One Secret Summer (4 page)

An hour later the whole interminably pompous, stuffy dinner was over. She hadn’t spoken to a single person other than to ask
someone where the toilets were. She walked back alone down Broad Street, fighting back tears, limping slightly from the blister
that had formed almost as soon as she’d put on her new shoes. She turned left on to Parks Road and was almost halfway down
when she realised she’d taken the wrong turning. She stopped at the corner of Parks Road and Museum Road – which way was it?
She tried to remember how she’d come. Left or right? She
turned left on Museum Road and then right on Blackhall Road and then suddenly found herself at a dead end. She walked back,
turned left on to Keble Road and stopped. She was well and truly lost. Her shoes were killing her. Where the hell was Holywell
Manor? She turned round to face the direction from which she’d come and began limping back towards the traffic lights.

‘Lost?’ someone shouted out cheerfully. Julia looked up. Christ … it couldn’t be? Him again? She put up a hand to touch her
hair in exactly the sort of self-conscious, girlish gesture she despised in others.

‘No, I’m … I’m just taking a stroll,’ she said as nonchalantly as she could.

‘Yeah, right. Turn right at the end of the road. There’s a sign. You’ll find life a lot easier if you follow them.’ The two
men laughed indulgently and rode off without saying another word.

Julia stared after them, fists clenched. She hobbled to the end of the road and looked at the sign he’d pointed out.
Holywell Manor
. An arrow pointing straight ahead. How the hell could she have missed it? She walked back down St Cross Road, her cheeks
flaming and the horrid taste of tears already in her throat.

MADDY

New York City, September 1991

Her head still throbbing from the pain of the cut on her forehead and with a bruise the size of Iowa beginning to show up
on her knee, Maddy got out of the cab at Gramercy Hall, the NYU residence hall for freshmen students, and looked nervously
around her. Washington Square was full of cars and cabs. There seemed to be hundreds of students being dropped off and
arriving, just as she was. The cab driver helped her with her cases and soon she was given a room number, a key and a swipe
card, which, the Resident Adviser told her, was worth more than her life. Without it, she wouldn’t be able to attend classes,
borrow books, eat, sleep or study. ‘Don’t lose it,’ he said sternly, waggling it in front of her face. ‘What the hell happened
to you anyway?’ he asked, looking askance at her forehead.

‘I … er, tripped,’ Maddy mumbled, taking the swipe card from him. ‘It’s nothing … just a scratch.’

‘If you say so. You’re on the sixth floor. Lifts are over there. Next.’

Maddy beat a hasty retreat. She lugged her suitcases over to the lifts and waited alongside half a dozen other new students,
all studiously avoiding each other’s eyes. She got out on the sixth floor and walked down the corridor of identical-looking
doors until she reached Room 617. The letter from the accommodation office had told her she’d be sharing the room with another
first-year drama student, Sandra Zimmerman. She wondered what Sandra Zimmerman would be like and if she’d already be there.
She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. There was a girl standing near the window. Tall, dark-haired, in a smart,
super-stylish black coat with a fur collar. She turned as Maddy entered the room. Maddy’s heart sank. Not only was she beautiful,
she was without a doubt the most fashionable person Maddy had ever seen. In her sensible black duffel coat Maddy felt like
the proverbial country hick. She swallowed nervously. ‘Hi,’ she said in what she hoped was a steady voice. ‘I … I guess you’re
Sandra?’

‘Yeah, but everyone calls me Sandy. I guess you’re Madison?’

‘Yeah, but everyone calls me Maddy.’ They looked at one another warily, sizing each other up.

‘What the hell happened to your forehead?’ Sandy asked finally.

‘I … I tripped. Over my suitcase,’ Maddy stammered, her cheeks reddening.

Sandy raised one perfectly shaped brow. ‘No wonder. Where
did you find
them
?’ she asked, looking pointedly at Maddy’s two large, falling-apart suitcases.

Maddy’s face turned even deeper red. ‘They … they belonged to my mom.’ She glanced across the room at the two smart black
suitcases standing next to the window. She and Sandy Zimmerman were clearly worlds apart.

‘Well, I’m going downstairs to get a bottle of wine,’ Sandy said, moving towards the door. ‘It’s our first night – might as
well get wasted. What d’you prefer? Red or white?’

Maddy could only stare at her. Wine? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a glass of wine. ‘Er, whatever,’ she said
as nonchalantly as she could possibly manage. ‘Should … would you like me to … how much?’

‘How much?’ Sandy’s brow wrinkled.

Maddy’s stomach was twisting itself in knots of embarrassment. ‘I just meant … would you like to share? The cost, I mean.’
It was one of the things Martha had lectured her sternly about.
Always pay your way, Maddy. You may not have much, but it doesn’t cost you anything to be generous. Remember that.

‘It’s only a bottle of wine,’ Sandy said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t worry about it. Besides, Daddy’s paying.’ She waved her
credit card at Maddy and disappeared out of the door.

Maddy sat down on the edge of the bed as soon as she’d gone, overwhelmed and suddenly very lonely. She’d been in New York
all of three or four hours, she’d fallen over, hurt herself, found her way to her new home and was now confronted with a roommate
who was so far removed from anything or anyone she’d ever encountered before … It was all too much. She got up, wrapping her
arms tightly around her, and pushed open the door to the adjoining bathroom. She stood in the doorway, slightly dazed by the
white tiles and the scent of industrial disinfectant. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, her
eyes closed. She missed her mother; she missed the farm; she missed the animals and the view from her bedroom window. She
missed everything. She opened her eyes and looked at the toilet bowl in the corner.
Gleaming white, solid, pure. She stumbled towards it and knelt down, breathing deeply. It took her a few moments to ready
herself. Then, in one smooth, much-practised gesture, she tucked her hair behind her ears, leaned forward and stuck her fingers
down her throat.

