by Adele Parks
Of course it’s different now, everything is. I can’t manage their disputes. I can’t do anything to help.
Megan isn’t invited and it would take some cheek for the Pearsons to turn up under the circumstances, but they have that in spades so I’m not completely ruling it out. We haven’t heard anything from them since I called Carla. Their silence is partially disconcerting—they were so loud in our lives for such a long time—but mostly a relief. A triumph. What can they say? What can they do? I feel a small glow of pride that I have managed to deal with them so effectively, so conclusively. The Heathcotes? They are a different beast. Emily says she’s not bothered about whether Ridley comes or not, but I watched her patiently sit while a professional makeup artist spent three hours doing her makeup and styling her pink wig in preparation for tonight, so I don’t believe her. She cares. Far too much.
The volume has cranked up considerably and carries across the field in every direction. There are clashing tunes from the dance floor and the funfair rides, laughter is more boisterous and committed. People are talking over each other, everyone convinced that they are funny and interesting, more so than when they arrived, more so than the people they are talking to. From time to time I pass a cloud of the familiar smog that used to pop up at parties when I was younger. It was weed back then. Now it’s hash. I never partook. I stare intently at the kids and eye them suspiciously, but I can’t catch anyone with so much as a cigarette let alone find the source of the stale haze. They are quick and devious. People are.
“Hello, Lexi, lovely party.” Jennifer beams at me. I haven’t seen her since the press conference. Weirdly, my first instinct is to hug her. That’s my body betraying my mind, muscles and nerves collaborating because of the long and intimate past we share.
Drawing one another into an easy hug or honest conversation was normal for so long. Now I should slap her. I squeeze my hands together behind my back to avoid that. She lunges at me and kisses the air on either side of my face. As we pull apart, I stay stony silent and simply stare at her. I look at this woman who has lied and hurt me. Tried to steal from me. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks. “Sometimes it’s hard to relax at one’s own parties.”
I don’t respond straightaway. I want it to be awkward. I want the intimacy we had to be missed and grieved for. I want her to feel guilty and ashamed. Although I must be an idiot to think she has any depth that way. Our past was tissue thin. Our future is tumultuous and confused. My mind is struggling to catch up to the fact that she’s had the nerve to turn up. I know she was invited, and I know she accepted, but a tiny part of me thought that when it came to it, she might have the good grace to realize that she ought not to be here.
No. She’s ballsier than that. More threatening than that.
I try to understand what it means, her being here. Does she know yet that the bribe Jake offered her is never going to get into her bank account? What must she think about that? Then I notice her costume and I understand completely. She is wearing a skintight silky catsuit that is a clash of primary-colored diamonds of fabric, an elaborate ruffle framing her face and a cute pointy hat. She is the Harlequin. Pierrot’s competitor for Columbine’s heart. I am left wondering how it’s possible that I have been Jennifer’s friend for so many years and not been especially aware of her figure. She’s tall, a good five inches taller than I am. I’ve always known she had long legs, but now I notice the swell and curve of her breasts, her ramrod posture, her tight waist.
“Who told you what I was wearing?” I ask. I don’t see that there’s any point or room for dissembling.
“I think Jake let it slip,” she says with a smile that is as dishonest as it is broad. I want to know when. When she spoke to him and what else was said. But I won’t give her the satisfaction of asking. Her costume is a challenge. Defiance. A declaration of war.
“What was wrong with your own husband?” I ask suddenly. This just burst from me. I wasn’t planning on pushing the matter out in the open.
“Wrong with him?” She doesn’t catch my meaning at first or at least pretends not to. She must have known I’d find out sooner rather than later, considering Fred knows. I was going to keep quiet forever, pretend it was beneath my notice, their sordid little affair, but if I facilitate the secrecy I might be adding to their drama, the thrill. Calling her out is not the same as giving Jake up. Once the secrecy is taken away, this thing they had—or even have—won’t be as exciting. It will fall apart. I’m culling it. Whatever it is. Love or lust.
