The Girl Next Door, page 18
‘Pretty lady,’ Nathan says, and his voice is desperate, pleading, as though he’s trying to explain something but none of us are listening. Beside me, I feel Sophie tugging at my hand, her little fingers growing slippery with sweat.
Kelly is shaking her head.
‘It’s disgusting,’ she says, ‘people like you coming here, being close to our girls. I don’t care what the police say. It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that you’re guilty as sin. It’s not as if it’s the first time you’ve followed a girl home, is it?’
There is a sort of hissing noise from the little crowd, more whispers on the breeze.
A hand reaches out, touches my arm and I gasp involuntarily, release Sophie’s hand. She buries her head in the folds of my skirt and I turn to see Sandra at my side, her face undeniably one of joy at the hideous drama in front of us.
‘Sandra,’ I say, but at that moment Mr Carter appears, stepping quickly between the two men and holding out his hands, as if that ever really stopped anyone.
My heart is thundering in my ears and as the PE teacher starts trying to disperse the small crowd, I can’t look away from Nathan’s face, and as I stare, he shifts his gaze from Daniel Jones and stares straight back at me. Fear goes through me, cold and deep, and I am the first to break the spell, turning away from him as he shuffles off, out of the open sports hall door, away from the fair. I watch his back retreat, and my breathing doesn’t fully slow until he is completely out of sight. Pretty lady. The words make me think of Rachel. The beautiful ice queen next door.
Sweat coats the back of my neck and the cut on my face itches. It’s hot now, the sports hall is full; those who were not here for the incident with Nathan are swiftly being filed in, I can hear the murmurs, Chinese whispers on the wind. Sophie cries a little bit after Nathan leaves, then makes a quick recovery when I give her a chocolate bar from my handbag, wrapped in extra tin foil so as not to spoil the lining. She starts to drag me around the stalls, pleading with me to buy her a giant chocolate bunny holding a bright red heart between its paws. I’m just deliberating, on the verge of giving in, when hands slide themselves around my waist and Jack’s breath is in my ear.
‘Think of the E numbers in that,’ he whispers, then kisses the side of my neck, too passionately for a school fete on a Saturday afternoon, especially when he wasn’t even speaking to me this morning. Something inside me stirs, replacing the rod of fear that lodged itself when I saw Nathan. What is he trying to prove? When I look at him, his eyes are dead. Completely at odds with the show of affection. The performance for the crowds. For a moment, I remember how we used to be, back at the very beginning; tearing each other’s clothes off, legs touching underneath the table. Secret glances on Albion Road. In amongst the crowd and the noise and the heat, I am overwhelmed by the need to cry.
‘Made you jump?’ Jack says, and I swallow hard, shake my head and look around. A couple of the mothers are looking at us, their eyes flickering over Jack and I, their faces almost unreadable. I can read them only because I am used to it – the look of jealousy. The green-eyed monster. I push the phrase out of my head as quickly as it came. It’s what my mother used to say when I complained to her about the holes in my shoes, the rips in my coat. She’d tell me I mustn’t covet the belongings of those more fortunate than myself. That the green-eyed monster would get me if I did. Along with God, of course. My family were quite big on God too. Diane used to say it made me repressed.
‘Where’s Finn?’ I say, looking back towards my husband. He sees the way the women look at him, I know he does. He must do.
Jack nods in the direction of the football nets, and I see Finn’s familiar figure clad in his favourite football shirt, kicking a ball towards the makeshift nets. ‘He wore his footy T-shirt specially. Harry’s at home, didn’t fancy a fair, surprisingly.’
He seems remarkably chirpy today and I pause, wrong-footed. I stare again at his eyes – this time, they glimmer at me and I remember the old attraction, the desperate sense of urgency I felt, that need to be with him, part of him, owned by him. It’s still there, just about, but now it makes me feel afraid. I think of last night, him sitting on the end of our bed.
‘Do you want to go find your brother, Soph?’ Jack asks her, pointing over at Finn, who is now standing next to Mr Carter, watching another boy take shots – the first of which misses.
