Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Prologue: Alex
Chapter One: Holly
Chapter Two: Alex
Chapter Three: Holly
Chapter Four: Alex
Chapter Five: Holly
Chapter Six: Alex
Chapter Seven: Holly
Chapter Eight: Alex
Chapter Nine: Alex
Chapter Ten: Holly
Chapter Eleven: Alex
Chapter Twelve: Holly
Chapter Thirteen: Alex
Chapter Fourteen: Holly
Chapter Fifteen: Holly
Chapter Sixteen: Alex
Chapter Seventeen: Holly
Chapter Eighteen: Alex
Chapter Nineteen: Holly
Chapter Twenty: Alex
Chapter Twenty-one: Holly
Chapter Twenty-two: Alex
Chapter Twenty-three: Holly
Chapter Twenty-four: Alex
Chapter Twenty-five: Holly
Chapter Twenty-six: Alex
Chapter Twenty-seven: Holly
Chapter Twenty-eight: Alex
Chapter Twenty-nine: Alex
Chapter Thirty: Holly
Chapter Thirty-one: Alex
Chapter Thirty-two: Holly
Chapter Thirty-three: Alex
Chapter Thirty-four: Holly
Chapter Thirty-five: Alex
Chapter Thirty-six: Holly
Chapter Thirty-seven: Alex
Chapter Thirty-eight: Holly
Chapter Thirty-nine: Alex
Acknowledgements
Meet Laura and Jimmy
Read on for an extract from The Night That Changed Everything
About the Authors
Copyright
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
www.penguin.co.uk
Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies
whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Corgi Books
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Laura Tait and Jimmy Rice 2014
Extract from The Night That Changed Everything © Laura Tait and Jimmy Rice 2016
Laura Tait and Jimmy Rice have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473508194
ISBN 9780552170710
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
‘They say you should never go back but everyone does. Everything comes back for a second go. Look at flares. And Wispa Gold. And Take bloody That.’
I lie flat, my back pressed against the grass, not caring if any midges bite me as the embers of the day’s sun warm my face and arms. By my side is Holly, who is sitting cross-legged, sowing a daisy chain with her hands.
‘What are you on about, Al?’
‘Me and you. It’s like we’ve come back for a second go. Reformed.’
Holly remains focused on her project, but I can see in my peripheral vision that she is suppressing a smile. ‘Flares might have come back into fashion in Mothston, Alex, but nowhere else.’
‘I’m being serious,’ I persist. The origins of my theory are in the can of cider resting on the grass beside my right knee, but it still feels profound somehow.
‘You’re saying me and you are like Take That?’
‘Yes, like Take That, but without all the money and screaming fans.’
Finally Holly looks at me, smiling. ‘You’d be Gary Barlow. All straight-laced and sensible. And better looking with age.’
‘You’d be Robbie.’
‘The one that used to be fat?’
‘No.’ I laugh. ‘The rebellious one that ran off the first time round.’
Holly resumes her chain, but with a more thoughtful expression than before, as though her heart isn’t really in it any more.
‘It’s true, though,’ I add. ‘This is like our reunion tour.’
‘Al?’
‘Yep?’
‘Pass me another cider, would you?’
I shake my head and reach into the plastic bag with the cider in it, throwing a can into her waiting hands. I smile to myself, happy to be here, Holly and Alex, and I try to ignore the fact that the sun is starting to disappear. I’ve waited for this moment so long, and I do not want today to end.
When I wake up the next morning, I feel different.
Admittedly not the kind of different I was prepared for. Not the happy/spring-in-my-step/seeing-the-world-through-new-eyes type different.
But I know what I need to do.
Thinking about anything from last night makes the painful knot in my tummy tighten – even the earlier bits when I was having fun. Downing pints of Turbo Shandies (50 per cent lager, 50 per cent Smirnoff Ice, 100 per cent NEVER AGAIN) and grinding to DJ Luck & MC Neat around the garden with Ellie. It was pretty warm by September’s standards – it was gone midnight by the time the party moved into her house.
My call to Alex came a good few hours after that. I can’t believe I decided a drunken call in the middle of the night was the perfect time to tell him how I feel. That I want to be more than friends. That I’ve wanted it for ages. Thank God he never answered. Not because I’ve changed my mind about wanting him to know. I just think it’s sort of important that I’m not out of my tree when I say it.
I pull off my T-shirt and avoid looking in the mirror as I grab my bathrobe and sprint to the bathroom. I had a burning-hot shower when I got home last night and I have another now, enjoying the sting and the reddish tone my skin is turning, then force myself out, dressing in boot-cut jeans and a navy vest top – Alex always says navy is my colour – before bounding downstairs into the living room.
‘Mum, can you give me a lift to Alex’s?’
‘Sure, Hols. Diagnosis Murder is nearly finished.’ Her eyes flick from the telly to me and back again. ‘I have a theory. You see that man? Everyone thinks he’s killed his wife but I think she’s faked her own—’
I can’t take this right now. Whether a random fictional character killed his wife is the very least of my problems. Thank God she was in bed when I got home last night. I can pull it together today, but I’d have to be the best actress in the world to have pulled the wool over her eyes last night.
