The Things We Do to Our Friends(82)

There was nothing special about either of them in the slightest. Perhaps there never had been. Imogen, who liked her neat hobbies and claimed to want to research our targets, and Samuel, who presented himself as a fixer dishing out favors, with his shark smile, but it was all a lie. When you stripped away the layers, both of them were so completely ordinary, elevated only by their association with Tabitha. They’d stuck around for so long because of childish ties and threats.

A dry bit of skin on Samuel’s cheek that he kept picking at.

A tear down Imogen’s face from the wind.

I kept those images to the forefront of my mind, so I wouldn’t have to remember Eve Landore’s tears down the phone to me late at night.





68


Surely, I was that girl from the video who attacked a man and forced him to climb into the carcass of a pig.

Certainly, I was a “fifteen-year-old” whose actions caused a woman to kill herself.

Whoever I was, Tabitha had done this to me.

My bag was packed in the flat. I’d been gathering things together for weeks in preparation, trying not to make it obvious, but they still noticed.

“What are you doing?” Ashley asked. “Why are you packing?” She looked shocked.

“Just leave me alone.”

“No! Tell us what’s going on, you owe us that…” Her voice was whiny and insistent.

I had never felt like I owed her at all.

She continued pouring her concerns onto me: “Clare, your nails, they’re bleeding! You’re going somewhere? Are you…dropping out?”

I went up to her, and she took a step back like she thought I might hit her, but instead I reached out and put my fingers to her hair, just to the very tips.

She froze, like an animal playing dead. If I tugged it hard enough, I could have pulled a chunk out. I didn’t. I released it and her body seemed to relax, a strong exhale, her fear easing.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“But we’re your friends.”

“We’re not friends.”

I thought back to those first days. Ashley’s aged dog had looked so pathetic. It had ambled from room to room and, that day, I hadn’t held back. I’d let my anger come out at the boxy little flat and I’d given it a sharp kick. It had wheezed and retreated, settling away from me warily.

Ashley didn’t stay meek. It was fascinating to see her transform. Her whole face, which never usually had much expression, started to twist—it reminded me a little of Imogen’s scowl. It was hatred, I think.

“Fine. Leave. We’re better off without you. You’re disgusting.”

I was surprised (and slightly impressed) that she had it in her—I’d clearly underestimated her. But, like when I’d ended things with Finn, none of it mattered anymore.

I left the flat before I could do anything to Ashley, and I went round to Tabitha’s.





69


The only thing worse than hearing other people’s dreams is hearing their nightmares, but it’s important to me to express the sheer helplessness of it all. You see, it really was like one of those nightmares where you can’t quite grasp what you’re doing or where you’re going. There’s a low-level buzz of frustration, and however you try to divert the chain of events and drag it back to the path you want to take, the outcome evades you, it is forever the same. All roads ended with me turning up at Tabitha’s. She would open the door again and again, and she always let me in.

I felt so many things when I saw her that night, but what I remember most is the pure joy when our eyes met, before I made myself recall everything she’d done.

She wore a green knitted dress that I’d never seen before and it gave her the appearance of an emaciated nymph because the skirt was tight, so her hip bones poked against the ribbing. Green wasn’t her color, and the skin on her chest looked almost translucent. She seemed diminished in some way; usually she took up so much space, but that night she was less of herself than ever. I didn’t want to contemplate my appearance (and she didn’t comment on it) but my demeanor was fine. I was calm.

“Oh, you’re wearing my skirt.” She reached out and gave my upper thigh an appreciative little stroke.

“I’m sorry. Do you want it back?” I said, with no intention of actually returning it. The words were stiff and flat.

She didn’t notice any awkwardness between us. “No, no. It’s just perfect on you!”

Ava emerged from her bedroom to the sound of me coming into the flat, and I wondered what domestic scene I was disturbing. There was a towel wrapped around her head and she wore a pair of silky, peach-colored pajamas. She whipped the towel away almost guiltily, the hair falling in a thick wet braid and slapping against her back with a thud. We hugged, so my face pressed against her shoulder, and she smelled of herself—orange rind and salt. She was fresh and damp. But tired. Something wasn’t right, I sensed it as I looked from one of them to the other. The aftermath of an argument. A chilly hostility that I’d never known before with Tabitha and Ava. It hovered there just under the surface.

Tabitha saw my bag, and her face lit up with a smile. “And you’re staying! Brilliant news!”

“I couldn’t stay there with them anymore,” I said simply, hoping for no further questions.