The Queen of Bloody Everything Page 18

  ‘Di?’ The question is soft but resonant, a tone that carries with it corduroy and the faint stain of cigars.

  ‘Mr Trevelyan.’ I turn and receive a kiss on my cheek: a greeting that is new to me, too continental for this man, this town, and I wonder where he has picked it up.

  ‘Oh Lord. David,’ he laughs. ‘You need to call me David. Now that . . .’ He trails off and I am wondering what the missing words are, worrying what they are, when another voice cuts through the crowd, this one cold and crystal.

  ‘Dido.’

  ‘Angela,’ I say, trying the word out for size.

  But her face, strained to start with, contracts further and I see that my privilege does not apply here.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ she asks eventually. There is calculation in her voice now, and so I try to work out the right answer.

  ‘She’s not feeling great,’ I say eventually – a catch-all for any confession she later comes up with.

  ‘Oh,’ David almost blurts, his concern uncontained, and alarmingly real. ‘Should I go and see if there’s anything—’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, David,’ Angela snaps. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ I say quickly, then tangle myself into your web by adding, ‘Just a headache. She’ll be fine by the morning.’

  ‘Well, if not, if she’s not up to . . . cooking and whatnot, you’re always welcome here,’ David offers. ‘Isn’t she, Angela?’

  It’s a question, not a statement, and the look that clouds Angela’s face tells me that welcome might not be quite the word, but, the queen of keeping up appearances, she forces out a clipped, ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can’t have you going hungry at Christmas,’ David adds.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble, wondering if the offer will still be open once they know what I’ve been doing. What Tom has been doing.

  The thought of him, then, sends my stomach skittering, my heart soaring. He’s been back a week but we’ve barely seen each other, barely been able to kiss, touch, talk even. At the Lodge there is a roll call of relatives to receive or visit, to recite his grades to, his postgrad plans. In the Duke he is cornered, claimed by his old tribe – Michael Nelson, at Imperial now, learning how to design Choppers, rather than ride them; Nicky Pakely, still gigging, still serving up burgers at ABC Barbecue until the Big Time comes calling; Katy Weller even, still lissom and at Loughborough now, training for the national squad, or the office of a suburban PE department. I scowl at her, silently, invisibly, but though Tom nods along, it is me whose fingers he feels for in the crush at the bar; me who he comes back to kiss in the shadow of the tree house where we used to play at mummies and daddies, where he used to stammer out an I love you, Mrs Herriot; me who he blows kisses to now as he walks backwards across the lawn and to bed.

  He has not said the words. Not yet. But oh, God, the times I have mouthed them silently down the phone to him, or out loud at the photo Blu-Tacked to my mirror, in the elaborate stories I weave in my head, plotting out our lives as if they were as easily malleable as narrative on a page.

  I love him, Edie.

  I love him with a feeling I can only describe as a fever.

  I love him so hard and so intensely that I cannot hold it in any longer, am going to tell him, tonight. Once we have told the others.

  ‘She’s upstairs.’

  Angela’s voice wakes me from my reverie. ‘Tom?’ I blurt.

  ‘Harry,’ she replies, her brow furrowed with confusion, or annoyance, maybe. ‘But yes, him too.’

  I climb the stairs to the den, each step shortening my breath, quickening my heartbeat. The door is ajar enough for me to see him lying back on a beanbag, letting the sound of something I cannot name or even place wash over him, albeit with the volume at a monitored no-more-than-seven. And as I watch his chest rise and fall, his hands trace time to the music, I cannot still my beating heart, much less the surge of need.

  ‘Tom?’

  He opens his eyes, and the trance lifts, his face creasing into a smile. ‘Di.’ He crooks a finger and I follow it, pushing the door closed behind me with a foot before falling, crawling, into his arms.

  ‘Where’s Harry?’ I say when we finally pull apart, though it is a matter of inches, his breath still heavy on my face, my hair in hanks on his shoulders.

  ‘Simon,’ he says, as if that explains everything. It does explain everything.

  ‘How is he allowed in her room with her?’ I ask. ‘Ricky wasn’t.’ Or any of the others boys Angela has treated like dogs, keeping them downstairs and off the sofas, corralling them in the kitchen if at all possible.