‘It’s all right – I’ll walk.’ Least it will give me a chance to work out what I’m going to say.
Shall I just come out with it? Or should I start with an explanation? Tell him about the worst night of my life – how even thinking about what happened makes my eyes screw up, my skin crawl and my brain hurt – and that the only person I wanted to see at the end of it was him. That he’s my best friend and that while I’ve always known how much I cared about him, these past couple of years I’ve more than cared about him.
I’ve never admitted this to myself until now. I am completely in love with Alex Tyler. LOVE. My best mate, who always puts everyone before himself – his dad, his mates, me – even though he’s had a tougher time than anyone over the last couple of years. I love that I can talk to him about anything, and that he tells me what he really thinks instead of what he thinks I want to hear. I love that he still always offers to carry my bag, no matter how many times I tell him I’m perfectly capable of carrying it myself. I love that he wears woolly jumpers – and not even ironically. Could I grow to love his geeky hair? Sure. I can always send him to a proper hairdresser if not. I love how when I make us a sandwich he follows me around cleaning up the mess with a Dettol wipe. I love how he knows so much about stars and music and books – stuff that other boys don’t put any thought into. I love how he alphabetizes his CDs. I love how he alphabetized my CDs – although I laughed at the time. Did I even say thank you? I’ll mention it today after I’ve told him I literally love him to bits. (I even love that he tells me off for my misuse of the word ‘literally’.)
What will he say when I tell him? Say it back? Knowing him, he’ll want to talk about it first. Over-analyse it Alex-style to make sure it’s definitely what I want.
Or maybe he’ll look horrified, and awkwardly tell me that he could only ever see me as a mate – a sister, even – and that he’s flattered, thanks, but NO, it’s never gonna happen. I remember the first day of sixth form, not long after his mum had died. We were talking on the way to school and somehow got on to the subject of his mum and dad and, because he looked so sad, I went to hug him, but the look on his face . . . You’d think a rabid dog had leant in for a cuddle.
The memory still stings, but not enough to make me turn around, go back upstairs and climb into bed. I need to know either way, and it might be the last chance I get.
OK, the timing is not the best, with me about to start uni in London and him staying up in Yorkshire. Not that I’d have based my choice of uni around him – I’m not THAT girl. It is a bit frustrating to think we’ve been living a few streets away from one another for the past seven years. Why didn’t I pluck up the courage to tell him? I should have listened to my mum all those times she joked about us getting married. Everyone else did too but I always told them to shut up – that we were just mates. I guess for ages it was because I thought that was true. And then later because I was terrified that if I didn’t protest enough, everyone would know how I really feel, and make fun of me.
I don’t care what anyone thinks now. And if Alex wants to, we can make the long-distance thing work. I’ll be back in all the holidays, and we can chat on the phone – we chat for ages on the phone now anyway. And we can send loads of love letters – it’ll be well romantic. And when I go off travelling Alex can come with me. I read something about Brits teaching English abroad – he wants to be a teacher anyway.
It’s bloody freezing – I guess that’s summer officially over, then – so I walk quickly and distract myself with daydreams of weekend reunions. I’m stepping off the train and running straight into his arms, and he lifts me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. And even though in my fantasy it’s an old-fashioned steam train I’m getting off, it won’t be any less romantic when I step off the Midland Mainline and drag my wheelie case towards him before the jumping-into-his-arms bit.
‘Oh hello, Holly.’ Alex’s dad moves aside to let me in. ‘No coat? It’s getting chilly out there. Want a cuppa?’
Usually I’m all for a natter with Alex’s dad – I think he’s pretty lonely these days – but I tell him no and try not to notice his disappointment.
‘Son! Holly’s here,’ he shouts up the stairs. ‘Go on up, love.’
Alex clearly didn’t hear – he’s in the shower singing something about being a creep and a weirdo to a tune I vaguely recognize from his car, so I sit on his bed and wait.
Alex’s room is as familiar as my own. The big Che Guevara poster over his bed. His college books in precise piles on his desk. Crease-free pyjamas where they always are – folded neatly on his pillow.
I can’t believe there was a time I used to think it was stuffy. A bit boring, if I’m honest. But after his mum died, I used to come around and try to cheer him up and we’d talk late into the night, until I’d fall asleep, fully clothed on top of the covers, and I started to see his room differently. It’s warm. And safe. A cocoon from the outside world. Like bad things can’t get you in here.
‘Uh, hi,’ Alex says. He’s at the door with a towel around his waist, and I feel myself blush. Droplets of water are glistening on his recently filled-out chest and dripping down to his slim waist, and when I try to say hello my throat is dry and my voice croaky. Get a grip, Holly. You’ve seen Alex without a top on before. With wet hair and eyelashes, and smelling all soapy.
I’ve never wanted to hug someone so much in my life.
‘What can I do for you, babe?’
BABE?!
I ignore his random greeting and reach out to take his hand. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘About last night, right? How was it?’
Is it my imagination or is there something a bit sarcastic to his tone? I try to catch his eye but he drops my hand and looks around his room like he’s trying to find something, which is weird because his room is spotless and everything is always in its place. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans to cover up my embarrassment.
