But the words don’t come.
“Nothing to say?” She folds her arms. Chin goes back into her neck. I’m noticing that. Wondering how she does it. Noticing the apron. No shape. Covered in little flowers. Crossing over in front. Tied round the back.
“I give up. I’ve got better things to do than wait around here with you being so mardy. Your father will be back soon and I’ve got to get the tea. I was going to make hot buttered toast in front of the fire, but the way things are we’ll have tinned spaghetti. And it’s your turn to wash up, my lady.”
I open my mouth. To remind her we’ve got a dishwasher. But she turns. Leaves the room. With a spectacular slam of the door. Watch the blue dressing gown swinging on the hook. Grip the quilt on the bed.
I want to go home. I hate home. But I want to be there. Now. Badly. With my own mum. And my own stuff. There. I’ve said it. A hot tear’s running down my right cheek.
I wipe it off with the back of my hand.
There was a little knock on the door and the handle rattled. Marilyn’s mind had drifted off for a few minutes, imagining being at university and her bedsit. She almost persuaded herself that everything wasn’t happening, she was back at home. The knock made her jump. Nobody would knock on her bedroom door, they just came in. She put a hand to her hair, remembering.
“Holly!”
She sat up, wondering what to do.
“It’s Kyle, let me in!”
At least she knew who Kyle was, and that he was friendly enough. She got up and drew the bolt, then opened the door.
Kyle was standing there. She was beginning to know the tall figure with rounded shoulders. He looked like he’d lost something very important, and had no hope of ever finding it again.
Kyle walked into the room as if he was used to being in girls’ bedrooms. No boy had ever been in Marilyn’s room. Her mother would have gone mad. But Kyle seemed to be at home here.
He hesitated. “Sorry, are you doing something? They let me out at the police station, but I’m in big trouble.”
“What happened?”
“They rang my dad and everything.”
Marilyn must have looked as confused as she felt.
“Dad’s climbing the walls. And Joe’s found out about me borrowing his car.”
Marilyn didn’t know what to say, but at least she could listen.
Kyle looked at her. “Are you okay? You still look a bit strange.”
She put a hand to her hair again.
“I – feel a bit strange. Can I tell you something?”
This was a big risk.
“Course.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“I know, you never are. That’s why I like you, you’re never the same, and you always ask impossible questions.”
“No, really. I’m not – Holly.”
“Are you thinking of changing your name again?”
Marilyn gulped. “No, not changing. My real name’s Marilyn, Marilyn Bolton.”
“Okay, Marilyn Bolton.” Kyle smiled as if this was some kind of joke. “And where do you live, and how come you’re in Holly’s bedroom? And how come you look exactly like her?”
“I live – here. But…”
“You know, Holly, sometimes you take it all a bit far. I’m in real trouble, and you have to have an identity crisis.”
“No, it’s not that. I think – something’s happened. I’m in the wrong time. What year are we in?”
“Don’t be stupid. 2010. All year.”
Marilyn couldn’t help looking as shocked as she felt. But Kyle didn’t notice. “I wish I was in the wrong time. Then we could have walked into town and I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“But it’s true!” Marilyn felt tears coming, but she fought them back.
“Come on, babe, we’ll sort it out. There’s no way my brother will press charges for the car. I’ll have to go down there on Monday and sort it. The main thing is, they can’t prove I was driving.”
“What?”
“The car. My cousin, Jamie, he’s training to be a solicitor or a barrister or something, and he told me. They only saw us sitting in the car. They didn’t see the dog.”
What dog?
“Ah.”
“And we’ll get your head fixed, you’re stressed out, that’s all.”
He turned to the window. “Where’s that guy?”
“What guy?” Marilyn thought of bonfire night, but that was months away.
“The one you think you’re going to get. Not convinced myself, but you saw him first. He’s gone. We could do some research on the internet if you want.”
“Research?”
“For your project. The 1960s, remember? No, 1962, that’s it. Before everything kicked off. You have to find out about them. You did hit your head hard.”