“Why couldn’t you just stick to him?” I challenge.
“Fred? There’s nothing wrong with Fred. I love Fred.”
“No, you don’t,” I say wearily.
She shrugs. “Well, maybe not. No. But I did, once, I think. I mean, there is nothing wrong with him exactly, but your husband is simply better. Don’t you agree? It was clear from the start that you had the catch. Except for the money thing. He just couldn’t hold down a job, could he?”
“That never bothered me.”
“Yes, it did.”
We speak with hideous honesty. A pair of women who have been the very best to one another and now the worst. We have known each other at our most courageous and magnificent and at our most vile and depraved. “Well, money problems are behind us now,” I point out.
“Yes.” The sudden intimacy of such cruel honesty only accentuates the void between us. “He’s a very wealthy man now. That lottery ticket win of yours has made him very wealthy.”
That’s a ridiculous understatement. From anyone other than J.Lo’s point of view, he is obscenely rich. I’m not naive, I know what this could mean. Wealthy men are catnip to women like Jennifer.
“You know, I never thought you were the one I had to watch. I’d always have thought Carla was more Jake’s type. She’s so much more—”
“Obvious?” interrupts Jennifer.
“I was going to say glamorous. Oh, well, they do say the quiet ones are the worst.” I didn’t watch closely enough though, did I? I can’t continue this conversation. I can’t pretend to be cooler, calmer, more in control than I am for very much longer. “Have a lovely time. Go easy on the cocktails, I understand they are really quite lethal,” I say, and then turn to melt into the crowd.
CHAPTER 31
Emily
The party is off the scale! I’m almost sick with excitement as I watch everyone’s reactions as they drive up and see the big top, the dance floor—it’s awesome. And when they hear that Radio 1 DJ Greg James is actually going to be gigging tonight—their faces! Scarlett, Liv and Nella are all over me. They stick to me like glue and even though I know I’m moving schools and according to both Mum and Dad (in a rare moment of agreement) I ought to be digging out new friends, I cling to my new—old ones, gratefully.
We hang around the vodka luge that Mum in her infinite naivete described earlier as a “really striking ice sculpture.” Ostensibly, the luge is for adults only and there’s even a member of staff standing by. He’s supposed to be policing who drinks from it, but he looks bored and only a smidge over eighteen himself so—big surprise—he doesn’t ask four scantily dressed girls how old we are. I do three shots in quick succession. The first one is disgusting. It burns my throat and makes me want to gag, but the second and third are easier. I realize that under the circumstances, this is the worst time for me to start drinking.
And also the best.
I shouldn’t be drinking because I’m pregnant. I need to drink because I’m pregnant. The thought makes me want to vomit with panic. I push it out of my head.
I watch as guests gather in concentrated, random groups that cluster together then effortlessly float apart as if their movements are part of an elaborate dance. Loads of people come up to me and say they are happy for me and when they do, Scarlett, Liv and Nella clap or bounce about, basically just act like cheerleaders because they just hear words, but I hear f
eelings and I’m not sure there’s not something dark behind the smiles and congratulations. Jealousy, bitterness, resentment. I taste it on my tongue, although it could just be vodka. I smell it in the air. Or is that hash?
I constantly scan the crowds, straining my neck almost, in a none-too-discreet hunt for Ridley. Normally, a girl being this desperate would lead to her mates taking the piss, but the girls pretend not to notice. They are cutting me a lot of slack because there are different rules for rich girls. Eventually, I spot Ridley. And when I see him, I hate it that my first thought is shoulders back, boobs out. I check on my phone that my makeup is still good, no mascara smudges under the eyes. I was depending on his excessive gall. The girls kept saying he’d never have the nerve to turn up, especially without Megan, his sidekick, but I knew him better. He’s not short of nerve. Ridley hurls himself at life. That’s why, when we got together, it was the gentleness that I valued, that made what we had better than what anyone else had. Megan, his parents, his mates, they could all have his enthusiasm, but only I got the tender ache of him.
Until I didn’t.
