The Sound

by Sarah Alderson

  I tell Carrie that I want to study English at university and that I’m hoping to be a writer.

  ‘What kind of writer?’ Mr Tripp pipes up.

  ‘Um,’ I say, self-conscious all of a sudden, ‘a music journalist.’

  ‘Wow,’ he says, catching my eye in the rear-view mirror, ‘that’s interesting. You like music, then?’

  ‘I love music,’ I say, grinning automatically.

  ‘What kind of music?’ he asks.

  ‘A mixture,’ I reply, wondering if this will be like one of those chats I’ve had with Megan’s dad where she rolls her eyes and digs her elbow into my ribs and dies a slow death while I try to explain to him who Lady Gaga is.

  ‘Mike, don’t,’ Carrie says, laying a gentle hand on his arm.

  ‘What?’ he asks her. ‘I’m totally down with the kids.’

  ‘No, really you are not,’ Carrie says.

  ‘No, Dad,’ Brodie pipes up beside me, ‘you really aren’t down with the kids.’

  ‘Put in my place by a four-year-old!’ He shakes his head, laughing, then says to me, ‘Well, maybe I can get you a press pass to a few gigs in Boston when we get back.’

  ‘Ren isn’t coming back with us, she’s just with us for the summer, remember?’ Carrie reminds him.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Mr Tripp says, frowning as he overtakes a cyclist.

  Carrie shrugs at me. ‘We go through a lot of au pairs,’ she says. ‘It’s almost impossible to hold on to a good nanny in the city. Our last one ran off with our neighbour’s husband.’

  Braiden hiccups at that point and spits up some white gloop. I mop it up with a square of muslin, while wondering where to look or what to say. Was that a warning shot across the bows? Because, while Mr Tripp is attractive in an American newscaster type of way, he’s kind of old. And that would be totally gross. As well as just wrong.

  ‘Anyway,’ Carrie says, settling back into her seat, ‘we’re so glad you’re here. Mike and I are both buried with work. Mike works on news deadlines so he’s up late most nights and I’m working on a big contract at the moment, so we need you to wake up with the kids, get them ready, take Brodie to camp, drop Braiden at day care, pick them both up, feed them and put them to bed.’ She takes a breath but I’m still holding mine.

  Two things she’s just said strike me as odd: they are on holiday but they are working, and the kids are both in day care yet they still require a nanny. I decide to keep my mouth shut though because a) it’s none of my business and maybe Americans are all just workaholics and b) hiring a nanny and putting the kids into day care sounds like a very sensible and advantageous plan to me because I am not a workaholic.

  ‘But,’ Carrie continues, with a dazzling smile, ‘the rest of the day is yours. And the weekends. We might need you to do some babysitting in the evenings if that’s OK, but that’s all.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say and it is. It’s not exactly like I know anyone on the island anyway. And I’ve already planned on spending my free time here writing, listening to music and reading. If, as I suspect, my A level grades aren’t of the AAA variety but more of the Famine, Pestilence and Death variety, I’m going to have to find another way to make my music journalist dream happen. My blog is good but it needs to ratchet up a gear if I’m going to make a name for myself.

  I glance at Mr Tripp. I wish I was going back to Boston with them. Free backstage passes to gigs? It’s like I’ve been shown the gates of heaven and then had them slammed and bolted in my face.

  I’m so busy thinking about what bands I would have the potential to see if I stayed here and worked for the Tripps for, say, the rest of my life, that I’m not paying much attention and suddenly we’ve pulled into a parking lot. Up ahead is a two-storey white shingle building with giant decks upstairs and down overlooking the harbour. Sails blot the horizon and seagulls whirl and swoop overhead. The place is heaving with people – the noise of laughter and clinking glasses carries across the parking lot.

  As we walk towards the door I glance down at my scruffy Converse and the short and exceedingly creased Topshop sundress I’m wearing. I threw a ratty old Clash T-shirt over the top of it and now I skulk a few steps behind the others and tear the T-shirt off over my head and stuff it in my bag. This is not the kind of establishment that looks like it allows entry to anyone unless they’re wearing black-tie evening wear, even for breakfast, and I have the sense that a Clash T-shirt, no matter how vintagely authentic, might be the equivalent of wearing hot pants to a royal wedding.

