The Perfect Girlfriend by Karen Hamilton
For A, A, O & E.
Prologue
July 2000
Looking down, there are two pairs of feet dangling. My shoes are daisy-edged, white-and-yellow sandals. His are a muddy brown with Velcro straps and a navy tractor on each side. His socks don’t match; I can never find two the same. One is crimson and the other one is black. And they’re too tight – a ridged pattern has already formed a ring of little marks on his calves, just above the elastic. He kicks the edge of the wall. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. The noise bounces off the four walls. Below, pond skaters skim the stagnant, murky water which I know conceals a tiled dolphin in shades of silver and blue, the twin of the one visible on the exposed ground of the shallow end. Strands of fine slime brush the slope just above the water’s edge.
The sun burns; red spreads across his cheeks, smudging the tip of his nose. He should be wearing a hat. Everyone knows that young children should wear hats or a high-factor sunscreen, but I couldn’t find either this morning when the time came to be ‘Outside!’ in a hurry. We have enough food for a picnic, though; I had prepared it earlier this morning. The white loaf I’d unevenly sliced was a little stale, so I’d layered on extra cream cheese to compensate. We also have ready salted crisps, so when I smooth out the carrier bag to use as a tablecloth on the concrete tiles, I pull the triangles of bread apart and place some crisps inside before folding them back neatly.
It is the wrong thing to do.
He bursts into tears. ‘I don’t want crisps in my sandwich!’
‘Well, you should’ve said.’
His screams vibrate inside my ears. My stomach churns. I pull him from under his arms, away from the edge. I hastily pick out the crisps and drop them back into the foil packet. But that is wrong too – because barely visible residues of pale cheese remain glued. I sit cross-legged opposite him.
‘Have some grapes!’
He stops and stares. Half-formed tears pool in the corners of his swollen eyes.
Our mother doesn’t like him eating grapes if they aren’t halved or quartered, in case he chokes, but I hadn’t thought to pack a knife. I could bite them in half but I don’t like tasting anything sweet before my sandwich. Besides, our mother doesn’t know a lot of what he gets up to and, seriously, eating a few grapes is way, way down the list of potential dangers I’ve saved him from.
‘Have some,’ I repeat, my voice calmer than I feel. ‘They’re the purple ones. Your favourite.’ I grip with my forefinger and thumb, easing grapes off their stems, and hand them to him.
He clutches them in both hands and feeds himself one at a time, biting hard. Juice runs down his chin.
Relief. The older he gets, the harder he is to placate. He is quick to assert himself and demand whatever he desires.
I take a bite of my sandwich, crunching the crisps into the dough. A breeze, so gentle – almost as though it knows it is unwelcome on such a glorious day – brushes my arms and legs, then dissipates. Stillness.
‘More!’
‘Please.’
He frowns.
As I pull off more grapes, I wonder what my next-door neighbour is doing. She is eleven, nearly a whole year older than me. Eating ice cream? Burying her feet beneath soft sand? I was invited to go along with her family to the beach today, but I have a responsibility in the form of a four-year-old, so the answer was no.
I inhale the strong smell of lavender. Nearby, bees hum. In the not-too-far distance, a lawnmower bursts into life. I swing round in case it is the head gardener, the one who always smiles at me and says I have a pretty face. Curving a hand above my eyes, I squint. I can just about make out a shadowy man in overalls, but his face is concealed by a denim bucket hat.
‘I’m thirsty!’
‘There’s no water, you’ll have to have some of this.’
I snap open a can of lemonade. He is not allowed fizzy drinks or too much sugar. There are so many rules for him that sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or cry – to be glad that she cares, or just plain annoyed. I often feel like this – like I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel in certain situations.
He makes a face at the lemonade bubbles fizzing inside his mouth. He must be really thirsty as he hasn’t made any fuss. He looks kind of cute with his scrunched-up face and, for a few seconds, I feel warm towards him. But then he drops the can. It clatters on its side, spraying cartwheeling liquid as it rolls down over the edge. It hits the water with a splash so slight, I barely hear it. We both lean forward and peer down.
‘The frogs or the fish will drink it,’ I say brightly.
I hold out my arms to pull him close.
His arms are strong, his push violent. ‘No! I want it back.’
I can’t bear the thought of it. I can’t stand the thought of his screams; they pierce me and make me want to block my ears and scream myself.
‘Go and find a long stick, then,’ I quickly say.
He stands up and runs off eagerly past the lavender towards the base of the oaks.
The last thing I call out is, ‘You’ll need an extra-long one!’
I dangle my feet over the edge again and lie back down, closing my eyes, revelling in the seconds of blessed peace. I can feel warm concrete tiling against my thighs, through my cotton skirt, whilst the upper half of my body lies on the grass. It tickles my neck. I hear the lawnmower moving further away. Laziness takes hold and I inhale a deep breath of summer air before I pretend I can feel sand – not concrete and grass – beneath me.