  ‘Ricky didn’t have a daddy with a yacht or a mummy with a minor title.’

  I laugh, let my head fall back, let him run his fingers down my neck, trace the shape of my breasts, then track lower, a hand pushing under my skirt, pulling at the top of my tights.

  I hear my breath catch, feel myself wanting him. But it’s too soon.

  ‘Tom, not here,’ I say.

  ‘Spoilsport,’ he says, but pulls his hand away anyway, and I roll off, slump against the edge of the sofa, pull an album from the stack.

  ‘Play me this,’ I tell him.

  And he does. He opens the lid of the turntable, lowers the vinyl, drops the needle on the record, and then lies back next to me as we let Dylan soak us, cloak us in his voice of sand and glue, while Harry traipses in for a lighter, trails out again, and we steady ourselves, ready ourselves to tell the world, or at least this small town, that I am not just Dido, not just the girl next door, but permanent, perennial, here for fucking ever.

  But, like Cinderella lost in rapture at her prince, I forget who I also am.

  I forget that, a few yards away, you are sitting alone, drinking – a combination that never ends well. I forget that you cannot stand to see the world turn without you at its centre, can’t bear to watch guests arrive at the ball while you – the real Belle – skulk alone in the kitchen.

  And so, like the thirteenth fairy, at the stroke of not-even-nine, you trace my footsteps, let yourself in the back door, and utter a curse that will break this kingdom. A curse that will see the gate locked and the castle shuttered, see a wall of thorns grow, see a would-be queen cast into the wilderness for what will feel like a hundred years.

  I wonder, now, what would have happened if you hadn’t come; if you’d fallen asleep or thought ‘fuck it’ instead. Or if you’d lied, smiled through gritted teeth and said nothing more than ‘Merry Christmas’. Would we be here now?

  Would he?

  I don’t suppose you even remember it, though, do you?

  I will tell you, then. Because, painful though it is in all its TV-drama glory, it is impossible to leave out of this story. It is this story, Edie. It is the breaking and making of me and you.

  Tom and I are standing on the landing when we hear it, fingers entwined, poised at the top of the stairs for our debut, our Hollywood close-up. But then it comes, a screech, like a creature – a cat – being tormented, or worse.

  Tom drops my hand.

  Harry flings opens the door to her bedroom. ‘What the fuck was that?’

  The noise comes again, the squawl, then your voice above it, crowing, arrogant. And in the silence – because it is silent now, the crowd quieted by whatever spectacle they are witnessing in the unlikely Big Top – David apologizing, though it is unclear for what and to whom.

  ‘Fuck,’ Tom says. Then he is flying, Harry at his heels, into the crowd.

  Simon and I look at each other, the left-behinds. And maybe I know then what is happening, or is about to, because I look back at the den as if to imprint it on my memory. Then, my heart offbeat, my stomach sliding, I say an inexplicable sorry, and stumble down the stairs.

  It is worse than I could have imagined – and I can imagine widely and wildly. Angela is drunk, a state I have never witnessed, and one that she does not wear well. Her words slur and her accent slips. Aitches are dropped and vowels elongated. Her face
is red and contorted and I see how truly ugly she can be.

  ‘Creeping into our lives,’ she says. ‘First Dido’s round here every hour of the day. And then you start on David.’

  At my name I feel a slap of shame. At his, the first wave of nausea. Because I know what this is about. Have known for months, although you, for once, have done your best to hide it, and I have tried to deny it.

  But it seems I am the only one who has guessed.

  ‘What’s she talking about?’ Harry demands. ‘Mum, what are you talking about?’

  Angela doesn’t hear her. Or ignores her. ‘Like a bloody cuckoo,’ she continues. ‘No family of your own, so you try to snatch mine.’

  ‘Not now,’ David tries.

  ‘Yes, now,’ Angela insists. ‘Because this time it’s . . . she’s gone too far. It’s Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve, for heaven’s sake! You should be with your family. Your family. Dido should be with her father. Whoever he is.’

  This, it seems, is the tipping point. Because while Angela is drunk, anything she can do, you can do better. ‘You know fuck all about my family,’ you spit. ‘And fuck all about your own.’

  Don’t do it, I plead. Don’t say it.

  But you do.

