White Bodies(15)

I’ve had so much help from Scarlet and Belle and others on the Controlling Men site, giving me advice about Felix, analyzing his actions to see how closely he fits the typical predator profile by being controlling and judgmental. I’m not surprised by the general agreement with my view, which is that Felix is isolating Tilda and taking over her life. I have the impression that he’s constantly monitoring her behavior. Also, it seems suspicious that Tilda hasn’t taken on any new work recently. Before Felix, she was always talking about the new roles she was considering; since Felix, nothing.

Of course, I’m relieved that Felix hasn’t persuaded Tilda to marry him, or made her pregnant. But when I mentioned to Scarlet that I hoped Tilda would find a way of leaving Felix, she pointed out that because my sister is famous, he will always have a good chance of finding her. Someone will post something on Instagram saying they spotted her in a café or lying on a beach. Scarlet’s right, and sometimes I’m at my table under the window half the night, coming up with solutions. I wonder whether Tilda would be prepared to give up her acting career and take another identity—cut her hair short and dye it black, and move with me to Mexico or Australia. Or maybe take a French name and move to a big city like Marseilles or Bordeaux. Then I go online to check whether a change of name is a public document, wondering whether Felix would be able to track her down.

I’m busy with this sort of internet research when I remember that Scarlet has told Belle and me to watch the news, so I go to the BBC website and see that this morning a young woman named Chloey Percival was working in the perfume department in Debenhams in York when a guy in a hoodie came in and commenced his attack, throwing bleach at her face, then stabbing her in the stomach. A middle-aged couple, Sandra and Trevor Abbott, happened to be shopping and did their best to pull him off and hold on to him, but he broke free and ran out of the store into a crowded street. The police are now looking for a suspect named Travis Scott, and Chloey is in intensive care in York hospital.

I can see why Scarlet wanted to alert us. Her boyfriend is paranoid about some other man taking her away from him because she’s so pretty (she told us that in a matter-of-fact way, but I’ve never actually seen a picture of her). She could have been an actress or a model, she says, but X wouldn’t allow it, and made her give up trying. Like Chloey Percival, Scarlet works in a public place, doing tanning, waxing and nails in Manchester. X often shows up at her work, unannounced, and Belle thought it was hysterical to ask: Has X ever stormed in just as ur getting STUCK IN on a chalanging BIKINI WAX??!!

But it’s not funny at all, and I suspect that Scarlet is feeling spooked by the Chloey Percival case, terrified that she’s next.





9


2000


At school, I watch everything coming to life on the Peter Pan front. At break times Tilda spends most of her time with Hook, whose real name is Liam Brookes. The two of them sit on the stony ground in a corner of the playground, hugging their knees and going over their lines. When I stand close by I hear Tilda say: “First impressions are awfully important,” and the line she’s in love with, she says it so often: “To die will be an awfully big adventure.” Then she notices me and says, “Go away, Callie,” so I resume my tour of the edges of the playground.

At home, Liam keeps coming up in conversation. At first it’s in the context of Peter Pan, which is now Tilda’s main interest in life, and which allows her to speak in her Peter voice, a constantly rising lilt so that she endlessly seems to be rallying her troops, once more my friends! We hear interminable stories of her scenes with Hook, and how their sword fight is so complicated and requires terrifying jumps from rock to ship and back to rock. Then Liam’s name starts coming up in everything else, so I hardly dare say anything for fear of prompting it, thinking that if I mention that I like peas, we’ll be treated to a long description of how Liam absolutely adores peas. Over our beans on toast one time, Tilda, out of the blue, tells us that Liam can swim twenty-five meters underwater and I slam my head down on the table and refuse to look up.

Mum ignores my protest and picks up on Tilda’s hint. In a nonchalant way, like the thought has drifted into her head, she says, “Well, Liam could come along to swimming on Saturday if he’d like.” Tilda practically shoots out of her chair with: “Can I phone him now and ask?”

I leave the table and stomp up the stairs, then I take Tilda’s diary from its pillowcase, and find little L’s in the margins and kisses and hearts, and she has been practicing the signature of the future Tilda Brookes. I can’t help it—I tear off a corner and eat it.

On Saturday, when the doorbell rings I run to answer it and find Liam standing on the doorstep, his stripy towel rolled up under his bare brown arm, and serious-faced like a Cub Scout ready for inspection. I feel a surprising surge of warmth because of the undisguised element of expectation in his expression, as if he’s waiting to be liked, or questioned, or teased. Also, I notice that his dark hair stands up on end. He just stands on the doorstep, looking at me, and I see that his towel is faded and rough and frayed at the edges, and his red swimming trunks are poking out from the middle, like the jam in a Swiss roll.

“You’d better come in,” I say.

On the bus, Tilda sits with Liam, and Mum and I sit in the seat behind, with all our bags. I lean my head on Mum, and she puts her arm around me saying, “Chip, chip,” because she knows that makes me smile; then we both stay silent, trying to eavesdrop. But all they talk about is Peter Pan, and I realize that any other subject would be too much effort. And, in the pool, there’s no conversation other than about swimming.