The Kiss (14 page)

H
ell isn’t hot. It’s a freezing, merciless space, bleak and dark and lightless, unbroken by anything but buses going the other way. I throw my phone into the first bin I pass on leaving the Gaslight. Chuck my holey Vans in the next one. All the screaming and shouting and pleading in the world, and Jem still looked at me like I was a heap of nothing. I showed myself the door before he could do the honours.

I make it home with shredded feet and get into bed in my clothes, and there I pretty much stay. Rigid with injustice and shrivelled with guilt at the same time. Dry-eyed. Thinking.

At least ten times over the weekend I sit bolt upright as a car pulls up outside, convinced it’s the police coming to cart me off to jail. I didn’t do it! I want to shout at the walls. I did
nothing
!

At times like this, it would be nice to have a mum that I can talk to. But I don’t, so I keep staring at the walls and thinking. By Wednesday my sheets are starting to stink, but I can’t find the energy to do anything about it. I can barely move.

‘Someone to see you,’ Dad shouts up the stairs on Wednesday afternoon.

Tab stops at my bedroom door, wafting her hand vigorously in front of her nose. ‘It reeks in here,’ she declares. ‘What’s going on? Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Oz said today you haven’t been in college all week.’

‘I’ve been ill,’ I say, not looking at her.

Picking her way gingerly through the mess on my floor, she opens my bedroom window and wafts her hands some more. ‘Since when has illness stopped us talking to each other at least once a day?’

‘I don’t have a phone any more.’

‘Why weren’t you there when we came out of the last rehearsal? Honor canned us. Our sorrows got so drowned they grew tails and fish gills. Even Sam had half a shandy.’ Tabby stops and visibly rewinds. ‘You don’t have a
phone
any more? What are you, dead?’

The mid-October air coming through my window is cool and a little damp. Reviving, somehow. I burst into tears. Tab rushes to put her arms around me.

‘Is it Jem?’ she asks.

This provokes a fresh storm of weeping. I tell her about Dave’s inane idea about the cash fraud and about Jem hating me forever.

‘And the stupidity of it all is that it started with me doubting him and
his
friends,’ I croak, gasping for air. ‘And now he’s doubting me and mine. He won’t ever trust me again because he thinks I’ve lied to him and that’s his worst thing. He got that bruise for me, he said,’ I add with a feeble flash of pride.

The look on Tab’s face cheers me up a little. ‘He must really love you for a bruise like that,’ she says. ‘What happened? Did he fight Dave?’

‘I don’t know!’ I wail. ‘This should be the big finale when I fall into his arms and he tells me how he got his shiner by vanquishing the evil Nazgul for love of me and instead I’m lying here with my life in shreds!’

‘Everything’s a mess,’ Tabby says gloomily. ‘The show’s been cancelled. Sam and Maria are still together. Warren tried to get my number on Friday night. Patricia is talking about moving to the Bahamas. Desmond’s at death’s door and Eunice is heartbroken. She’s been in love with Desmond for years, Patricia says. The only good thing all week has been Oz. He’s been so sweet that he’s stopped me dwelling on the rest.’

I wipe my eyes. Yelp as I get a blast of my own breath reflected back at me off Tabby’s shoulder.

‘Give me a minute?’ I say out of the corner of my mouth.

‘You might need longer than that,’ she says kindly.

I return after a long shower, having brushed my teeth till they bled, scrubbed myself from head to foot, conditioned every inch of my hair and tried my damnedest to wash as much of myself down the drain as I could. Dad will kill me for using so much hot water, but as I haven’t showered in several days I figure I’m owed at least half an hour. The thoughts I have been having are starting to crystallize into something. I daren’t look too closely in case the crystals break up again.

In my absence, Tab has stripped my bed, gathered my scatterings into manageable piles on my desk and chair and opened the other window for extra air. She fills me in on the details of Friday night as I hunt out clean clothes, and I hang on every word, waiting for the bit where she says: ‘And then they found a bust-up fake card machine and called the police!’ She doesn’t. Jem has cleared up my mess and not reported me, which makes me feel worse than ever.

There has to be a way out of this. There must be something I can fix. Maybe not Jem’s feelings for me, but
something
.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Tab asks.

‘Go to the bank, I guess,’ I say wearily. ‘Give them a chance to tell me what their problem is. You never know,
I might get some money back.’

‘Oz said he’d take me out tonight to cheer me up,’ says Tabby. ‘Come with us?’

‘I don’t think he’d be too pleased,’ I say.

Tab rolls her eyes. ‘It’s not like that.’

I gesture at the pile of papers on my desk. ‘I’ve missed three days of class. I need to crack on with that.’