‘Can I have the rabbit?’ Not one to be deterred, my daughter. I suppose she must get that from me. Instinctively, my hand goes to my handbag, the reassuring solidity of the gold lock.
‘Maybe, if you’re good,’ Jack says teasingly and I force a smile. Sophie runs off; I watch her spindly legs in their white cotton socks make their way towards the football nets. We are left alone, save for the bunny.
‘So,’ Jack says, and I feel it again, the glint of fear, the horrible sense of unease.
‘Nathan Warren was here earlier,’ I say in a low voice, and as I say his name I feel sweat begin to prickle again at the back of my neck, dampening my pink blouse. Jack opens his mouth but a tannoy begins to boom across the hall, the headteacher’s voice infiltrating our conversation. They’re announcing the raffle.
‘I’m just going to check on our tickets,’ I say, and I slip a hand into my bag, angling my body slightly away from Jack’s.
The purple tickets are flimsy in my fingers; I grip them tightly to try to stop my hands shaking. I don’t want Jack to notice. The numbers are read out; the hall is quieter now, everyone consulting their tickets. My eyes circle the crowd: I see Sandra with Natasha, and Sophie standing with Finn by Mr Carter. Quickly, I beckon the kids over; we should be keeping our children close. What am I thinking letting them run off away from me?
Jack has been accosted by one of the other teachers, all of whom love him – do they really think their doe eyes and hair flicks aren’t obvious? They’re obvious to everybody, not just to me.
And then I see them. Rachel and Ian are standing, their bodies huddled together, near the corner of the hall where the arts and crafts table is. The primary school children have all made bunches of papier-mâché roses, displayed neatly along with their names – Sophie’s is good, Finn’s less so. I see Rachel’s dark head, bowed slightly as the raffle numbers continue, punctuated by the odd yelp of joy from a winner and the inevitable moans of disappointment from everyone else. As if anyone could really be seriously distraught at not getting their hands on a box of Milk Tray and warm Prosecco. Small-town life at it’s very best.
Sophie pulls the raffle tickets from my hand and she and Finn pore over them. I can’t even remember what numbers we have.
‘Number 434, pink!’ Andrea calls, but her voice sounds strange. Behind us, there is a little cry and a small child I don’t immediately recognise comes forward, face flaming at the attention, clutching her winning ticket between her hands. Sophie makes a loud huffing noise.
‘Daisy. She doesn’t deserve to win, Mummy. Her bunch of roses wasn’t very good.’
As the girl turns back towards us, I look again – she’s Lindsay Stevens’ daughter. Getting-a-divorce-Lindsay. I look for her, and see her standing watching her daughter, alone in the crowd. I never did bake her that cake that I promised.
Rachel and Ian have moved closer now; I catch heads turning slightly towards them, looking away quickly as though they have seen something they shouldn’t. Nobody wants to look grief in the face, do they. Least of all me. Rachel is still horribly, terrifyingly thin. But still beautiful. Pretty.
‘And the final ticket, number 85, green!’ Andrea says into the speaker, and again there’s a rallying cry from somewhere across the field.
‘Well!’ I say, ‘that’s that then! Who fancies something to eat?’
‘Me! Me!’ both the children squeal and Jack’s attention is diverted back to us, like water rerouting. I feel his eyes on me, and my stomach tightens at the thought of the rest of the day spent playing happy families. Suddenly, I have to get away.
‘Will you take the children?’ I ask him. ‘Just nipping to the ladies.’
I leave them before he can reply, heading vaguely in the direction of the corridor leading away from the sports hall, where a bright pink handwritten sign advertises the toilets. There is a buzzing sound in my head, growing louder and louder. Somewhere, music has started to play, a strange, piped music that drills through my mind, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut against the brightness of the day. The sunshine feels inappropriate. All of this feels inappropriate. I want everything to stop now.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Clare
Monday 4th February, 3.00 p.m.
