Wonderland (9 page)

Mrs. Hickman comes in at noon to do the afternoon shift. “You two not talking?” she huffs.

We are talking. But about nothing. About me spilling tea on the stack of
Daily Mail
s. About whether he should move the tinned peas up a shelf to make more room for olives and stuff for the tourists. The audition doesn’t come up. But I know he’s thinking about it. We both are.

At lunchtime I walk down to the beach, hoping I’ll see her there. Lying in the sun. Blondie on her iPod and a cigarette burning down to her fingers. “Hey, Jude,” she’ll say. Like nothing’s happened. But it has.

I stand on the dunes and scan the shore below me. The beach is busier now. Families from Birmingham, Manchester, Milton Keynes, with kids too young for school. Staying at the holiday park. Or the farm, maybe. Paying cheap prices before the season starts. Surfers with no jobs to go to. No ties. Living in their vans. Just driving from beach to beach, following the tides.

She’s not there. But Emily and the Plastics are. In white bikinis. Tiny triangles stretched over their breasts. Legs tanned to perfection. Brazilian waxes making sure nothing shows below the high-cut Lycra. Magazines fighting for towel space with cans of Diet Coke, sun cream, and cigarette packets. An iPod churns out tinny music. Blair is here, somewhere. Out on his board, probably. Emily’s head is on his sweatshirt. Staking her claim.

I am in a tank top. One of Stella’s. Pink. Tight across my chest. My jeans cut off to the tops of my thighs. Flip-flops that kick sprays of sand up my legs when I walk. Dawce sees me. Says something I can’t hear. Emily and the Hollys look up. Eyes hidden behind oversize glasses. I turn quickly to walk away, back to the village, home, but Emily calls my name.

I don’t move. It’s a trick. Got to be.

“Come here,” she shouts.

So I do. Slowly. Picking my way past beach tents and coolers, fat glossy paperbacks, and the colored plastic of buckets and spades and elaborate tennis sets. Then I’m there, in front of them. Not sure why.

“Hi,” I say. Like it’s a question.

Emily leans back, the sun turning her glasses into mirrors. I can see myself reflected in them. Hands in pockets, uneasy.

She pushes the glasses up. Her eyes are narrow. “So, what was Saturday about?”

Does she mean the drinking? I try to sound casual. “Just overdid it a bit.” I try a laugh but it sounds fake. She knows it.

“He’s not interested, you know.”

And I must look as dumb as I feel. Because she has to spell it out.

“Blair.”

I still don’t get it. “Interested in what?”

“God, are you stupid?” she snorts. “Anyone. Except me.”

“I know,” I say. And I mean it.

“So act it.”

“But . . .” I’m trying to think. Maybe I did something, said something when I was drunk. But it was Stella he was looking at, not me. Stella who was staring back at him. Wasn’t it?

“As if, anyway.” Emily pulls back the ring on a Diet Coke. It hisses, and caramel bubbles down the silver and red of the can. She licks it off.

“Is that it?” I wait to be dismissed. Like I’ve been bad. Told off.

“Mmm-hmm.”

The Plastics smile identical smiles at me. Alligator smiles. Not real.

I drop my head and walk away. Not sure where I’m going. Feel their eyes on my back. Hear the laughter, not even stifled. Then I see him. Blair. Wet suit slick with water. Board under his arm. He slows down. His mouth creases up. Like it did at Stella on the Point. “All right, Jude.”

I ignore him and keep walking, knowing that Emily is watching.

He laughs. “See you around.”

He watches me walk away. I feel his eyes on me. He wants something. That’s how people like him choose who to talk to. Sizing up what you can offer. What they can get out of you. Stella, probably. That’s what I am. His way to get her.

But I don’t know where she is. And I look up at the expanse of sky and pray that my fairy godmother is watching.

I’M IN
the bathroom, watching Alfie’s goldfish floating on its back, eyes glassed over. Dead. Again. Not this one, obviously. But the latest in a long line. All called Harry.

