I select one of the fancy boxes of granola that has appeared in the last few days (no doubt for Grace and Sam’s benefit), and pour some into a cereal bowl, drowning the lot with so much milk it sloshes over the rim and onto the counter.
‘Whoa there,’ Sam says. ‘That’s a lot of liquid.’
‘Yeah? And? I like my cereal soggy,’ I tell him, sitting down at the breakfast bar. ‘Any other interesting observations?’
He holds up his arms in surrender and sits down on the stool opposite. ‘You know, that stuff looks good actually,’ he says, pointing at my bowl. ‘I might have some.’
‘Copycat,’ I mutter.
He pours himself a bowl and for about a minute we eat in silence.
‘You don’t like me being here particularly, do you?’ Sam says eventually.
God, he’s posh. It’s a bit unnerving, like having breakfast with a member of the royal family or someone from the cast of Made in Chelsea.
‘How so?’ I ask.
Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I’ve been getting the vibes you’d perhaps rather I wasn’t around. Am I right?’
‘What makes you says that?’
‘Um, the fact you keep calling me “Dougie”?’
I make a half-hearted attempt to hide my smile behind my spoon. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say. ‘But hey, at least you know Grace has a type. Have you met Dougie?’
He narrows his eyes ever so slightly, like he’s trying his very hardest to figure me out. ‘Grace’s ex-boyfriend? No, I haven’t yet, funnily enough.’
There’s a pause.
‘Look, it’s nothing personal,’ I say. ‘It’s just that, in case you hadn’t noticed, this house isn’t exactly a mansion.’
‘Understood,’ he says. ‘And I get how weird it must be for you having me here, I honestly do. The good news is, I’m starting a new job next week so hopefully I’ll be out of your hair a bit more.’
‘A job? Where?’
‘Pulling pints at The Wheatsheaf.’
The Wheatsheaf is a pub at the rubbish end of the high street. It’s a proper old man’s place, full of smelly old blokes dribbling into their pints of bitter and playing darts. I wouldn’t be seen dead in there.
‘Ew. Why there?’ I ask.
‘It wasn’t exactly my first choice either,’ Sam admits. ‘But beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘You’re hardly a beggar,’ I tell him.
I looked him up on Facebook the other day. There were loads of pictures of him on posh holidays, posing on skis at the tops of mountains, and riding horses, and jumping off rocks into tropical waters. I googled his old school too. The fees cost more than what Dad earns in an entire year as a paramedic.
‘So, are you going to tell me about the picture on the fridge or not?’ he asks.
‘Do you have amnesia or something? I told you, it’s none of your business.’
‘It was taken in a hospital, right?’ he says, undeterred.
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ I mutter. The hospital trolley I’m lying on and the exhausted-looking nurse in the background kind of give the game away.
‘So, what’s the story? ‘Cos I’m guessing from your attire and what looks like vomit on your chin, you ended up there after a night out. Am I right?’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘Would it be easier if I just asked Grace?’
I open my mouth, then close it again, realizing that if I don’t tell Sam the full story behind the picture he’ll only go and get Grace’s second-hand version of events, which will no doubt be embellished to make what happened that night sound way worse than it actually was, which will be doubly unfair because she wasn’t even in the country at the time. In fact, if you do the maths, there’s a pretty decent chance that around the time I was being rushed to hospital, she’d already been impregnated by Sam.
‘OK, fine,’ I say, sighing. ‘But only because you’re getting on my nerves.’
Sam gets comfy on his stool, like a kid getting ready for story time.
‘So, last New Year’s Eve I had one too many drinks and ended up in A&E, and Mum and Dad thought it would be a good idea to capture the moment for posterity. Nothing more exciting than that.’
Sam gets up and re-examines the picture, his face literally centimetres away from the fridge. ‘How much did you drink?’ he asks.
‘No more than anyone else.’
He raises a quizzical eyebrow.
‘It’s true!’ I cry. ‘I don’t know what happened. I mean, I know I was mixing my drinks quite a lot, but not enough to justify going to hospital. There’s no point trying to tell Mum and Dad that though. They totally freaked out and didn’t let me leave the house for six weeks. You’d think I was the first teenager in Rushton ever to get drunk from the way they reacted.’
