Entangled (14 page)

day 25

The morning after the big Sal/Nat meeting, I felt like death. Hardly surprising. My head was thumping, and when I licked my lips it felt like my tongue was twice its usual size and that all the moisture had been sucked out of it. I was sprawled across the bed starfish-style, fully dressed, make-up clinging on for dear life. All in all, not the prettiest picture – thank God Nat hadn’t come back with me.

I got up gingerly, testing my body to see if movement was going to result in another bout of barfing. Luckily it didn’t, so I headed towards the bathroom. The smell of frying bacon wafted up the stairs. Now, food smells can go one of two ways when you’re that hungover. Either it’s exactly what you need OR it’ll have your head down the toilet again in no time. That morning, a bacon sarnie seemed just the ticket. But I was weirded out by the significance of the glorious bacon smell: it meant that Mum was cooking breakfast. Not so strange for normal human beings perhaps, but for
my
mum? She hadn’t made breakfast in years.
Why now?

And then I remembered – my results.
Shit!
Had I texted her last night? It was all a bit hazy in my head. I hurried back to my room and scrabbled through my bag to get my phone. Four missed calls, all from Mum. I checked my sent items, and sighed with relief when I saw that I had texted her after all: ‘All As and Abs – piece of cake. Back late tonight. G’

Maybe not the nicest message in the world, but it did the job. The missed calls had been made about every half-hour after my text.
Hmm. This is not good
.

No time for a shower, so I gave my face a quick wash and brushed my teeth. As I trudged downstairs I was trying to figure out the best way to play this. It all depended on
her
. I was going to have to wing it.

I paused at the kitchen door. And there she was, standing in front of the hob, fish slice in hand. With an apron on! She looked a bizarre parody of a domestic goddess. The whole picture was wrong, and I realized why – she was sort of smiling. Just a little hint of a smile, as she flipped the bacon (as crisp as can be, just the way I like it) onto a plate.

I stood in the doorway, quietly surveying this scene of strangeness. Mum turned to face me, and the sort-of-smile even managed to stay in place. ‘Grace! You’re up at last. Just in time for breakfast. Here, you sit down and I’ll get you some orange juice.’ I did as I was told. Who was this woman and what had she done with my mother? Whoever she was, she poured me a glass of orange juice (freshly squeezed!) before making up the sandwiches. I didn’t speak, for fear of breaking whatever voodoo magic spell was going on.

And then we were sitting opposite each other at the table, eating our sandwiches in silence. The sandwich was perfect.

I cleared my throat. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone last night. It was in my bag – I didn’t hear it.’

Mum looked me in the eye. I noticed that for once she wasn’t caked in make-up. She looked better for it – lighter, younger. ‘That’s all right. Did you have a nice time?’

‘Yeah, it was fun … from what I can remember.’

Her smile slipped a little. ‘You shouldn’t drink so much, you know.’ I bristled, but didn’t take the bait. Just munched on my sandwich.

‘Congratulations on your results. I’m … you’re so much brighter than I was at your age.’ She laughed a dainty little laugh. ‘I barely scraped through my O levels. No, you certainly didn’t get your brains from me. That’s your dad’s doing.’

The mention of Dad came as a shock. She NEVER talked about him. And every time
I
tried to talk about him, she changed the subject. I hated that.

Mum reached across the table and put her hand over mine. ‘He’d have been so proud of you, Grace. You know that, don’t you?’ I nodded. My throat felt suddenly tight. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I would
not
let myself cry in front of her. And then before I knew it, the moment had passed. It was like Mum suddenly remembered who she was.

‘Anyway … I can’t sit around here all day. There’s so much to do. You have remembered I’m away tonight, haven’t you? I’ll be back Monday – no, maybe Tuesday,’ she babbled, clearly uncomfortable. She started rushing around the kitchen, clearing away dishes and wiping the table.

I got up to leave. ‘Thanks Mum. Breakfast was really nice.’

‘Well, don’t get too used to it. I expect you to be pulling your weight around here a bit more from now on. I don’t see why I should spend all my time running after you …’ and on and on and on and on. Oddly enough, I was sort of comforted by this.
Here
was the mother I knew and loved. Well … tolerated.