I scoop the fish out of the bowl. It lies stiff in my hand, mouth gaping. Not a real thing anymore. Just scales and fins, its beauty lost forever. I lower my head and breathe in. It smells of old water.

“Flush it.”

I swing around and she is standing there. Leaning against the door frame, chewing. Hands fiddling with a hair elastic, pulling it taut, then releasing it. Stella.

“Here.” She snaps the elastic and puts it in her pocket. Takes the fish and drops it into the toilet. Pulls the chain. It swirls around the bowl. A flash of orange against the white. Then it is gone.

I stare at her. Incredulous. Angry. “Where have you been?”

“You sound like your dad.”

I do. And I soften. Because she’s here now. That’s what matters.

“Just . . . I wish you wouldn’t do that. Appear out of nowhere.”

“Door was open,” she says. “You want to be more careful. Anyone could just wander in.” She is going through the medicine cabinet, looking for something. “Or maybe you want someone to come in?”

Whatever pill she is searching for, she doesn’t find it. She shuts the cabinet and sits on the edge of the bath.

“Like Blair Henderson, for instance.” She looks at me, waiting for a reaction.

“What?”

“He likes you. I heard Dawce telling Holly H.”

“That’s not true. It’s you he likes.”

Stella shrugs. “Whatever.”

So I drop it. Try another tack. “Anyway, what happened the other night? Where did you go?”

“Nothing and nowhere. You got wasted. Which was actually more boring than I thought it would be. So I went home. Just been at the farm since then. Modeling for Dad. I’m meant to be Ophelia. You know, beautiful, but mad.”

I smile. “Good casting.”

“So, does Tom know yet? About the audition, I mean. Not your colossal incapacity for cheap lager. I assume you threw it back up in here. No way that would get past him.”

“At Ed’s actually.” I grimace.

“Ed’s?”

“I slept at his house. . . . On the floor,” I add.

But she doesn’t ask for details. “So, does your dad know about the Lab?”

“Yeah.” I pull at my lip with my teeth. Sigh. “He’s not happy.”

She shrugs. “None of his business.”

“Well . . .” She’s right. But it doesn’t feel like it.

“He’ll come around. Once you’re earning top dollar in the West End. Or on TV.”

I laugh. Stella fingers the looped cotton of the mat hung over the side of the bath. Pulls a loop out. Then another. Smoker’s habit. Always fiddling. Mum did it.

She looks at me, head on one side. “I saw that guy down at the beach last night.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Drama bloke.”

“Mr. Hughes?”

“Hughsie. That’s him.”

I see his face in my head. The curl of hair over his collar. Then I see Stella’s smile, and I know what’s coming.

“Totally tried it on with me.”

“Bullshit.” But my voice is hesitant. Because I know it isn’t.

“Bull true,” she confirms. “Anyway, I let him.”

Suddenly I am there. On the beach. I hear the cries of the seagulls above the crashing of the waves. Smell the salt on the wind. See Stella reaching out for him, pulling him toward her. Feel his hand hot against her breast. See the desire and fear in his eyes. And the contempt in Stella’s as he backs away. Then it’s gone. I feel a wave of nausea wash over me. Like it is my shame. My sin.

“Why did you do that?” My voice is slow, stilted.

“Why do you think?” She smiles.

And I realize I know. Have known all along. “Because you can.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

The back door slams. Alfie, back from school.

“That’s my cue.” Stella stands up.

“Where are you going?” I’m Dad again. Checking up on her. Scared of losing her.

“Just out. Got to see a man about a dog.”

“What dog?”

She tuts. “It means stop asking questions.”

“Sorry,” I murmur. “Come around tomorrow, yeah?”

“Maybe,” she says.

I feel the blood drain from my head, and dizziness engulfs me. I clutch at the sink to steady myself. Catch my reflection in the mirror. Pale. Terrified.

Stella sees it and laughs. “God. OK. What are you worried about? I’m not going to run off, if that’s what you think.”

“I don’t,” I lie.

“You don’t get it, do you?” She stands behind me. Puts her arms around me. I meet her eyes in the glass. Her easy smile gone now. “We need each other,” she says. “We’re soul mates. Like that Greek philosophy thing — with the two halves of the egg waiting to meet each other.”