‘So the picture is, what, a deterrent?’ he asks, sitting back down.
‘Mum and Dad say they’ll take it down once they think I’ve “learned from the experience”.’
‘And have you?’
I shrug and stir my granola, slowly turning the milk a pale brown.
Sam leans in. ‘I once got so drunk I broke my arm and didn’t even realize.’
I continue to stir.
‘It was my seventeenth,’ he continues. ‘I’d been out with all my mates and got absolutely bladdered. I forgot my keys and had the bright idea of shimmying up the drainpipe and climbing in through my bedroom window. The next morning, my mum found me in the rose bushes with my arm broken in three places.’
I roll my eyes. Trust Sam to have a relevant anecdote to hand. It probably isn’t even true.
‘I know why you’re telling me this,’ I say.
He blinks in confusion.
‘So we can “bond”. Right?’
‘Well, yeah,’ he says, his cheeks tinged pink. ‘Mainly.’
I hadn’t anticipated such a straight answer.
He clears this throat. ‘Like I said the other night, I’ve always really wanted sisters.’
I screw up my nose like I’ve just smelled something off. ‘But why?’ I ask. ‘It must be great being an only child. You don’t have to share a room with anyone, or wear hand-me-down clothes, or get shown up all the time.’ I tick off each of the benefits on my fingers.
‘True. It’s still lonely though, especially when it’s just the two of you.’
‘The two of you?
‘Yeah, me and my mum.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘He left when I was still pretty young. Married someone else and moved to Spain.’
‘Oh,’ I say, wondering if this is the part where I’m supposed to say ‘I’m sorry’. Instead I ask him how old he was when his dad left.
‘Seven. Old enough to get what was going on but not old enough to understand it.’
‘What a tosspot.’
Sam smiles. ‘Yeah, pretty much. Looking back though, I’m surprised they lasted as long as they did. That’s probably why I’m so envious of you guys.’
‘Us?’ I ask, pulling a face. ‘Why?’
‘Your parents are so in love. Don’t you find it inspiring?’
‘More like emotionally scarring.’
‘No, I mean it. It’s really nice to see. You can get a bit jaded when you grow up with parents who do nothing but fight.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, wondering if Sam would change his mind if he had to witness his parents dry humping as regularly as I did.
‘Aw, two of my very favourite people.’
I twist round in my seat. Grace is padding towards us, clearly naked under her silk dressing gown, her swollen boobs swaying beneath the thin material.
‘What are you guys chatting about?’ she asks, resting her elbows on the breakfast bar.
‘Nothing very interesting,’ I say, sliding off my seat. ‘Right, Dougie?’
I glance at Grace for a reaction but she gives me nothing. Ever since our conversation in the garden on Sunday, she’s been acting like everything is hunky-dory between us;
stubbornly ignoring every eye roll, scoff and glare I dole out.
She snuggles under Sam’s arm, her fingers lifting up his T-shirt, seeking out skin. I get an unwanted flashback to the other night, to their groans and gasps and moans.
‘What do you want, babe?’ Sam asks. ‘Toast? Cereal? Eggs?’
‘Don’t get up, I can make it,’ Grace says.
But Sam is having none of it, forcing her to sit down in his place as he sticks bread in the toaster and rifles through the cupboards for the marmalade the baby is apparently ‘craving’, while Grace witters on about some dream she’s just woken up from, when everyone knows there’s nothing more boring in the entire world than listening to other people talk about their dreams.
I rinse my bowl under the tap, dump it in the dishwasher, and leave the gross lovebirds to it.
12
According to the weather reports on TV, Saturday is going to be the hottest day of the year so far. Stella, Mikey, Kimmie and I decide to make the most of it and head to Rushton Lido.
‘Do you see him, do you see him?’ Kimmie asks, as we unload iPods and magazines and sun lotion and spread our towels out on the burning concrete. She’s kneeling up, scouring the hordes of half-naked people for Aaron Butler.
Along with Stella’s brother Stu, Aaron Butler was in the same year as Grace at Queen Mary’s, and Kimmie has fancied him ever since she first clapped eyes on him back in Year 7. He didn’t stay on for sixth form, so for the past three years Kimmie has had to rely on visits to the lido where Aaron works to satisfy her crush. I only hope this summer will be the one where she finally stops driving us mad with all her staring and squealing and actually tries talking to him.