I spent the rest of the day in my room, feeling pretty crap about the way things had gone last night. I was annoyed with myself for getting so drunk in front of Nat. I justified it by deciding that if I was willing to be a drunken fool in front of him, maybe it showed I was feeling a bit more secure in the relationship.
Yeah, right
.

I called him, but he didn’t pick up. This happened more often than I would have liked, and it was starting to annoy me a little. Still, I left a message which I thought was a nice balance of apology for being a drunken idiot and light-hearted flirtation.

Then I called Sal, which went better than expected. She accepted my apologies for springing Nat on her AND for being a drunken idiot with a minimum amount of grovelling from me. She didn’t seem up for the usual post mortem of the night’s events though. In fact, she seemed pretty distracted. Not distant, exactly, but certainly not engaged in her usual Sal-type way. I suggested another night out with Nat – I was determined that they would get to know each other properly. I got a vague ‘Yeah, maybe’ for my troubles. And she reminded me that Nat was off back to uni in a few weeks so it might not be easy to arrange. Like I needed reminding. Nat and I hadn’t really talked about it. The future is a very scary thing, especially when you can’t believe your luck at how the here-and-now is going.

It wasn’t as if Nat was going to be at the other end of the country or anything extreme like that. A fifty-minute train ride is nothing, if you really think about it. And it would be cool going to see him in his flat. No chance of certain little brothers walking in on us. I saw no reason why anything should change between us. I could see him every weekend, and even during the week sometimes – I could just get the train back early in the morning. No worries. I wished Sal hadn’t mentioned it though. There were still a good few weeks of maximum Nat time for me to enjoy, and I intended to make the most of every second. Since Mum was going away yet again (what’s so great about London anyway?), I had the perfect chance for some quality time with him. It almost made me grateful that Mum was so useless. Almost.

I texted Nat, seeing if he wanted to come over the next day. I’d cook something special (or rather, something vaguely edible) and then we’d spend the rest of the weekend in bed. Nat could call in sick at the pub, and I’d have him all to myself for three whole days. The thought of it sent a shiver of anticipation through my body.

Nat didn’t reply to my text for aaaaages. Mum had already departed in her usual whirlwind panic, leaving nothing behind but a faint cloud of too-sweet perfume and a list of the ready meals she had ever so thoughtfully stocked up on. When it eventually did arrive, Nat’s text was short and to the point – a simple ‘OK, see you then.’ Not quite what I’d been after. Maybe he
was
annoyed at me for being such an embarrassment last night. Or maybe he was just being a boy. They’re just not all that communicative.

I got an early night and slept for a stupidly long time. Woke up feeling groggy and slow, so I decided to go for a run to kick-start the day. The first twenty minutes or so were hideous. My lungs felt like they would burst, and my legs didn’t seem to want to go on at the pace I was demanding. I felt sure I would collapse in a sweaty heap on the pavement. But of course I didn’t. I did what I always do – I ran through it. I started to relish the pain, to enjoy it even. And then it went away, and I was flying.

All I could think about was him. I loved him, I was sure of it. Nothing had ever felt this right before. Nothing had ever felt even
close
to right before. Being with Nat was so different to what I was used to, in every single way. I hadn’t cut myself for weeks. Was I changing? Had this glimpse of what a normal relationship could be like actually altered me in some fundamental way? Maybe I could be one of those girls after all, living their shiny happy lives with their loving and supportive boyfriends always there to back them up and make everything right.

Before my default setting of cynicism could raise its ugly head, I stomped all over it with thoughts of Nat and how perfect he was. Of course, I knew full well, even then, that he wasn’t
actually
perfect. There were tiny, little things that I would maybe change if I had the chance. Sometimes he could be a little too serious. And (a lot) more often than not it seemed like
I
was the one who made plans for us to spend time together. I was usually the first one to call. And there was the whole not-answering-the-phone thing. But that was OK – everyone has their strengths. I happened to be good at organizing things, and Nat happened to excel at being hot.