  ‘You care so much about your family? Who cared about David when he lost his job? Me. Not you. You don’t give a shit about him, as long as he can sign cheques.’ I close my eyes, as I sense it coming, because I know you, Edie. I know you play dirty. ‘And who was it took your daughter to hospital that time?’

  There’s a pause. Then, ‘What time? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Harry snaps. ‘Dad, take her home. Make her go home.’

  But torn between two scorned women, David does not, cannot move. And you don’t take Harry’s hint.

  ‘She was pregnant,’ you say. ‘Didn’t know that, did you? But I did. Because who did she come to? Me. That’s who.’

  ‘Harry?’

  My eyes are wide now, watching as Harry’s face pales.

  Please stop, I say in my head, beg in my head. Drop it now.

  But you haven’t played your final card, have you? And you’re not leaving without laying that on the table for Angela to see.

  ‘And your precious Tom?’

  ‘Stop it, Edie,’ I beg. Out loud this time.

  But you don’t stop. Don’t even register my presence. ‘You know he and Dido are fucking about behind your back. Literally.’

  I feel my legs threaten to give way. ‘Oh God . . .’ I mumble.

  ‘You stupid bitch.’

  I swing around and Harry’s face, once ashen, is rage-red.

  ‘God, you’re both the same,’ she continues. ‘As bad as each other.’

  ‘No!’ I protest, then plead, ‘Harry, you have to believe me. I wanted to tell you. We were about to say something. We were just waiting for . . .’ But before I can finish she has fled, Simon hurrying behind her.

  I turn back to Angela, who has pulled her gaping face in, tightened it. ‘Get out,’ she says then, calm, cold Angela once more. ‘Get out and don’t come back. Both of you.’

  ‘Angela,’ David pleads.

  ‘You too,’ she says. Then she turns and leaves the stage, the audience gawping, the rest of the players standing awkwardly in the absence of applause, including—

  ‘Tom,’ I blurt. And I look at him, begging him to do something, say something, pull a rabbit out of the hat. ‘No,’ he mouths, shaking his head. Then he turns and walks down the hall. Seconds later I hear the front door slam.

  ‘Edie, I . . .’ David begins.

  But as he trails off you swear again, then stalk out of the back door.

  I am stranded then; caught, torn between two worlds – the one that contains my wardrobe, and this Narnia I have insinuated myself into. But it isn’t Narnia, is it? It never was. And now Tom has left for God knows where and Harry – Harry won’t talk to me tonight. So, scarlet-faced, wounded, I slink back across the frost-hardened grass like the thief’s dog that I am.

  You are in the kitchen, bottle in hand, when I come through the door – of course bottle in hand: you are a drunk, I see that then for the first time. Not Bohemian, not decadent, just a common alcoholic, no different from Billy Bob or the other sad cases and lost causes that line the bar of the Duke on a Monday night.

  You look up and I see the truth etched in your sodden, sorry eyes, see clearly the lies you must have told, the lines you have spun. You stare at me, dare me to do something, and for a moment I think I am going to chicken out, do what I always do and stamp to my room to bury myself, my fears, my bristling anger, in a book, in words, wonderful words; words that can be controlled, can let me take the leading role I always seemed to shrink from in real life.

  Until Tom.

  But you couldn’t stand it, could you? Couldn’t stand to see me with the hero at my side, couldn’t watch me welcomed, the improbable princess, into court while you were kept shut in the attic, going quietly mad.

  And, emboldened by alcohol and blinkered by youth, so convinced am I that this is your entire motivation, that you have created this scene solely in order to push me into the wings, to put me in my place, that for once I defy your expectations and mine and tell you exactly what I think.

  ‘I hate you,’ I spit. ‘I hate you so much right now.’

  Your jaw sets, you swig, then swallow. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me I’ve ruined your life.’

  I feel my fingers ball into fists at the mockery. ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘Me? Ha!’ you scoff. ‘You have no fucking idea. Do you know what it’s been like? Do you know how hard it’s been?’

  I am raging now, heart hammering, words scattergunning out. ‘What, shagging your neighbour’s husband? Or hiding it? Yeah, that must have been really hard. Poor Edie.’

  ‘It was hard.’

  ‘Oh, cry me a river.’