“Of course. Maybe tomorrow – could we do, whatever you said, tomorrow? You’re right, I’ve got a headache.” She needed more time to work out what was happening.
“You want me to go?” He was looking at her again. Head on one side.
“Yes, I need to – I need to wash my hair.”
“Again? You did that earlier.”
“You know, I need an early night.”
“Holly Newman, I never thought I’d hear you say you needed an early night.”
Marilyn looked at her hands, twisted together onher lap. “I do tonight.”
“Okay, we’ll get out there tomorrow then.”
“Out where?”
“The club – you know. We’re going down – everyone’s going.”
“Right – you’ll come over tomorrow afternoon? To do that – research thing?”
“Sure. You take care though. Text me if you need me.” He was on his way out of the door.
“Kyle?”
“What?” Kyle hesitated in the doorway.
“You know what I said – about being somebody else?”
“That old story? What about it this time?” He sounded irritated.
“Nothing. Bye.”
Kyle wasn’t going to take her seriously, that was obvious. Whoever this girl Holly was, Marilyn was going to have to pretend to be her. And it was clear that Kyle, at least, wouldn’t know the difference.
And maybe she could enjoy it. Maybe she could stop being frightened and expecting to be found out and really enjoy it.
Being Holly.
The little boy yells up the stairs. Tea’s ready. I’m hungry. But worried. About the tinned spaghetti. Gross.
The boy yells again. Louder. I have to go downstairs. Look in the mirror again. Piece together the bits. Avoid looking at the face. Spots. Bad skin. No makeup. Eyes aren’t bad, but look at those eyebrows, meeting in the middle. Okay nose. Glasses. Short hair and uniform. Tie. Shirt. Take the tie off and drop it on the floor. Undo the top button of the shirt. And then the next. A touch of bra showing. Greyish white bra, cotton. Do up the button again.
I get down to the kitchen. The table’s got some kind of crumply cloth on it. Knives and forks arranged like in a restaurant. Plates and bowls made of blue plastic. Like picnic stuff. Some crap programme on the radio. A man sitting at the table. Reading a newspaper. Frowning. Glasses. Slicked back hair, short. Sad, beaten down face. Doesn’t even look up. Suppose it’s the dad.
The boy gets a book from the shelf. Sits down. None of them says anything. The mum is still in the kitchen banging about. I sit.
“We’ll have a reading tea, with no arguments,” she calls out. “It’s nearly ready.”
What the hell is a reading tea? The boy has a book. I sneak up to my room again. Fetch one of the library books. Even though they’re rubbish romances. We all sit round the table. The mum brings in plates. Puts one in front of me. I look. Two thick slices of white toast with butter. Some kind of spaghetti mixed with orange goo. All over the toast. If I cooked that I’d get a lecture on healthy eating. If Mum cooked it I’d tell her that her head needed looking at.
We’re to
tally silent. Except when someone asks for the salt or something. Get through most of the food. Even though it’s foul. Full of carbs. Slimy too.
I’m sitting there and I’m leaning my elbow on the table, so I can read easier. The dad clears his throat. Puts down his paper.
“Marilyn.”
Keep forgetting it’s my name here, so I keep on reading.
“Marilyn, have you forgotten your manners?”
“What?” I look up.
“Have you forgotten your manners? All joints off the table except those to be carved.” He’s kind of serious, but there’s a twinkle in his eye when I look at him. But I’ve no idea what he’s on about.
“Joints. Elbows.”
I’m so shocked I take my elbows off the table and almost drop my book on the plate.
The mother sighs.
“I’m good aren’t I dad?” It’s the brat. “Not like Maz.” He doesn’t know anything about sibling solidarity either.
“Shut your mouth.” It’s out before I think.
“Marilyn! Be quiet and finish your food.” The mum wipes her plate clean with the last piece of toast. OCD, I just know. Puts her knife and fork together.