Should I tell him that I loved him? Or should I wait for him to say it first? This was all new to me. The nearest I’d ever got was having ‘I’d love to do xxxxxxx (insert whatever pure filth you can think of here) to you’ whispered in my ear. Not exactly
Romeo and Juliet
material. But this actual, real ‘love’ business was a whole different kettle of fish. It just … seemed like something he might like to know. And then he would say it back and we would kiss and have sex (even though we’d just done it twice) and we would live happily ever after in a cottage with a thatched roof and we’d have a dog named Boy and no children because children are annoying. The End.

But what if he
didn’t
say it back to me? What if there was an awkward silence? What if my saying those three little words was the beginning of the end for us?

By the time I threw myself down on the sofa, panting like a dog (named Boy?), I was thoroughly confused. There was only one thing left to do: ask Sal. She’d know what I should do. She was nearly always right. It was something we’d joke about: Sal was right eighty per cent of the time, which meant that I was right a measly twenty per cent. You can’t argue with numbers like those.

Sal answered after what seemed like a million rings. ‘Hey, you.’

‘Hey, you, yourself. What are you up to today?’

‘Not much. Don’t suppose you want to do something tonight? I’m so bored.’

‘Aw, Sal, I’d love to, but I’ve already made plans with Nat … He’s coming over later. Little does he know I’m planning to keep him as my own personal sex slave for the rest of the weekend.’ I laughed, but didn’t hear anything at the other end. ‘Sorry, sweetie, I really would like to hang out with you. Let’s do something early next week?’ I thought for a moment. ‘Or maybe you could come over on Sunday and hang out with us? You two could get to know each other better, and I promise to be less drunk.’

‘Hmm, I don’t know, Grace. I don’t want to be a third wheel or whatever – watching you guys groping each other isn’t exactly my idea of a fun evening.’

‘C’mon, it won’t be like that at all. I promise. Pleeeeeeeeeease. Say you’ll come. For me? Go on, you know you want to …’

‘Doesn’t sound like I have much choice, does it?’

‘Nope. That’s settled then. It’ll be awesome – you’ll see.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Actually … there was something I wanted to talk to you about … I think I might tell him that I love him.’ I breathed out in relief.
There. I’ve said it
. Silence down the line. ‘Sal? You still there?’

‘I’m still here.’ Her voice was quiet.

‘Well? What do you think? I need you to tell me what to do.’

‘Do you love him? I mean, really.’

‘Yes, I do. Really. He’s … I dunno. He’s just
right
, y’know?’

More silence from Sal. I wondered what she was thinking. ‘Sal, should I tell him?’

She sighed. ‘It’s up to you. I can’t help you with this one. You know that, right?’

‘But what would
you
do? You’re good at this stuff.’

‘What stuff?
Love?
Are you joking? Do you even
remember
the last couple of months?’

‘I meant you’re good at knowing what’s right, and you know me better than anyone does. What if he doesn’t feel the same way? Do you think saying it could ruin everything?’

‘I don’t know. Things get ruined for all sorts of reasons.’

‘Er … thanks for the positivity!’

‘Sorry. You just … you never know what’s going to happen. Look, Grace, I’m going to have to go – that was the doorbell. Good luck with whatever you decide.’

I barely had time to say goodbye and confirm our plans for Sunday before she hung up. Now I was none the wiser about the Nat situation. And confused about Sal. I hadn’t heard the doorbell ring. And they had one of those stupidly loud chiming ones too.

Later, I hopped on a bus to the supermarket to stock up for the weekend. I roamed the aisles, waiting for inspiration to strike.
What can I cook for Nat that won’t be a complete disaster?
Eventually I decided on steak. Surely I couldn’t fuck that up
too
badly? And red meat seemed like a proper boy dish. I was baffled by the choice on offer: sirloin, rump, rib-eye, fillet. It was all just meat to me. After much pondering, I went for fillet.

‘I wouldn’t get that if I were you. Rump is better – much tastier.’

I turned around to find myself face to face with Devon.

‘Hi! Um … thanks for the tip.’ I felt uneasy. I don’t like bumping into people in random places. I like seeing people in context: Devon in school, for example. It was weird to see him standing there, a basket swinging awkwardly by his side. I noticed that the basket was empty except for three different types of cheese.