“It's Mrs. Cambridge from the school—you know, we met at the funeral,” says Mum. “She's Jade's teacher.”
I see Dad fit a phantom smart hat on Mrs. Cambridge's head. He sits up even straighter.
“I'm not actually Jade's form teacher. I just take her for French,” says Mrs. Cambridge, sitting down on the edge of the sofa.
“Yeah, well, she's not that great at parley-vousing,” says Dad. “Takes after me, don't you, Jade? Bit thick when it comes to brainbox work.”
“No, no, Jade's very good at French,” says Mrs. Cambridge.
This is news to me. The highest I've ever come in French tests is fifth or sixth, and the one we had last week was disastrous.
“I came second from bottom in our last test,” I say dully.
“Jade!” says Mum. She glances at Mrs. Cambridge. “I did French Advanced Placement. And Spanish. I've often thought of going to evening classes to extend my vocabulary, like.”
“That's a good idea,” says Mrs. Cambridge. “Jade, I know you've done badly just recently, but heavens, that's only to be expected. It must be so tough on you now, without Vicky.”
“Vicky didn't help her, you know,” says Mum. “It was Vicky always copying off our Jade. She did all her homework for her. I always used to think she was a right little mug.”
“I didn't, Mum. We did it together.”
“Like two peas in a pod, Jade and Vicky. She was a lovely girl, little Vicky,” says Dad, and there are tears in his eyes.
“Oh, we all know you were sweet on her,” says Mum sharply. She turns to Mrs. Cambridge. “Would you like some coffee? We've got filter as well as instant. Or tea?”
“Well, thank you. A cup of coffee. Instant will be fine.” Mrs. Cambridge looks at me. “Perhaps you could make us all a cup of coffee, Jade?”
I can see this really irritates Mum. “Use the filter coffee, Jade. You know how to use the machine, don't you? And best cups. And open a new packet of biscuits, not the ones in the tin.”
I nod, not really bothering to take any of this in. Mrs. Cambridge doesn't even want a cup of coffee, she just wants a ploy to get me out the room. So they can have this little chat about me.
I stand in the kitchen, trying not to rattle the cups around too much. There's a rumble of voices but they've shut the living room door so I can't hear properly. I don't really care anyway.
I stick my finger in the sugar bowl and lick. I remember Vicky's mum at the funeral. I haven't seen her since. Someone said they'd gone away for a bit, a holiday abroad. Italy.
“Give us a lick!” Vicky stands beside me, trying to take a turn. “Yeah, great, isn't it? I was always dying to go to Italy but they said they didn't fancy it. Too hot. And they don't like pasta. So where do they go the minute I snuff it? Would you believe Italy? It's not fair!”
“I don't think they'll be enjoying themselves.”
“I should hope not!” says Vicky indignantly.
“You want them to be miserable?”
“Of course!”
“For always?”
“Definitely!”
I swallow. “What about me?”
“Double definitely!”
“But that's not fair.”
“It's not fair I've been killed, is it?”
“I know, but …”
“You can't be happy without me.”
It's an order. I have to obey.
“Hey?” Vicky peers into my face. “What's with the little mouth trembles, eh? It's not my fault. You can't get along without me, you know that. Right from when we were little it's been Vicky-and-Jade, right? So now it's still going to be Vicky-and-Jade. Vicky Ghost and Nutter Jade. Mrs. Cambridge is seeing your mum and dad because they're all convinced at school that you've gone completely nuts.”
She's right. When I clatter back into the living room the conversation stops. Mrs. Cambridge looks worried. Mum looks furious, though she's applied her tight social smile as carefully as lipstick. Dad's still looking baffled.
“Now, Jade, Mrs. Cambridge here says you're in trouble at school,” he says, helping himself to the first cup of coffee without thinking.
“No, I didn't, Mr. Marshall!” Mrs. Cambridge protests.
“Ted! Let Mrs. Cambridge get served first!”
“Whoops! Sorry!” Dad passes Mrs. Cambridge his cup, though he's already taken a slurp from it.