‘Actually, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I tried to call you last night. I—’
‘Oh yeah – sorry, I didn’t answer the phone.’ He grins as he rolls deodorant under his arms. ‘I had a date and let’s just say I was otherwise engaged. If you know what I mean.’
In case there’s any doubt about what he means, he gives me an elaborate wink.
What the hell is going on? This is totally un-Alex-like behaviour. The Alex I know is kind, thoughtful, sweet . . . and, more to the point, who the hell was he on a DATE with?
‘Who were you on a date with?’
‘No one you know. Her name’s Jane. She’s well fit. Big boobs. Good kisser.’
Right, something weird is going down. That’s the kind of shit Kev comes out with. And when he does, Alex covers his face with his hands and shakes his head.
There have been loads of times I’ve tried to picture what it would be like telling Alex how I feel, but I never pictured myself being this nervous. I can ask a guy out. I don’t need to do that lame, pathetic, girly thing of waiting to be asked. And he can’t have strong feelings for this Jane girl – they must have only just met. It can’t be anything compared to what we’ve got. Can it?
‘So, are you planning on seeing her again?’ Say no, say no, say no.
‘Yep, hoping to see her tonight, as it happens. Hence the shower.’
He winks again and my heart stops, through jealousy or embarrassment I don’t know. Is this all a COLOSSAL error? All this time thinking that I love Alex when I’m actually in love with some fictitious version of Alex I keep in my head, and I don’t actually know him at all? Like a few years ago when, after years of fancying Mr Abel, the French teacher, and an entire summer holiday daydreaming that I was a twenty-five-year-old meeting him in a coffee shop in Paris where we fall in love over a croissant, and kiss under the Eiffel Tower, I walked into his first lesson in September both excited and nervous to see him. As soon as he walked in, with his freshly grown moustache and his conjugating French verbs chat, I thought: Quelle the hell was I thinking?
Maybe this pain isn’t my heart breaking. Maybe it’s just painful disappointment that Alex is like other boys after all – acting as though they really like you just to get what they want, motivated by their willies.
But I wouldn’t care this much if my feelings weren’t real. And I can’t have got him all wrong this entire time, surely? I attempt eye contact again.
‘What are you staring at?’ he says, laughing, and I feel my cheeks burn. I don’t even have time to style it out before he continues . . . ‘What is it you were going to tell me, babe?’
OK, where did this ‘babe’ crap come from? I’ve never heard him call anyone babe in his life – he sounds weird saying it. Am I that generic?
It’s me! Holly! I want to remind him. But I can’t. I can’t say any of the things I really want to say, because this isn’t how this was supposed to go.
Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and give him a resigned smile. ‘I just came to say goodbye. I’ll be tied up with packing over the next few days, and then Dad’s going to drive me down to London. Then who knows when we’ll see each other next?’
I study his face, waiting for a reaction, but it’s expressionless. Still, when he opens his mouth to say something I allow myself a moment’s hope that it’s to ask me what I’m talking about – that of course he’ll see me in the next couple of days, even if it means he has to come and help me pack. And obviously we’ll visit each other loads. And then he’ll pull me towards him for a hug and . . .
‘Who knows?’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe Mothston Grammar will have a ten-year reunion. You’ll be back from your travels by then, married to some Australian hunk and with a load of kids.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ I laugh softly. ‘Although you’ll be headmaster someplace else and too busy with your own school to come back to ours.’
‘Maybe.’
I take his hand in mine and we stare at each other for about seven seconds, before he pulls away and pushes his wet hair back off his face. Then he starts tugging at a stray thread on his towel, looking as awkward as I feel, so I mumble one last goodbye and leave, shutting the door behind me.
It’s not until I’m walking down the stairs and out of the front door that the tears start falling. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see Alex Tyler again, but one thing I do know is that I can’t wait to get as far away from Mothston as possible.
ONOMATOPOEIA.
I turn and ask my year sevens what the word on the board means. Eight hands shoot up. The usual suspects.
‘Yes, Isabella?’
‘Onomatopoeia is a word that sounds like the thing it describes,’ she volunteers, as if reading from a textbook. ‘Like bang or slap.’
‘Good,’ I say dutifully. ‘Now, can anyone think of any other examples of onomatopoeic words?’
This time I avoid eager stares and instead seek eye contact with the less forthcoming kids.
‘Jack?’ I say hopefully.
Jack Couchman is the nearest we’ve got to a tearaway at Mothston Grammar, though refusing to tuck in his shirt and the odd bit of backchat is as bad as he gets. Over the last few years I’ve often found myself wishing the kids here had more zeal for rebellion. I long to catch one of my year nines smoking pot along the dead-end path behind the technology block, or to discover some minor vandalism in one of the IT suites. Not that I did any of those things when I was a pupil here, stationed at the desk now occupied by Isabella Smart.
‘How about vulva, sir?’ says Jack, see-sawing a Biro between two fingers. The minority who rarely put up their hands snort their approval, and I let Jack bask. He’s no trouble if you cut him a bit of slack occasionally. Plus, my heart isn’t really in rudimentary linguistics this afternoon. I’m nervous about tonight.