‘So you’re not quitting college?’ she says, looking relieved.

‘Not yet, apparently,’ I say, a little wryly.

My best friend flops back on my bare mattress. ‘You know what really stinks about the whole show thing?’ she tells the ceiling tiles. ‘The scenery they built for us at the theatre. They’ll rip it down at the weekend, turn it into firewood. It’s stupid to feel so sad about it, but I do. I should be more bothered about all the wasted work we’ve done learning the songs, and the words, and the dance steps. But it’s the pointless scenery that gets me. Dead before it ever came to life.’

When she has left, I carry my old sheets downstairs, stick them in the washing machine and make my bed
with some fresh ones. Then I do myself a ham sandwich, return to my room and sit down at my desk to gaze
at formulae and think about things that aren’t formulae at all.

I feel like a surfer in Hawaii, paddling out on a soggy tissue box towards the biggest wave of my life. But hey, it’s
my
tissue box. Sink or swim, at least I’m giving it a go. And that’s all I can do.

Oz beams as I slide into Economics just before lunch on Thursday. ‘Wasn’t expecting you in this side of Christmas,’ he says. ‘Tab said you looked like a bulldozer had flattened you yesterday afternoon.’

My new Vans have been trying to eat my socks for the last half-hour. ‘I just unflattened myself,’ I say, yanking them up. ‘How was your date with Tab last night?’

‘It was a friends thing,’ he corrects. ‘She said “just friends” to me about fifteen times, just to make sure
I’d got the message. The other people at the bar thought she was my girlfriend though. So that was nice.’ He
gazes a little wistfully at the whiteboard, where the teacher is jotting down stuff about aggregate supply and demand.

The morning I’ve had still feels unbelievable. Explanations from Egg Face about rigged cash machines in town, a couple of faxes with my signature on, and just short of four hundred quid back in my account. Seriously. It feels like I just found a unicorn in Tesco’s. And it’s incredible what you can achieve when you ride through a busy morning on a unicorn’s back.

‘Can you lend me your notes to cover what I’ve missed this week?’ I ask.

‘Haven’t made many, but you’re welcome to what I’ve got. Too busy trying to sort next week’s Hallowe’en disaster. I took my eye off the ball for a couple of days because I was behind on college work and now everywhere’s booked. Can you believe it? Biggest money spinner of the year and no venue. Nightmare.’

I am almost taken out by a second brain tsunami in as many days. Cogs whirr and turn, wheels within wheels.

‘Have you tried the Gaslight?’ I say.

‘That’s no good, Tab’s show’s in—’ Oz stops and backtracks. ‘The show’s off, isn’t it? Do you think I could get a deal on hiring it if I move fast enough?’

‘Oh, the show’s still on,’ I say as he fumbles for his phone. ‘Kind of. But you’ll probably still get a good deal.’

He looks surprised. ‘Tab didn’t mention that last night.’

‘She doesn’t know yet. Organize your party there, Oz. Fancy dress for Hallowe’en,’ I instruct. ‘I promise it’ll be worth your while.’

He taps his head. ‘Did the bulldozers get your brain too? No one’s going to get bombed around a geriatric crowd of musical-theatre goers.’

I want to laugh.
This
is the kind of control I was born for. ‘What’s with the insults?’ I say. ‘Everyone knows how much you love musicals.’

He fixes his eyes on me suspiciously. ‘What are you planning?’

‘It’s not totally a done deal,’ I say, hoping I’ve hooked him. ‘But you’ll be the first to know when it is. Just promise you’ll look into a Hallowe’en party at the Gaslight a week on Saturday.
Promise me!
’

‘Fine!’ says Oz, reeling at the intensity in my voice. ‘Weirdo.’

At lunch, my new phone has three missed calls and five texts on it.

Delilah, what the jolly bollies? Of course I’m still keen to do the show. I’ll half-nelson Eunice, get the word around. See you later, P

Exciting! *claps hands* Rich and I up for it, Henry xx

I’m afraid I’m no longer available; I have already started coaching pantomime in Canterbury. Honor

Won’t strike the set until Sunday. Enough time? Trevor (stage manager)

Is Tab still doing it? Sam

I consider my newborn idea without the experienced Honor at the helm. OK, so she was the most obvious choice of director, but not the only option if we get creative. And if the past twenty-four hours have taught me anything, it’s ‘get creative’.

To give myself strength, I gaze at Sam’s blatantly nonchalant text about Tabby. I can fix this. Maybe more besides.

‘Oz just told me the show’s back on,’ says Tabby, practically throwing her tray of food at me in her excitement. ‘What have you done?’

I show her the texts. I particularly enjoy showing her the one from Sam. She goes bright red with delight.