He arrives with his rugby friends. The gang of boys all ooze swagger, they are used to being noticed and valued. Other boys hunch and slouch as a matter of course. Ridley ought to be cowed, but he isn’t. It’s not the same when the hockey girls arrive. Despite coordinating their outfits to create maximum impact, it strikes me that they are noticed in a way that undervalues them. The girls are measured and, often as not, they are found lacking and even if they pass the test of scrutiny, the prize is just being admired by a guy. I’m not saying it’s fair, I’m just saying it is. Maybe if we all notice how it is, we can start to change things.
He is wearing a strong man costume. It’s pretty ludicrous as it has fake muscles and stuff, but as Ridley is more muscular than most boys his age, he pulls it off. I take a cocktail off the tray of a passing waiter. Holding a glass gives me something to do with my hands. We used to play dress up together. I don’t mean recently in, like, a sex game way—we’re not a sad couple in our forties! I mean, we played dress up when we were kids. The three of us. Mum had a huge wicker basket that was the designated dress-up box. There were endless costumes from World Book Day, Halloween and themed parties stashed in there. But when we played, only Megan bothered to hunt out a complete and matching kit. Jake and I preferred to rummage and pull together our own mad mix-ups. A fireman’s helmet, a Roman breastplate, a ballerina skirt. We’d roar with laughter as we layered one another up in ever-increasing ludicrousness. A multicolored wig, neon bangles, angel wings.
He doesn’t look ludicrous tonight. He looks hot. And cool. My insides billow as though someone has just blown life into me. And I know for a fact I’ll take him back in an instant if I can because wanting beats dignity every time when it comes to people you love. But then the rugby lads jostle about a bit and I notice Ridley isn’t alone. Besides the lads, there is a girl.
Evie Clarke.
In the moment I relax because it’s not Megan he’s here with, then I start to boil with jealousy. I hate Evie with her fake Michael Kors tote. I think of her yanking at my hair, kicking my shins in that nasty loo cubicle. She was not invited. Dad and I deliberately avoided inviting Megan and any of her cronies. What is she doing here? I watch as Ridley casually flings his arm across her shoulders.
It could be a gesture between mates. It could be more. I down the vodka I’m holding. I need it. Something to blunt it, blot it up, this hemorrhaging of feelings, this extreme pain. I think, Fuck him, I’m rich now, then I think, Imagine not wanting me now when I’m this rich. He must really not want me at all, and that makes me feel so sad, so pointless.
“I’m going to get Evie Clarke kicked out,” I tell Scarlett. I expect her to nod, but she doesn’t. She just puts her hand on my arm, tentatively, gently. Since this is the first sign of opposition she’s shown to anything I have suggested since we became friends, her caring gesture is all the more powerful. I want to cry.
“Let’s go and see some more of this party, hey?” she suggests lightly.
I try. I try to just enjoy the party. I mean, it’s phenomenal, I’ve been so excited working on it with Dad and Sara, it’s all I want to care about, but I can’t stop thinking about Ridley. I am constantly aware of his presence. He is currently the closest he’s been to me for four weeks now. I thought it would be a good thing, but it’s torture. Like Mum said it would be. She said boys are preprogrammed to lose focus, but that’s not right and I hate her for generalizing. My pain is particular and absolute. No one understands. I keep putting my hand on my stomach, cradling the bunch of cells that are threatening to ruin my life. That may make my life brilliant. I don’t know. Scarlett notices. “You doing okay? Does your tummy hurt? Do you feel sick?”
“A bit,” I admit. She assumes it’s the alcohol. Better that than she has any real idea.
I don’t mean to, but I find myself moving in roughly the same direction as he does as we explore the party. When he goes on the Ferris wheel, I get in the queue. When he’s eating at the pulled pork cabin, I’m just in the next cabin along, picking at candy floss. The loss of the fluency, ease and intimacy between us is catastrophic, incomprehensible. Evie Clarke is where I ought rightfully to be, tucked under his arm, sharing his jokes, his drink, his space. I look at him and I think of the places we did it and I think of the places on my body that he has touched. My insides lurch.
