The Dare, page 8
I worked out last week that she never asks me a question that I can answer with a yes or no, which is really annoying. I think she does it deliberately to make me say more than I want to. But she’s slipped up with that last one, because although I can’t answer it with a yes or no, I can say ‘nothing much’ and she’ll have to ask me something else.
‘Nothing much,’ I say, trying not to sound rude. Because if you say ‘nothing much’ in a certain way, it can sound a little bit rude.
‘Nothing much of what?’ she says, and my heart sinks. She’s too good at this. She simply won’t be beaten.
‘Dad wanted us to go to the seaside, but we didn’t go.’
‘Why was that, Lizzie?’
Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. It’s one of her favourite words.
‘Because Mum had a migraine and I didn’t want to eat ice-cream because it didn’t seem right.’
‘Why didn’t it seem right?’
‘Because … because you eat ice-cream on holiday and it doesn’t feel much like a holiday any more.’
Angela Harris gives me a sad little smile. I try not to look at her face because I don’t know whether she expects me to look at her eyes or not and it’s hard to look at someone’s face if you don’t look at their eyes, so I look at her neck instead. She’s got lines round her neck, just like Mum has.
She uncrosses her legs again and sits up a little straighter. She dips her head slightly to catch my eyes. I let her catch them, but only for a second.
‘How do you think it would make you feel if you did go to the seaside and eat an ice-cream?’ she says.
I chew the inside of my bottom lip and try to think of what I should say. If I say it would make me feel guilty, she might ask me what I’m feeling guilty about. She might think I’m feeling guilty for a really bad reason. Like pushing Alice in front of that train. That’s what she’s trying to find out if I did, and so I have to be really careful. Because I didn’t. I didn’t do that, did I? My brain hurts from all the thinking.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
Angela Harris smiles again, but it’s not such a sad smile this time. It’s more of a cross sort of smile. I don’t think Angela Harris likes me much. I don’t think I like myself very much.
21
Now
For the past three weeks, I’ve been feeling sick all day, but I’ve had all the tests Dr Ahmed arranged and been told everything is fine and that the sickness is normal – a good sign that the pregnancy is healthy. Evenings are the only time I feel remotely human, and tonight I’ve been well enough to eat a takeaway curry. Nothing too spicy, mind. A chicken korma and a plain naan. Ross has had his usual lamb madras.
I snuggle up to him on the sofa, determined not to ruin things by raising the subject of Catherine Dawson again. Since the party, we’ve had several more conversations where I’ve had to use all my self-control not to beg him to resign and find another practice.
The phone rings just as Bake Off: The Professionals is starting. I can tell from the tension in Ross’s shoulders and the set of his mouth that it isn’t good news.
‘Thank you for letting me know,’ he says. ‘I’ll come as soon as I can.’
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘That was the manager from The Beeches.’
The Beeches is the nursing home where his father lives. ‘He hasn’t …?’
‘No. But she says he’s deteriorating. I’ll book a return flight for tomorrow.’ He sighs. ‘I can do the round trip in a day.’
I stand up and start stacking the foil containers inside each other, clearing the mess on the coffee table. ‘I’ll come with you. Let’s see if we can book the tickets now.’
Ross gently prises the containers out of my hands. ‘I should think flying to Aberdeen and back in one day is the very last thing you need to be doing right now.’
‘But I want to. We could tell him about the baby. I know we agreed to keep it to ourselves for a while, but what if your dad doesn’t …’
Ross does a bitter little laugh. ‘I doubt it’ll even register with him. Honestly, Lizzie, you’re better off staying at home. You’ve built him up in your mind as this poor, tragic figure, but the reality couldn’t be more different. That’s why I’ve never taken you to see him. The difference between my dad and yours couldn’t be greater.’ He shakes his head, sadly. ‘The truth is, and I hate to admit this, but I’m ashamed of him.’
I rest my hand on his sleeve. ‘I know you blame him for your mother’s death.’
