Wonderland (16 page)

“I told you I was good.”

“I know.”

She sees what I’m thinking. “You would have done it anyway, without me. If you hadn’t been so strung out.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe. You would. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.” She bites the head off a jelly baby.

“Do you remember this?” I hand her the sheet with the photo.

Stella looks at it, still chewing. “That’s brilliant, huh?”

“When did they take it, though?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs.

“But it can’t have been at the audition,” I say, “because I never went in.”

“Must have been in reception.”

“But when?”

“God, Jude.” Stella swallows the sweet. “Who cares? You’re in. They’re expecting someone who looks exactly like you. What’s not to like?”

“Nothing. Just . . . It feels weird.”

“Get over it. You’re going to Hollywood, baby!” She throws her arms open.

I sit down next to her. Smile. Trying it out.

Stella takes a cola bottle and stuffs it in her mouth, her legs dangling against the wall, kicking out. “OK. So do you think your gran’s going to mind me staying there too? I mean, just for a while until we get somewhere. Oh, God. This is so cool. Unless we move back to Notting Hill. Then you can just stay with me. And Piers. Oh, you’re going to love Piers. He will so fancy you —”

“Stell . . .”

“What? Oh, and you can meet Luella. She’s that girl, the one I was telling you about. You know, she once —”

“Stella.”

“What? Oh. OK. I get it. Tom won’t approve. Well, we’ll just let him down gently. Start off at Gran’s and then, I don’t know, say someone in your year has a room or something. Make out like it’s really cheap, closer to the Lab.”

“It’s not that.”

“What, then? Oh, wait. Don’t tell me. Ed.”

I don’t say anything.

“You’re not living with him? There is no way Tom will go for that.”

“I’m sixteen.”

“OK. Gran, then. Your sugar granny. She’s paying, isn’t she? Do you think she’s going to let you shack up with someone who’s screwing her darling granddaughter? Dream on.”

“They like Ed.”

“Of course they do. Now. Because he’s ‘nice.’ But as soon as they find out he’s had his hands down your hipsters, alarm bells are going to ring, believe me.”

“Maybe.” I cringe at the thought of them seeing me like that.

“Honest, Jude. It is never . . . going . . . to happen.”

I say nothing. Because there’s no point. Not now. I’ll wait. Tell her before I go. Just leave her here. Or we can meet up in Portobello or something. Like Kate Moss and Sadie Frost. Trawling the stalls for vintage. But, somehow, I know that’s not what she’s planning.

“So, party tonight?”

“Sure.” And I smile. So she can see it’s fine. That she’s right.

But as she smiles back, I can see that she knows. Knows what I’m planning. That I don’t want her anymore. Not just because of Ed. But because I want me. I want to be me. And I’m scared, because I know she’ll find a way to stop it. She won’t let me win. And I feel lost again. Small. Because I’ve started something I can’t finish.

I AM
leaning over the sink. Retching again. Seem to spend half my life throwing up. But this isn’t cheap vodka or stolen Pernod. It is something else. Fear. Realization.

I don’t know when I clicked about Stella and Ed. Just a look between them, that’s all. A second. That night in the pub. We’re all sitting, talking. Matt’s telling everyone about this festival he’s going to in Wales. I’m nodding, smiling. But all I can hear is Stella. She’s talking to Ed, quietly. Telling him how amazing he is. That I’m lucky. And I see him smile. Laugh quickly at her cockiness. And then I see it. Under the table. Her hand on his thigh. Then moving up. He pauses, pushes it away. But that pause. And what he says. “Not here.” I look away, hoping that I’m wrong, that I missed something. A joke perhaps. So I say nothing that night. Because anyone can slip like that. And Stella — I mean, who wouldn’t want her to want them? Even Ed, who always held her in contempt. Part of him must think she’s got something. Because it’s not a maybe. She just has.

Then yesterday. I’m sitting on the wall outside the shop. Ed skates down the hill to say he’s going to London today. Taking some stuff up to his brother’s in the Land Rover. Asks if I want to come.

“Sure,” I say.

Then Stella does her appearing trick. “Me too,” she says. “I call shotgun.”

Ed looks at me. I shrug.

“You’ll have to navigate,” he says.

“I can do more than that.” She’s got a finger in her mouth.

And he’s laughing. But there’s something else. Desire.

And then I knew something had happened between them. Maybe not even this week. Maybe a while ago. I replay the images in my head. Her going into his room, in the dark. All he can see is blond hair. Smell of Chanel. And I bet she’s better than me. Knows what to do. Done it before. And then he sees who it is. Hates himself for not knowing. But wants her anyway. His eyes closed, hands on her, pushing her down. And she’s watching him. Not even enjoying it, just what it means. That she’s won.

Or maybe they haven’t even done it. Maybe they’ve just kissed. I don’t know. Don’t want to know. Whatever, it’s the same in the end. Means the same thing. That he wants her more than he wants me. And that she wants him. Because he’s the one thing I’ve got that she doesn’t. And she thinks he’s the one thing keeping us apart, me and her. Because I wouldn’t be able to do it by myself. Poor little Jude. Jude the Obscure.

I retch again, but there’s nothing left but bile. I flush the toilet. Go back to my room. Put on some music. And wait.

Ed comes around in his Land Rover, ready to leave. He wants to get there before rush hour and the Land Rover only does sixty at a push. I can hear him talking to Dad downstairs. About his plans. And the house. We still haven’t told him. No need now, I think.

I hear the familiar footsteps on the stairs. Then he’s in my room. Wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans. Classic Adidas he bought off eBay, the same day I got my fake fur coat. For London winters. Like Anita Pallenberg, he said. Like Stella, I thought. Like my mum. Before she wanted to ban the fur trade and started sticking chewing gum on mink coats at Harrods.