“You have to stop stalking him,” groans Scarlett. “Let’s go and dance.” I stare at her, or at least try to. The cocktails taste way better than vodka shots. These are sweet and fruity. They go down pretty easily.
Drink is beautiful and it is my friend because it makes things not matter, not to me. Maybe they matter to the person I was or will be tomorrow, but right now nothing matters. I’m floating.
Drink is awful. I’ve had too much. I’m wedged painfully between desperation and yearning. I pretty much love Scarlett right now because she’s really trying to be a proper best friend, not just a rich person’s best friend, but I’m going to ignore her. “I don’t want to dance yet.” The dance floor is in the opposite direction to where Ridley is standing.
“Then how about some water? We should all have some water. Nella, Liv, go and get some. I’ll stay with her.”
Then a miracle happens. Ridley walks away from Evie Clarke and he walks toward me! He keeps his eyes trained on me as though there aren’t three hundred other people in the field. I hear Scarlett make a low whistle sound and Liv laughs, but then they fall away. Vanish. Poof. Just like that. As does all other sound and sense. There’s just him, walking toward me, holding eye contact. He has remained certain of himself, that’s because he doesn’t know what I know. He thinks he’s a boy on the cusp of GCSEs, A levels, university, a future. He doesn’t know what I know and the thought cheers me because for a moment, maybe I have more power.
“Hiya.”
“Hi.”
“Nice party.”
“Thanks.” I say thanks automatically because it’s the same script that I’ve followed about fifty times tonight. He didn’t give the compliment with as much enthusiasm as some. In fact, maybe it had a sliver of sarcasm, but maybe not. The vodka and the cocktails mean I’m finding what people are saying is a bit blurry. Their faces aren’t staying still, either.
Ridley glances at the others that are hanging around us—Scarlett, Liv, Nella and three or four of his mates, too. Liv and Nella have not gone for the water. No one is going anywhere. All eyes are on us. They are not even bothering to pretend to hold their own conversations. It’s quite cool, it’s like we’re Kim Kardashian and Kanye, but it’s also awful because I know Ridley won’t be his best self in front of others. His best self is when he’s alone with me and mucking about doing daft stuff like throwing Maltesers in the air and catching them in his mouth or shooting hoops and stopping to kiss me every time he gets ten in a row (which was often, becau
se he’s really good at sport). I finish off my cocktail because I don’t know what else to do.
“You drink now?” Ridley sounds surprised but pleased.
“Things change,” I say with a shrug. This is like the opposite of true. Because yes, I drink now, and yes, my family are millionaires, and yes, our parents have fallen out, and yes, he took photos of me with my pants down, peeing.
But I love him. That has not changed and that’s the only thing that matters.
“How many have you had?” he asks.
“Not enough,” I reply, giggling. Again, most likely the opposite of true. But it sounds pretty cool, like we’re in a film or something. Nella put her hand straight in the air and actually clicks her fingers at a waiter. The others all laugh and one of Ridley’s friends says, “You didn’t just fucking do that for real, did you?”
Nella shrugs. “My girl wants a drink.” She pouts and we all laugh again. The guy with a tray of cocktails appears and lets us all take one even though he looks unsure about it.
“You’re all eighteen, right?”
Liv points at me and says, “It’s her party.” Not really answering the question, but also very much answering the question. We clink our glasses and then drink. The boys make jokes about cocktails being for “bloody girls” and ask where they can get a beer.
“There’s a bar,” I say, pointing to one of the tents.
“It’s free,” adds Scarlett. Immediately, all the boys dash off. I hold my breath. All the boys but Ridley. He stays. And I breathe again. He chose me over a free-beer tent. That’s massive. He looks over his shoulder to where he left Evie Clarke standing. She’s still waiting for him. I see her sort of floundering about in space. Not sure what to do with herself, not sure where she fits, and I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. He turns back to me and I instantly forget her. He stayed with me.