‘Why are we doing this, sir?’ queries Jack, when the snorting subsides. ‘Like, why do we have to know about onomatowhateveritis?’
I peer out of the window for inspiration, but it’s one of those days that even the weatherman would struggle to describe: neither wet nor sunny, cold nor particularly pleasant for the time of year. I’ve lost count of the times over the last six years I’ve been asked why we’re doing something, and yet I still cannot summon a more satisfactory answer than ‘To pass your exam’. Which, granted, is all most of the pupils at Mothston Grammar ever have to worry about, but still.
When I used to dream about being a teacher I’d picture myself as one of those inspirational types you get in movies – Coach Carter meets John Keating from Dead Poets Society. But somehow I can’t imagine Samuel L. Jackson or Robin Williams getting embroiled in a discussion about onomatopoeia. Or vulvas, for that matter.
Five hours after the final bell of the week I amble into Mothston railway station, where the shutters are down at a greasy spoon once owned by my mum’s friend, Sue. Sue had a nervous disposition, which made carrying a cup and saucer a noisy affair, and she eventually sold the cafe following a breakdown. She took up hairdressing, and Mum would invite her into our kitchen to practise on yours truly, as if I needed any assistance repelling women.
I pass the cafe, inspect the electronic screen to see when the next York train is due and settle by the ticket dispenser. That’s where we arranged to meet. I catch myself nervously patting my hips with my fingers, and so I pocket my hands while I glance up at the glass ceiling and see that it’s plastered with pigeon droppings. Constellations appear before my eyes, and I wonder how I’ve never noticed this faecal universe before. I’m just thinking that it’s kind of like gazing at the stars when a shadow darkens my view.
It’s her. Fiona. My first internet date. Dressed in tight jeans, a belted overcoat and a spirit-level fringe that makes her look like the kind of woman who has something interesting to say.
I know how it sounds: online dating. The only reason I signed up last month was because I began to wonder how I’d ever find a girlfriend in a town where every eligible woman knows my life story, including how as a teenager I once got an erection during RE. I didn’t get an erection during RE – my new cords had scrunched up at the crotch. But as soon as Dean Jones shouted ‘Alex Tyler’s got a boner’ I’d had it.
So here I am, holding the door for Fiona as we enter The White Horse.
‘You look really nice,’ I tell her, but she doesn’t acknowledge the compliment.
I chose The White Horse because it’s one of those quaint little pubs with trinkets hanging from beams and, importantly, lots of quiet corners where you can get to know someone without being gawped at by the locals.
‘Alex!’ heckles a middle-aged voice when we approach the bar, a voice I immediately attribute to my dad’s pal Rod. He places his tankard on the bar, examines Fiona, and offers me an approving wink that’s about as subtle as David Bowie’s trousers in Labyrinth.
Mortified, I pay for a bottle of red wine and apologize to Fiona as we settle at a table in the empty back room.
There are two types of town in this part of the north: towns that are famous for something (cakes, a TV show or a strong support for the BNP) and towns that aren’t. Mothston is the latter, and the only reason people live here is because they’ve always lived here. Like me and Rod.
I wasn’t one of those who couldn’t wait to get away while growing up, but I never intended to stay so long either. Mum died just before sixth form and, when it came to choosing universities, I didn’t feel I could abandon Dad.
‘You’ll be reading about me in here soon,’ he told me when I mentioned I was considering Exeter. He was scouring the obituary section of the local paper at the time. When I queried whether you could get the Herald in Exeter he retired to his room with a bottle of Diazepam, and I ended up commuting to York instead.
Four years later I graduated and although Dad was off the pills, I knew he couldn’t cope on his own. My dad who still refers to the internet as the Information Super Highway, my dad who adds an ‘s’ to the end of the word ‘cashback’. And so I applied for a job at Mothston Grammar.
I used to resent him, to blame him for the things I never did, but the older I got, the more I found myself able to imagine how it must have been for him, losing the person he loved most in the world. I’m not surprised he lost the plot.
I decide against sharing my life story with Fiona at this stage, and instead we sit and allow the first sips of wine to insulate our throats while four blokes wearing football jerseys jostle through the door. I recognize them as Leeds United colours; Dad used to own a season ticket.
‘You’re not into football, are you?’ tuts Fiona, the word ‘football’ infused with contempt, as if she was talking about Hitler or paedophilia or Piers Morgan.
‘Not really,’ I answer with a placatory smile. My Saturday afternoons were spent on the sofa reading Penguin classics and drinking hot chocolate with Mum.
‘Is it asking too much that you’re not?’
‘Nope.’
‘Why are men so obsessed with it?’
‘I’m not.’
‘My ex never shut up about Arsenal this and Arsenal that. In the end I said to him, “It’s me or bloody Arsene Wenger.”’
‘Which did he choose?’
‘Arsene Wenger.’
Fiona sits back, rubbing the length of her arms as if she is cold and, before we know it, we’re in the midst of our first awkward silence. It’s like a black hole – the further we go into it, the harder it is to escape.
‘So you enjoy teaching, do you?’ she offers, and I take a sip of wine before answering.
Some teachers enter the classroom because they graduate and can’t think of anything else to do. And that’s fine. Some of the best teachers I know did that. But I’m one of the others, one of the naïve sods who believed he could make a difference.