“No, no, it's fine, I'll have this one,” says Mrs. Cambridge. “Now, I didn't say Jade was in trouble at all, just that she's acting troubled. Which is only natural, of course it is, it would be crazy to expect otherwise,” she gabbles, trying to nod to me reassuringly.
“She says you won't talk to anyone. You just mope about by yourself,” says Mum. “I knew it didn't do you any good hanging round with Vicky all the time. Didn't I always say you needed to make other friends?”
“I don't want other friends.”
“Yes, well, you won't make any, not if you act like that,” says Mum.
“There are lots of people who want to be Jade's friend,” says Mrs. Cambridge.
“Only the sad losers like Fatboy Sam and Marshmallow Madeleine,” Vicky shouts from the kitchen.
I start at the sound of her voice. Mrs. Cambridge and Mum and Dad stare at me.
“What's up with you?” Mum says. “Why have you gone all twitchy? Acting like …” She sighs, unable to finish. She looks at Mrs. Cambridge. “So she's like this at school too?”
Mrs. Cambridge struggles. “Well, sometimes, Jade, you do seem very … distracted.”
You can say that again. How can I help it with Vicky fooling about all the time? She's at it again now, striding into the living room, circling Mum, snuggling up to Dad, then perching right on Mrs. Cambridge's lap, playing with her hair, trying to plait it. I feel the giggles tight in my throat. I let out one little snort.
“I'm sorry, Jade. The last thing I want to do is upset you further,” says Mrs. Cambridge.
But Mum is looking at me suspiciously. Vicky mimics her expression. I snort again.
“Cut that out, Jade!” Mum says sharply.
“Yes, pull yourself together, kiddo,” says Dad. “You're acting daft. You don't want Mrs. Cambridge to think you've lost your marbles, do you?”
“Of course I don't think that, Mr. Marshall. But I do think—I and my colleagues—that it might help Jade through this very difficult time if she has some proper counseling.”
“She doesn't need none of that trick-cyclist stuff,” Dad says firmly.
“Not a psychiatrist. A trained bereavement counselor.”
“I don't see the point in all that counseling stuff,” says Mum. “It's not going to change anything, is it? And it's not going to help Jade if she just wallows in it and feels sorry for herself.”
“But counseling can be very effective. You can have someone come to your home if that would be easier.”
“Who's going to pay for that?” says Mum. “I'll bet it's not free.”
“Well …” Mrs. Cambridge wavers, obviously not sure. She turns to me. “What do you think, Jade? Would you find it helpful?”
“No! Say no. Say no, idiot,” says Vicky. She takes my head and tries to make me shake it, though her ghost hands don't have any strength.
“No,” I say obediently.
“You don't think it would help to talk about it? To say whatever you want? To explain what it's really like for you? You seem so haunted, Jade,” says Mrs. Cambridge, taking hold of my hand.
I burst into tears.
“There! Now look. Even the thought is upsetting her,” says Mum.
I cling to Mrs. Cambridge's hand, wishing she could rescue me.
“Jade! Go and get a tissue,” says Mum.
I let go and do as I'm told.
“We really appreciate your concern, Mrs. Cambridge, but Jade doesn't need any counseling or therapy. She's always been a bit dreamy, but she's OK if she doesn't give in to it. And she doesn't want to be counseled, she said so herself.”
“It doesn't get you anywhere, all this chewing stuff over,” says Dad.
Mrs. Cambridge sees she's certainly not getting anywhere. She's chewed and chewed but Mum and Dad are like gray gum and she can't wear them down.
She gives up.
“Well, come and talk to me at school if you need to, Jade,” she says.
Mum sees her to the door and thanks her effusively, but once she's shut the door on her she lets rip.
“Who the hell does she think she is, barging in here and making out I don't know how to look after my own daughter!”
Mum and Dad are for once united.
“Acting like our Jade's gone off her nut! And she soon shut up when we asked her who's paying! They cost a fortune, that lot. Does she think we're made of money? Talking of earning a living, I'd better get ready for work.” But he pauses, awkwardly ruffling my hair, the way he used to when I was little. “You are OK, aren't you, Jade? I mean, I know you're upset about Vicky, we all are. But you are coping, aren't you, pet?”