“Ready?” Ed looks around. “Where’s your bag?”

I haven’t packed. I’m not going. Can’t go. Not now.

“What’s up?” He sits down. Touches my leg.

“Don’t.” I pull it away.

“Jude? What’s going on?”

I look at the floor, willing it to swallow me. So I don’t have to do this.

It doesn’t oblige, so I’m forced to speak, before he touches me again.

“Why are you here?”

His forehead creases, not understanding. “What?”

“You don’t have to pretend, you know.”

“Jude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He is lying.

“I saw you,” I say, my insides churning with the memory. “The way you looked at her.”

“Who?”

I laugh. Hollow. Bitter. “You know who.”

But he won’t say it. Won’t admit it. “Look, I don’t know what this is about. Or who this is about.” His voice is patient. But I hear patronizing. “I don’t care about anyone else. It’s you I want. You, Jude.”

“I don’t believe you. I saw you,” I repeat. I can feel my face wet with tears now.

“What? I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” Patience gone, he is angry now. “I can’t believe I’m defending myself. What is wrong with you, Jude? I thought all this . . . self-esteem stuff, or whatever it is, was sorted out.”

“It’s not about self-esteem, is it?” I cry. “It’s about you.”

“Jude, just tell me what’s wrong. Tell me and I can help.”

I say nothing. Just wipe my face, defiant. But the tears keep on coming.

“I can’t do this.” He looks out the window. Away from me shaking on the bed, staring at the floor.

He turns back. “Jude, I have to leave. Are you coming?”

I shake my head.

“Fine.”

Silence. I wait for him to go.

But he doesn’t.

“I love you, Jude. No one else. Never have.”

I say nothing.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night. I’ll come around.”

I shrug. “Don’t bother.”

“Have it your way.” Then, softer, “Call me, then. Please.” He pauses. “You have to sort this out. And I can help you if you want. But you have to trust me.”

I’m still looking at the floor. Waiting. Willing him to go.

He does. The back door slams shut and the Land Rover chokes into life, revs, his foot pushing hard on the accelerator. Then it trails off, out of the village. Heading to London.

Dad shouts up the stairs. “Jude, you all right?”

I wipe my face again. Shout back, making sure my voice doesn’t crack. “Yeah.”

“Thought you were going to London.”

“Not this time.” I smile through the tears. Because if I sound happy, he’ll go.

“OK. Well, I’ve got to go out. Mrs. Hickman is here. I’ll be back by midday.”

I say nothing. Can’t speak.

“Bye, Dad,” he says to himself. I hear him smiling. Like he’s told the funniest joke in the world.

The door shuts and I’m alone. The sobs rack through me again, because however much I want to trust Ed, I know I can’t. Because I know what she’s like. She never gives up. She always gets what she wants. There’s nothing he can do.

Not that she really wants him. She’s never loved him. She’s always said he was a loser. Someone who followed. Who would never do anything to astound the world. That he was a small-town boy. That even if he went to London, he’d never stay. He’d always end up in Churchtown. Like Dad. Give up on the life he thought he wanted and settle for this one.

She said that I was different. That I would leave my life and never come back. That I would shimmer and glitter and be loved. And I smiled. Because I wanted to shine alongside her. Because I thought she was helping me. But she was just helping herself.

I cry. Harder than I have ever cried before. Because that life is in reach, the life I wanted. Glittering. But to get it, I have to lose them both. Ed and Stella. My best friends. The emptiness is overwhelming. A gaping hole in me. But then something creeps into the gap. Anger at what she’s done and what I’ve let her do to me. All that “There’s no me without you” stuff.

My fingers ache. And I realize they are clenched tight. My stomach, too. I need to find her. To tell her to stop. To end it. I don’t want to be us anymore. I just want to be me.

I KNOW
she hasn’t gone with him. Doesn’t need to now that she’s gotten what she wanted. To break us up. So she can keep me to herself. I can feel her, feel that she’s nearby. Like those TV psychics who can see ghosts. I can see Stella.

She’s not in the village. Just tourists buying bread and newspapers, making sure they haven’t missed anything in the outside world, the real world.
I’m coming with you,
I think. I’m getting closer. Warmer. If I can just do this one last thing. I leave the cool granite shade behind me and head for the dunes.

The beach is packed. High season, every bit of sand decorated with beach towels and tents. The sea full of surfers, bodyboarders, and squealing children, shocked by the Atlantic cold and the undertow. I walk along the water’s edge. Easier here where the sand’s wetter, harder. In the sand-sinking dunes, Duchy girls are stretched out in SPF 8, ignoring every cancer warning. Too young and too vain to take it seriously. I look for Emily and the Plastics. For Blair. But it’s too early. They’ll be sleeping off whatever excesses they enjoyed last night.

I reach the rocks at the foot of the Point. No one on the ledges now. Too many lifeguards to shout warnings. Dog walkers to report them, note down their license plates.

Only one more place to try. Her home. My old one. I turn on to the cliff path and start the long walk to the farm.

It smells different. That’s the first thing I notice. Not the power-washed stone, or the new tarmac of the car park, once our yard, with its chalked hopscotch and tricycles, a playground for me and the chickens. Not even the curtains in the windows of the old calving barn; people walking, sleeping, eating in a room that has seen pints of blood and shit over its floor, heard the bellows of birth, the first breath of the newborn, and the last of the runts. No, what hits me first is that the sweet, warm smell of cows, of life and death, has been built over, scrubbed away, taking generations of Polmears with it.