Good Me Bad Me(48)

She leans her head on the toilet seat. I remove the toothbrushes from the glass by the sink, fill it with water and hand it to her.

She nods, says thanks.

‘What did you mean about Phoebe hardly knowing Saskia?’

‘No way, she’d kill me if she thought I’d said anything.’

I call her bluff. I watched you do it so well with the women you looked after, how you made them think you knew more than you did. It worked every time and it works with Clondine.

‘Do you mean when Saskia wasn’t well?’

Clondine lifts her head, squints up at me.

‘How the hell do you know?’ she asks. ‘Did Mike tell you?’

‘Sort of, yeah.’

‘Fuck. I suppose it’s kind of obvious something’s not right if you’re living with them. She hasn’t been in the mental hospital for years but probably still should be, totally lost the plot when Phoebe was born.’

I nod, as if I know what she means, and say how hard it must have been for Phoebe.

‘Yeah, I think she thinks it was her fault.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Anyway.’

‘How long was she in hospital for?’

‘I thought you said you knew.’

I distract her by saying her hands have stopped shaking. She looks down at them, says, thank god, it would be the first thing her mum would’ve noticed, then announces she needs to pee. She hauls herself up on the toilet, pulls her jeans down. A gush of urine, a fart halfway through. Intimacy I’m only used to with you. I leave the bathroom, straighten up the bed, replace the pillow, cover the pile of sick with a magazine from the bedside table. She talks over the flush.

‘I’ll try and speak to Phoebs, persuade her you’re not that much of a freak after all.’

She walks out of the en suite, a bit wobbly on her feet still but mainly in one piece. The ability of humans, together again on the outside, the inside, a different story. A much bigger mess.

‘Can you see my other shoe?’

‘It’s over there by the chest of drawers.’

‘Thanks. How do I look?’

‘Fine.’

‘Like nothing happened, hey.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Actually, would you mind if we don’t mention to Phoebe that I was with Toby, she can be a bit possessive over the boys and I can’t really be arsed with the grief.’

‘Of course, but would you –’

‘Lay off you at school? I’ll try, sure.’

She walks to the door. I check my phone, half past eleven, thirty minutes till curfew. I make my way down shortly after her. I look for Joe, but can’t see him, I find Phoebe though. A crowd around her in the kitchen, a drinking vessel in her hand. A funnel, a tube. Bong, they chant, as she drinks. Bong. Bong. Bong. I walk to the tap, fill a glass of water, happy for once their cheering and jeering isn’t at me.

Wrong.

‘Not so fast,’ Phoebe says. ‘Your turn.’

The room quietens, I ignore her. A block of knives to my left. Easy. Paint the town red, or the kitchen.

‘Did you not hear me, I said it was your go.’

I turn round. She’s both beautiful and wasted, pupils large and intense. Sucks on a Marlboro Light, forms an O with her lips, releases a perfect grey smoke ring. Her cheeks florid, rampant, a state of arousal. She’d have been the better candidate to go to bed with Toby.

‘No thanks,’ I reply.

Heckles and murmurs rise out of the crowd, we are not, but we are, in the Middle Ages still, a blood bath people would happily pay to watch. She blows a second smoke ring, so perfect I want to stick my tongue in it. The air in the room heavy, not just the smoke, but heady, her adoring fans, impatient. Oh come on, leave her be, she’s not worth it. Freak. Weirdo. The usual. Then Clondine, quiet so far, says, leave her alone, she’s all right. Phoebe takes a drag on her cigarette, the longest yet, turns towards her friend, exhales in her face and stubs her cigarette out on the back of Clondine’s hand.

‘Fuck.’ She withdraws it, holds it to her chest. ‘What the hell was that for?’

‘Sorry, Clonny, it was an accident, I mistook you for the ashtray.’

‘You’re fucked in the head, you know that, seriously crazy. That was really painful.’

‘Oh, stop being such a baby, here, have an ice cube.’

She takes one from a tumbler on the table, throws it in Clondine’s direction, hits her on the head. Sniggers.

Clondine gathers up her bag, says, that’s it, I’m done, I’ve had enough. I’m going home. The atmosphere in the room shifts, a departure ruins the magic, the doorway to this secret, spoilt rich kids’ coven ripped off by the blast of cold air as Clondine leaves through the patio doors. A line is drawn, I see it in the room. Too far, Phoebe, you went too far. If only she was better at showing her softer side. The girl who likes to spend an evening sat on the ground by the feet of the housekeeper who brought her up. The girl who cries at night.

She stares at me, eyes full of contempt. Anger. I’ve seen her look at Saskia the same way.

‘You’re just always here, aren’t you?’ she says.

She points at me, eyes slanted and slurred, her knees buckle a little. I turn to face the sink again. One by one, excuses are made, vague talk about tidying up.