We’ve got a free period this afternoon – we’re meant to use it for exam prep. Lauren spends most of it giggling with Andy Miles and his stupid friends, but I tell them I’ll see them afterwards and go instead to the girls’ bathroom. There’s no one else inside and I find a cubicle at the end, lock the door behind me and sit down. I take a deep breath and pull out my phone, googling everything again even though I’ve read all the info so many times. But I feel stupidly nervous now. I don’t know why.
The most common pill is called Microgynon – that’s the one Lauren’s older sister has, I think. I read through all the side-effects again, heart thumping. It’ll be fine, I’m just being overanxious. I force myself to think about how many people take the pill; the chance of something bad happening is so small that it’s not worth thinking about. Besides, I can’t back out now. I’ve already got the doctor’s appointment – it’s at four thirty, straight after school. The girls don’t know where I’m going – I don’t want them to know that I didn’t lose my virginity last year, that I’ve been bluffing for months. They’ll take the piss.
Instead of worrying, I try to focus on how happy Owen is going to be. I know he’s been wanting to sleep together for months now – he’s never forceful or anything, he knows I’d hate that, but I’ve always been too nervous. I know it’s silly but I hate the thought of condoms – they showed us them in that cringe PSHE class once – all rubbery and slimy. I don’t like the thought of the latex on my skin. Besides, everyone says this way is better – for the girl and for the guy. He’ll be so excited. I have to take them for a week before they kick in, so I can’t actually sleep with him tonight, not the whole way, but I’ve got it all planned. I’ll show him the packet tonight, so that there’s no going back, and I’ll stay overnight, get used to the idea of sleeping in the same bed. We’ve never spent the whole night together before – it’s such a big step for me, not that I’d ever admit that to anyone else. It feels like I’ll be leaving the old Clare behind, watching her disappear – shy, scared little Clare – and stepping into my new, adult self. Then, this time next week – I shiver with anticipation, or nerves – next week we’ll do it, the whole way, at his dad’s house. It’s going to be perfect.
I remember the moment it all began with Owen, at an after-school football game on the fields next to the school. It was last July, and the weather was really hot and sunny. The boys were playing a friendly. I was sitting on the sides with the girls, drinking lemonade – Lauren had snuck some vodka into hers, but I didn’t really want any. She and a couple of the other girls in our year had got a bit giddy and sloped off by themselves, thinking a walk would sober them up, so I’d pulled out my book, sat by myself for a bit. Owen was subbed in the second half, and he plonked himself down next to me.
He’d been sweating slightly, his forehead glistening, red strands stuck fast to his skin as if they had been pasted on. There had been a smell, too, that unmistakeably outdoors smell of football boots and muddy legs and clothes that need to go straight into the wash. A male smell. A smell that frightened me.
‘What you reading?’
I was surprised, had assumed he’d only sat next to me because I was quite close to the pitch and he wanted to concentrate on the rest of the game. My body tensed, as it always did when members of the opposite sex got too close. I’d reluctantly turned over my book so a sweaty Owen could see the front cover: Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. He’d leaned a little closer to me and my stomach had clenched, my heartbeat quickened.
‘It’s on our reading list,’ I’d said, regretting the words instantly. Why did I have to sound like I was telling him off?
He’d nodded. ‘Sure, we did it too, last year. I liked it. Do you?’
His eyes had flicked from the book back to the game, but there was something about his face that showed he was listening for what I said next, alert to my presence even if he was pretending not to be.
‘Umm…’ I hadn’t quite made up my mind yet; I didn’t like the George character much, the way he was mean to Lenny. But I didn’t like the thought of Lenny’s big, too-strong hands either; they frightened me, though I’d never put that in an essay. ‘It’s good so far,’ I said, keeping my voice light, and Owen had turned back to me, smiled.
‘Come back to me when you finish it. That ending!’ He let out a long, low whistle, a whistle that in my head, immediately cast him as much older than his sixteen years – here was a sophisticated guy, a reader, a guy who could whistle. One who might be different.
‘Are you going back on?’ I’d asked him, nodding awkwardly at the pitch, and Owen had looked directly at me, grinned, shook his head.
‘Nah. Think I’m better off here.’
