White Bodies(33)

Her life started to improve when, after an intense period of studying at home, she scraped three GCSEs and two A-levels, the minimum requirement to study acting at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama in London. She performed well at her audition, and when she was offered a place we celebrated with pink sparkling wine, which we drank in the back garden at home in Gravesend. We all felt so happy (nobody mentioned my mediocre exam performance a year earlier), all the flowers that I had planted with Mum were in bloom, the roses and geraniums and sweet peas; and Tilda and I got drunk and danced together, barefoot on parched grass, sweet peas stuck in our hair, and singing her most successful composition—“Demented on a Sunday.” That September she left home, pulling a gigantic red suitcase onto the train. I said to Mum: “She could live in that if she doesn’t like the accommodation,” and we waved her off. I guess both Mum and I were nervous that she’d regress once she was out of our influence, but the opposite was true. At Central she became her old self again—the girl who’d been a dazzling Peter Pan and who commanded the spotlight. We heard stories of her new friends—Henry, “the star of our year,” and Lottie, “my girl crush.” She told us that her teachers were inspirational, and said that acting was her passion.

At the end of the first year, Mum and I saw her play Ophelia in Hamlet, and we realized that she’d matured; her performance was subtle and beguiling. By now, I was living in Willesden Green, and Mum had moved to Wales, so merely being together made the occasion special, and afterwards Tilda introduced handsome Henry, who played Hamlet, and pointed, across a crowded bar, to a serious girl with dark plaits pinned up across her head—Lottie. She looked up and waved to us. It seemed that Tilda had found her tribe and was somehow settled. But, because of her teenage breakdown, we couldn’t ever take that for granted; we’d always have to look out for the signs. As I say, she is the damaged one.

I can’t believe that her letter makes no acknowledgment of this, that it’s so self-righteous and insulting, and I reread it hoping that I’ve missed something, that I’m able to find some positive message buried in the words. But as I read I feel even worse: battered and miserable and disbelieving. I pour more wine, gulping it down like water, and open up the dossier on the laptop in order to write down all my new worries. Tilda is becoming delusional, I type, and has formed the ridiculous, perilous belief that she is in control of her relationship with Felix. I note that her trust in him is misplaced; and I record the incident with the purple vase. What sort of person would do that? It’s such an angry, hate-filled act. And then to make sure that sex is excruciatingly painful for her, leaving her with bruises. The emotional and physical brutality is horrendous. I write also about the increased isolation Felix is forcing on Tilda, separating her from me and Mum, and from her work, her acting. I feel like telling him, You can’t do that! Acting is in her soul; you can’t take it away. Then I note that Tilda’s letter is so obviously and willfully incomplete. She hasn’t mentioned anything that truly explains her psychological state—the way she’s so nervy and jumpy, always seeming on the edge. Possibly on the point of another breakdown—brought on by Felix, and exploited by him too. I decide to go online, to discuss the situation with Belle and Scarlet. This time, it’s Scarlet who’s already there:

Hello Calliegirl. Have you seen the latest news on Chloey Percival?

No. What?

Her condition has deteriorated. They say it’s critical. Every day, another death, maybe Chloey, or Pink, or me. I’m burned-out, and tired of feeling frightened. And, Callie, I’m fed up with this stupid X stuff. I’m going to refer to my bf by his first name from now on—with you and Belle anyway—so let me introduce him: meet Luke. I’ve told you about the role-play sex games we like, but it’s become too violent. He stuffed a tie down my throat last time, and tied my neck, pretending to hang me. And sometimes he locks me in the house, tied up, knowing I won’t be able to get to the bathroom when I need to. He likes the mess when he gets home.

I’ve never known Scarlet to be so revealing, and I’m revolted. I stop her right there, and switch the conversation to Tilda:

Scarlet, I need your advice. There are some parallels between your relationship and Pink’s. Not the role-play sex games exactly. I just mean that her situation with Felix (following your lead) is becoming deeper and dangerous. I stole a memory stick from P’s flat, and on it I found a letter to me, saying that I’m right about Felix. He is isolating her, preventing her from working and sometimes being violent. He threw a vase at her head, and her arms are bruised. But she won’t listen to me. It’s hard to stand by and do nothing.

I wait, but it takes Scarlet a long time to reply. Then this:

Calliegirl, you know I’ve been working on a proposal, something that might help me escape from Luke and also save your sister from Felix. We’re both in life-threatening danger, and we need to act before it’s too late. I’ve already briefed Belle, and she’s helping me. I think now’s the time for you to be involved also, but I can’t give you all the details yet, and I don’t want to do it online. I’ve reconsidered, and think we’ll have to meet. Btw I know that you met Belle in York. She told me.

I knew Belle was incapable of keeping a secret. I write:

I loved seeing Belle, and would like to meet you too. But when? Do I have to come to Manchester?