didn’t sneak back until sunrise. I still feel safest when there’s no one about.

  You see, you think you’re ready for something, but it’s never quite that simple. Izzy’s party ought to be the best moment of my new life so far. But what if one of them gets totally shitfaced and starts asking dumb questions? Three times I nearly give in and call Dad. He’d love that, wouldn’t he? But it’s not the inspirational ‘notes to self’ in my head that send me scuttling back to Izzy’s house, it’s the weather. Thank God I didn’t wear that strapless dress. Somewhere on the way to the postbox, autumn turned into winter, and it’s so bloody cold that I’m shivering like a five-year-old on Littlehampton beach.

  This time the front door is wide open. The violin girl from the fashion show welcomes me with a big hug. ‘Hi, Lauren. You look gorgeous.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘There’s, like, pizza in the kitchen and dancing down that way, I think. Or you could try your luck upstairs!’

  And suddenly I feel really self-conscious: small and insignificant and completely out of place. Maybe if I track down the person who invited me, I might feel like I belong here. ‘Where’s Izzy, by the way?’

  ‘Dunno. Last time I saw her she was with that Rod guy.’

  ‘Right, I’ll go have a look.’

  I follow the music to a darkened room where a First World War scenario is playing out. The boys are lined up down one side with their Peronis and Kronenbourgs and the girls are camped opposite, texting and previewing the occasional dance move. Maybe by Christmas – or sooner if someone puts the right song on – some of them might get it together in no man’s land.

  They all look at least five years older without their school uniforms. I barely recognise anyone. But they seem to know me. Both sides of the conflict shout friendly greetings and wave their phones/beer bottles at me. I wave back, scanning the hormone-scented shadows for Izzy. But there’s no sign of her, so I decide to try somewhere else.

  Down in the kitchen, there’s a competition to see who can stuff their face with the most grapes. And the conservatory is playing host to a face-sucking tournament. Mouths wide open, eyes tight shut, the only clues to the players’ identities are the backs of their heads. The ombré-style curls almost certainly belong to Magda, but there’s not a single highlight to be seen.