‘But you hate the theatre! You hate musicals! Your mum—’

‘With a few adjustments,’ I interrupt, ‘
What an Ado!
could become my new favourite show.’

My new phone is ringing. I feel prickles rushing up and down my arms as I catch the name on the screen. This
is my big fish, the key to it all. If I can catch it, my weird idea might have legs. And I know fish don’t generally have legs.

‘Delilah? It’s Ella.’

‘Thanks for calling back,’ I say. ‘I have a proposition.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘You don’t know what the proposition is yet,’ I say, startled.

‘Life is boring without the occasional risk. Spill.’

‘Can we meet to talk about it?’ I ask. ‘It’s tricky to explain on the phone.’

‘Collective starts at five. Come here and we’ll talk.’

My carefully constructed plans teeter as I hear her words with a punch of dismay. Thursday night? The collective? Jem will be there.

‘Oh, and make sure you shave but don’t moisturize,’ she adds. ‘My usual model’s gone to Amsterdam. You’re going to be my canvas instead.’

I exchange panicky glances with a bug-eyed Tabby, who is listening in.

Ella sounds amused by my silence. ‘That’s my price.’

The plan has been sounding so good in my head all day. Even without Honor, it has still felt doable. Now it is starting to fray at the edges. I pray to all the gods I can think of that Jem will give the collective a miss tonight.

I shut my eyes. ‘I have to be gone by six,’ I say.

E
lla texts directions, which is just as well. I can’t remember anything about the walk to the Watts Estate with Jem four weeks ago, beyond a consuming sense of irritation. Twists, turns, a greenhouse. I stop at the viewpoint where we kissed, swallow and move on.

Darkness is starting to sink its teeth into the day when I reach the flat. A couple of people are mixing paints already, and the music is low. Ella makes me turn on the spot as she assesses my shape, making me feel like a pig in a butcher’s shop.

‘I’ll do your back,’ she decides.

‘I didn’t shave my back,’ I say, worried.

‘Glad to hear it. I’m not into werewolves.’

I pile my hair on the top of my head and undress from the waist up, holding my hands to my pathetically flat boobs. Then I lie down on a table she’s covered with a towel. This will be like a massage, with luck.

‘So,’ she says, wiping my skin clean from the nape of my neck to the bones of my coccyx. ‘What’s the proposition?’

‘They cancelled the amateur show at the Gaslight,’ I begin. ‘I’m trying to revive it. The theatre’s agreed not to get rid of the set, at least until I can confirm things at the weekend, and I’m trying to put the cast back together. The theatre manager thinks I’m insane, but seems happy for me to give it a go seeing how she might still make money on something she thought was dead in the water. There’s a problem with the director, but I’ll find someone else.’ I stop and bite my lip. ‘I hope I find someone else.’

‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing?’

‘No,’ I confess.

I try to relax as her brush makes its way up and down my back. It’s not as electrifying as Jem painting my hand, but it’s very soothing.

‘And I come into it how?’ she says.

‘I wanted to ask if you and the rest of the collective would do the make-up.’

She paints what feels like some kind of line down my spine. ‘I don’t do pantomime dames.’

‘You do make-up though,’ I say. ‘Amazing make-up. I thought . . .’

I stop. Saying it out loud seems so unbelievably stupid.

‘You thought what?’

Oh God. Press on.

‘I thought we could do the show as zombies,’ I mumble.

‘Jem said it was a Shakespeare musical,’ Ella says after a pause. ‘Not a slasher movie.’

‘It’s based on Shakespeare’s
Much Ado About Nothing
,’ I say, encouraged by the fact that she hasn’t laughed. ‘I think we could reinvent it again. The songs are good. The story has its problems, but if you make everyone zombies then it gets ironic. The set and the costumes stay the same, but with zombies and a few re-writes on the lyrics and some heavy green lighting . . . it might be good.’

Ella snorts. ‘Grannies watch musicals. I’ve noticed grannies aren’t greatly into zombies. They’re a bit true to life when you’re half-dead yourself.’

‘Grannies aren’t going to come,’ I say. ‘Students are. Combine a zombie musical with a Hallowe’en party in the theatre bar – I’ve got someone checking that out – and you’ve got something. I think. I hope.’

A long silence follows. I can feel her brush making little stabbing gestures down my spine now, flicking and flicking and flicking.

‘You asked Jem about the make-up already?’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’ I say uneasily.

I can feel her eyes boring into my back. ‘You tell me.’

‘I haven’t seen him for a few days. I’m not his favourite person right now.’

‘Ah, love,’ Ella says mockingly. ‘Can’t live with it, can’t iron its socks when they’re still on its feet.’