He’s never actually admitted this, but I’ve guessed as much from some of the things he’s said in the past about the stress his dad’s behaviour caused her.
‘I don’t blame him for her death. But I’ve spent most of my life wishing he’d died instead of her.’ He looks straight at me then. ‘I’ve shocked you now, haven’t I?’
‘No. I understand.’ At least, I’m trying to.
‘Then you’ll understand that I need to go alone. I need to make my peace with him before he dies. I’ll go online and see if I can book an early flight.’
The next morning, Ross is gone before I wake up. I open my eyes and heave myself up on to my left elbow. I put my glasses on and look at the clock radio. Nine forty-three! I never sleep this late.
I crawl out of bed, mouth clamped shut, and stumble to the toilet, hang over it, limp as a rag doll, my skin all clammy. Within seconds, last night’s curry makes another appearance.
Round about midday I rally a little and go through into the kitchen to make some toast. Ross rings while I’m waiting for it to pop out of the toaster.
‘You looked so peaceful this morning I couldn’t bring myself to wake you,’ he says.
‘I wish you had. I’m late taking my meds now.’
As soon as the words are out, I regret them. I don’t want him thinking of me as someone who needs to be looked after, someone who has to be reminded to take her tablets. I’m his fiancée, not his patient.
‘Shit! I didn’t think.’
‘It’s not your fault. Even if I had taken them on time, I’d have probably brought them up by now.’
‘Why don’t you go for a walk in the park? That’ll make you feel better.’
He’s right. Some fresh air will do me good. He was right about not dragging me to Aberdeen as well. There’s no way I’d have coped with flying today.
‘Where are you now? Are you at The Beeches yet?’
‘No, I’m in a cab leaving Dyce. The plane was delayed. I’ll text you later.’
After we’ve said goodbye I eat my toast with a banana. Each mouthful I swallow and keep down feels like a small victory.
It’s sunny outside but there’s still a chilly breeze. I zip up my waterproof jacket and stride to the end of the street and the entrance to Maryon Wilson park. It surprises me sometimes how much green space this part of London has. I won’t have far to go to take my baby for a walk.
Ribbons of hair flutter round my face as I pass through the gate. The park seems to be full of mothers and pushchairs today, or am I just more tuned in to noticing them now?
Dr Ahmed has been very reassuring, and Ross has told me I’ll be better looked after than most pregnant women, but I’m still really scared. Getting through the pregnancy and labour is frightening enough, but what happens after the baby is born? I’d hate for something bad to happen if I start having seizures again.
By now, I’ve walked round the park twice. The combination of air and exercise has worked its magic on my head and the nausea is at last easing off. But I have to keep walking till all these worrying thoughts get blown away. There’s not much a good brisk walk can’t make better, that’s what my dad always says. I set off for the gate on the far side of the park and soon I’m crossing the road for the houses on the other side.
Gone are the Victorian and Edwardian terraces that make up most of the dwellings where Ross and I live. Here it’s mainly 1930s housing with rendered or pebble-dashed walls and big front gardens. They remind me of the house I grew up in, before we moved to Dovercourt. I was one of the few children at my school who lived beyond the limits of the sprawling Garleywood Tippet housing estate.
I’m almost at Plumtree Lodge now. It’s a modern, two-storey building with white rendered walls and an elaborately curved roof. The locals call it the Wedding Cake. I wonder how long you have to live in a place to call yourself a local?
The pressure in my bladder is starting to build. It’s going to take at least twenty minutes to walk home, and I’ll be really uncomfortable by then. Perhaps I could nip into the surgery and use their toilet. I don’t want to, but if I’m quick, I could be in and out before anyone notices me, and they’re bound to, after the party. One thing’s for sure, I won’t be applying for that part-time job, no matter how convenient it might be. Not with Catherine working there.
22
I’m heading back to the main entrance when I hear someone call my name. It’s Gloria Williams, the senior partner. She’s come out of her consulting room and is walking towards me.
‘How’s Ross’s father?’ she says.