“Aristotle,” I say.

“Whatever. We’re Bonnie and Clyde.” She smiles again.

“Laurel and Hardy?” I try.

“Morecambe and Wise.”

“Fred and Ginger.” We’re both laughing now. Stella’s face next to mine. Her hair falling down over my chest.

“I’ll always come back,” she says.

And I see the way she looks at me, feel the way she is holding me. And this time, I believe her.

“Where’s Harry?” Alfie is in the kitchen. Empty fishbowl in his hands, water slopping out over the floor.

Dad is sliding something frozen out of a packet onto a baking tray. He looks up and sees the bowl. Then looks at me. Realizes what I have done. What Stella has done. But I don’t care. I’m tired of pretending. He’s not five years old anymore. And it’s not like she killed it. They die. Everything dies eventually.

Alfie asks again. “Dad?”

But I answer. “He’s gone,” I say.

Alfie looks at me. Then back at Dad. Expectantly. Waiting for him to deny it. But he doesn’t.

“Alfie . . .”

“Where is he?” Alfie demands.

“I flushed him,” I say. “He was already dead. I said a prayer and everything,” I lie.

Alfie drops the bowl. The glass smashes on the hard tiles and I feel water and colored gravel splash across my bare feet.

“Oh, Alfie . . . Don’t move.” Dad grabs the mop.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

But Alfie is crying. And then Dad is hugging him. Telling him it’ll be all right. That Harry was just old. That he can choose another fish tomorrow.

I kneel down in the dirty water and pick up the pieces of glass, all the time thinking,
It’s only a bloody goldfish.
But not saying it. Because no one ever does around here.

That night I’m woken by the sound of something falling on the kitchen floor, rolling along the ridged surface. Then footsteps, heavy, the knock and scrape of a chair. I squint at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock, my eyelids aching with sleep and the heat. It’s past one. I hear a clink. The sound of glass against glass. I sit bolt upright. Stella. It can only be her. What is she doing? What if Dad catches her?

Sweat sticks my feet to the painted boards of the landing. Dad’s bedroom door is shut. “Don’t wake up,” I beg. “Please don’t wake up.”

I hear a thud. Then something else. Something slammed hard on the table. Oh, Stella, Stella.

But it’s not her. It’s him. Dad. He’s sitting at the table, his head resting on his hands. Bottle of shop whiskey open. An inch of it in the glass in front of him. I realize he’s drunk, and I want to go back. To hide. Don’t want to see him like this. But it’s too late. He raises his head and looks straight at me, in my T-shirt and knickers, framed by the door.

“Jude.” It’s a strangled sound, a sort of sob. “Oh, Jude, I’m sorry,” he says. “I —”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, trying to shut him up. I want to get out, before he says anything else, but he won’t let me.

“It does.” He shakes his head.

I should go to him,
I think. Sit with him. Let him say all that stuff. Tell him it’s not his fault. Any of it. That I’m sorry. That I miss her too. But something about the way he is makes me shrink back. His face is contorted. By drink. Or sorrow. He’s not real. Not him. I stay in the doorway, my arms wrapped tight around myself for protection.

“You can go,” he says. “To London. I won’t stop you.”

I nod.

“Just promise me you’ll —” He sobs again, stifling it with the back of his hand. “Just be careful, Jude.”

“I will,” I whisper.

His hands are over his mouth, elbows on the table. He’s staring at me. But it’s like he’s seeing someone else.

“You look —”

Say it,
I think.
Just say it.

But he can’t. And in that second I feel nothing but pity and hatred for the pathetic wreck sitting in front of me. This shell of a man who can only speak when he’s drunk. Who has made me the shadow that I am.

“Go to bed, Dad.” I spit the words out, hard with contempt.

He nods. But his hand falls to clutch the glass again.

I lie in bed, the heat enveloping me, taking me with it. “You should be happy,” Stella says. The Stella in my head.“You’ve gotten what you wanted.”

But I haven’t. Not at all.