‘Who said anything about love?’ I protest. ‘Love is . . . not this.’

‘If you say so. The publicity angle could be good. Will we get paid?’

I think of the funds back in my account. If the show continues, I’ll still have a job. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But I can’t promise much.’

‘I’ll talk to the others. We design the zombie look, yes? When’s the show?’

Oh. My. God. This is
happening
.

‘A week on Saturday,’ I say with a combination of gratitude and terror at what I’ve started. ‘And you can design anything you like, as long as it’s zombie-ish. What are you painting on me anyway?’ I crane my neck, trying to get a glimpse.

‘Don’t move or I’ll smudge you.’

She focuses on the top corner of my back, painting something in what feels like an inverted triangle near my shoulder. I manage a sneak look at my phone, which I’ve stationed near my head. Four texts and two voicemails
will have to wait until my body is my own again. Ten to six. He could be here at any minute.

‘Is Jem coming tonight?’ I ask, nice and casual.

‘He’d better.’

‘How much longer—’

‘It takes as long as it takes,’ she interrupts, with a flash of the scary girl I first met. ‘Just lie still.’

It is an uncomfortable ten minutes. My feet are pointing at the door, so every time it opens my heart beats like an African drum, waiting for his voice.

I squeal at the blasting sensation of sealant.

‘Get yourself over to Kev for the shots,’ says Ella with satisfaction.

Shielding my breasts with my hands, I swing myself off the table and walk across the room to the camera set-up. It feels like one of those dreams where you’re not wearing anything on your bottom half and your T-shirt’s too short for comfort. At least Jem isn’t here – yet.

Kev’s face isn’t painted today. ‘All right, Delilah?’ he says, waving his light-meter. ‘Back to me, won’t take a minute.’

I gaze steadfastly at the long white backdrop as he takes a few readings. The camera clicks and whirrs. I start working through the thousand things on my brain list that I still have to do to make
What an Ado About Zombies!
a reality, to take my mind off my virtual nudity
.
Lists soothe me. They remind me of numbers, formulae, immutable things that can fix the world when placed in the right order.

The door opens.

‘About time you showed up,’ says Ella behind me.

‘Always with the pit-bull impression, Ella. Some of us have jobs.’

The blood whooshes into my face, round my ears, down my neck. I am reddening all over like a boiled cricket ball. Still facing forward, gripping my boobs like two fried-egg-shaped life-jackets, I pray for invisibility.

‘Finished,’ says Kev. ‘Take a look if you want.’

My hands are the only things between my modesty and the eyes of the person who hates me most in the world. I’m not up to looking at anything.

‘Later,’ I mutter, sidling towards the corner which holds my bra, top and hoodie.

Ella’s voice is brimful of mischief. ‘Avert your oh-so-wide eyes from my model, Jem. I imagine you’ve seen it all before.’

I dive behind a curtain and pull on my clothes as fast as I can, stuffing my bra in my bag.
Be cool.
His stormy
eyes are hostile as I re-emerge. The bruising on his face has almost all gone. He folds his big arms across his chest like armour.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I mutter, brushing past him and doing my best to ignore the leap of heat in my belly caused by one tiny touch of his skin.

‘Don’t be vile, Jem,’ Ella says. ‘Delilah’s—’

I blaze a message of pleading in her direction. She is quicker off the mark than Val, correcting herself smoothly mid-sentence.

‘– leaving now.’

He grunts and heads for a space by the window, paints in hand.

Not forgiven then. I focus on Ella, trying now to transmit my thanks via traitorously watery eyes.

‘Tell him about the show and the make-up,’ I say in a low voice. ‘Leave me out of it though.’

‘What did you do to him?’ Ella asks with interest.

‘See you,’ I say.

Shutting the door behind me, I concentrate on breathing for a bit. It is only as I head back down in the lift that I realize I still have no idea what Ella has painted on me.

Tears blur my vision most of the way back to town. As I make the turn on to the High Street, a big fat full moon peeps out from behind M&S, shining softly on me, lighting up the snot on my nose and cheeks like slug trails.

‘Stop gloating,’ I mutter at its shining face, and wipe my nose on my sleeve.

I have calls to make so I take out my phone. A new message from Ella flashes up, complete with attachment.

Ill unzip U any time

In the photo, I look much taller than I have ever pictured myself. A few escaped, darkish-looking curls lie on one shoulder. Below the curls I curve in and out again like a violin. A long zipper has been painted the length of my spine, silver teeth on a black ribbon. It is unzipped a couple of feet from the top and folded down on one side, revealing flesh, bone, ribs and the corner of a glistening heart.

I look more closely. The topmost edge of the heart has been chipped off, like a nick on the side of a china plate.