‘Not sure yet. His plane was delayed.’
‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘Well, give him my love when you speak to him. It must be so hard with his father living all the way up there.’
‘Yes, yes, it is.’
I’ve just spotted Catherine talking to one of the receptionists. I need to get away before she sees me, but it would be rude to cut Gloria off and, anyway, it’s too late. Catherine is waving and coming over, looking every inch the efficient nurse in her navy uniform with her dark, glossy hair swept up into a bun. Once again, I see Alice in her face.
‘Hi, Lizzie. We were all so sorry to hear about Ross’s dad,’ she says. ‘Sounds like he’s in a bad way.’
Gloria touches me gently on the arm. ‘I’d better dash,’ she says. ‘Thank you again for that wonderful party at your house.’
‘I got your message,’ Catherine says, as soon as Gloria has gone.
I gawp at her. What does she mean? What message?
Her forehead creases in a puzzled frown. ‘About the flowers? I’m so glad you liked them.’
Right. The flowers. The ones I shoved in the kitchen bin. Ross must have taken it upon himself to thank her for them on my behalf. Cheers, Ross.
‘Oh, right, yeah.’
‘Lizzie, are you okay? Only you look a bit peaky.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Lizzie, I know this whole situation is awkward …’
Oh no, she’s going to say something nice. Something sensible. Something I can’t ignore. ‘But is there any possibility we can call a truce? For Ross’s sake. It must be terribly difficult for him, caught in the middle, so to speak.’
I glance at her face for the briefest of seconds. Just long enough to see the worry lines etched in her forehead and round her mouth. Perhaps it is unfair of me to carry on like this, refusing to accept an apology. I mean, what harm can it do to be civil? I’m better than this and, besides, it won’t do to let Catherine Dawson take the moral high ground.
‘Well, it was a long time ago.’
Reluctantly, I hold out my right hand, and Catherine clasps it with both of hers, pumping it up and down. It’s hard to believe that this softly spoken, reasonable person asking for my forgiveness and sending me bouquets of flowers is the same hateful young woman who was so mean to me as a child. I know I should say something nice, but she needs to get the message that we’re never going to be friends.
‘I’ve wanted to say sorry for so long,’ she says, still holding my hand, tears welling up in her eyes. She seems so genuine and, infuriatingly, my eyes fill up, too.
‘Alice was my best friend,’ I say, my voice little more than a whisper. ‘I still miss her.’
‘Of course you do. You two were so close.’ Her eyes lock on to mine, but there’s nothing scary about them now. Quite the opposite. They’re full of sadness and compassion. ‘So very close.’ She blinks and looks away. ‘I miss her, too. Every single day.’
She reaches into the pocket of her tunic and draws out a business card. She looks awkward as she passes it to me. Embarrassed.
‘Just in case you ever fancy a coffee or something,’ she says.
I don’t want her bloody card, but refusing it seems pointlessly childish, so in the end I take it.
For a few strange seconds, I sense her teetering on the edge of something, just like before, at the party, as if she might actually hug me. I take a step towards the exit.
‘It’s been really nice bumping into you again, Lizzie,’ she says.
I mumble a reply and step out into the fresh air, gasping a great lungful of it as I walk away and don’t look back.
She wanted to practise kissing, she said. So that when the time came and she had a boyfriend, she’d know exactly what to do.
Time had passed and we were older now. Teenagers at last. Thirteen is an odd age. Some days you feel almost grown-up. Other days, you’re still very much a child. Building dens in the woods. Fishing for tiddlers with nets and jam jars. Stuffing your face with so many strawberries you feel sick.
‘Proper French kissing,’ she said. ‘With tongues.’
My cheeks burned. Surely she didn’t mean to practise with me? And yet, now that the words were out there, I knew it would happen. Because it was always like that. Her coming up with the plans and me falling in with them. What else could I do? She was the only friend I had.