I gave him my number, and we spent the best part of a week texting from the last school bell to midnight every night, ignoring each other at school, until on the Friday evening he’d tapped me on the shoulder as I was standing at my locker, fumbling with my books.
‘Hey, Clare.’
This time he wasn’t sweaty and he didn’t have that outdoors smell. Still, I felt the old familiar fear wrap itself around me, but Owen smiled and his smile was so gentle and I wanted so badly to be free of the past, to prove to myself that I could be different now, that I texted Mum saying I was going to Lauren’s and instead we went for a walk, up through Sorrow’s Meadow at the back of the town. Owen produced some cider from his rucksack which he must have been carrying around all day and we sat there in the blaze of yellow, talking and laughing and taking sips from the sweet, fizzy cans. I’d felt an odd feeling come over me when we stood to leave. It was the first time I had gone more than five minutes without thinking about my father.
Since that day in Sorrow’s Meadow, we have seen each other in secret as much as we can. I often go to Owen’s when his dad’s away, choosing the easiness of his empty house over my own home, where Mum and Ian watch my every move, and the house is filled with bad memories. Some nights, the knives come out: I’m wasting my time with my friends, my GCSEs need to come first. They suspect a boy, sometimes, and say that boys my age are only interested in one thing. That, and football. I’ve tried to argue, to tell them that that’s not true, but Mum defers to Ian every time and Ian is not one to be proved wrong. The idea of it makes me shudder.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jane
Monday 18th February
Jack’s home early from work on Monday night. Dinner is already on the table; the children are silent, still tired from Saturday’s fair. We saw Nathan on the way home from school; someone had broken his cone, smashed the top of it so that the orange shards poked up into the air. They look violent, angry. He didn’t smile at us like he normally does, but I smiled at him, looked at my watch. Then I grabbed the children’s hands, hurried them along.
‘How was work?’ I ask Jack, to break the strange tension that is gathered in our kitchen, but he shrugs at me, won’t meet my eye. I almost laugh to myself, imagining if the PTA girls could see us now. The loving husband who kissed my neck at the fair is nowhere to be seen.
Finn isn’t eating his food.
‘Eat up, please, Finn,’ I say briskly, tapping the end of my knife on the tablecloth beside his plate. The silver glints in the overhead lights of the kitchen.
‘Not hungry,’ he says sullenly, and I pause, a little surprised. Of the three children, Finn is the sunniest – my easy boy, my golden-headed child. Sophie was always the most difficult baby – screaming through the night, throwing things on the floor as soon as I gave them to her. She’s calmer now, but still there are the moments of defiance, the strops that won’t stop. Harry was somewhere in between.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask Finn, more brusquely than I’d intended, but I didn’t sleep well and I just want them all to co-operate. Just for once. After everything I’ve done for this family, is that too much of an ask?
‘Nothing,’ he mutters, pushing the casserole I’ve cooked around his plate, the metal of his fork scraping unpleasantly against the ceramic.
I look over at Jack. He’s hardly eaten anything either, and he isn’t helping with Finn. A bubble of panic starts to form in my chest, blurring the corners of my vision. Is this how it’s always going to be from now on? Are things ever going to get better?
‘Mummy?’ Sophie says, and I try to smile at her, but my chest feels tight and her voice sounds tinny to my ears.
I try to speak but this time, nothing comes out – a roaring noise fills my head and the next thing I know Jack is at my side, an arm around my shoulders and a hand on the back of my neck, pushing my head down between my knees.
‘Deep breaths,’ he is saying, and for a moment I am back in the hospital, having just had Sophie, and he is holding my hand and smiling and everything is as it should be, without any mistakes, without any anger. Tears prick my eyes even as I feel my heartbeat slowing. I force myself to breathe deeply, in for five, out for three, the way they taught us back on Albion Road. I was never very good at it. Jack was better than me.
I’m never good enough.
‘Kids, Mummy’s feeling a bit poorly, so why don’t you take your plates into the living room and you can watch some TV?’ Jack is saying, his voice above my head, and I distantly hear the sounds of the children scurrying away, perked up at the thought of ITV on tap.