Fiona directs two fingers towards her tonsils when I explain this, and I’m aware of how clichéd it sounds, but that’s how you think at twenty-two.
‘All right,’ I say, to catapult us from another cosmological vacuum. ‘You mention on your profile that you love reading. What book would you take to a desert island?’
‘How to Make Friends and Influence People,’ she blurts without pausing for thought, and I try not to appear taken aback.
‘Why would you need that on a—’
‘You should definitely read that if you want to make a difference at school.’ Fiona swallows the remainder of her wine. ‘Or do what I did: set up a printing business. A hundred and twenty grand – that was my turnover last year.’
I was hopeful about tonight. The website said we were compatible and our messages were frequent and long. But so far our date has felt like a nesting bird, desperately flapping its wings as it tries to take off for the first time.
Each of us dispatches a mute smile across the table and I suggest going for food, to help us relax. First she wants a cigarette, which she smokes as if recalling some hardship from her past: exhaling sideways through thin lips, eyes defiant as they stare blankly through the windows of the vacant shop that used to be Woolworths. I fill the hush by asking if she has a ‘type’, and discover that her ideal man is six feet two (I’m six feet one), has short dark hair (dark but hanging over my ears), toned (nope), successful (still live with my dad) and gets on with her friends (not sure I’m ever going to meet them).
I listen patiently as she relays her list of boxes to be ticked. Personally I just want someone I find attractive, someone who wants to do something with her life, and someone who gets my sense of humour. Is that asking too much?
Fiona extinguishes her cigarette with a twist of her foot while the metallic sound of smashing glass signals trouble nearby.
‘The working classes, eh?’ I joke.
‘I’m working class,’ says Fiona, misinterpreting my tone completely and glugging any remaining hope I had that this could be the start of something.
I allow a mischievous notion to expand in my mind, a notion where I quicken my stride before accelerating into a sprint. I run without looking back, the cool air of late January countered by the warmth of the exhilaration I feel at having made my escape.
I’ve almost reached home when a waiter hands me a laminated menu. And that’s when Fiona and I cross the event horizon of our final black hole – the point from which there is no return.
‘When are you going to learn that no one goes on dates any more?’ mocks Kev, as I approach the end of my story.
‘There’s more,’ I say, with a jaded smile. I recall how, once we arrived at the restaurant, Fiona declared that she was a vegetarian.
Kev places his pint on the tatty maple surface and coughs into the palm of his right hand. ‘So?’
‘So, when I ordered steak she told me I had to get something else.’
‘Er, she told you?’
‘Yep, and she suggested the spinach lasagne.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I changed my order.’ I wait for his mouth to open in contempt. ‘I got a mixed grill instead.’
I don’t accept his high-five, and not because I object to high-fiving (though I swear he once punished me with a dead arm for attempting one at school). It’s the germs he’s just deposited into his palm. And the fact I don’t much feel like celebrating.
‘Who paid for the meal?’ he asks.
‘I did.’
‘And that came to what? Fifty quid?’
‘Just over.’
‘That’s you personified, that is. Always a mug where women are concerned.’
‘How can a person be per . . .’ I give up. An ex-girlfriend taught me that you need to be at least fifty to get away with correcting people’s English outside of the classroom. It’s almost enough to make me excited about middle age.
‘Anyway, what do you mean people don’t go on dates any more? How else do you find a girlfriend?’
‘Er, you fuck, Alex. You fuck and then you fuck again. And if it’s still fun after the fifth time, she’s your girlfriend.’
‘Sounds like a fuck buddy to me.’
‘Have you ever had a fuck buddy, Alex?’
‘Nope, and neither have—’
‘Well then, shut the fuck up about fuck buddies.’
Why do I still humour Kev? Why do I still come to The Lion every Saturday afternoon? Probably because there’s bugger all else to do in Mothston. There were three of us once, but Rothers entered social retirement when he got engaged.
The outlook was brighter for Kev a few years ago, when his skinhead was voluntary and his belly wasn’t something you could rest a pint on. As for me? I still sleep in the same bedroom where I used to hang posters of the periodic table. I guess I’ve been waiting for someone to share a mortgage with, and now, in the dregs of my twenties, I’m stuck in a catch-22: no girlfriend, no chance of affording a house; no house, less chance of finding a girlfriend.
Kev clenches his empty glass and shakes it near my face, and when I return with drinks my dad has appeared from somewhere, positioned next to Kev, restlessness disturbing his posture. He asks how my date went, even though I never mentioned it to him. Kev shrugs as if to say, Don’t look at me.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, but instead of answering he scratches his palm, eyes alternating between me and his hand. Eventually he takes a lungful of musty air, holds it for a second and in the act of exhalation announces that he is selling the house.
‘What do you mean, you’re selling the house?’ I chortle.
‘I’ve bought a boat.’
‘You’ve bought a boat?’ Now I’m laughing. This is obviously some kind of ruse orchestrated by the two of them. I expect a TV crew will reveal themselves in a second.
‘A canal boat.’
‘I can’t live on a canal boat.’
Kev reclines and crosses his arms, relishing the drama that’s unfolding.
