‘Yes, Mum?’ I say. ‘How can I help you?’ I have sprinkled positivity, the type of sunshine drenching the outside world, into my voice because this is all going to work out. Everything is going to be fine. To make sure it is, I need to stay positive no matter what is sent to try me.
‘This room is going to be fine for me,’ she says.
‘That’s great,’ I say.
‘There isn’t much natural light, though,’ she adds, in case I get too comfortable with doing something almost right.
‘I know. This side of the building overlooks the internal courtyard and because there are other parts of the building on all four sides, not much light comes in. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ she says.
Mum has eyes that are so blue they appear translucent in certain lights. When I was younger I was convinced she could use her eyes to hypnotise people into staying still, staying silent, while she said something important or cutting. I’m not one hundred per cent convinced she can’t do that now because she is fixing them on me while she opens her mouth to speak. I want to turn away, to leave before I hear something that will be negative and draining; which will nibble away at the positivity I have been building up, but I can’t move.
‘Clemency, about what I said earlier,’ Mum starts. She sighs and steps towards me. ‘Don’t take everything to heart so much.’ She presses her hand on to my shoulder, reassures me with that touch that I am being oversensitive and what she said about the end of my relationship was completely justified.
With Dylan, July 1999, Graduation Day
Dylan stood beside me, our heads close together while someone took a picture of us in our black and purple gowns. I had a mortar board on my head, the tassel constantly hung just low enough to be an irritating distraction at the corner of my eye. The other distraction at the corner of my peripheral vision was Mum, glaring at me because, in her mind, merely standing next to a male was enough to impregnate me. ‘We made it, eh, Smitty?’ Dylan said.
I took my camera back from the person who’d snapped the shot, thanked them. ‘Yes. Although it looked doubtful at times.’
‘Don’t just disappear now it’s over, OK?’ he said.
‘If anyone’s going to do a disappearing act it’ll be you, don’t you think?’ I replied. ‘Speaking of disappearing acts, what happened to Seth? I saw him in the ceremony but I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Maybe he finally got the message,’ Dylan mumbled.
‘What message would that be?’ I asked. ‘And can you clue me in on it?’
‘Come on now, Smitty,’ he said.
‘No, you come on, Dylan. I’ve finished college, am I allowed to sleep with Seth now? Or is that still against the rules of being your mate?’
‘Smitty … me and you …’
‘Are mates, that’s abundantly clear.’
‘It’s not that simple. Before you, I’ve never been friends with a girl without it being either purely sexual or purely platonic. It’s both with you. And the longer we’re mates, the more I feel for you. It’s more than sex and more than just frienship with you.’
‘Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,’ I said in response.
Unexpectedly he stepped forward, our bodies now so close they almost touched. My breathing became quick and shallow; the pupils of his eyes dilated as he began to breathe quickly too. ‘I’d love to kiss you,’ he said, his gaze linked to mine, ‘but I think your mum would probably lay me out with one punch. Meet me later? I’ve got a family meal, but come over to my house around ten o’clock?’
‘I can’t. Mum and Dad are taking me home after this. We’re all packed up. We’ve got a family thing over in Otley. My cousin’s having problems, too, Mum wants to get back for her.’
‘Can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘Are you going to come back any time soon?’
‘Do you actually ever listen to a word I say? I told you, I’ve got a summer job, working six days a week so I can save up for my course to train to become a silversmith and jeweller. You can come and see me?’
‘Will your mum smack me if I kiss you now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your dad won’t stop her?’
‘Nope.’
‘All right. I’ll come over to see you.’
I knew he wouldn’t. I desperately wanted him to, but I knew he wouldn’t. It was easier for us both to pretend that he would.