“Yes, Dad. I'm coping.”
“That's the ticket,” he says, shuffling off.
When he comes back in his work jeans he gets his wallet out of his back pocket.
“Here!” He gives me a twenty-pound note. Then another. “Buy yourself something pretty to cheer yourself up.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I thought you were pleading poverty,” says Mum. “How come you said you didn't have any spare cash when I went on about the newspaper bill?”
“Look, quit nagging. Our Jade's happiness is more important than blooming newspaper bills,” says Dad. He gets out of the flat quickly to stop the row escalating.
“He doesn't even notice if you're here half the time,” Mum says bitterly.
I offer her one of the notes.
“No, no, you keep the money, love. I don't begrudge it you, don't get that idea. It's just your dad.” She pauses, her face tense. Then she gives her head a little shake and smiles at me. “No, you need a little treat, Jade. Tell you what, shall we have a day out on Saturday, just you and me?”
I don't know what to say. It's so weird. I've always longed for a mum who wanted to take me for fun days out, a dad who kept giving me money to buy myself treats—like Vicky's mum and dad. Mine couldn't ever be bothered—until now.
“Let's go up to London,” says Mum. “We'll wander round all the clothes shops and have a coffee and a wicked cake, a real girly day out, yes? You'd like that, wouldn't you? You haven't been up to London for ages.”
I can't tell her I've had a sneaky trip round the London shops very recently. I'm not sure I want to repeat things with Mum but it seems to be OK. Vicky flies off in a sulk and I sit in the train with Mum, both of us poring over a glossy magazine. We have a laugh at some of the prices of the clothes and look at all the new nail colors and sniff the perfume samples. Mum tuts at the models because they're so skinny.
“You're going that way yourself, Jade. Just look at you,” she says, taking hold of my wrist. “Like a little matchstick. It looks as if it could snap. We've got to get some flesh on you!”
She takes us for coffee and two cakes each and then she buys a box of Belgian chocolates. We tuck in until it looks like we're wearing new shiny brown lipstick.
I spend my £40 from Dad on two tops, one flowery and girly with little puff sleeves, one dead sexy and cropped and clingy in black. I expect Mum to make a fuss about the black one but she just grins at me.
“You're growing up a bit, after all. You've always been such a shy little thing—but you might just surprise us all! You might as well show your tummy off, seeing it's as flat as a pancake,” she says. “I don't know what your dad will say, though. You know your dad.” She hesitates. “Jade, your dad and me … Well, you know we don't really get on.”
I nod, not looking at her. I don't want to listen. I want to carry on with the girly treats.
“Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this …”
Then don't!
“There's this young guy at work, Steve …”
She doesn't need to say any more. It's obvious from the way she says his name, as if he's another chocolate and she's savoring him.
“He's so …” Mum sighs. “Still, it might not come to anything. I'm a wee bit older than him. And he's a bit of a Jack-the-lad. Still, what I'm saying is if it gets really serious … Well, I'm serious, Jade. I've never felt this way before. So if there's a chance of him and me—”
“You'll leave Dad?”
“You won't blame me, will you? Your dad and me—well, it's never really worked. I was mad about someone else and they dumped me so I got off with your dad quick. He was the one who went on about getting married when we found out you were on the way. It was OK at first, I suppose— though he never really had much go in him. And then when he lost that first job—well, look at him now.”
“Yes, but—” I'm so scared. Everything's suddenly unraveling.
“You don't really care much about your dad, do you? He's never made any real fuss of you, has he?”
I shrug, not wanting to admit she's right.
“You'd love Steve. He's such a laugh. I can't wait for you to meet him. I've told him heaps about you.” Mum pauses. “I think he maybe thinks you're a bit younger than you really are, but still, not to worry. Like I'm saying, it maybe won't even happen, but if I do decide to leave your dad then you do know you can come and live with Steve and me. I'd never desert you, Jade, you know that.”
“Live where?”
“That will have to be ironed out, of course. Steve's got his own place but it's only a studio flat. Still, we'll sort something out. There's no point going into it all now because nothing's definite, see?”
