Читать книгу Bright Girls - Clare Chambers - Страница 10

I stayed in bed for two days, unable to do more than take sips of water and doze, and make occasional shuffling visits to the bathroom next door. At one point during the first night my mobile phone rang, but it was out of reach, hanging on the door handle in my bag. I could hear it buzzing away like a furious insect, but I couldn’t summon the strength to fetch it. When I did finally sleep, I had lurid nightmares about a giant pig – as if the ham was taking revenge on my mind as well as my guts.

Rachel made occasional mercy visits to the basement to cheer me up and harass me back to health. She even brought me a copy of Hello! and a pen so that I could draw the spots and hairs and wrinkles back on to the airbrushed celebrities. She had already made a preliminary exploration of the town and discovered some promising shops, but was waiting for me (and Dad’s cash) to join her for a proper spree.

“I suppose I’ll have to start looking for a job,” she said glumly. “Next week. When you’re better.” I wasn’t quite sure what my recovery had to do with it. She had promised Dad she would work over the summer, to build up some sort of cash reserves before going off to university. He admitted he didn’t have any great hopes that she’d save anything, but he figured that every hour she worked was an hour she wouldn’t be out spending.

Another regular presence at my bedside was Auntie Jackie, so regular in fact that I never needed to resort to the giant cowbell. I knew she must be popping in, even when I was asleep, because someone kept emptying the bucket, bringing fresh water, and opening and closing the window The room faced south and in the middle of the day when the sun was at its height, the uncurtained basement was as hot as a greenhouse. At other times I could hear footsteps overhead, in the “shop” and I knew she must have a client in for a fitting.

On the third day I felt the first stirrings of hunger, so Auntie Jackie brought me a cup of clear soup and a piece of toast, which I tore into cubes and submerged until they were just soft. I’d never tasted anything so delicious. I had retrieved my phone by this time, so I knew that it was Dad who had rung me. He had followed it up with a text – fully spelled and punctuated as always: it must have taken him hours.

Hello Robyn. Sorry to hear from Jackie that you’ve been sick. I tried to phone last night, but there was no reply. Roger’s room in college is comfortable, but extraordinarily noisy with summer-school students next door partying at all hours. I miss you and hope we can all be together again soon. I haven’t been near the house. Love you. Dad xxx

Rachel had also had a message from him – equally long-winded. We’d tried to teach him the basics, but he seemed to have a morbid fear of abbreviations. What normal person would use the word “extraordinarily” in a text?

I sent off a quick reply to stop him worrying.

Hi Dad. Thx 4 ur msg. 8 some food 2da 4 1st time and feel ok. Luv u 2 xxx :-)

I knew I was getting better because the fact that I hadn’t showered or washed my hair for three days was starting to bother me. On my way out to the kitchen to return my empty soup bowl I had caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece – a sight which sent me scurrying to the bathroom to take action. My hair was so greasy it was almost waterproof: I had to use nearly half a bottle of shampoo before I could work up a lather, and the run-off was the colour of ditchwater.

I felt rather light-headed when I’d finished, perhaps because I wasn’t used to being vertical, or possibly because the shower was too hot, and I was still sitting on my bed on my wet towel, while the room swayed tipsily around me, when there was a tap at the door.

“Visitor,” said a voice. “Are you decent?”

“No,” I squeaked, diving back into bed and dragging the duvet up to my neck. Just in time, as the door opened and Auntie Jackie ushered Adam inside. He was carrying a bunch of white carnations and looking embarrassed.

“Hello,” he said, trying to peel off the 50% EXTRA FREE label on the polythene wrapper. “I heard you’ve been ill. I brought these to say sorry.” He held them out, and then realising that I couldn’t take them from him as well as hold up the duvet, gave them to Auntie Jackie instead.

“I’ll go and put them in a vase,” she said, retreating graciously.

It occurred to me that this was the first time in my life that anyone had bought me flowers, but I didn’t admit this of course. I just said, “Thank you. But you don’t need to apologise.”

“Well, I feel slightly responsible,” Adam said, advancing into the room, but not going so far as to sit down and make himself comfortable. “My gran’s suffering from dementia – you probably noticed. And she tends to be a bit careless with sell-by dates and stuff. So every few days I have to do a sweep of the fridge and chuck out anything dodgy But lately she’s taken to hiding packets of food in other places – like under the sofa – which means it goes off even quicker. It’s fine if I’m around because I can warn people, but in your case I got there just too late…”

“There’s no proof it was the sandwich that made me ill,” I said, to be kind. “It could have been something I ate on the train.”

He looked sceptical. “No. I found the empty wrapper in the bin. It was well out of date.”

“By how much?”

“You don’t want to know.”