  Carrie and Mike are both wearing tan trousers – I didn’t think they were the type of couple to go in for matching, but they’re American and what do I know about how Americans dress? Mike has on a button-down shirt and a jacket just like one my granddad used to wear and Carrie is wearing a white, short-sleeved blouse and a soft grey cashmere cardigan. Even the children are pristine and groomed – as though they’ve sprung off the page of a catalogue. Brodie, holding my hand, is wearing polka dot leggings and a spotless white tunic. While Braiden, who Mike is carrying, is wearing a Babygro with a little polo player adorning it.

  I feel even more self-conscious. And this isn’t in any way mitigated by the woman who meets us at the door with a clipboard, hair severely drawn up into a ponytail, whose nose wrinkles in distaste at the sight of my shoes and then simply at the sight of all of me. Carrie brushes her to one side with her best lawyer snark face and walks towards a table in the far corner, waving at the occupants.

  Mike steps aside to let me pass the clipboard Nazi, winking conspiratorially at me. ‘Ignore her,’ he whispers, ‘it’s the prerogative of waitresses in this town to make you feel small.’

  I smile gratefully at him and then follow, still holding – actually clutching – Brodie’s hand.

  Carrie has stopped by a large table in the corner where several seats sit vacant. I do a quick scan of the other diners. A woman is on her feet, hugging Carrie, exchanging quick-fire banter about something called a realty market and I’m sure I catch mention of Google and Robert de Niro in the same sentence . . . I don’t even attempt to decipher any of it. A tall man in a jacket and tie is tousling Brodie’s hair while she glowers up at him like an angry leprechaun. The man looks at me and seems a little taken aback, before squaring his facial expression and offering me his hand.

  ‘Joe Thorne,’ he says. ‘Family friend.’

  I take it and he gives my hand a firm, meaty shake. He’s in his forties and big in that way I imagine only American men can be, with a tanned face, thick greying hair and teeth so white they shine like headlights.

  ‘Ren Kingston,’ I answer. ‘The nanny.’

  He nods thoughtfully. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ren, please have a seat.’ He indicates the bench running along the wall and then he turns to greet Carrie and Mike with hearty back slaps and comments about the Red Sox (baseball – I know that one) and how great Carrie is looking.

  I sit, make sure that Brodie is comfortable on the bench beside me and then turn to my other side.

  A boy is sitting there. ‘Whassup?’ he asks, tipping his chin up at me in greeting.

  ‘Um, not much?’ I answer, uncertain if this is the correct response or not.

  Someone reaches across him and offers me their hand to shake. I lean forwards to see better who it belongs to. It’s another boy. He’s about the same age as the first boy. I’m guessing they’re both about eighteen – same as me (roughly – I’m eighteen in just over a month). They’ve both got light brown hair, thick and side-parted, and pale blue eyes. They’re dressed identically, as though they’ve just been let out of some insanely posh boarding school and haven’t had time to go home and get changed. They’re wearing dark trousers, white shirts (tucked in) and navy blazers over the top. A pair of Oakley sunglasses pokes out of the closest one’s top pocket.

  They’re fairly good-looking – in a preppy prepster kind of way – the kind of boys who look like they spend their free time playing polo and learning secret handshakes.
I like my boys Indie boy band slash James Dean so there’s no piquing of interest on my part. But nor is there disappointment. I’m not looking. If Megan were here she would be in full-on quiver mode but I’m not even allowing myself to go there.

  ‘Jeremy Thorne,’ the one shaking my hand says, introducing himself. ‘And this is my brother Matt.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say, ‘Ren. Ren Kingston.’

  ‘You’re English?’ Jeremy asks.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Cool,’ he says and he gives me a smile that makes me feel for the very first time in my life that being English may possibly create a veneer of attractiveness and not immediately destroy any chance of being thought sexy. I thought you had to be Brazilian or Swedish for that effect.

