Entangled (8 page)

Those first few weeks with Nat were pretty great. For the first time in my life I was perhaps eighty per cent happy. And the missing twenty per cent was all Sal. Probably more than that, if I’m honest. I thought about her a lot, and nearly picked up the phone a hundred times. But as distractions go, Nat was more than adequate.

We had been going out for about a month when I decided to pay Sophie a visit. I’m not entirely sure why. Anyway, I popped into the shop on the off-chance and, sure enough, there she was behind the counter. The shop was busy. A yummy mummy with a screaming baby in a bizarre sling-type thing. Two old ladies gossiping and trading stories of ailments. A shifty-looking boy wearing skinny grey jeans and a black T-shirt emblazoned with the name of some band I’d never heard of. He was lurking in the condom section.
Bless
.

I waited until the old dears were the only ones left in the shop. They were oblivious to everything, not to mention slightly deaf. At least I assumed that’s why they were talking so very loudly about haemorrhoids.
Grim
.

I headed up to the counter, and Sophie and I exchanged cautious hellos.

‘How are you, Grace? Is everything …?’

‘Fine, thanks. Oh, yeah … it was a false alarm, by the way.’

‘You must be relieved.’

‘Uh, yeah, just a little bit.’ I forced a laugh, but Sophie didn’t laugh with me.

‘So listen, Soph …’ I began, trying not to be put off by the guarded look on her face. ‘I’ve been thinking … I don’t suppose you’d like to go out for a drink one night, would you? Celebrate my lucky escape from the nightmare of nappies and sleepless nights?’ I was kind of nervous, much to my surprise.

‘Er … I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘Steady! I’ve heard that too much enthusiasm can seriously damage your health.’

‘Well, it’s just a bit weird, that’s all. We haven’t spoken in God knows how long and suddenly you want to go for a drink with me.’ Sophie was picking at the edge of the counter with her thumbnail.

‘Well, when you put it that way, I suppose it
is
a bit weird. Still, I just thought it might be a laugh … but if you don’t want to, that’s cool.’

‘What about your partner-in-crime?’ I hated when people called Sal that. I’m not sure why it bothered me so much. Looking back, it was actually sort of cool. Like Batman and Robin or something. Except they’re partners-against-crime. And Robin is
so
gay.

‘I do have other friends, you know. Sal and I aren’t joined at the hip, believe it or not.’ Much to my surprise, Sophie laughed. Sophie Underwood was laughing at ME!

‘Yeah, whatever. You’re like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Or maybe the Chuckle Brothers.’ She definitely had a glint in her eye now. This was something I hadn’t seen before.

‘Hey!’

‘Aw, come on, Grace. You know it’s true!’ She paused and then said, ‘I suppose a drink would be nice. Tonight?’ Nat was working that evening, so that was good. Not that I’m one of those pathetic girls who has to spend every minute of every day with their boyfriend. Sophie and I arranged to meet in Bar Code, a quietly cool bar in town – with a seriously crap name.

As soon as I got home, I headed to the kitchen and grabbed the penguin jar off the top shelf. I’m tall enough to reach it without standing on a chair now. Just like always, the jar had a few tenners in it. I took three – enough for a semi-decent night out.

I can’t even remember when I first started taking money from that jar. Mum MUST have known, but she never mentioned it. Like some sort of unspoken agreement: I wouldn’t call her on being a terrible mother, and she wouldn’t call me on being a sneaky little thief. I always looked on it as a sort of payment for babysitting myself, and maybe she did too. That’s why she kept topping it up every few weeks. I’ve never really thought about it before, but it was kind of decent of her. She could have cut me off completely, but she didn’t.

Mum cooked an early tea, which I could barely stomach. I was weirdly nervous. We had a half-proper conversation for the first time in ages. She even asked me what I was up to that evening (like she cared). I twirled some spaghetti round my fork, watching the orange globules of fat from the sauce swirl round the plate.

‘I’m going for a drink with Sophie.’ I looked up in time to see her perfectly plucked eyebrows rise in surprise.

‘Sophie?’

‘Yeah,’ I muttered like the moody little cow I am.

‘God, I haven’t seen her in … well, it’s been a long time. I didn’t know you two were still friends.’

‘We’re not. I mean, I just ran into her and we decided to catch up tonight.’ I shrugged, like it was no big deal. Which it wasn’t.