Personally, I don’t get what all the fuss is about. It’s not like Aaron is all that; he never has been. He isn’t even the nicest-looking lifeguard. He’s as skinny as a rake with knobbly knees and has this stupid quiff that makes his pale blond hair look like a Mr Whippy ice-cream cone.
‘There he is,’ Stella says, finally locating Aaron in the throngs of people; he’s patrolling the kid’s paddling pool, a whistle dangling from his mouth.
‘Don’t point,’ Kimmie gasps, slapping Stella’s arm down. ‘He might see us.’
‘Isn’t that the whole point?’ I ask. ‘That he actually notices we’re here?’
‘Well, yes, but not like that. It should happen naturally.’
I roll my eyes at the others and wriggle out of my denim shorts.
The paddling pool is predictably busy, dozens of children jostling for space in the shallow water. Their excited shrieks whizz me back to when I was six years old and slipped and fell on my way in, banging my head on the concrete path. I remember Grace cradling my bloody head in her lap while she screamed for Mum. I’m guessing adult help must have come pretty quickly because it was the summer holidays and the pool would have been crowded, but over the years, time has interfered with my memory, increasing the number of seconds Grace was holding my head and bleaching out the crowds of people that must have surrounded us, so that it’s just the two of us – me and Grace, her desperate screams echoing into the abyss as I drifted in and out of consciousness in her lap.
I ended up going to hospital and having six stitches. And even though it hurt, I secretly loved every second. I loved the nurses fussing over me, the jelly and ice cream I was rewarded with for being ‘so brave’, the way Dad carried me to the car like a baby when he came to pick us up. I still have the scar. If I part my hair in the right place, you can see it, pale and shiny.
‘Ooh, nice bikini, Mia,’ Kimmie says, yanking me back into the present.
I look down. The bikini is a recent purchase. It’s white with fringing on it, very Bond Girl and very, very skimpy. It’s only from Primark but I’m not going to volunteer this information if I can help it. I bought it with my pocket money last month, smuggling it upstairs under my sweatshirt so Mum and Dad wouldn’t see. Tonight I’ll have to rinse it out in secret in the bathroom sink and hang it to dry outside my bedroom window.
‘I wish I could wear white,’ Stella says, sighing and holding out a freckled arm. ‘But it does nothing for me.’ Stella’s skin is as pale as a porcelain doll’s.
‘I hear you, sister,’ Mikey says, offering up his palm for a high-five of solidarity. He’s stripped down to a pair of tiny blue swim shorts and is slathering his glowing limbs with what looks (and smells) suspiciously like cooking oil.
‘What the hell is that stuff, Mikey?’ I ask, scrunching up my nose.
‘Just a little something to give my tan a head start.’
‘Either that or skin cancer.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ he says, glancing disdainfully at my legs. ‘You have no idea the pain I have to go through to avoid people mistaking me for Boo sodding Radley. I’m telling you, I’m getting a tan this summer if it kills me.’
We lie in a tightly packed row, turning over every fifteen minutes, Kimmie constantly asking if Aaron is looking in our direction. By silent agreement, we all lie and say ‘yes’ to keep her happy.
After about an hour he comes to patrol the main pool, climbing the ladder to the elevated seat overlooking the deep end.
‘Hey, maybe you should pretend to drown, Kimmie,’ Mikey suggests. ‘Get Aaron to give you the kiss of life.’
Kimmie blushes like mad. ‘As if.’
‘Mia would,’ Mikey says.
‘Yeah,’ Stella agrees. ‘Fake drowning to get a guy to kiss her is so something Mia would do.’
‘I’m going to take that as a compliment,’ I say. ‘Mikey has a point though, Kimmie. You can’t just wait for Aaron to notice you all summer – you need to be a bit proactive.’
‘But I’m not like you,’ Kimmie wails, sitting up and wrapping her arms around her legs. ‘I can’t just go up to him. What would I say?’
‘Anything! Ask for the time if you have to. Just open your mouth.’