‘It’ll take me a few months to sell the house so it’s not as if you’re going to be on the streets.’
I stare at him, incredulous.
‘What on earth are you talking about? Since when have you wanted to live on a canal boat?’
‘Me and your mother used to talk about it a lot. I’ve been waiting for you to leave home but, well . . .’
‘You’ve been waiting for me to leave home?’
Dad offers a smile that I interpret as forgiving, as if he holds no malice towards me for stalling his dream for all these years.
A thousand words of indignation bottleneck in my throat. Nobody says a word for a minute or two until Kev slaps both hands on the table.
‘I’ve got it,’ he says, turning to me excitedly. ‘The answer to all our problems. You should move in to my place. It’s not as if my parents are ever moving back from sunny Spain. We can split the rent, turn it into a proper bachelor pad. What do you say, cockermouth?’
‘Hello, you massive, sad, old cat lady.’
As far as ‘Happy birthdays’ go, it’s not THE friendliest I’ve ever had. It’s Jemma saying it, though, and if I took offence at every offensive thing she said I’d constantly look like the dude on the bridge in The Scream painting.
‘Just one more year until the big three-o, eh? I’d hate to be you,’ she continues in her broad Glaswegian tones, shrugging out of her denim jacket. ‘What are you doing here anyway? We don’t start work for another forty-five minutes.’
‘I’m always here at this time. You’re just never here to see it. More to the point, what are you doing here? As in, EARLY.’
‘I came in to decorate your desk with balloons, and those little Happy Birthday things that you’ll still be finding in every orifice for weeks to come.’
‘Bless you,’ I say, though I’m cringing on the inside.
‘Don’t bless me – I left the decorations on the tube by accident.’
‘Never mind – it’s the thought that counts.’
As much as I love her, thank God Jemma doesn’t get here this time every day. I love the first hour before everyone else arrives – I can power through my work with no distractions. Melissa is usually here early too but she’s not one for idle chit-chat.
‘Can’t believe my boss is in a breakfast meeting the one morning I’m in early.’ Jemma pouts in the direction of Martin Cooper’s door. ‘I could have done with the Brownie points – I swear he thinks I’m a crap PA.’
She is a crap PA, but I let it slide.
‘I’ll just email him instead so he knows I was here.’ She starts tapping at her keyboard. ‘What about your guy – is he in yet?’
As if on cue, Richard Croft walks out of his office.
‘Morning, ladies. You look nice, Jemma – have you done something different with your hair?’
‘Actually, I’m trying a new shampoo and conditioner,’ she gushes, whipping her highlighted locks over her shoulder. ‘How lovely of you to notice.’
‘No problem. Holly, do you want to come in for a catch-up?’
Richard is nearly back at his door when Jemma calls out: ‘It’s Holly’s birthday, by the way. If you want to give her a wee birthday kiss or something.’
‘Oh, yes. Er, happy birthday, Holly.’ Richard pauses for a split second then strides back to my desk and gives me history’s quickest peck on the cheek, before heading off again.
‘Um, thanks,’ I mumble to his disappearing back.
‘Hols, you’re blushing,’ Jemma giggles, as soon as he’s gone. ‘Man, I’m so pretending it’s my birthday tomorrow and getting a kiss from Richard Croft.’
‘I hope you choke on your croissant,’ I tell her fondly, and follow Richard in.
‘Well, that was awkward,’ he says as I shut the door.
‘God, I know – I’m sorry about Jemma. Also, lamest birthday kiss ever. Can I have my real one now, please?’
Richard stands up, laughing as he grabs me by the waist with one hand, and places the other on the back of my head. He starts with small, soft grazes at the sides of my mouth. His lips get fuller and firmer when they reach mine, and that’s pretty much the point of no return – we’re shooting up the Richter scale of passionate abandon.
I suddenly realize the kiss is over but I’m still standing here with my eyes shut, not saying anything. I’ve come over all unnecessary. I’d better say something, lest he thinks I’m dead.
‘Thanks again for my present – I love it,’ I tell him, resting my palms on his firm chest. He took me out for dinner last night and gave me a soft-leather, black Mulberry tote bag. It’s the most expensive bag I have ever owned. By a mile. Even if all my previous bags got together and ganged up on it, they still couldn’t take it in a fight. Part of me thinks I should keep it in my wardrobe in the drawstring bag it came in so it never gets ruined, such is its beauty, but I don’t want Richard to think I don’t like it.
‘You’re welcome, sweetheart. Anyway, I’m going to a client pitch meeting with Martin this afternoon so I just wanted to say happy birthday while I had the chance.’
‘Thanks. You should have woken me this morning, though – I would have come in with you.’
‘But you looked so beautiful sleeping there – I didn’t want to wake you.’ He tucks my hair behind my ear and kisses me on the forehead. ‘Besides, I checked with your boss and he agreed you deserved a lie-in on your birthday. You’ve been working so hard – we wouldn’t have a hope in hell with this pitch if it wasn’t for you. This place would fall apart without you, you know. I was telling Martin as much yesterday.’
I wave a dismissive hand and smile bashfully.
‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘I want him to keep you on his radar. Don’t let him pigeon-hole you as a PA.’