  ‘You’re nannying for the Tripps?’

  I glance up. Sitting diagonally across from me is a girl. She too has light brown hair, long and held in place with an Alice band, and startling blue eyes. Though she has a more angular face than the boys I can tell she’s their sister. She’s wearing a pale green dress, belted at the waist, and she’s eyeing me with interest, though her expression is clearly meant to imply BOREDOM.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Ren’s changing my brother’s diapers,’ announces Brodie.

  Thanks for that, I think to myself, as Brodie smirks proudly beside me.

  ‘That’s Eliza,’ Jeremy says, giving me an apologetic eye-roll. ‘Our charming sister.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say, offering her a smile.

  She doesn’t answer or smile back. Instead she turns to Carrie, who is fastening Braiden into a high chair by my side, and starts cooing over Carrie’s cardigan. Or perhaps over Braiden’s Babygro. I can’t tell.

  ‘So you’re here for the whole summer?’ Jeremy asks and I can tell he’s trying to make an effort, to make up for the blatant rudeness of his two siblings.

  ‘Yeah, six weeks,’ I answer, feeling strangely grateful for his intervention.

  I see the look Matt shoots Jeremy but Jeremy ignores it. ‘Cool,’ he says, ‘you should hang out with us some time. Don’t you think, Eliza?’

  ‘Sure,’ Eliza smiles at me and an ice cap somewhere in the Arctic Circle refreezes. ‘Unless, of course, you have too many diapers to change?’

  I force myself to laugh. While simultaneously imagining throwing one of Braiden’s stinkiest nappies at her head.

  Carrie is suddenly right there interrupting my daydream. She thrusts Braiden’s changing bag at me. ‘If you could keep an eye on the kids for me that would be great,’ she says, already walking away. ‘And order whatever you’d like. Don’t worry, we’ve got the check.’

  I feel my cheeks burning as Eliza stifles a snort across the table. In my head a Beastie Boys song starts playing. It comes complete with lots of graphic swear words.

  ‘OK, thanks,’ I murmur to Carrie.

  A waitress has given Brodie some colouring pens and a picture of a whale to colour in, so she’s entertained with that, and Braiden is busy marvelling at his own digits, which means that I have no choice but to turn back to the three people my own age at the table and attempt conversation.

  Jeremy, the one furthest away from me, is talking to his sister, while Matt, the Whassup one next to me, lounges back along the bench seat and listens.

  ‘Tyler’s coming back tomorrow. Paige told me,’ Eliza announces.

  ‘Awesome. How’s he doing? Did she say?’ asks Jeremy.

  ‘He can’t play anymore.’

  Matt sucks in a breath through his teeth and reaches for a bread roll. ‘There goes his scholarship to Vanderbilt.’

  ‘Man that blows.’ This from Jeremy.

  ‘It’s not like he needs a scholarship,’ Eliza says, lowering her voice and darting a glance towards the grown-ups. ‘And anyway, can’t Mr Reed pull strings at Harvard? Who wants to go to Tennessee anyway?’

  That’s when Jeremy turns to me. ‘What about you, Ren – are you going to college?’

  ‘You mean university?’ I ask.

  They laugh. ‘Yes, university,’ Matt says in a faux English accent that makes Eliza snort and me think once again about whipping the nappy right off Braiden’s bum and chucking it in their direction.

  ‘I hope so,’ I say with a polite smile. ‘It depends on my grades.’

  ‘I’m going to Yale,’ Eliza says, as though I’ve actually asked the question and care even slightly about the answer. ‘Jeremy’s going to Harvard. And Matt’s going to MIT.’

  I glance at Jeremy and he shrugs. He reaches for the bread basket and offers it to me as though it’s filled with apology.

  I take a shell-shaped apology roll for Brodie and another for myself. Eliza stares at it sitting on my plate and I realise that I must have committed some monumental carb faux pas. I reach for the butter and start to slather the bread with it, thinking bite me.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say to Jeremy.

  ‘That’s my three over-achievers.’

  I’m glad somebody said it.