I turn onto my front and untie my bikini top so I won’t get a tan line across my back. As I turn my head to the left, away from the others, I realize I’m being watched.
By Aaron.
The second he realizes he’s been caught staring he looks the opposite way, peering through his binoculars at the swimmers below. I pretend to close my eyes. Through my eyelashes though, I see him squeeze in another look in my direction; longer this time, his eyes daring to drift up and down my body. I resist a smile before turning my head back the other way.
Just before lunch we venture into the crowded pool. Stella announces she doesn’t want to get her hair wet, which makes it Mikey and mine’s mission to dunk her head under the water. We succeed shortly before the lifeguard (not Aaron, but his colleague who clearly has no sense of humour) blows his whistle at us.
‘Relax, Stells,’ I say, as we dry off. ‘You’re acting like we tried to drown you in a vat of acid or something.’
‘If my highlights turn green, you’re paying for me to have them redone, that’s all I’m saying,’ she says, pouting.
I shake my head. For someone with a really pretty ordinary head of hair, Stella manages to make a lot of fuss about it. It kind of annoys me, especially when I’m the one with the Afro and I don’t make even half the drama she does.
Kimmie loses the coin toss and is despatched to the cafe. She returns with ice-cold Diet Cokes, assorted sandwiches and a giddy smile on her face because she passed Aaron on the way back and she’s almost eighty-five per cent sure they made eye contact. I feel a bit weird about it but don’t know why. After all, I don’t control who Aaron looks at and when.
We sit in a circle to eat, the midday sun beating down on our backs.
‘I think we should all learn to surf in Newquay,’ I announce.
‘Really?’ Stella asks, wrinkling her nose. ‘How come?’
Despite being super-skinny, Stella tends to avoid formal physical activity if she can help it. The one time she ran for the ball in PE, Mrs Cates almost fainted from shock.
‘Duh! It’s the wa
y to meet hot surfer boys,’ I say. ‘I thought everyone knew that.’
Ever since Stella’s mum booked our plane tickets I’ve been indulging in daily fantasies about boys with sun-kissed hair, six-packs and walnut tans.
‘And I’ve found a club for us to go to on the Saturday night,’ I continue. ‘I’ve emailed them and asked if they can stick us on the guest list so we don’t have to waste time queuing up. I was thinking we should start off with a few drinks at the caravan, then head into town around nine.’
‘You should be a travel agent, Mia,’ Kimmie says, peeling discs of cucumber off her tuna mayonnaise sandwich and lining them up on her napkin. ‘You’re really good at this stuff.’
‘I’m so friggin’ excited,’ Mikey says. ‘How many weeks to go again?’
‘Six!’ Stella and I chorus in unison.
‘Jinx!’ we crow, linking pinky fingers and giggling.
‘How’s Grace?’ Kimmie asks once Stella and I have stopped laughing.
Her question instantly kills the mood.
‘Still pregnant,’ I say in a bored voice. Kimmie has been going on about Grace and the baby all week.
‘Which reminds me,’ Stella says, discarding her bread and eating only the slivers of ham and tomato. ‘I went on her Facebook last night and checked Sam out. Why didn’t you tell us he was so fit, Mia?’
I roll my eyes. Stella clearly has the same vanilla taste in men as Grace.
‘Fit?’ Mikey says. ‘Seriously?’ He grabs his phone. A few seconds later Grace’s Facebook profile picture fills the screen. In it she and Sam have their arms round each other in front of some Greek ruins, the sun setting behind them. ‘He’s proper cute!’ Mikey says. ‘I thought you said he wasn’t all that?’
‘He’s not,’ I grumble.
‘Let me see!’ Kimmie cries, reaching for the phone.
Mikey holds it high above his head. ‘Sorry, Kimmie, he’s mine.’
She twists his nipple hard. Mikey swears loudly, prompting frowns and tuts from the family next to us, before surrendering the phone.
‘Ooh, he looks lovely!’ Kimmie says, studying it carefully. ‘I love his glasses.’ She holds the phone to her chest. ‘Their baby is going to be sooooo cute, Mia. Grace should sign the three of them up to a modelling agency as soon as it’s born, I bet they’d get loads of work.’