All the while he was speaking, he was looking out of the window or down at his feet or at the wall above my head – anywhere but at me, which gave me a perfect opportunity to observe him without having to make eye contact. He had a nervous mannerism that I hadn’t noticed on our first meeting: a way of twitching his cheeks, as if trying to shrug his glasses higher up his nose. It was quite sweet in a geekish sort of way

“Why do you live with your granny? Are your parents dead?” I asked. Having some experience of this subject myself I felt entitled to ask.

“No, they’re in Telford,” he replied. “Though some might say that amounts to the same thing.” The twitch gave way to a quick smile. “I’m only staying with my gran while I’m at university because it’s cheaper than renting. Plus, I can keep an eye on her. Sort of”

From above came the tripping sound of footsteps on the stairs and presently Rachel bounced in without troubling to knock.

“I’m ready,” she announced.

She was dressed in a white cropped vest, joggers and trainers. Her hair was tied up in two long plaits. It was positively indecent, I thought, the way she flaunted her health and energy while I was still so pasty and weak.

“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to sound politely interested rather than envious.

“Into town and then to play tennis. Do you want me to bring you anything back? Chocolate?” she wheedled.

“Maybe some mints.” There was a foul, rusty taste in my mouth.

“OK.” Rachel held her hand out. For a moment or two I acted mystified.

“Can I have some of that money…please,” she conceded. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get a job.”

Still trapped under the duvet by my nakedness I gestured towards my bag on the door handle and watched in dismay as she helped herself to ten, twenty thirty…

“Bye then.”

They sauntered out and a few minutes later I saw their feet passing along the pavement outside. Their mingled laughter floated carelessly down through my open window

I knew this would happen. Rachel would spend all summer swanning around with Adam and I would be left to amuse myself. I had hoped that there might be a brief lull between boyfriends so that we could spend some time together, the way we used to when we were younger, before she became the Beautiful One.

It seemed to happen overnight, the transformation. One day we were building obstacle courses for the guinea pigs, diving for weights at the Marston Ferry pool, French skipping and practising dangerous stunts on our rollerblades, and the next day she woke up with boobs and periods and didn’t want to play any more. She started straightening her hair and wearing thick black eyeliner, and high heels that made her walk like someone with two sprained ankles. She couldn’t bear to be separated from her friends for a minute: as soon as she came in from school, she would throw her bag on the floor and get straight on to MSN to continue the conversation that they’d just been having on the bus. It seemed to me that all of her time was spent in one of three pursuits: tarting herself up for parties, going to parties or exchanging post-party gossip with her mates. These various commitments had crowded me out over the years.

When the first boyfriend came on the scene, it was even worse. She was never in except with Him, unless they’d had a row, in which case she would stay in bed eating biscuits and listening to suicide rock on her iPod and generally suffering until he came crawling back.

Once she’d got a taste for them, she couldn’t seem to do without a boyfriend. Even when she’d been viciously dumped – a rarity this, as Rachel was usually the first to cool off – and she would rage and storm about having had enough of blokes, this high-minded singleness would only last a couple of weeks. Then her phone would start chirping at unsociable hours, a new name would keep cropping up in conversations and she would revive and blossom again. I couldn’t help envying her luck, or whatever it was. I’d never even got close to having a boyfriend and I wasn’t anything like as fussy as Rachel. He didn’t have to be tall or good-looking – just funny and nice and available, but even that, it seemed, was asking the impossible.

If Rachel hadn’t recently split up with the latest specimen – Todd – and wanted to put some distance between them, I doubt she would have agreed to leave Oxford at all. She said she’d tried to let him down gently, but he was obviously much keener on her than she’d realised. Every time she went to the pub or a party there he’d be, moping around looking tragic and making her feel guilty for flirting with other blokes. In short, his refusal to move on was seriously spoiling her fun, to the point that our banishment to Brighton began to seem a convenient solution.

I was secretly pleased that they’d parted because I’d never much liked Todd. Unlike the fit, confident, sporty types she usually went for, he was thin and arty and depressed. On one occasion I had walked in on him in the bathroom because he’d failed to lock the door and caught him peeing in the washbasin, even though there was a perfectly adequate toilet right beside him.

I said, “Whoops, sorry,” and backed out, pretending I hadn’t noticed. After he’d gone, I bleached the basin and threw my flannel in the bin in case it had been within range, but I never told anyone what I’d seen. Not even Rachel. It was too weird and, besides, my critical insights about her boyfriends were seldom well-received. (Once, in a spirit of sisterly solidarity, I’d passed on the information that a boy she was seeing had been at the Penultimate Picture Palace two rows in front of me with a notorious local slapper, and she hadn’t been the least bit grateful.)

After a while I began to wonder whether I had imagined the whole Todd/bathroom episode, or misinterpreted some entirely innocent and hygienic activity But I knew I hadn’t really.