I see.
I see Mum and Steve in the studio flat in some sickening sweaty embrace.
I can't see me there.
I see Dad lying on the sofa in our flat, sleepier and sloppier than ever.
I can't see me there either.
There's no place for me. There's no one. I close my eyes. I remember all my plans for the future, how Vicky and I were going to get a flat together when we left school and do everything together….
“We still can.”
I don't open my eyes. I don't need to. Vicky is right beside me. I can feel her ghostly breath on my face, the tickle of her hair on my shoulders, the gossamer grip of her hands round my neck.
She doesn't leave me alone now. She's in bed beside me when I wake up. If I stretch I slice straight through her. Her face laughs into mine as I brush my teeth. She sits on the edge of the bath and chats when I'm on the toilet. She watches me dress and teases me with all her different outfits while I'm stuck with the same dreary clothes day after day. She nibbles my food, though she never leaves bite marks. She walks to school with me, nattering all the way, demanding replies. I wish there were some way of avoiding Vicky's flower site but she won't let me walk right round and go into school the back way. She loves looking at all her flowers.
All the original flowers dissolved into black soup and had to be cleared away eventually but the pavement is bright with brand-new bunches, and all the teddies and photos and letters are still there, a little limp and blurred after several rainy days. There are new offerings too, a gigantic plastic wreath from all the dinner ladies, a plaster saint, and a collection of clay pots from our art class, each with a little pansy lolling forlornly.
“A load of pansies?” says Vicky.
“They're heartsease. For remembrance.”
“What do all the plastic tulips signify, for God's sake?” Vicky asks.
“I don't know. It means they miss you. Don't be horrid about them.”
“The dinner ladies were always horrid to me when I had school dinners. Especially the cook. Remember she called me Madam Fusspot when I didn't want the old curled-up bit of pizza and asked for the new batch?”
“Well, she was nearly in tears the other day when she served me my lunch, getting all worked up about you.”
r /> “Shame she can't toss a few fresh extra-cheesey pizzas my way. That's one of the bummers about bobbing around the ether. No nosh!” Vicky's staring at the statue. “Who's the lady in the veil? Is it Mary?”
“She's got roses. I think she might be Saint Dorothy. Or maybe she's Saint Barbara or Saint Theresa. One of the virgins who died young.”
“Just my luck! It's not fair. I so wanted to see what sex was like. I should have gone a bit further when I snogged Ryan at the Christmas party. Oh well, you'll have to do it for me in the future, Jade.”
“No, thanks. I don't fancy the idea one bit.” I pause. “Not that anyone would fancy me anyway.”
“Oh, well. You can always fall back on Fatboy Sam,” says Vicky. “Only don't let him fall back on you or you'll get crushed to death! At least my death was tragic. Yours would be ludicrously comic.”
“I don't know why you have to be so mean about Sam.”
“Fatboy.”
“He's obviously still besotted with you.”
“Yeah, well. Is that supposed to make me feel flattered?”
“Vicky, he's the one person who seems to understand about you and me.”
“But we don't want him to understand. The next time he lumbers over in our direction tell him to get lost.”
I don't have to. Sam keeps his distance, even on Fun Run Fridays.
It's even less fun now. Mr. Lorrimer is still kind to me but I don't think he likes me anymore. He's shocked now he's found out I can be so mean. I'm shocked too. I don't like me either.
This Friday Mr. Lorrimer packs us all in the school minivan and drives us to Fairwood Park. We run for forty minutes along the cycle track and then up the hill and round by the stream and eventually back to the car park. Well, some of us run. The seriously sporty guys streak ahead, the team girls bobbing along behind, then all the middling runners, the stragglers … and after a long, long gap there's me, red in the face and gasping, with Sam about ten paces behind.
Whenever I stop he stops too, because he never overtakes me. I'm careful not to look round, but I can hear the thud of his trainers and his wheezing breath. Then suddenly there's a much heavier thud and a gasp. I've got to look now.
Sam's tripped on a tree root. He's lying spread out, arms and legs akimbo, so he looks like a great gray toad.