Guilt Trip (5 page)

Dad was back to his normal self the next
morning in the breakfast room. It was as if last night’s talk of Mum and the
Spiritualist meeting had never happened. All forgotten about. And I certainly
wasn’t going to remind him.

“I hope you can entertain yourself for a
few hours,” he said, as he mopped up the last of his full English with a piece
of soft, white roll. “I have to meet the organisers at the gallery at ten and
run through the schedule and everything.”

I assured him that I was more than able to
amuse myself while he went off to work, and could he give me some money so that
I could look round the market.

“Money? To
look
round?” He shook his head: “Window shopping used to be free.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but I need some new
clothes. I can’t go to your opening night looking like a scruff, now can I?”

“Hmm…” Frowning, Dad opened his wallet and
handed me the smallest note he could find. “Now don’t spend it all at once.”

I gave him a steely stare until, rolling
his eyes comically, he placed more on my outstretched palm.

<><><>

We left the table and headed off, only to
bump into Luke in reception.

“Good morning,” he said. “How’s everything
going?”

“Great,” Dad replied brightly.

I smiled sheepishly, still embarrassed
about last night: about Dad’s behaviour. But Luke gave me one of his secret
winks as if to reassure me that everything was okay. I guess he saw a lot of
that sort of thing working in a pub. It was no big deal. But nevertheless, I
was touched by the gesture.

He turned to Dad. “Taken any good shots,
yet?”

“A few. Over at the Changing Well yesterday.
Fascinating.” Dad nodded over at me: “Though some people might not agree.”

“You didn’t like it, then?” Luke looked at
me, eyebrow raised.

“Found it a bit ‘creepy’,” Dad answered for
me, thinking himself most amusing. “What with the wicked witch and - what was
it you called the hanging objects?”

He paused briefly, trying to remember the
right words. I cringed, silently willing him to stop.

He didn’t.

“Oh yes,” he said, “‘voodoo’.”

“Voodoo?” Luke was still staring at me. “You
mean the things petrifying?” He was silent for a second, studying me. “You
didn’t like them then?”

What could I say? I had no excuse: I’d told
Dad exactly that - that it was creepy voodoo. And now I looked like a complete
idiot. Luke was obviously into geology, like Dad: he probably loved that well. I
could feel the heat rushing to my face. Tongue-tied and ridiculous yet again, I
just stood there, speechless.

“Anyway, I’m off now, Melissa.” Oblivious
to my inner torture, Dad turned towards the door. “I’ll be back round about
lunchtime.”

“Okay.”

“So don’t get up to any mischief while I’m
away,” he laughed.

And then he was gone, leaving me standing
there - with Luke.

At first we were silent. But then Luke
spoke. “So, all on your own this morning, then?” he said, tapping his fingers
on the desk.

I nodded, aware that I should probably
leave, but unwilling to do so until I’d put things right: I needed to explain that
I thought the well was fascinating too - sort of.

But then Luke checked his watch, which made
me feel even worse. He was obviously keen to get away and I was holding him up.
So, abandoning any plans to redeem myself, I immediately turned to go.

But then he spoke again. “Delivery’ll be
here any minute,” he said, casually. “But I’ll be about later, if you’re at a
loose end.

I looked back at him, uncertainly. What did
he mean? Was this an actual offer - an invitation to spend time with him? Or was
it just something he felt obliged to say, what with Dad having gone off?

I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell.

But it was clearly my cue to go.

And so, though hugely grateful that he’d
even
consider
giving up his free time
to me, I was determined not to let myself be a burden to him. Awkwardly shrugging
off his suggestion and mumbling that I’d better get on, I headed for the stairs,
trying to look purposeful.

But, in my haste, I stumbled over the first
step.

Mortified, I glanced back; but, thank God,
he was no longer there.

<><><>

It was still chilly outside, the sky a
little overcast and the air damp. But at least the wind had finally died down.

I zipped up my jacket as I crossed over the
road to the market, which once again covered the town square. I wandered aimlessly,
past various stalls: pet-related products, various dusters and mops and
cleaning stuff, bolts of fabric, organic fruit and veg... Then I came to a van
selling a vast array of local cheeses, their smell overpowering everything else
in the vicinity. I moved on, passing a meat counter advertising the best pork
pies and scotch eggs, and a burger van. All quite dull, really.

Finally, I came to a few clothes stalls. The
first was way too old for me, featuring this year’s must-haves in polyester and
rayon frocks. The second was obviously aimed at a younger buyer, but on closer
inspection it wasn’t quite right either. All a bit ordinary compared to my
favourite shops back home. Nevertheless I had a good root around, making sure I
examined every item of clothing they had. But no: there was nothing.

Disappointed, I moved on, only to find
myself faced with rails and rails of T-shirts - mostly black - covered in
photos of bands, or the artwork from their album covers. The guy in charge was
sitting with his big, boot-clad feet up on the counter, heavy metal blasting
from his stereo as if iPods had never been invented. His hair was back in a ponytail,
which left his neck uncovered, displaying a tangle of badly designed tattoos
which crept up from under his leather jacket. I nodded ‘hi’ to him and began to
look through the racks. Not my usual kind of thing, obviously - but I still had
loads of time to kill, and there might be something a bit more up-to-date in
there somewhere.

I was rummaging through my second rail, giving
up hope of there being anything at all from my lifetime, when one of the T-shirts
slid off its hanger and fell to the ground.

I picked it up.

And there he was: the same sun-bleached
hair, the same striped top, holding his guitar, with the rest of the band in
the background. It was the group from the poster I’d seen, briefly, on the wall
of my bedroom back at the pub. Not just a figment of my imagination at all,
then.
 
