me a little kick, ‘best friends …’ and you hold out your pinkie so I can hook mine into yours.
‘Forever,’ I say, finishing your sentence, and we laugh together at how childish we’re being.
When we unhook our fingers you jump up from the bed and put a CD in my ghetto blaster. ‘Here,’ you say, handing me a hairbrush. ‘If we’re going to be famous we need to practise. I have a dance routine all worked out.’
I hear the sound of ‘Relight My Fire’ and you try to teach me a dance you have choreographed. But when I outstretch my arms I see them wobbling and all I can hear is the sound of my graceless feet thumping as they hit the floor. I throw myself on to the bed and catch sight of my face, now red and sweaty, in the mirror.
‘God, I’ll settle for being your assistant when you’re a film star. I can’t dance or sing, there’s not much hope for me,’ I laugh.
‘You can judge my performance then, marks out of ten.’
I sit back and watch as you spin around and move your arms in time to the music. Your limbs seem to go on forever, long and slender and smooth. There’s a ball of energy around you and it is sparking, like electricity lighting the room. You are everything I am not. I can’t take my eyes off you. When the track finishes, you take a bow.
I clap madly. ‘Ten,’ I shout, ‘bravo.’
Five minutes later a knock on my bedroom door surprises me. Niamh never knocks. But this time she even waits until I open it. Her eyes look misty, bloodshot from the smoke, I think. ‘Your dad is here for you,’ she says, trying to focus on you. Her cheeks are burning. Too much wine and it’s only six o’clock.
You grab your bag and together we go downstairs. I expect to see your dad waiting for you in the doorway.
‘He’s outside in the car,’ Niamh says. I stick my head out to catch a glimpse of him, and see his shape sitting in a white Saab with a soft top, engine purring. He doesn’t look my way.
‘Thank you for having me, Mrs Walsh,’ you say as if she’s been the perfect hostess. There is a pause, an awkward moment, when she leans in towards you and I think she’s actually going to kiss you. My heart lurches, then mercifully a horn beeps from the road and saves me the shame.
‘See you tomorrow, Rachel,’ you shout, running down the path.
Closing the door I see Niamh walking away. Her footsteps, small and shuffled, take her back to the kitchen. She grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours herself a large glass. It shakes as she lifts it to her mouth and downs it as if it’s her morning Vimto. She doesn’t look around for me, she just stares ahead at nothing in particular.
Chapter Eight
H OW DOES SOMEONE slip through walls unnoticed? Through locked doors and windows and take what’s not theirs and leave again without being seen? Those thoughts crept through my head, shivered through my body. I had no answers. One reality sat on top of another and another, like a weird chemical-induced hallucination.
Finding the photograph of me and Jonny would have helped. To see it with my own eyes. To know I hadn’t dreamt it. I ran around the flat, pulling out the white labelled boxes and files with paperwork, the drawers. I wanted to tear down the white walls and rip up the floorboards just so whatever was being hidden from me could reveal itself. But it was hopeless. The picture had disappeared, sucked into the ether. Just like you.
I sat on the soft cream carpet in my bedroom and surveyed the mess. I had ransacked my own flat and now I couldn’t look at the result. The chaos made my head spin and knot. I thought it was going to implode. I needed to hide somewhere, to be safe. I pulled the wardrobe open on Jonny’s side and shuffled in amongst his shirts. One of them fell off the hanger and I wrapped it round me. It was night-time dark, silent dark. Closing my eyes I hoped and hoped and wished and wished that when I woke up in the morning the shirt would be filled with
‘Forever,’ I say, finishing your sentence, and we laugh together at how childish we’re being.
When we unhook our fingers you jump up from the bed and put a CD in my ghetto blaster. ‘Here,’ you say, handing me a hairbrush. ‘If we’re going to be famous we need to practise. I have a dance routine all worked out.’
I hear the sound of ‘Relight My Fire’ and you try to teach me a dance you have choreographed. But when I outstretch my arms I see them wobbling and all I can hear is the sound of my graceless feet thumping as they hit the floor. I throw myself on to the bed and catch sight of my face, now red and sweaty, in the mirror.
‘God, I’ll settle for being your assistant when you’re a film star. I can’t dance or sing, there’s not much hope for me,’ I laugh.
‘You can judge my performance then, marks out of ten.’
I sit back and watch as you spin around and move your arms in time to the music. Your limbs seem to go on forever, long and slender and smooth. There’s a ball of energy around you and it is sparking, like electricity lighting the room. You are everything I am not. I can’t take my eyes off you. When the track finishes, you take a bow.
I clap madly. ‘Ten,’ I shout, ‘bravo.’
Five minutes later a knock on my bedroom door surprises me. Niamh never knocks. But this time she even waits until I open it. Her eyes look misty, bloodshot from the smoke, I think. ‘Your dad is here for you,’ she says, trying to focus on you. Her cheeks are burning. Too much wine and it’s only six o’clock.
You grab your bag and together we go downstairs. I expect to see your dad waiting for you in the doorway.
‘He’s outside in the car,’ Niamh says. I stick my head out to catch a glimpse of him, and see his shape sitting in a white Saab with a soft top, engine purring. He doesn’t look my way.
‘Thank you for having me, Mrs Walsh,’ you say as if she’s been the perfect hostess. There is a pause, an awkward moment, when she leans in towards you and I think she’s actually going to kiss you. My heart lurches, then mercifully a horn beeps from the road and saves me the shame.
‘See you tomorrow, Rachel,’ you shout, running down the path.
Closing the door I see Niamh walking away. Her footsteps, small and shuffled, take her back to the kitchen. She grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours herself a large glass. It shakes as she lifts it to her mouth and downs it as if it’s her morning Vimto. She doesn’t look around for me, she just stares ahead at nothing in particular.
Chapter Eight
H OW DOES SOMEONE slip through walls unnoticed? Through locked doors and windows and take what’s not theirs and leave again without being seen? Those thoughts crept through my head, shivered through my body. I had no answers. One reality sat on top of another and another, like a weird chemical-induced hallucination.
Finding the photograph of me and Jonny would have helped. To see it with my own eyes. To know I hadn’t dreamt it. I ran around the flat, pulling out the white labelled boxes and files with paperwork, the drawers. I wanted to tear down the white walls and rip up the floorboards just so whatever was being hidden from me could reveal itself. But it was hopeless. The picture had disappeared, sucked into the ether. Just like you.
I sat on the soft cream carpet in my bedroom and surveyed the mess. I had ransacked my own flat and now I couldn’t look at the result. The chaos made my head spin and knot. I thought it was going to implode. I needed to hide somewhere, to be safe. I pulled the wardrobe open on Jonny’s side and shuffled in amongst his shirts. One of them fell off the hanger and I wrapped it round me. It was night-time dark, silent dark. Closing my eyes I hoped and hoped and wished and wished that when I woke up in the morning the shirt would be filled with
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