White Bodies(30)

I pick a book at random from the shelf and take it to the seat opposite Liam, on the other side of the table. The book’s called Kitchen Cupboards: A Do-It-Yourself Guide, and chapter one is “Designing Your Cupboard.” I’ve hardly started reading when Liam says in a loud whisper: “Hello, Callie. What are you doing here?”

I don’t answer.

“This is my friend Mary; we’re revising together.”

“Hi.” Mary treats me to a vague, haughty expression. Like a camel.

“Callie is Tilda’s sister.”

Mary nods, as if to say, Oh really?

“Do you go to Liam’s school?”

“Yes. We’re in the same class.” Her tone is flat and dismissive, and she goes back to her Madame Bovary, making it plain that I’m of no interest. I shut my Cupboards book and stand up.

“That was quick,” says Liam.

“See you around.”

Cycling home seems to take forever. I’m practically on fire with excitement at being the bearer of bad news, breathless with the urgency of my mission. I drop my bike at the front door, and as I come in, I can hear singing upstairs: “Tormented, lamented . . . demented on a Sunday.” I thump up the stairs, and make an entrance into her bedroom. The Whisper Sisters (minus Paige) stop singing, and I say: “Do you know Mary someone, who knows Liam?”

“Mary Strickland?”

“Tall, shortish dark hair, talks slowly, bit stuck-up?”

“Yeah, that’s Mary Strickland,” says Sasha, looking at Tilda.

“What about her?” Tilda speaks in a strained voice and runs her hands through her hair, to mush it up.

“She’s in the library with Liam, and I saw them whispering to each other and passing notes. . . .”

“So what?” says Sasha. “They’re friends, that’s all. Are you trying to make trouble, Callie?”

“Go home! Both of you.” Tilda looks like she’s about to hyperventilate. “I mean it, go! . . . I need to think. And don’t gossip. Really. Liam told me Mary was going to the library with him. . . .”

Kimberley and Sasha skulk out, and Tilda sits on the bed, her head in her hands.

“Did he really tell you?”

She glares at me, her eyes ice-hard. “Of course not. Tell me what you saw. Every little thing.”

I tell her about the head thing, when she had leaned on his shoulder, and Tilda says Mary’s a bitch and Liam’s naive.

“Why didn’t you go to the library with him?”

“He said he wanted to concentrate! He’s so focused on getting A stars in his exams, that’s all that matters to him. She must have tagged along, practically followed him there. . . . Her father is a lawyer, like a judge or something, and she thinks that makes her a superior person. She’s so up herself. She thinks she can just force herself on him when he wants to concentrate!”

“What are you going to do?”

She manages a small acid smile. “I’m going to Liam’s this evening, and I’m going to be so nice to him and not let him know at all what I think about Mary Strickland. Never complain, never explain—it’s the best policy.”

I agree. I can’t see how having a row with Liam would improve anything, and later that day I watch Tilda get ready, removing all her makeup and starting again, changing her clothes several times, doing her hair with a curling iron and applying scent. I wish her luck, and she sets off.





15


2017


I sit by my window for three hours or more, trying different passwords to unlock the memory stick, taking breaks to make tea, stretching my legs by walking around the sitting room. I try everything. I even type in Hook, and TildaandLiam and LiamandTilda and WhisperSisters and a thousand other possibilities, although it all feels rather last-ditch and feeble and I want to give up, to go online to chat to Scarlet and Belle. Then, without thinking about it, I tap TheLovedOnes and, feeling weak and light-headed, I watch as the screen changes from a forbidding black to a welcoming, beautiful glowy orange. I’m reminded of those films of flower petals opening miraculously in the sunshine, and I think—of course! Of course she uses the loved ones; it makes perfect sense.

But then, a wave of disappointment, because there’s only one file on the screen—a Word document with the dull name Script Notes. Not what I expected. But when I click, I see immediately that the information inside had nothing to do with scripts; instead I’m looking at a letter, addressed to me:

Dear Callie,

God knows what’s happened if you’re reading this, because these are my secrets, little one, and you will share them only if something fucking horrendous has happened. I should be more blunt—you’re reading this because I’m dead and because I want you to know, at last, what happened between Felix and me.

Before I get stuck in—here are a few things you need to know about Felix—so pay attention!

I am intoxicated by him.

I am addicted to him.

He makes me feel healed. No longer wounded inside.

In short, Callie, he’s the love of my life—and that’s why I resisted your constant prying and snooping, why I refused to speak about him despite your whiny questions—Are you sure he’s good for you, Tilda? Will you let me help you, Tilda? I knew what you were up to; it was so bloody obvious. You were jealous of Felix and out to tear us apart, to destroy my relationship—did you ever admit it to yourself?