An actual lead singer from a
real band, its name printed underneath the photo.
Nirvana
.

So how had I done that? I mean, obviously
I’d
heard
of the band before, but I
didn’t know much about them. And I certainly didn’t know what they looked like.
Did I...? So how had I imagined them so clearly on my bedroom wall?

I slung the T-shirt over the rail and
hurried away, my mind reeling.

Buying a cup of tea from the burger van, I
looked for somewhere to sit down, but the benches arranged round the monument
looked damp. There was the bus stop, empty, on the other side of the
marketplace from the pub. Not exactly
Starbucks
,
but better than nothing. I wandered over.

Stamping my feet to warm them, I looked
idly at the bus timetable, at the long list of stops: all places I’d never
heard of. But I
did
recognise one. I
would be going there that very afternoon: the Hell’s Mouth Show Caves.

I shivered from the cold, sitting myself
down on the bench trying to warm my hands on my paper cup, thankful that at
least we’d be going by car.

But as I sipped the overly-brewed drink, I
couldn’t put off thinking about it any longer. About the poster.
Why
had I imagined such a thing when it
had nothing whatsoever to do with the accident? I mean, I could understand if one
of the band’s songs had been playing in the car when we skidded off the road,
and that I had subconsciously tuned in to it. But I knew that that couldn’t be
true, as Mum had just switched the radio
off
.

So, like the bear, was it just a weird, random
creation of my mind?

I shook my head. Even then, it made no
sense. How could I imagine a band I didn’t really know? I
must have seen them before. I
must
have. I looked across the street at the pub, the Fox and Hound, trying to
work out which of the second floor windows was mine and whether it allowed for
a clear view of the T-shirt stall. Maybe the T-shirt had been on more prominent
display yesterday or the day before and I’d seen it as I’d looked out? That
must be the answer.

Finding my room, I supposed that it
was
possible; but that wasn’t exactly
proof was it. It was a bit like the drawing pin marks on the wall. Maybe I
had
seen them. But maybe
not
. It didn’t really prove anything at
all.

But by now my eyes were idly wandering
further along the second floor windows. I wondered which room Luke slept in. What
it was like. What he wore in bed. Then I laughed to myself as I remembered how
he’d raised his eyebrows, pretending to look scandalised, that we slept on the
same floor of the building.

But it wasn’t really the weather for
sitting on the metal bench for too long, so, having finished my drink, I got going.

I browsed round a few more stalls, but
there was nothing for me to buy. Typical. Money in my pocket, and nothing to
spend it on.

But then, spotting a make-up stall I went
over for a look. There was a good selection. I mean, not brands I knew, but
loads of interesting colours. Not your usual run-of-the-mill stuff at all.

“Hi!” The stallholder was chatting with her
friend over a cuppa, but greeted me as I approached. Maybe in her early forties
or so, she smiled a bright scarlet smile, her big, stiff lacquered curls
bouncing as she put down her mug and drew nearer.

She looked down at the pearlescent eye shadow
I was now inspecting. “Nice one, that,” she said. “Want to try it?” She
indicated the tall stool she’d been sitting on next to a mirror under the
awning at the end of the stall.

I shrugged, nothing else to do, and climbed
up into the seat as she gathered her tools about her. Taking a cleansing wipe, she
removed my gold eyeliner.

“You on holiday here?”

“Yes.”

“Shame the weather’s turned so bad for you.”

Her chunky bracelets clunked together as
she opened a box of testers and began to dab the silvery powder on my eyelid.

“Maybe we could try defining it with
something darker too,” she said to herself, considering, her finger running
across her selection of eyeliner pencils and tapping on a glittering charcoal
grey.

Having outlined my eyes, she began blending
the two colours together, explaining what she was doing all the time, gradually
easing them towards the outer edges of my eyelids.

“There,” she said. “All done.”

“That’s lovely, Paula,” her friend
complimented her. “You’ve made her eyes look huge.”

“Yes,” Paula smiled happily. “She’ll have all
the boys after her now.”

She stepped back and I peered in the mirror.
Her friend was right. My eyes did look much bigger and bolder now. And I looked
older. Mum wouldn’t have been pleased.

“Thanks,” I said, “I love it.”

Shoving my hand in my pocket, I brought out
some of Dad’s cash, and, smiling, held it out to her.

However, ignoring the money, she suddenly
stepped back, as if something had startled her.

But she quickly recovered, patting my arm
apologetically. “Sorry, love. Don’t mind me. It’s just that, for a second
there, you didn’t half remind me of someone I used to know. A customer.”

She turned to her friend. “I’ve told you
about her,” she said in confidential tones. “The one who had the accident.”

I smiled, uncertainly, as she took the
money.

 
“Do you mean the one whose mother was the
waitress?” her friend asked as Paula handed me my change and the products now
in a leopard-print paper bag.

“Yes,” she answered, pulling a sympathetic
face. “That’s right. Before Sandy.”

<><><>

It was even colder now as I wandered round
the last couple of stalls, and there was nothing else to buy.

I hesitated, shivering, wondering what to
do; but when I looked over at the pub, there was Luke, leaning in the doorway, watching
me. Instantly my stomach filled with knots.

I don’t know if he could sense the effect
he was having on me, but, running a quick hand through his hair, he gave me a smile
which made the knots twist and tighten. And then he mimed at throwing a dart.

As I neared him, he nodded at my makeover. “Trying
out a new look?” he smiled, his tone approving. And I could feel his eyes
examining me, taking me in.