Mum’s stopped hypnotising me with her stare. She’s instead focused on the butterfly pendant I wear around my neck. It is large and fashioned from silver, and one of the first things I made after I qualified as a silversmith. The pendant represents a lot of things to Mum, not only the fact I took no notice when it came to her career advice, but also that I still have an obsession with butterflies. And that obsession, to Mum, is hurtful. ‘Try not to be so sensitive,’ I should say to her. Instead, I tuck it away under my T-shirt, out of her sight, out of her mind.
Now the butterfly is hidden away, she goes back to admonishing me while rubbing my shoulder. ‘Clemency, you should know by now that you mustn’t be so touchy about things,’ Mum tells me. ‘You should try to grow a thicker skin, so you aren’t so sensitive.’
‘OK,’ I say to her, because it’s easier than explaining that while I have normal skin like everyone else, I spend a lot of time pretending the snide comments, the sly digs and the outright vicious remarks about not knowing who my ‘real’ parents are don’t bother me. Mum doesn’t realise that I spend my life feigning the existence of a thick, impenetrable outer layer so that I can be seen to be able to ‘take a joke’, ‘not be so sensitive’, ‘not take everything to heart’. She has no idea that for years I would cry alone because no one understood that every comment made me feel worthless and made me believe that those snipes were true.
And anyway, all this talk about not being oversensitive would be more credible if it wasn’t coming from the woman who can’t even bear to hear the word ‘adoption’, let alone talk about it in relation to her only daughter. That’s why she has ‘issues’ with my butterfly obsession – it’s a reminder of the fact I’m not biologically hers.
‘Clemency,’ she says, before I shut the door behind myself.
‘Yes, Mum?’ I reply tiredly. There’s only so much I can take, only so much the positivity I’ve stretched over this new start can handle before it peels away, and starts flapping about uselessly like unsecured tarpaulin in the wind.
‘Your father would have loved it here,’ she says. ‘He adored the sea. He always wanted to live by the sea again before … He would have been so proud of you.’ She smiles. ‘Even more proud of you than he was.’
I nod. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I mumble, and leave.
I don’t need her to tell me Dad was proud of me. I knew he was. He told me so all the time. Right up until he died.
4
Abi
To: Jonas Zebila
From: Abi Zebila
Subject: Please reply. PLEASE!!!!!
Friday, 29 May 2015
Dear J,
Another email from me where I hope all is well with you. You didn’t tell me about your purple day. All is not well here, unfortunately. Gran was rushed to hospital while I was at work yesterday.
Daddy didn’t even bother to leave work. Mummy had to call my office to get me to pick up Lily-Rose. I had to bring her back to work with me because I was up to my ears in client reports and billing, and the billing had to go out yesterday. Lily had a great old time, she was the centre of attention from all the residents. Mrs Lehtinen was the worst for it, practically adopted her there and then, showing her off as something as close to a great-grand-daughter as she could get.
Did I tell you Mrs Lehtinen is here at the home now? Do you remember her? She was from Finland and her family lived next door and she was great friends with Gran. Her family moved away when I was about five or six. She loved you, I remember that. She’s not been here long but on the first day she recognised me even though I hope I’ve changed a little in twenty ye
ars. I didn’t really remember her until she reminded me that it was her who had given Mummy the idea for those sleep boxes that we slept in as babies. And then, of course, she asked about you and it all came flooding back: how you were always her favourite because you used to wolf down those God-awful Jim bars she kept giving us. (I looked them up on the net to find out why they were so boak. Marmalade foam covered in chocolate. I can’t believe Mummy let us eat them.)
Like I say, Mrs L practically stole Lily-Rose from me and kept telling her stories about what I got up to when I was her age. It would have been embarrassing if they didn’t all show me as being the most amazing five-year-old!!
On the way home we dropped by the hospital to see Gran, Lily-Rose and I, but she wouldn’t see us because she didn’t want us to see her like that. Three days ago Lily’s telling her jokes and now Gran won’t see her. So much pride. So much stupid pride. That’s what our family’s problem is – too much pride, don’t know when to swallow it. I mean, would it have hurt Gran to see Lily? I know it can be scary seeing someone looking frail, but she may not come out of hospital. We may never see her again because her pride makes her worried we’ll see her looking vulnerable.
