White Bodies(26)
“But you don’t need it. You’ve got another key. You just used it.”
“It’s my responsibility. You must return it.” She’s in the mood for a fight.
“Okay. Write your address down, and leave it on the table.”
I slam the bedroom door shut, and lean against it for a few seconds, listening to the sounds she’s making, walking around; then I hear her leave. I come out, the towel still wrapped round me, and inspect the flat. I want to see the full extent of what Eva has seen, and realize that I left half the drawers in the kitchen wide-open, bowls and plates out of their cling film, and my dirty trainers on the coffee table. It’s messy, but not as bad as the chaos in the bedroom.
I return to the bathroom, to replace the towel and check the cabinet. Tilda always seems so spacey and I wonder about drugs. I even consider heroin and crack cocaine—not that I expect them to be on a shelf, neatly displayed and labeled. I find prescription medicines, though, that hadn’t been there back in the spring, and I gather up bottles and packets and take them into the sitting room, where I left my plastic bag with a notebook inside, and my cup of tea. I write in the book: Drugs that may be contributing to Tilda’s decline—and add Anafranil, Zolpidem and Ativan, thinking that I’ll look them up when I go home.
Out of the corner of my eye I register a red light flashing on the phone, and I press the button to listen to the messages. Only three. The first is disappointing—just a reminder from the dry cleaner’s that the cleaning’s ready, and would Tilda please pick it up at her earliest convenience. The second is a short “Hey, Felix, it’s Guy; call me.” I have no idea who Guy is. But the third message is interesting—Tilda’s agent, Felicity Shore, in a pleading voice asking Tilda to get in touch: “Come to lunch or something, and let’s go through your options.” It sounds like she’s concerned. In the notebook I write: Does Felicity Shore realize something is wrong? Have further information?
I finish my tea and put the mug in the sink. Then I remember how Tilda used to hide her diary in a pillowcase and have the idea of looking through the linen cupboard in the bathroom. Like everything else, it’s pristine—satiny cotton sheets folded in perfect piles. I take out the pillowcases and pat them one by one, checking, and when I reach the bottom of the pile I notice a lump in a corner. I reach in and turn over in the palm of my hand something hard and smooth, like a small ingot, but lighter than solid metal. I pull it out, and find I have a shiny red computer memory stick.
I’m cross because I haven’t brought my laptop to the flat, and I’m now in a rush to get out of there and home. Even unzipped, Tilda’s dress is a nightmare to get off because it’s so tight, and as I work it up my body and struggle to pull it over my head, I rip it along a seam. Taking a chance, I put it back on its hanger in the closet. Probably, she hardly ever wears it and won’t notice for ages. Then I leave, ignoring the chaos, the crockery out of its cling film, dirty marks on the coffee table, clothes everywhere.
After Tilda’s flat, mine seems like a disorganized jumble. Shaggy red rug, green walls, a thousand little things not put away—pens, notebooks, T-shirts and underwear, Cheerios box, cider bottles and a sink full of dishes. It actually seems urgent to declutter the place, and I stop to pick up a dozen dirty socks from the bedroom floor before sitting at my table by the window and booting up my laptop. It takes an age to splutter into life, and as soon as it does I ram in the memory stick—only to see that I’m barred from entry. It needs a password. I try possible words and combinations, Felix, for instance, and Curzon and Callie and Faith, our mother’s name. I even try Liam and Liam Brookes. But nothing works. Out loud I yell “Shit!” and it comes into my head to go back to Curzon Street to trash the place. The thought is overpowering and loud, like bird wings thumping on glass. It feels like a way of releasing Tilda, setting her free.
14
2006
Our family moves to Harcourt Road, a treeless street of Edwardian houses packed into long terraces, curving north towards the river. We agree that the new house is friendly—the vibes are good. Also, we like being closer to the Thames. On weekends Mum likes to say, “Come on, let’s have a blast of brown air,” and we walk along the old iron pier. My memories are of a penetrating damp wind, a river invariably choppy and gray, and hugging Mum’s arm tightly, never letting go, because sometimes it seems she might actually blow away. I suppose this is because of her health—she’s been diagnosed with breast cancer and has had chemotherapy. She tells us not to worry, that she’ll be fine, but that doesn’t stop her cancer from becoming a pervasive heaviness in our lives. I imagine it with a voice, saying, I am the nearly death; I am the forerunner of death, and I tell it to shut up.
Mostly it’s just the two of us on these weekend walks, because Tilda’s busy with different interests, like her new ambition for a singing career. She has set up a girl band with her friends Paige, Kimberley, and Sasha, and they have the awful name the Whisper Sisters. They practice mostly in her bedroom—the move to Harcourt Road being all about our desire for separate rooms, which, as happens with teenage girls, have become showcases for our personalities. It’s as if the contents of our brains have been flushed out and plastered all over the walls and the furniture. Tilda’s room is a gargantuan mess of piled-up clothes, makeup, music paraphernalia, posters and fashion magazines. She doesn’t care if Tampax boxes are lying around, tampons spilling out, or if hairbrushes are evolving into puffballs of old hair. My room isn’t exactly tidy, but it has a solemn, organizational look to it, with my crime books lined up on a wooden shelf and my notebooks stacked on my desk. I regard it as a haven, while Tilda’s bedroom is a center of activity, somewhere to visit.