Sweet Sorrow(51)

‘Pop your eyes back in, Luce,’ said Colin and Lucy jabbed him with her sword.

Bored, Fran glanced my way. ‘One minute!’ she mouthed, and raised one finger. I saw Miles grasp Fran’s arm and my hand went to my broom handle, but now Fran suddenly twisted Miles’ nipple hard as if turning off a radio. He yelped and, laughing, Fran walked over.

‘God, I thought he’d never … thanks for waiting. Let’s go.’

I braced the sword across my handlebars. ‘Did you know him before?’

‘No, and yet it’s like I’ve known him all my life, if you know what I mean. He’s harmless I suppose, he’s just so hard to listen to. Have you noticed, whenever anyone else speaks, he gulps at his water? So he doesn’t have to waste time listening, I suppose.’

‘What were you talking about?’

‘The demands of the role. He’s insecure apparently. “I just don’t know if I’m right for it.” That’s what he says. He just wants to be contradicted.’

‘He’s very good-looking.’

‘And I don’t think that news would necessarily come as a surprise to him.’

There was a rumble of gravel behind us and we made way for Miles’ car, his bare arm lolling from the open window, waving lazily as Bob Marley played on the stereo.

‘Some reggae there,’ said Fran. ‘Little taste of downtown Kingston. Kingston-upon-Thames.’

‘He’s jammin’.’

‘It’s “jamming”, Bob, you have to sound the “g”. Who drives a car with their top off anyway? Those hot leather seats. When he gets out it’s going to be like the skin off a roast chicken. Hey, don’t say anything, but I think he’s waxed his chest. His first big acting choice: “note to self. Make Romeo as smooth as an eel.” I mean he’s buff and all, but believe me, girls don’t like that stuff as much as boys think they do. Body like a wall-chart in a butcher’s shop. Sirloin, tenderloin, top rump, silverside …’

‘I think Lucy likes it. I think she’s a bit in love.’

‘Oh, I’m sure, he’s a hunk. Hunk of Cheddar, hunk of wood. Not wood – limestone.’

‘And you?’

‘Me?’

‘Do you … find him attractive?’

She glanced at me, half smiling, then away. ‘For the play I can. Real life?’ She gave a little shiver. ‘Boys like that, they’re just … all laid out. Walking CVs. Rugby in winter, cricket in summer, debating team, Oxbridge application on the go. What’s left to find out? I’d much rather— ow!’

I had accidentally jabbed her in the ribs with the broom handle. ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said, ready to hurl it like a javelin. ‘I’m getting rid of it.’

‘You can’t do that! You’ve got to bond with it!’

‘I’m not going to bond with it, I’m going to chuck it in the woods.’

‘What if Alina finds out? Here, let’s do this instead …’

We were at the gatehouse, the flint-covered cottage where the driveway met the lane. She tucked the stick out of sight in the doorframe, then hesitated a moment.

‘What are you doing?’

She looked around to check no one was in sight, then rattled the door handle, barely held in place with loose screws. The paint was flaking, the wood decaying and one good shoulder shove would have opened it. Instead she reached up and felt along the lintel – ‘Bingo’ – pulling down a heavy key, red with rust like something from a fairy tale. ‘Shall we?’

The key jammed but she rattled the door and it suddenly opened onto a small, dim single room. Ancient faded rugs covered the floor, dingy yellow curtains hung over small, high windows. The room was as cool as a refrigerator, the only furniture an immense ancient brown chesterfield, its leather cracked, leaking horsehair.

‘It’s where Polly keeps her hostages,’ I said.

‘Cast of Midsummer Night’s Dream from last year. “Heeeelp us!”’ She pulled the door closed. ‘Still,’ said Fran, ‘it’s good to know,’ a remark that I’d come back to again over the next few weeks.





Brown Bottles


When I returned home the house felt stuffy and silent, and I had to resist the desire to turn around and walk back out. Since the weekend, the sadness had rolled in like a fog, finding its way into every corner, and now here he was in the bedroom, curtains drawn, on top of the sheets with his back to the door.

‘You asleep?’

‘Just dozing. I had a bad night.’

‘So don’t sleep in the day.’

No reply.

‘It’s lovely out. You sure you don’t want to—’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You want something to—?’

‘No. All good.’

I loitered in the doorway. Someone smarter, kinder than me would have found the right tone, frank and easy and free of fear or anger or irritation. Perhaps crossed the room to see his face. But the air was stale, dust floating in the shafts of evening light, and I lacked both voice and language, and it was easier to pull the door closed and try to forget that he was there.

I went downstairs to turned on the computer to play games.