I’m gutted, Jonas, really gutted.
Tell me. Just tell me something. Anything.
I love you.
Abi
xxxx
P.S. Do you want some pictures of Lily-Rose? I may have a few (thousand).
5
Smitty
My bedroom in the flat is pretty incredible.
The main bedroom, my room, has panoramic views of the sea from the six, double-glazed sash windows. ‘Triple aspect’ I think it was called in the agency description. Triple aspect, three views of the sea, three chances to see the expanse of water while reclining in this king-size bed. I’ve made up the bed, I have unpacked my clothes, stashed my bags and cases at the bottom of the double wardrobes.
Now I’m doing what I do wherever I live: putting up my photos.
One of the first photos I have pressed on to the wall is from 1996. I am with Seth and Dylan. We are in the bar, in the booth where we were sitting when Seth first came over. I’m in between them, they’ve both got their arms around me, and I’m overwhelmed because I’ve never had so much male attention in my life. Under that photo I have scrawled:
With Seth & Dylan, Xmas 1996, Uni Bar. Mistletoe madness!!
Another photo:
With Dylan & Seth, Xmas party 1998, Liverpool (end of term party) Dylan has his arm slung casually over my shoulder, Seth is standing beside us but a little apart, as though not really wanting to be there. I have my hand on his forearm, trying to draw him into the photo.
And another:
With Dylan, July 1999, Graduation Day
Dylan and I have our gowns on, I have a mortarboard, he doesn’t. We’ve got our heads close together and are grinning at the camera. I’m looking pensive because Mum is off camera glaring at me.
With Mum & Dad, July 1999, Gradation Day
I’m in between Mum and Dad, grinning at the camera. Dad has plucked my black mortar board off my head and plonked it on his. He’d originally gone to put it on Mum’s head but the look she fired stopped him. Seth had taken the photo but had only stopped by to say goodbye before he went off with his family.
With Seth, March 2003, Party at Seth’s House (everyone’s invited)
Seth was standing in the kitchen of his house, putting together a buffet for the party he was having. He turned and sort of smiled at the camera, just as I shouted, ‘Say cheese’. I was staying with him at that time. I’d had a row with Mum that escalated into me sofa surfing for a few weeks with various friends and acquaintances. I was always careful not to stay for more than two days – three at the very maximum, so as not to wear out my welcome. The last sofa I washed up on was Seth’s, a grey-black Muji put-me-up job that was easy to fold out and surprisingly comfortable – no metal bars or buttons in the wrong places. Dad had been on the phone almost daily trying to mediate between Mum and me but I wasn’t ready to go back, especially since whenever I tried to leave, Seth kept telling me to stay and he never made a move on me, not once. That night he was having a party and it’d be the first time I would have seen Dylan in nearly a year. I was so excited that I didn’t even mind when my cousin Nancy gate-crashed.
In my hand I hold the final photo from that sequence. There were others, of course, over the years, but those were the most significant, those were the ones that made it to the wall every time, move after move. And in my hand I hold the final one, the one that came after we got together. In it, it’s the start of a new year, January 2004, I am sitting on his sofa, wearing his T-shirt, my hand in my very messy hair, beaming at the man taking the photo because we were finally together. I was finally happy.
With Seth, New Year’s Eve 2003
I sat on the sofa I used to sleep on those weeks back in February and March when I stayed at his house, while Seth sat across the room at the dining table, warily watching me. Usually, he sat next to me, often I put my legs across his lap and he would rub my feet while we talked. But tonight, he’d been carefully avoiding being close to me. We ate dinner at opposite ends of the table and even cooking in his tiny kitchen had him keeping me at a noticeable distance.