‘Is Sal going too?’

‘No, why would she be?’

‘No reason. I just haven’t seen her around in a while.’ Mum was looking down at her plate now too. I got the feeling she’d been waiting to ask about this for some time.

‘So?’

‘Have you two had a falling-out?’ I swear to God, the way she said it made me want to hit her.
A falling-out?!
Like I’d pulled Sal’s pigtails, or she wouldn’t share her toys with me.

I gave her my most withering look, which, I have to say, is pretty withering. ‘No, we haven’t had a “falling-out”, but thanks for asking.’

Mum pretended to ignore my tetchiness. ‘It’s just, well, you know I’m here, if you want to talk about anything. You do know that, don’t you, sweetie?’ I could have choked on my garlic bread! First of all, saying that I could
talk
to her? And second of all, calling me
sweetie
? Had she been watching some kind of How To Be A Parent programme on TV?

I looked at her for a few moments. Her hair highlighted to within an inch of its life. Her face strangely lacking in wrinkles or emotion or love or anything. I was supposed to believe that she suddenly cared?
Yeah, right. Nice try
.

‘Thanks,
Mother
,’ I said as sarcastically as was humanly possible. ‘I’ll let you know when I feel the need to share.’ I stood up, chucked my napkin on top of the congealing spaghetti and left the table without another word. When I turned to head up the stairs, I saw her framed by the kitchen doorway, coolly sipping her glass of water and staring into space.

The bus dropped me off just over the road from Bar Code. There was a bouncer outside, but it was still early so there was no queue. Inside, the bar was all retro chic – shabby leather sofas and weird curvy chairs. I looked for Sophie, not an easy task given all the nooks and crannies. It’s like when you’re at school, scanning the canteen for your friends – and trying to look as if that’s the
last
thing you’re trying to do. I embarked on a quick circuit of the bar, as nonchalantly as possible, and eventually spotted Sophie secreted in a booth in one corner. She was tapping away on her phone, playing with her hair at the same time. No drink on the table in front of her.

‘Hi, sorry I’m late,’ I said, knowing full well that I was exactly on time. Sophie was even worse (or better, depending on how you feel about these things) than I was when it came to punctuality.

Sophie put down her phone and said hi. I asked if she wanted a drink, and she nodded. ‘Vodka and coke … a double if that’s OK?’ I managed to hide my surprise.
Little Sophie Underwood … drinking doubles? My, my
.

When I came back with the drinks I slid into the booth opposite Sophie. A quick ‘Cheers’, a swig of vodka, and my first chance to really check her out. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and was wearing (
shock, horror!
) make-up. Actual, proper make-up. I hadn’t even bothered with any (well, the bare minimum, but that hardly counts). I had to admit, Sophie looked pretty good. I even recognized the top she was wearing. A rather cool little red number from Top Shop that showed off her breasts to full advantage. I suddenly felt self-conscious in my somewhat scraggy black-top-and-jeans combo. It was unsettling. I needed to re-establish the equilibrium, pronto. After a bit of small talk about exams and whatever, I started telling her all about Nat. Now, I really dislike girls who brag about their boyfriends, as if they deserve a bloody medal for having bagged a half-decent one. But I couldn’t help myself.

Sophie listened politely while I talked, nodding in all the right places, saying all the right things. By the time I’d run out of steam, we’d both finished our drinks. Sophie went to the bar this time – probably grateful for a breather from me. When she came back, I asked her the killer question.
I am a bad person
.

‘Not … not at the moment.’ She opened her mouth as if she had something else to say, and then promptly snapped it shut again. I raised a quizzical eyebrow. She swirled her drink round and round, clinking the ice.

‘Well, there is someone I sort of … well … kind of like.’ Sophie exhaled loudly, as if she’d just made some kind of major confession, like she’d been shagging the whole rugby team or something.
This is more like it
. I felt more comfortable with Awkward Sophie

I pressed her to try to find out who the mystery boy was, but she kept shtum. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that I was being unbelievably patronizing … As if I was her big sister, teasing her because she was finally getting interested in boys. I apologized and changed the subject.

We talked about school for a bit, but there really wasn’t much to say. We might as well have gone to different schools entirely for all the common ground we shared. But after a while and a couple more drinks, the conversation flowed a lot more smoothly. Sophie had a surprisingly dry sense of humour. She hadn’t had that when we’d been friends, had she? She must have grown it or bought it off the Internet or something.