First, we pushed a chair against her bedroom door. Then we sat on the edge of her bed. My armpits were wet with nervous sweat. My mouth was dry. I wanted it to be over as quickly as possible because we still had an hour’s worth of homework to do and it was pressing on my conscience. But as soon as our lips parted and the tip of her tongue found the tip of mine, I never wanted it to stop.
I wanted to practise for ever.
23
Then: Before
Friday, 25 May 2007
It’s Friday evening at last and Alice and I are getting ready for the youth-club disco. Next week is half-term, thank God. Mum calls it the Whitsun week.
Alice takes hold of the strawberry lip gloss and leans towards the speckled mirror in her bedroom. She slides the rollerball from side to side across her mouth. I suppose it’s only fair that she gets to use it first, seeing as it’s hers.
Then she presses her middle finger in the blue eye-shadow palette and smears it over her eyelids, blending it into the creases and dabbing another layer on the outer corners.
‘Do you see how I’m blending it in?’ she says, as if she’s some kind of make-up guru and I’m her student. Alice is my best friend ever, but sometimes she’s really, really annoying.
I pick up the discarded lip gloss and put some on my own lips. I don’t like the sickly-sweet smell in my nostrils, or the sticky feel of it, but if Alice is using it, I want to as well.
Alice looks perfect. She’s wearing a pair of white capri pants, a pink cropped T-shirt and her sister’s denim jacket with embroidered flowers on the sleeve. I can’t believe Catherine’s letting her wear it. I’m wearing capri pants, too, but mine don’t look as good as Alice’s. They’re black and baggier in the leg and my white calves look too fat. I was so happy when I tried them on in Topshop, but as soon as I got them home, I knew they were a mistake. I should have worn my jeans. Too late now.
Catherine is standing in the hallway when we go downstairs. She makes a little adjustment to Alice’s hair and tells her she looks fab. Then she makes her promise to be home by nine thirty at the latest and not to take any shortcuts. Much as I’d have liked an older sister, I wouldn’t want one as bossy as Catherine. I don’t know how Alice can stand it, but Alice just rolls her eyes and opens the front door.
Catherine taps me on the shoulder as I’m about to follow Alice outside. ‘New trousers, Lizzie?’ she says.
I look at her in surprise. She hardly ever says a word to me. She normally looks down her nose at me, as if I’m something the cat’s dragged in.
‘Yes, I bought them from Topshop.’
Catherine smiles and I wonder if she’s finally decided to stop being such a bitch. ‘Well, as long as you’ve kept the receipt, I’m sure you’ll be able to change them for a pair that actually fits.’
So, that’ll be a no then.
When we arrive, it’s already filling up. Dave Farley and some of the other boys are standing in huddles on the edge of the hall, swigging Coke from cans and messing around on their phones. One of the youth-club leaders is busy pulling down the blackout blinds against the evening sun and there’s a line of girls waiting to put their requests in to the DJ – Melissa and Bethany and a cluster of other girls in crop tops and denim mini-skirts, or black leggings so thin they look like tights. Melissa and Bethany are moving their bodies and sticking out their bottoms in time to Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’. They’ve straightened their fringes and curled the ends of their hair.
Bethany waves at us and I wave back. Then I realize my mistake. She isn’t waving at us, she’s waving at Alice. Of course she is. My cheeks go red, but hopefully no one has noticed because the blackout blinds are fully down now and … oh no, someone’s trained lights on a giant mirror ball suspended from the ceiling. Everyone cheers as the multicoloured pattern starts raining down the walls. I stare at the floor, unable to catch my breath. I won’t be able to stay now. Flashing or moving lights of any kind give me seizures.
Alice touches me on the shoulder and, before I can stop her, she’s marching off to speak to the young guy adjusting the position of the spotlights. I head for the exit, eyes down, a rising feeling in my gut. But just as I reach the double doors that lead into the corridor, the spotlights are turned off and everyone groans in disappointment. I turn round and edge my way back into the hall. It won’t be long before word gets round that they’ve turned them off because of me.