I’d made all the right noises about the food, which was as delicious as I said it was, I’d drunk his wine and savoured it. I’d bought the bottle of expensive bubbly that was chilling on the first shelf of his small fridge, waiting for the chimes of Big Ben on telly. We’d talked, laughed, argued good-naturedly about the things we always debated over.
All the while, the clock was ticking down towards the end of the year. We were in the final hours of 2003 and I couldn’t wait to see the back of it. It’d been one disaster after another, one lot of bad news after another, one falling out after another. When Seth had asked me over to his for dinner and to see in the New Year with him I’d jumped at the chance. I was looking forward to a quiet, uneventful end to this year and a respectful calm beginning to the next. It wasn’t turning out like that, though, with Seth’s pensive demeanour, which swirled around the room like invisible but choking smoke.
He’d never been like this in all the years I’d known him. Maybe it was because I hadn’t called him much in the months since I’d left his sofa and had gone back to live with my parents, possibly he was feeling slighted that we’d gone from talking every night for hours to speaking once a fortnight.
‘Have I upset you?’ I asked him.
Seth shook his head, his face was cagey and his body was hyper-vigilant as he replied: ‘No.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch more,’ I said. ‘It’s my training – it’s taken over everything. I have to work doubly hard at everything because I’m not at all arty so even though I can see the designs up here,’ I pointed to my head, ‘I can’t get them to look like they should on paper. The finished items are exactly what I saw, but the drawings don’t work. I’ve been a bit consumed. I’m sorry for making you a casualty of that.’
‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’ He sat back in the wooden-framed chair, stretched his legs out.
‘Have I ruined your chance to go out on New Year by accepting your invitation? Did you want a big night out?’
‘New Year is for people who don’t go out the rest of the year,’ he said.
‘That’s a bit harsh! I love New Year, usually. This year’s just been a bit rubbish and I want to see a quiet end to it and to put it out of its misery, so to speak.’
‘Come on,’ he cajoled, ‘it’s true. If you went out and enjoyed yourself the rest of the year you wouldn’t need to make such a big deal of nights like New Year’s Eve.’
‘Or maybe you simply want to see in the start of another twelve months in style?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Why are you sitting over there, Seth? What’s going on?’
‘I like it here. It’s by the stereo.’
‘Put a tune on th
en.’
He reached out his long fingers and pressed the square silver button with the green triangle. A whirr, an almost imperceptible click and the room was filled with Public Enemy’s ‘Welcome To The Terrordome’.
I stood up, determined to alter the course of this evening, get him to engage with me on some level. If I wanted to sit under the critical eye of someone who didn’t know how to talk to me, I’d have stayed at home with my mother just as she’d practically ordered me to. I held out my hand to him. ‘Care to dance?’ I asked him. This wasn’t dancing music, but needs must.
‘How long have you known me?’ he replied. ‘You know I don’t dance.’
‘All right, let me see what’s so great about that seat of yours,’ I replied and moved towards him. He visibly tensed as though the idea of me being any closer was a horror he couldn’t run fast enough from.
That stopped me in my tracks. ‘Shall I leave?’ I asked in frustration. I still had a chance to get home to the cream soda and Christmas After Eights before the chimes sounded so I could end the year as it started – with my parents.
‘I don’t want you to leave and there’s really nothing wrong. I’m having a good time.’
You don’t look like it, I thought.
I moved closer and he slowly slid up in his seat until he was fully upright. His eyes didn’t leave my face as I approached him. I accepted then what was ‘wrong’. I’d hoped I was mistaken, that I’d imagined it. The problem, of course, was he wanted to have sex with me. And he probably hated feeling like that when we were ‘just friends’, so he was keeping his distance until these feelings passed, just like a fleeting obsession with a pop band passed and you wondered what on Earth you were thinking. Seth knew, as well as I did, that sex would mean the end of our friendship. We couldn’t go back to being mates if we went to bed together – we’d have to be together for the duration or not see each other again.