I go back to the book. Not so bad when you get into it. Historical. Loads of long frocks. Heaving bosoms. Still don’t look at anyone. Nobody looks at me.
Everyone’s finished the food. Then he kicks my leg. The boy. Under the table.
The first time I pretend I haven’t noticed.
He kicks me again. Harder. Not looking at me.
I kick him back. Harder than I meant to. He lets out a huge howl.
“Mum! She kicked me! Maz kicked me!”
My mouth drops open. I can’t believe he just did that.
“You liar! You kicked me first!”
The father looks up from his paper. “Marilyn, how dare you call your brother a liar at the tea table!”
“But it was his fault!”
“I don’t care. You can get up to your room.”
“But…”
“Look young lady, you’re not too old for me to take a slipper to you. Get up there.”
I’ve got a lot more to say. Think I’d rather go. Can’t help putting two fingers up at the dad. He begins to get up. Slumps down again. Looks like he’ll have a heart attack. The mother’s hands fly up to her face. Her mouth opens. She starts to cry. I push back my chair. Slam the door shut behind me.
This family is seriously dysfunctional.
Marilyn sat on the bed. It must be about five o’clock. Nobody else was home. She wondered when the mother would start cooking tea.
But tea didn’t come. Nobody came, even by six. She began to explore the room. It was strange. Grey and black plastic stuff everywhere. Some odd boxes with wires and a keyboard like a typewriter. Everything looked like it came from some faraway planet or a space ship.
One wall was covered in posters, postcards and photos, stuck on with some kind of blue chewing gum. She looked up close. This girl lived a completely different life. One postcard caught her eye. It was tucked in at an angle, above a framed photo of a family. The postcard was covered in loads of pictures, like potato prints, all different bright colours, of the same face. She knew that face.
It was Marilyn Monroe. She took the postcard down and turned it over. There was a name she’d never heard of – Andy Warhol.
She opened the huge wardrobe. It was full – clothes stuffed into every corner, and most of them were black. On the floor of the wardrobe were piles of clumpy shoes with stacked up heels, all black, some with bows or decorations. There were no flat shoes, except a dirty pair of white gym shoes hidden at the back. And a pair of bright pink canvas boots with white printing, white laces, and a star on one side.
Marilyn was starving, so she went downstairs. There were carpets everywhere, covering the whole of the floors. It was chaos in the kitchen. Everything from the cupboards was piled up on the counters, and one of the cupboards had been pulled off the wall and dumped on the floor.
She found some bread in a packet, already sliced. It looked soft and it didn’t have a crust. And it was brown, not like her mother’s proper white homemade bread. She took a piece out and looked round for something to put on it. Then she heard the front door close and a woman’s voice call out.
“Hi, Holly! I’m back. Sorry I’m so late, I had this massive case to finish before the weekend and…”
The woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was about Marilyn’s mother’s age, but she looked years younger – almost as if she could be Marilyn’s older sister. Her hair was down to her shoulders, shiny and brown, and it swung as she moved. She seemed to be wearing make up, but Marilyn couldn’t see the red lipstick, blue eye shadow and specks of powder her mother wore when she went out. Her eyes were strong and hazel coloured – and she had a direct look, like she wouldn’t be scared of anyone. Now she stared at the bread in Marilyn’s hand. Marilyn felt like she’d been caught stealing.In a way, she had. This wasn’t her house, and it wasn’t her kitchen. Except it seemed to be.
“You’re eating. No, carry on, I’m just a bit shocked, that’s all. The butter’s in the fridge – some cheese in there too if you want, or peanut butter in the cupboard – no, not in the cupboard, somewhere.”
She waved her arms helplessly at the mess.
“I’ll cook something a bit later – I think there’s pizza in the freezer. No, we’ll get a takeaway, I’ll phone. Oh my god, look at this. I’ll have to get it all down by the time they come on Tuesday – what are you looking at me like that for?”
Marilyn realised she was gawping with her mouth open. She shut it and shrugged.
