Secret Smile (14 page)

'Sure,' said Laura taking a sip, and
flinching with the expression of pain that people display when they have taken
a bigger gulp of whisky than they meant to. "Why was it always whisky?'

'Why not?' I said. 'Am I mad?'

'Is this still to do with the whisky?'
said Laura.

I took another sip and shook my head.

'Look at the facts,' I said. 'I break up
with Brendan. Next thing, he's engaged to my sister. I can't bear the very
sight of him. Next thing, he's living in my flat. Them living in my flat is
awful. Next thing, I've moved out. So after days of manoeuvring, the result is
that a man who makes me want to throw up when I'm around him is living in my
flat and I've become a vagrant.'

'You're living here,' said Laura. 'That's
not being a vagrant.'

I put my arms round her and hugged her.

'That's so lovely,' I said, overflowing
with emotion.

To an observer we would have looked like
two drunks outside a pub after closing time.

'I must say, I'm curious,' said Laura.

'What about?'

'This Brendan. You make him sound so appalling
that I'd actually quite like to see him. It's like one of those exhibits in an
old circus. Do you dare see the bearded lady?'

'You think I'm exaggerating.'

'I want to see him in action,' Laura said
with a laugh. 'I want to see what it takes to make you vomit.'

The next day I was at work early, wanting
to give Tony and Laura a bit of time together. I went back to the Hampstead
house because the owners kept changing their minds about what they wanted.
They'd decided that all the lights in the living room were wrong — they didn't
want side-lights after all, but soft halogen spotlights on the ceiling. The
Venetian red in the bedroom was too dark; in fact, it was too red. Maybe they
should have gone for the pea green colour after all... The man of the household,
a Sam Broughton, had arranged to come back to the house at lunch to discuss the
fine details, and I spent the morning painting doors and skirting boards,
laying licks of glossy white over greying wood.

Sam Broughton had just arrived from the
City, insistent that he only had twenty minutes to spare, if that, and we were
walking through the house, me with my notepad, when my mobile rang.

'Sorry,' I said to him. 'I'll turn it off
after this. Hello?'

'Miranda? Thank God you're there.'

'I'm just in the middle of a meeting, Mum.
Could you call back in a...'

'I wouldn't have called except it's an
emergency.'

I turned away from Broughton's impatient
face, his overdone glances at his watch, and looked out of the window at a
sodden squirrel immobile on the branch of a chestnut tree outside. 'Tell me.'

'I've just had a phone call from Troy's
tutor and she says that Troy's not come in.'

'That's not really an emergency, Mum.'

'He's not come in for days.' She paused.
'Most of last week.'

'That's not good.'

'It's like before. Pretending he's going
there and then not turning up. I thought he was getting better.' I heard her
gulp. 'I'm worried, Miranda. I called our house and he's not there, or at least
there's no reply, and I don't know where he is or what he's doing and it's cold
and raining outside.' Another gulp.

'What do you want me to do?'

'I'm stuck here at work. I can't really
get away — and, anyway, the dental surgery's miles away. I tried your flat, but
there was just an answering machine. So I thought you could just pop over and
see if you could find him.'

'Find him?'

Behind me, Broughton cleared his throat
angrily. His polished brogue tap-tapped on the newly varnished floorboards.

'It's much easier for you to get away and
Bill wouldn't mind. And if something's happened

'I'll see if I can find him,' I said.

'I can't bear all of this any more,' said
my mother. 'I've had enough of being strong. It's too much for me. What's wrong
with us? I thought it was all going to be all right.'

'It will be all right,' I said, too
loudly. 'I'll go now.'

I ended the call and turned to Broughton.

'I have to leave,' I said.

His glare deepened.

'Do you realize how expensive my time is?'
he said.

'I'm very sorry,' I repeated. I wanted to
say that my time was valuable as well, to me, at least. But I didn't. I was
thinking of Troy, out there in the rain.

I went to my parents' house first. The
workmen weren't there, though the ground floor looked like a building site —
well, it
was
a building site. The kitchen was half-exposed to the
weather. There was yellow London clay everywhere. I went from room to room,
calling him. In his bedroom I opened the curtains and shook out the crumpled
duvet, to make it look more welcoming if he returned. A book about the
migration of birds lay open on the floor. I marked it with a scrap of paper and
put it on his pillow.

I didn't really know where to look. Where
would I go, if I were him, and hanging around waiting for the end of the day? I
walked on to the high street and peered into cafes, record shops, the local
bookstore. I tried the library, but it was closed; it's only open two days a
week now. I looked into the mini-arcade, where several boys — other truants, I
assumed — were playing the fruit machines in the smoky, bleeping gloom. Troy hated
places like that. They made him feel trapped.

I walked to the park and wandered around
in the rain. There weren't many other people, just a couple of winos sitting on
a bench and a young mother striding furiously past pushing a buggy. From its
inside came a yell like a siren. No Troy. I went to the playground in case he
was taking shelter there, but it was deserted. Pigeons hopped through the
puddles. I went to the little snack bar which sells ice creams on sunny days,
but there was just one woman in there.

Really, he could be anywhere. I rang Mum
at work and she'd heard nothing. I rang Dad, who was in Sheffield on business,
but his voice kept breaking up until it eventually crackled into silence. I
rang my flat in case Troy had somehow found his way there, but after two rings
the answering machine clicked on and my own voice told me no one was there to
take the call. I left a message anyway, one of those that go: 'Troy? Troy? Are
you there? Can you hear me? If you can hear me, pick up the phone. Please, pick
up the phone. Troy?' I heard the note of fear in my voice.