Straightening his blue silk Hugo Boss tie, he sits back down at his desk.
‘You sure you can’t make it tonight?’ I ask casually, straightening my navy wrap dress.
‘Babe, I really wish I could. But I couldn’t say no yesterday when Martin asked me to work late with him – it’s not like I can explain why. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s only that Leah, Rob and Susie are dying to meet you – and Susie’s bringing her new man to meet us too.’ I don’t add that I’m not looking forward to playing gooseberry on my own birthday.
‘I know. I’m gutted I won’t be there.’
‘Really, it doesn’t matter. There’ll be other chances.’
Nine months into our relationship and he still hasn’t met my two best friends. At least they know about us, though. No one else does. That’s the problem with keeping our relationship on the down-low. Still, I suppose the down-low is better than telling everyone and becoming one big clichéd boss-shagging PA in their eyes.
It’s not like that at all. It’s not like he’s married and it’s not AN AFFAIR – we were both single when we got together.
He’s not OLD or LETCHY. He’s thirty-five, in good shape and only touches me inappropriately when it’s appropriate.
I am not trying to SLEEP MY WAY TO THE TOP. Even though Richard is always encouraging me to push myself within the company, I like being his PA – we’re a good team. The only reason we agreed to keep it a secret when we got together was because we didn’t want people misreading the situation in any way. And all the sneaking around has been kind of hot.
So, if you think about it, it actually doesn’t have all the hallmarks of a big cliché at all. More all the hallmarks of a classic love story.
Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy falls for girl even though he shouldn’t, and together they overcome life’s hurdles to be with one another against the odds.
Just see if we don’t live happily ever after.
Everyone has made it to their desk now and I walk back in to a chorus of ‘Happy birthday, Holly’ and ‘Happy birthday, Hols’ and ‘High-five, wrinkly!’ (Danny) and ‘Guys, quieten down’ (Melissa). I grab my pad and start my To Do list.
I love a To Do list. Some people get their kicks from shoe shopping, or Krispy Kremes, or Facebook. I get mine from writing down the things I need to do, then crossing them out once they’re done. It’s been this way since university. Leah and Susie used to take the piss. They used to take it in turns to add things to my list when I wasn’t looking, like ‘Clean the toilet’ and ‘Make my flatmates’ tea’ and ‘Get a life’.
I call the restaurant to change tonight’s dinner reservation from six people to five, then satisfyingly run my pen through CALL RESTAURANT, just as Martin Cooper’s six-feet-five frame casts a shadow over my and Jemma’s desks.
‘Ahoy, sailors,’ he booms. ‘Jemma, can I touch base with you in my office?’
He disappears behind his wooden, name-plaqued door while Jemma locates a notepad amongst her piles of rubbish.
‘OK, I’m heading in,’ she says. ‘But if he even attempts to touch my base I’m calling HR.’
I’ve crossed another three things off my list by the time Jemma reappears and Danny rolls himself over on his swivel chair.
‘Alwight, Essex?’ mocks Jemma.
‘Hello, Scotland,’ he replies, badly attempting Jemma’s accent. ‘I have a question for you, ladies. Would you rather have a missing finger or an extra toe?’
‘Too easy,’ says Jemma. ‘Extra toe. Your foot is hidden most of the time and your hands are on show almost always.’
‘Plus, where are you going to find a four-fingered glove?’ I add, not looking up from my computer. ‘Socks, on the other hand, don’t compartmentalize your toes so it makes no difference.’
Danny nods, satisfied. ‘Fair enough. Good points, well made.’
We like Danny, despite the fact he finishes every third sentence with ‘y’know what I mean?’, even though nothing he says is remotely ambiguous.
‘OK,’ Jemma says. ‘Would you rather never be able to have an orgasm again or never give an orgasm again?’
‘Have,’ I say.
‘Give,’ says Danny at the same time.
‘Selfish,’ I say.
‘Liar,’ he says at the same time.
I’m not lying. Not that it’s something I need to worry about with Richard. He’ll keep trying until I get there, even if it takes all night. Sometimes it feels like it does. I used to be vocally averse to women who admit to faking orgasms but recently I’ve learnt that sometimes it’s just plain necessary. The truth is, I don’t always come. Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it. And Richard is the first bloke I’ve been with not to accept this, which is very sweet. Just a bit inconvenient at times.
Of course, to tell Danny all that would be spectacularly oversharing, and he’s wheeling himself back to his desk anyway, upon the simultaneous opening of Martin and Richard’s doors.
‘Time to swallow the frog,’ Martin explains, by way of a goodbye.
‘Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Holly,’ adds Richard, with a secret wink that gives me goose bumps. ‘Get off a bit early if you like.’
‘Thanks, Richard,’ I reply in a tone that I hope is polite and friendly enough to display an appropriate amount of respect for my boss, but doesn’t in any way imply that I’ve ever let him tie me to his bedpost with that blue Hugo Boss tie.
It’s a fine line.
‘Reason number ninety-four why your boss is better than mine,’ Jemma moans as she watches them leave.
‘Yeah – nice of him to let me go early.’
‘Sure, that too. I was talking about his arse.’