  It’s Mr Thorne, their father. He has his arm slung across the back of Eliza’s chair and is grinning maniacally at all three of them. That’s when I do the maths. All three of them are going to university at the same time which is odd, unless – I stare between them – they’re triplets?

  ‘We’re triplets,’ Jeremy says, bang on cue. ‘We’re very competitive.’

  ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ Mike interjects, and everyone laughs politely, almost musically.

  I tear the bread roll in half for Brodie and concentrate on helping her colour the whale’s blowhole, wishing wholeheartedly that I had a similar evolutionary perk for letting off steam. This lunch is lasting a very long time and it’s only just started. I’m beginning to wish I had stayed home unpacking. My fingers itch for my iPod. I slip my hand into my pocket and smooth my fingers over its glossy face, tugging at the earbuds. If only Apple could hurry up and find a way of hard-wiring the contents of music libraries straight into the brain.

  The waitress comes and takes our order. I choose a Caesar salad, hyper aware, even though I don’t want to be, of the carb police on the other side of the table scrutinising me and the empty bread plate beside me, and also, it must be said, of my thighs squishing on the seat beside Matt.

  We’re halfway through lunch and I’m trying to spoon something green and mushy into Braiden’s mouth and cut up Brodie’s club sandwich so she can fit it into hers, when Jeremy on his way back from the bathroom asks if he can help. Before I can even process the request, he takes the pot of green stuff out of my hand, pulls up a chair and starts feeding Braiden as though he works as a manny in his spare time. Which I highly doubt he does.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, staring at him as he pulls a funny face at Braiden.

  ‘You should get to eat too,’ he says, nodding at my wilting, slightly unappealing-looking salad.

  ‘Right,’ I answer and pull it towards me.

  Preppy prepster just went up a notch in my estimation. His brother and sister not so much. Matt is tearing up bits of bread and chucking them across the table at Eliza who is glaring at him while trying to join in the conversation her parents are having about real estate.

  ‘There’s a party tomorrow night at 40th,’ Jeremy says to me under his breath, as he spoons gloop into Braiden’s sticky mouth. He darts a glance in my direction. ‘You should come.’

  ‘Um, OK,’ I say, wondering what on earth fortieth is – a club? ‘I’ll think about it. I might have to babysit.’

  ‘Oh yes, right,’ he says, frowning at a splodge of green that’s landed on his sleeve. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly, ‘I mean, thanks for asking me.’ I hesitate. The truth is, I wouldn’t mind hanging out with Jeremy. He seems sweet. I just don’t really want to hang out with his siblings. I weigh it up. I can’t spend six weeks with just two under-fives for company – and the Tripps, however nice they seem, are old. ‘If I don’t have to work, I’d love to come,’ I say.

  J
eremy’s face instantly brightens. ‘You’re on Facebook, right?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘OK, I’ll find you and shoot you my number. Call me if you need a ride.’

  I’m about to say something else, murmur some kind of agreement, when Braiden makes a funny gurgling noise beside me. I turn, alarmed, and see that his eyes are bugging out of his head. I feel utter terror that something is happening to him – that he is choking on a pea or stray crouton – and I’m leaping into action, jumping up from the bench, my hands reaching for him, when suddenly a projectile stream of vomit comes shooting out of his mouth Exorcist-style and covers me almost head to toe.

  I stand there speechless and frozen as the warm beads of vomit start to drip from the ends of my hair onto the ground. The entire restaurant falls so silent you could hear a pureed pea drop, and everyone turns to stare. And then the endless moment is broken by Eliza’s high-pitched squealing laughter.

  3

  I stare at my Facebook page. I have set my status to single. The little red heart has vanished. I glare at the screen. At least I got there first, before Will could do it, I tell myself, imagining the little red heart now glowing (fickle betraying emoticon) on Bex’s page. I have only had the nerve to scan the first few messages from friends who’ve posted on my wall – most of them commiserating and calling Will all manner of things ending in -er. A couple though are kindly informing me of how they saw him last night with his tongue wedged down Bex’s throat and his hand stuck up her top. Not for the first time I consider deleting my Facebook account.

  My fingers hover over the status box instead.