As the evening progressed, the inevitable reminiscing began. Like the time we’d scared ourselves shitless, climbing in the window of the old deserted house at the top of our road. I’d somehow become obsessed with the idea that a creepy bald man with bloodshot eyes and no eyelids lived there, lying in wait for the neighbourhood children. The crack addicts who were hanging out in the attic actually gave us a bigger scare than anything my overactive imagination could ever have come up with.

Sophie was handling her drink a lot better than I would have expected. I couldn’t help thinking that you don’t build up that kind of tolerance by sitting in your room every night, studying like a good little girl.

‘I have to say, Soph, you’re pretty hardcore. Most people would be on the floor by now.’

‘Don’t look so surprised!’

‘Well, I kind of am,’ I admitted, a tad sheepishly. ‘I suppose I didn’t think …’

‘What? You didn’t think that I was “that sort of girl”? More an “in bed by ten, cuddling a teddy bear and reading a book” sort of girl? Is that it?’

I shrugged. ‘Welllllllll …’ We both laughed.

‘Oh, Grace, you really have no idea, do you?’ I noticed a slight edge to her voice, but we were both still smiling. ‘We haven’t been friends for five years … Do you not think that maybe, just maybe, I might have changed a little bit in all that time?’

‘Er … course. I was just …’ I stammered.

‘Just what?’ Sophie looked amused at my discomfort.

‘Nothing.’

‘You know, I bet I could tell you a thing or two that would surprise you.’ Her words weren’t exactly slurred, but she was definitely tipsy.

‘Oh yeah? Like what?’

‘You think I’m going to spill out all my deepest, darkest secrets just like that? Not a chance.’

‘Well, maybe if we did this again some time? I think that would be … cool.’

She looked at me, weighing up the truth of my words. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. I’ve had fun. Haven’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ She paused and then went on: ‘You’ve fallen out with Sal, haven’t you?’

‘What makes you say that?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘You should sort it out.’ Now this was all turning a bit strange. I had half a mind to tell her to fuck off and mind her own business.

‘No offence, Soph, but I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘Fair enough, but don’t just give up on her. It’s easy to do that when things get hard.’ She stood up, a little unsteady on her feet. ‘Sometimes you need to dig a bit deeper and find out who someone really is instead of walking away.’

‘Are we talking about you or Sal now?’

She shrugged again, and laughed. ‘Who can say? I’m wasted … Don’t listen to me! Right, I’ve got to run or my mum’s going to kill me. You’re OK to get the bus on your own?’ I nodded dully. ‘OK. I’ll see you soon?’ Another nod from me. And then she was gone.
Bizarre. And what’s with the not-so-cryptic words of wisdom?

When I got home I had a sudden drunken desire to look at old photos. So I dug out my photo album from under my bed. I’d put it together a few years ago, decorating the cover with a collage of cat pictures for some unknown reason.

The first few pages were filled with pictures of a little me. Quite cute, bad hair and a gappy smile. Then there was one of me and Sophie in the back garden, arms slung around each other, mischief in our eyes. You could just make out my dad in the background, tending to the barbecue, can of beer in one hand, tongs in the other. He loved that barbecue. Any opportunity to cook outside (and it didn’t even have to be summer) and he’d be out there, blowing on the white-hot coals, explaining to me the finer points of marinating meat. I would ask question after question, just happy to listen to his voice. Not really understanding, not really even caring, just wanting to spend time with him.

I wonder if it will ever get easier – thinking about him. You’d have thought that I’d have got used to the idea of him being gone.
If only
. My two favourite words when I’m feeling sorry for myself.

If only he was still here.

If only Mum could understand.

If only I could stop hurting myself, punishing myself.

Useless words.

Anyway, looking at the photos made me feel sad and happy at the same time. I slipped a picture of Dad out from its plastic sleeve. It was a photo I had taken one Christmas. There was wrapping paper strewn everywhere. Dad was sitting in the middle of it with sparkly baubles dangling from his ears. I remember directing him where to sit and oh-so-artfully hanging the baubles. In the photo he’s laughing hard and his eyes are squeezed shut. My mum’s slippered foot sneaks into the bottom left-hand corner of the frame.