I crack on with my list until about 4 p.m. when I see a few people gather around my desk with fake subtlety. They’re clearly waiting for a cake to appear so they can sing ‘Happy Birthday’. I hate this. It’s so embarrassing. Do I acknowledge them, and look like I’m expecting a cake, or do I pretend I haven’t noticed? Finally they burst into song, and I can blow out the candles.
‘Sorry it’s not up to our usual standard,’ Jemma says as she slides a chocolate sponge next to my keyboard. ‘But it would have felt wrong to ask you to bake your own so we had to settle for a Tesco Metro number.’
I usually bake the cakes for colleagues’ birthdays. It was Danny’s twenty-third birthday just after I started at Hexagon Marketing and I learnt about the ridiculous tradition where people bring in cakes on their OWN birthday, so I offered to make his. And so I inadvertently became cake lady. Now people actually email me requests about what kind they want, then still act surprised when Jemma presents it to them.
‘Yum – that was a-mazing,’ states Melissa, dropping her napkin into the bin and wiping crumbs from her desk, looking about as amazed as one might look upon hearing the weatherman announce it might rain this winter. Jemma winces. I never noticed until Jemma pointed it out that Melissa only expresses emotion vocally, without it ever actually registering on her face.
‘More?’ Jemma asks, once I’ve polished off my slice.
‘No thanks, doll.’
She cuts herself a second fat chunk. ‘Which is why you’re a size ten and I’m not.’
That’s not true. It’s more to do with the thrice-weekly gym workouts. I never really exercised until I started university and it can’t be a coincidence that that’s when everything shrunk. Even my bum – gone are the days you could host a tea party on it. Anyway, the way Jemma talks you’d think she was a size twenty-two rather than a fourteen. She told me over lunch on my first day working here that her diet started tomorrow, and it’s been going to start tomorrow ever since.
‘Might as well treat myself today,’ she says, licking her fingers. ‘Diet starts tomorrow.’
When the last of the cake-eating stragglers have dispersed, I get back to work and manage to finish everything that’s urgent by 5 p.m. on the dot, at which point Jemma jumps up.
‘Right. Get your coat – you’ve pulled. You havnae really. I could do better. But do get your coat – we’re going to the pub.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Course you can – your boss said so and mine never has to know.’
‘I have to feed Harold.’ Because Richard was meant to be coming, I didn’t tell Jemma about my birthday dinner even though I’d have liked to. We’ve been good buddies ever since my second week here, when I gave her an emergency make-over for a last-minute date using the portable hair straighteners and make-up I keep in my drawer. That relationship didn’t last the week but mine and hers was cemented, and these days she regularly helps herself to my beautification resources.
‘You’re running off home to feed your retarded cat?’
‘Harold’s partially blind, Jem, not retarded.’
‘And depressed.’
‘Yes. And I think possibly bulimic.’
‘Then what’s the point of feeding him?’
‘HER.’ When Harold first started turning up at my back door I thought she was a boy and the name I gave her stuck. ‘Good point. But I still should – sorry, Jem.’
‘Fine,’ she mumbles, not unhuffily. Then she groans and I think she’s dragging it out a bit, until I realize who’s approaching my desk.
‘You off, Holly?’ Melissa says nicely. ‘God, I envy you girls, being able to leave early. Not that I blame you. I wish I didn’t have so many responsibilities and could escape at this time. Enjoy!’
Too dumbfounded to remind her I work late every single other night, I stare at her retreating back.
Jemma just makes V-signs at it.
I pop back and feed Harold – who is clearly pissed off that I’m going out again – before heading round the corner to meet my mates in Blackheath Village.
I spot them when cheers erupt as soon as I walk into the tiny Italian trattoria. There’s a six-seater table in the corner – the girls on one side and the boys on the other. I drop my new handbag onto the seat opposite mine and kiss them all hello.
Mr Henderson reaches across his desk to receive the envelope from my hand. He tears the seal with his index finger and reads, his expression not changing. Once finished, he arches his weight back into his chair.
‘London, eh?’ he says blithely.
I remember my first morning as a Mothston Grammar teacher – a former pupil like Mr Henderson. ‘Look how far you’ve come,’ he pronounced without irony. Now I’m informing him I won’t be returning after spring break, and he seems ambivalent. It’s a pin to my ego.
Looking back now over the last few weeks and months, it wasn’t Dad announcing he was selling the house that finally drove me to leave Mothston. It was my date with Fiona and her question: did I enjoy teaching? She inadvertently reminded me why I became a teacher in the first place and, over the next few days, it dawned on me that the nesting bird that couldn’t take off wasn’t just the story of our evening together – it was the story of my life. At school I was desperate for sixth form, but in sixth form it was all about university. Four years later I’d completed my teacher training and thought life would really begin. I’d meet the woman of my dreams and teach generations of kids to love Shakespeare. It was only during my cheerless date with Fiona that I realized I’d wasted years of my life waiting for something that I thought was just around the corner.
Suddenly I knew I had to leave Mothston, the incubator of my unfulfilled dreams. So I started applying for jobs in Oxford and Leeds and London.
‘There was something about this other school,’ I explain to Mr Henderson. ‘It’s in a deprived area and . . .’