No Place to Hide (18 page)

Catherine raised an eyebrow, but clearly didn’t want to comment on how churlish her grandson could be at times. “Chantal and Nelly were backing singers,” she said, “and what a treat they were.”

Since Abby had abandoned her girl band long ago in order to advance her solo career, she’d invited many of her friends to accompany her onstage, with Chantal and Nelly always being her favorites. “They’re the best,” she would passionately inform her parents, as if they might not appreciate just how talented and supportive Chantal and Nelly were. “And they’re like family, which makes them extra special.” On the other hand she often said the same about the boys from the sixth-form jazz band, whom she’d known for most of her life, and who were always asking her to sing with them. The same went for the rock band, who in Matt’s opinion were almost as good as The Doors, as if anyone but him actually knew who they were; and for the gospel choir, which Abby had put together herself for an Easter concert she’d organized while in year nine.

Basically, as long as it was music Abby loved it—soul, punk, rap, new wave, folk, country, everything but heavy metal (which was more Ben’s thing)—and her ever-increasing song list already spanned many decades. She hadn’t quite come to grips with opera yet, but hadn’t ruled it out as something she might develop an interest in when she was older. From the way she presented herself it would have been easy to believe that day had already arrived, since she was extremely mature for her years, not only in her beach-model looks and sassy personality, but in the way she knew her own mind (which could be a bit scary, Justine sometimes found). Justine couldn’t remember ever being so confident at fifteen, or as certain of the direction her life must take. There again, she’d never been as musically gifted, or as mad keen to make it to the top.

So apparently her darling girl was a young Donna Summer now, which, raunchy as Donna Summer might be, Justine decided she preferred to a young Kylie Minogue, or even Ruthie Henshall (this after playing Roxie Hart in a school production of
Chicago
) or Adele. In fact, Abby had been likened to so many artists in the last few years that Justine had forgotten who half of them were (if she’d even known them in the first place), and anyway, she and Matt preferred to think their daughter’s talent was unique.

They were proud but also exasperated parents a lot of the time, for as well as being highly entertaining, Abby could be extremely temperamental—and bossy, and opinionated, and disdainful of those who just didn’t get it (usually them). On the other hand, she could also be as loving and playful as a kitten, as kind as her grandmother Catherine, and as generous as only someone who had no real understanding of limits could be.

Then there was fourteen-year-old Ben, who seemed hell-bent on doing everything in his power to make himself as unlovable and difficult as his sister was popular and admired. He was already as tall as his father, though he had yet to fill out, his dark hair was as unkempt and unwashed as the rest of him, and he could be as gloomy as a bad-news bulletin or as witty as any comedian, depending on his mood. More often than not he treated his family with contempt, as if their moronic presence had been assigned personally to him as some sort of cosmic punishment. His obsessive nature had expanded over the last couple of years to include yet more videogames and violent movies, and he’d been thrown off just about every sports team due to his unpleasant attitude. Though he was fully capable of being a straight-A student, he showed little interest in trying these days, yet there was a time, not so long ago, when he’d had all sorts of career ambitions, from becoming a biochemist to an astronaut, a criminologist, or maybe even a philosopher. Lately he’d declared an intent to become a drug addict (to annoy his parents), a music producer (to needle his sister), a transvestite (to shock his grandma), or a soldier, which he actually seemed more serious about, provided he got posted to a front line somewhere in order “to get away from this fucking family,” he’d rudely add.

Justine and Matt worried about him incessantly, as did the school, whose counselor had recently recommended a professional psychiatric assessment.

“I think for everyone’s sake,” she’d told Justine and Matt, “especially Ben’s, we need to find out if there’s a medical reason for his antisocial behavior, because we can’t keep putting it down to puberty.”

Justine and Matt hadn’t resisted; in fact, they’d been all for it. However, Ben was no more interested in “spilling his guts to some weirdo shrink,” as he put it, than he was in thanking the head teacher for not giving up on him yet.