When you're looking for someone, you see
them everywhere. Out of the corner of your eye, and then you turn and it's an
old man. In the distance, but as they get closer it's nothing like them after
all. Ahead of you, and they turn around and it's a stranger's face. I walked
for an hour, telling myself reasonably enough that I shouldn't worry too much.
In the end, wet and chilly, I went back to collect my car from outside my
parents' house and, on the chance that he'd returned, went in.

The hall doorway was slightly open and
through it I could see Troy seated on the old sofa. His hair was plastered to
his skull, and he was draped in a thick tartan blanket, under which he was naked.
He looked so shrunken and desolate, sitting there, that I could hardly bear to
approach him. He lifted his head and looked up and gave a half-smile at someone
I couldn't see, and a figure moved across to block him from my view. I pushed
the door fully open and stepped into the room.

'Troy,' I said. 'Brendan. What's going
on?'

I don't know what I was thinking, but my
voice was sharp. I pushed past Brendan and knelt by Troy, clutched him by his
narrow shoulders.

'Troy? Are you all right?'

He didn't reply, just looked at me,
through me. He had the appearance of one of those people you see on the news,
who's just been pulled out of wreckage, off a sinking ship.

'Sweetheart,' I said as if he were a baby
still. I wanted to cry. 'What happened?'

'I've run your bath,' said Brendan. 'Nice
and warm. And I'll bring you hot chocolate while you're in it. OK, mate?'

Troy nodded.

'And I better ring your mum, all right?'

'I'll take you up to your bath,' I said.

I left Troy in his bath and went to the
kitchen, where Brendan was standing amid the builders' wreckage microwaving a
jug of milk for Troy's chocolate. It was a clumsy process because he could only
use his unbandaged hand.

'I got Marcia's message on your answering
machine. Clearly she doesn't know you've moved out,' he said. The microwave
bleeped and he took the jug out, stirred in the cocoa and sugar, and whisked it
till it frothed. 'There.' He took a little sip and added more sugar. 'So I
thought I should go and look.'

'Where was he?'

'Down by the derelict warehouses. I don't
know why I went there — I just had a feeling he was there, like an instinct. I
knew.
I think some people have that gift, don't you?'

I shrugged.

'Who knows what might have happened if I
hadn't been there. I think I was meant to save him. It was fate. And so I've
made a decision.' He poured the drink into a mug. I'm going to put off looking
for a job until Troy's all right. Troy will be my job.'

'Oh no,' I said, 'I don't think that's a
very good idea. Not at all. In fact, if you ask me...'

'I'm not,' he said calmly.

'Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. Troy
doesn't need you. The very opposite. What Troy needs, apart from anything else,
is you out of his...'

'I'll take him his chocolate,' Brendan cut
in. 'You don't really need to stay if you're busy.'

'I'll wait,' I said furiously. 'I'm not
leaving him.'

'As you like,' he said.

CHAPTER 16

'I thought you were getting better. I
thought things were getting back to normal at last.' My mother was pacing the
room in an agitated fashion. Her hair was half unloosed from its bun and
hanging down in strands over her face. She was wearing a jumper back-to-front.

'What does "better" mean,
exactly?' asked Troy. 'And what's normal? No one's normal.'

He was sitting on the same sofa I'd found
him on the previous night, in the same slumped position, as if there weren't a
bone in his body.

'Oh, for God's sake,' snapped my mother.

'Calm down, love,' said my father, who was
standing with his back to the window. He'd come home early from Sheffield and
was still wearing his suit. He hadn't shaved, though, and the knot of his tie
was pulled loose. It wasn't exactly a total psychological collapse, but it gave
him an odd, raffish look.

'Calm down? Is that all you've got to say?
Every time something goes wrong, that's your advice. Why don't you say you'll
make us all a nice cup of tea?'

'Marcia...'

'I want someone else to take charge here, not
always me.'

I glanced across at Troy. The sun was
shining through the window on to his silky hair, and he seemed quite tranquil.
He felt my eyes on him and looked up, raised his eyebrows and gave a little
smile.

'Tea would be nice, actually,' he said. 'And
I'm quite hungry. I haven't had anything to eat all day.'

I stood up.

'I'll get us all something in a minute,' I
said. 'Toasted cheese sandwiches?'

'Thank God Brendan was here,' said Mum
fervently. I flinched. I'd been there too, hadn't I? 'If he hadn't found
him...'

'I'm in the same room, Mum,' said Troy.
'You can talk to me.'

'What have I done wrong?'

'What's it got to do with you?'

'Exactly,' said my father. 'We're not
going to get anywhere if this becomes about your feelings of guilt. This is
about Troy.'

My mother opened her mouth to say
something, then changed her mind. She sat down on the sofa and took Troy's
hand.

'I know,' she said. 'I was so worried. I
kept thinking...' She stopped.

'I wasn't going to kill myself or
anything,' said Troy.

'So what were you up to?' asked Dad.
'Skipping lessons, wandering around.'

Troy shrugged.

'I wanted to be left alone,' he said
eventually. 'I couldn't bear everyone fussing over me all the time. People
looking at me to see how I am.'

'You mean me,' said my mother. 'I'm the
one who fusses. I know I fuss. I try to stop myself and stand back, but I can't
help it. I feel if I could just help push you back on to the tracks, everything
would be all right for you.'

'You should trust me.'

'How can we trust you,' asked my father,
'when you skip lessons and lie to us?'

'It's my life,' said Troy mutinously. 'I'm
seventeen. If I want to skip lessons, that's my choice. If I fuck up, it's my
fuck-up, not yours. You treat me like a little child.'