  You pull a face. ‘Did you get that from a book?’ you sneer. ‘Word-perfect, aren’t you? Always so fucking perfect, can’t-do-any-wrong Dido.’

  I baulk at that, feel myself falter, because perfect is so not what I am, what I have ever been in your eyes. But I am not letting you win, not tonight. ‘You’re supposed to be the grown-up,’ I yell. ‘You’re supposed to . . . set an example. This isn’t normal. Don’t you see? The drink and – and the men and now . . . now this. It’s wrong.’

  ‘Why? Because it’s not all Swiss Family Robinson? Well, life isn’t like that. It isn’t like it is in fucking fairy tales. It’s messy and . . . disappointing and most of us are just lucky to get through it at all, let alone with a happy-ever-after.’

  I pause. Then, ‘You don’t deserve one,’ I tell you.

  ‘Well, you should be thrilled then. Because I am so far from happy right now. And anyway, I thought you bloody loved David. You were always clinging to him, getting him to carry you around. I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘What, so you did this for me?’

  You flap a hand, scrabble for your cigarettes.

  That was my chance. That was my cue to be the better person. To be brave. To be a grown-up.

  But we are children, the pair of us, and we are too stubborn, too self-assured, too far gone now to stop. And so I let you have them, my three wishes, the ones that have pricked me, plucked my sleeve, burned a hole in my pocket; I fling them out like fire-tipped arrows, designed to hurt. ‘Yes, I wish David was my father,’ I say. ‘And I wish Angela was my mother.’ Then, the final aim, straight and true. ‘Or I wish you’d never had me,’ I say. ‘Then we’d both be better off.’

  You are still, the hand that had been reaching for your lighter suspended mid-grasp, the voice that had been banshee-loud now a thin, reedy whisper. ‘You don’t mean that,’ you say.

  I wait, hear the blood rush in my ears, the clock tick-tock twice. ‘Yes, I do,’ I say.

  The words hum with meaning and malice, and I am as shocked by them as you. But they are neon-lit, suspended in the fog-thick a
ir between us, and I cannot take them back.

  So instead I walk slowly, steadily, stupidly up to my room, close the door, and count the ways in which I wish you were dead.

  Lessons for Children

  December 1987

  We talked about it, me and Harry. Lay back on her bed with a shared bowl of crisps and cans of Fanta and decided how we’d do it, if we were going to kill ourselves. We treated it like some parlour game – eeny, meeny, miny, moe between overdose, drowning, gunshot or kitchen knife. Or an exercise in art history, the results strictly Gothic fantasy – all eloquent suicide notes and pale limbs draped delicately, or drifting Ophelia-like across a lily pond, our bodies somehow forgiven the blue lips and bloating.

  The reality is so far from my imaginings.

  I wake late to the stillness of Christmas morning. Gone is the thrum of traffic, the hammer of roadworks or refurbs; now there is muffled nothingness, a fug that clings to me, cloaks my room, our house; a heaving silence that cleaves a chasm where once sat a wall.

  It hits me, heavy and sudden as a train door slam, and I sit bolt upright. I have to talk to Tom. I have to explain – something, anything, everything – and, panicking, I pluck at possibilities and half-truths: that you were drunk, that you were lying, that I hate you, and will forsake you. I pull on boots, a jumper over last night’s party clothes, ignore the make-up that has been tear-smeared across my cheeks, the dark rings under my eyes. Tom won’t care; we are a thing, a tangible thing. And clutching that knowledge as if it were diamond-precious and iron-solid, as if it were Frodo’s own ring, I thud down the stairs, out of the back door and through the brambles to the portal in the wall.

  The latch is stiff with age and cold, and rust coats my fingers, the catch snagging my skin as I struggle to lift it. But at last it clanks up and out of its guard and I push hard at the handle, poised to propel myself through the wardrobe. But instead, I feel a sharp pain as my fist gives instead of the door. I push again, cursing the endless wet that has swollen the wood against its jamb, cursing you for not letting David paint it when he offered, then, remembering, cursing him for offering. The door does not move. I rattle it, but it gives no more than a millimetre, still stands solid, unyielding. Then, in a fit of fury and desperation, I kick at it, hard and boot-heavy.