Whatever his feelings, everyone agreed that his behavior, at least at school, had shown some improvement following the recommendation, and since he hadn’t ever been in any real sort of trouble, nothing criminal anyway, there was hope that with a mind like his he’d soon be back on track and catch up on his lessons. Whether he’d manage to regain the power of speech when at home remained to be seen, since he still didn’t seem capable of much more than monosyllabic grunts or surly shrugs and eye rolls. And quite what he was doing on his computer all hours of the day and night only he knew.

“For all we know he could be enrolling for jihad in there,” Matt had commented more than once, “or tormenting some poor kid on Facebook, or being threatened himself.”

“He’s just weird,” Abby would wisely inform them, as if they should already know that and get over it.

“And you’re a slapper with shit for brains,” Ben would inform her, should he happen to overhear her summary damnation of his complicated character.

Such was life with two teenagers in the house: rarely calm, frequently challenging, and almost never predictable. It was often a relief to get away, Justine felt, but only safe in the knowledge that neither Ben nor Abby would ever dream of playing up their adored granny the way they did their parents.

“So, how did the gig go last night?” Justine asked Abby when she finally persuaded her to open her bedroom door.

“Like you really care,” Abby said tersely. She was sitting cross-legged on her silver satin counterpane, idly strumming her acoustic guitar.

Going to sit on the edge of the elaborate French-style bed with its silver-leaf headboard and zebra-skin throws (copied from an interior magazine they’d found while on a girls’ weekend in Paris with Cheryl and Chantal last year), Justine looked around the room, taking it all in. It was a shrine to Abby’s short life and many passions, with hundreds of photographs from across the last decade and a half arranged in splendid montages: Abby as a toddler in bikini and wellies splashing about in the brook; Abby with Ben on a donkey ride laughing fit to fall off; Abby playing at being a waitress in the deli; singing at a wedding, aged ten; with friends, parents, and a few celebrities they’d met over the years; outside Café Wha in New York to honor Bob Dylan (Matt’s idea); in front of Radio City Music Hall with her name Photoshopped onto the marquee; at the Cavern Club in Liverpool “with” the Beatles; onstage (pretending to perform) at the Hollywood Bowl; at a Beyoncé concert in Las Vegas; at Madonna’s “Sticky and Sweet” tour in Toronto; walking into Asia World Arena in Hong Kong with the real Rod Stewart…Then there was the wall of shots, most blown up into posters, of Abby actually performing or recording: moody, glittering, breathtaking images of a young girl who might already have been a megastar, the compositions and poses were so worldly and impressive.

Everything in the room had been styled, collected, or chosen by Abby: the fancy modesty screen they’d found at an antiques fair in Toulon, now swathed in her performance gear—boas, bustiers, undies, belts, and jeans; the black silk draperies covering the windows; the overpoweringly ornate crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling like a preposterous birthday cake; the cluster of postcards, fridge magnets, and museum brochures she’d gathered on her travels; awards she’d won for music, sports, and art; her precious trio of acoustic guitars; a Korg PA arranger keyboard; a set of African bongo drums; a secondhand violin; two computers (one for school, the other for music); and a nifty, expensive Bose sound-mixing system.

Abby certainly didn’t want for much, which made Justine worry at times that everything was happening too fast too soon for her little girl. It was difficult to know how to slow things down, when so far the only brake she and Matt had been able to make work was to forbid her to audition for any of the TV talent shows until she’d finished her GCSEs. Though they’d been treated to some powerful sulks as a result of the decision, backed up with some red-hot tirades of lively abuse, they hadn’t yet turned on the TV on a Saturday night to discover they’d been defied.

“So you think I don’t care,” Justine commented, as though mulling this extraordinary misconception.

“You’d have been here if you did,” Abby retorted, striking an angry chord.

Justine regarded what she could see of her daughter’s beautiful, miserable face, patched with color, creamy smooth with youth. Her luxuriant hair with its natural waves and honey-gold sheen was scrunched into a knot at the nape of her neck, while her jean shorts and crop top exposed far more flesh and piercings than they could begin to conceal. “We tried to make it,” she said, “you know that, so what’s this really about?”

Abby huffed, hit a loud G6, and shoved the guitar to the end of the bed.

