When You Are Mine(43)

Tempe mumbles, ‘Not that much.’

There is more laughter. Tempe understands why and goes quiet. Sara can spot a weakness.

‘Hey, Tempe, you lived in Northern Ireland. Have you heard the Irish knock-knock joke?’

‘No.’

‘It’s great, you start.’

‘Knock, knock,’ says Tempe.

Silence. Tempe’s eager face slowly changes as the realisation dawns on her that she is the Irish joke. The others burst out laughing. I want to defend her, but say nothing, which makes me feel worse. I wish they’d all go home now. I’m tired and they’ve become drunk and annoying. Tempe isn’t blameless. She’s been trying too hard to be liked, instead of being herself.

They leave at midnight, all except for Georgia, who is crashing in our spare room. She fills a jug with water, spilling some on the countertop. I wipe it down.

I’m hand-washing the glasses and rinsing them in cold water.

‘Why don’t you use the dishwasher?’ she asks, elongating the sound dishhhh.

‘It’s broken.’

She perches on a stool, almost sliding off.

‘Why were you so mean to Tempe?’ I ask.

‘Sara started it.’

‘That’s no excuse.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I fell for that knock-knock joke. Somebody always does.’ Georgia takes a sip of water. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

‘Is Tempe gay?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The way she looks at you. Phoebe thought you two might be, you know …’

‘You can’t be serious!’

She holds up her hands. ‘Don’t look at me like that. You went to an all-girls school. That sort of stuff goes on in the dormitories, late at night, when the lights are off.’

‘I wasn’t a boarder, and that sounds like something Henry would say. Tempe is not gay.’

‘If you say so,’ says Georgia, giggling.

‘I’m going to bed.’

‘What time it is?’

‘Two in the morning.’

‘Oh, God. I’ll feel like shit tomorrow.’

‘You mean today. I’ve put some paracetamol beside your bed.’

She gives me a hug, slurring, ‘You are going to make someone a wonderful wife one day.’

‘Yes, and I know exactly the man.’





22


Tempe and I are shopping in the West End. I normally avoid this sort of thing, but buying clothes is a different experience with Tempe, who is like a personal stylist and a life coach rolled into one, encouraging me to try on outfits and mix colours that I wouldn’t normally consider. Today we’ve bought cashmere sweaters at Uniqlo and matching white trainers at the ASICS store.

When we walk along the street, she sometimes puts her arm through mine and we stay in step like we’re in a Hollywood musical and about to burst into song.

My mother once told me that we make very few new friends once we reach a certain age. I don’t know why that is. Perhaps we become too set in our ways and want to surround ourselves with people who share a common history. I have old friends who I disagreed with over Brexit and voting for Boris and the Scottish independence referendum, but I’m less likely to make the same allowances for someone new. They have to earn a place in my heart.

We’re in Carnaby Street, walking towards Covent Garden, looking for a café for lunch. We sit outside and a waitress takes our order. While I have Tempe talking, I keep asking questions. Normally, it is the other way around. Sometimes when she speaks, an extraordinary stillness comes over her body, as if she’s hearing her own voice being played back to her and she’s trying to moderate her tone and pitch to make it more agreeable.

She reveals that she was partially deaf until the age of four because of meningitis and that she grew up with three sisters. Her father was a soldier and was away from home a lot, fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was transferred to Belfast, which is why they moved. I want to ask her about the rumours at St Ursula’s, but I figure that she’ll tell me if she wants to, and it hardly matters any more.

Tempe’s two older sisters left school early and worked to support the family. Tempe stayed at school with Elizabeth, the youngest, who had asthma and ‘succumbed’ during the first wave of the pandemic.

‘When you say succumbed … ?’

‘She died.’

I’m shocked. ‘How old was she?’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘That’s my age.’

I’m surprised at how unmoved Tempe seems to be. Not cold, but accepting, as though bad luck is inevitable and there’s no point complaining.

‘Were you close?’

‘She was my sister,’ says Tempe, as though that says it all.

‘Your parents must have been devastated. It’s so rare … someone so young, dying of Covid.’

Our food arrives and we decide to share, cutting sandwiches and sliding them between plates. Tempe keeps talking about her older sisters, who are both married. She doesn’t mention her father and I sense they didn’t get on. She reaches across the table and wipes mayonnaise from my cheek.

‘I’m such a messy eater. Mum says I eat like a hungry hippo.’