“To put the new kitchen in. I told you days ago. You are in a different world.”
“Oh. That.” She was glad the woman talked so much. She didn’t have to say anything herself.
“Did you have a good day? I had this massive case – worst I’ve ever seen. Neglect, abuse, I don’t know how parents can do it, do you? Good job we’ve got each other, isn’t it, hon?” She came over and hugged Marilyn. Marilyn wasn’t used to such affection, but she liked it. Her own mother was always there when she got home from school. She didn’t approve of latch-key kids, she said. It stored up nothing but trouble. Marilyn didn’t know what kind of trouble, but she would like the house to herself sometimes.
“Let’s have a girls’ night in, shall we? We could watch crap TV. I’ll phone for a pizza. Then I’ll have a bath and get in my jamas and we can eat.”
Marilyn wasn’t listening any more. She didn’t understand much of what the mother was saying. She didn’t sound like her own mother at all. She didn’t look like her either. This mother was dressed in trousers, for a start, men’s trousers, with a jacket, like a man’s suit. Then Marilyn looked up and saw the wall behind this mother, where the cupboard had come down.
There was some old wallpaper left over, yellowing and torn as if it had been there for many years. It looked familiar. It looked strangely like the paper her dad was putting up this week. She’d seen the rolls waiting in the kitchen, white background with drawings of cups and saucers and loaves of bread. But this was all faded and yellow, except where it had been out of the light completely, behind where the cupboard had been. There it looked almost the same, except for the rips and cobwebs.
But it couldn’t be the same.
“Holly, where’ve you gone to?”
The mother moved away and smiled at her. She brushed Marilyn’s hair back.
“You’re beautiful, you know? Shame about all the face paint, but you’re such a beauty. Kyle been round?”
“Yes, earlier on.”
It was the first thing she’d said, but the mother didn’t seem to notice anything different.
“He okay? He’s such a sweetie, pity he’s gay. I could go for Kyle myself, but he’d have to change his hairstyle as well as his preferences. Okay, I’m off for a bath. You have your sandwich, I’ll see you in a while. Nice to have an evening in together for
a change, I’ve been so busy lately. Do you want to choose a DVD? You must tell me all about your day.”
She was out of the room before Marilyn could say anything else. A mother, talking about a daughter’s friend like she wanted to go out with him? Where was the father? What did she mean by preferences? Did she ever stop talking? She was nothing like Marilyn’s own mum, more like a big sister.
Marilyn looked at the bread in her hand. The slice had clogged up into moist patches where she’d been holding it too tight. She looked round for a bin and couldn’t see one. She ate the bread as it was. It tasted of nothing. Remembering the yeasty smell of her mother’s bread made her sad. She looked up at the wall again, where the cupboard had come down. She could see pencil marks, numbers, measurements perhaps. She recognised the hand-writing easily. It wasn’t like anyone else’s she knew, small and neat, slanting. She put a hand up to the wall and traced the numbers with her fingers. Her dad’s writing.
For a minute, she longed to be back home with her parents and her brother. But then she thought again. She’d much rather be here, wherever it was. As far away from her family as possible. And this mum was much better than hers.
The doorbell rang. Marilyn could hear the bath running upstairs, and a muffled cry from the mother telling her to go and answer it. She went slowly to the front door, not knowing what she’d do, who it would be. It was too late for the milkman, or the postman.
She opened the door, clinging to it so whoever was there could only see her head and shoulders. There was a boy outside, not Kyle, but an older boy, foreign, with light brown skin and long hair. She had to look up at him to see his face, he was so tall.
He smiled. He had big brown eyes with thick black eyelashes, and a big smile. He looked like an exotic animal. He was gorgeous and he knew it.
“Hi. I thought I’d come over and introduce myself. I’ve seen you a couple of times. It’s what new neighbours do, isn’t it? Before they ask you to feed the cat or something?”
Marilyn’s mouth dropped open. He spoke like she did, like he’d been here forever.
Vintage Page 3