“Did something go wrong last night?” Justine ventured.

“Noooo!” A tone that was meant to make Justine feel like an idiot.

Feeling no more than tired and slightly irritated, Justine said, “OK, we can do this the long way and I’ll keep asking questions, or you can just tell me why you’re in a bad mood.”

“I’m not in a bad mood.”

Justine counted to ten. “Would you rather I left?”

Abby didn’t answer, which meant her mother was to stay.

Trying to move things along, Justine said, “Grandma Catherine was very impressed by your assembly gig the other morning.”

Abby shrugged.

Being too tired to handle this well, Justine made the mistake of glancing at her watch. “Abby, I’m jet-lagged, I need to—”

“See, that’s it,” Abby cried angrily. “You’ve never got time for me. You always put yourself first…”

“Stop this nonsense now.”

“If you’d been there last night, that stupid bitch in the Black Diamonds would never have spoken to me the way she did, not in front of you, but I couldn’t care less, because she’s just a stupid, talentless, ugly waste of space who should find something else to do because she sure as hell can’t sing.”

Justine gave it a moment. “So what did she say?” she asked quietly.

Abby’s expression turned mutinous.

“OK, if you don’t want to repeat it…”

“She said I was too up myself for a kid my age and that I should get a reality check because I was already making a lot of enemies—and that just isn’t true. I’m not making enemies, and anyway, how would she know anything about me when I only met her for the first time last night?”

Feeling for how hard it could be to rub up against the competition, Justine took Abby’s hand and linked their fingers. “Would I be right in thinking that you went on first?” she asked.

“Duh, I was the support act, so yes, I went on first.”

“So she saw how good you are and felt the need to put you down.”

Slapping the bed, Abby cried, “That’s what Chantal said, but it was really horrible, Mum. She was such a cow, honestly, and I know it wouldn’t have mattered half as much if you and Dad had been there. And it definitely wouldn’t have if Harry had come, but he didn’t, and he said he would…”

As tears filled her eyes, Justine realized they’d finally got to the heart of the issue. Harry Sands, the eighteen-year-old son of Melanie and Kelvin Sands, who’d moved into the vale nine months ago, had clearly been too wrapped up in freshers week at his new uni to keep his promise. It wouldn’t have surprised Justine to learn that he had no idea he’d actually made a promise, since Abby was quite good at convincing herself that something was true if she wanted it to be.

“Delusional, that’s what she is,” Ben had snorted when the subject of Abby’s crush on Harry had come up one evening. “Why would someone like him be interested in her?”

“He
is
interested in me,” Abby had shot back furiously. “Why else would he come and watch me sing at the summer fete, and why else would he invite me to go on a picnic with him and his mates?”

“He invited everyone,” Ben reminded her, “not just you.”

“But he asked me himself, whereas he got Connor to ask everyone else.”

At the mention of Connor Sands, Harry’s fifteen-year-old brother, Ben’s expression darkened. There was no love lost between those two, and if pressed Justine would have admitted that she didn’t care much for Connor either. He might be as good-looking as his older brother, an accomplished hockey player and a gifted student, but he had always struck her as sneaky and arrogant, someone who enjoyed causing trouble, or making others feel small.

Though his brother never came across that way, Justine had to admit (but never to her children) that his mother, Melanie Sands, did. It had to be where Connor had got the unpleasant side of his nature from, since his father was unfailingly friendly and ready to help out with all their community events, even providing many of the props, free of charge, from his film and TV hire company.

“Don’t you think that’s mean,” Abby wailed, “saying he’ll come, then not bothering to turn up?”

“Did he actually say he’d be there?” Justine asked carefully. “Were those the words he used, or did he say something more general such as he’d make it if he could?”

Abby scowled. “He knows how much I wanted him to come. It was like a really big deal for me, playing with the Black Diamonds.”

“It’s freshers week,” Justine reminded her.

“So what? You shouldn’t make promises and not keep them.”

“Abby,” Justine said softly, “I understand why you like him so much, he’s a lovely boy—”

“He’s not a
boy
!”

“OK, young man, which actually makes my point. He’s too old for you.”