Five minutes later it was all over. She straightened up, a profound sense of relief flowing over her, calming her immediately,
bringing back a sense of order and control. Her eyes were streaming with tears but her head was clear and sharp. She got up
and walked over to the sink. She rinsed her mouth and scooped up a little water in the palm of her hand. She passed it over
her face, wincing as her fingers brushed the cut. It really was nothing – a crust of dried blood, a little bruising, nothing
to worry about. Her face stared back out at her, startlingly white in the harsh bathroom light. She looked at herself, trying
to imagine herself as others might see her. Lightly freckled alabaster skin; a wide, full mouth; brown eyes set fractionally
too far apart. She wasn’t even pretty. Certainly not beautiful. Not like Andrea Halgren or Lindy Myerson – or Sandy Zimmerman.
‘Unusual’ was what people usually said. ‘Striking’, if they were pushed. And in a good mood. She had the sort of face that
showed everything, every emotion, every thought, every nuance. The sort of face that told its own story, hid nothing, left
nothing unsaid. She desperately wished it weren’t so. ‘You’re so damned
sensitive
,’ was what her father always said. Sensitive. Temperamental. Moody. Highly strung. He had a long, detailed list of negatives,
which generally began with her character and ended with her looks. Fat. She was fat. That last comment had tormented her for
the past few years. She could still feel the heat rise in her cheeks every time she remembered it. ‘Just look at them damned
thighs, Madison Stiller. You’ll be bigger than the cows if you don’t watch out!’ She’d been helping him with the early morning
milking. In summer. In shorts and a T-shirt. She’d looked down at her thighs in horror and promptly burst into tears. ‘What
the hell’s the matter with you?’ her father had
shouted after her as she ran from the shed. ‘It’s only a joke. Where are you going? We ain’t done here!’ She fled upstairs
to her room and peeled off her shorts, anxiously examining herself in the mirror. Fat? Was she really fat? She looked at herself
in distress. She had to be. If her father said so, it must be so. She’d eaten almost nothing in the days that followed, much
to Martha’s distress.

‘I don’t know what’s got into you,’ she said crossly, removing yet another almost untouched meal from the table. ‘It’s hanging
out with those two, that’s what’s done it. I never liked Lindy or Andrea, for that matter. Will you look at her, Frank?’ She
appealed to her husband. Frank looked up from the newspaper he was reading and grunted. When he looked back down again, the
subject was closed. Maddy’s worst fears were realised. She
was
fat. He thought so.

But she couldn’t go on eating next to nothing. The following morning in her science class, she’d been called on to come up
to the chalkboard. She’d got up from her seat a little too quickly. There’d been a rushing, singing sensation in her head
and then the next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground. She’d fainted. She’d had almost nothing to eat in a week. Ironically,
given Martha’s reservations, it was Lindy who’d provided the answer. ‘My sister does it,’ she’d said airily. ‘That’s exactly
what you need to do.’

‘What does she do?’ Maddy asked, half-fearfully.

‘It’s easy. You eat what you want and then you just throw up.’

‘How?’

Lindy shrugged. ‘You stick a finger down your throat. It’s easy, I swear. My sister uses a piece of thread. Look, I’ll show
you.’

‘Yeeugh! You’re so
gross
!’ Andrea squealed.

Lindy was right, though. It
was
easy. At home that night, Maddy practised for the first time. She’d eaten a little more at supper than usual, despite her
feelings of revulsion. She went to bed early, pleading a headache, and then locked herself in the bathroom. It took three
or four tries before she managed to
make herself sick – and then it all came rushing up. One and a half sausages, two spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, carrots. She
could hardly breathe with the effort of trying to make herself sick, but the feeling of calm and control that descended upon
her once she had been was like nothing she’d ever experienced. From then on, it was easy. She would wait in her room until
her parents had gone to bed, then she would creep downstairs, open the fridge door as quietly as she could and stuff whatever
she could find into her mouth. She would stand there savouring the taste and feel of biscuits, ice cream or anything else
she could lay her hands on, and then, when she couldn’t possibly cram anything else into her stomach, she would creep back
upstairs and into the bathroom to bring it all back up. When her father disappeared, it was the first thing that ran through
her mind. It was her fault. She was fat and ugly and he’d finally decided he couldn’t stand it any longer. He was so sickened
by the sight of her that he’d had no option but to leave. How else could she explain it?

‘You OK?’ Sandy was sitting on the bed when she finally emerged from the bathroom. ‘You look kinda weird. Here, have some
of this.’ She held out a tumbler full of dark red wine. Maddy took the glass and took a cautious sip. Her mouth tasted of
antiseptic mouthwash and bile. The wine was warm and rich. ‘Cheers,’ Sandy said, lifting her glass. ‘Welcome to New York.’

‘Er, cheers,’ Maddy murmured. She took another sip, trying not to stare. Sandy had tossed her coat casually to one side; she
looked at it curiously.
Donna Karan. DKNY
. Maddy had never heard of Donna Karan. Or DKNY.

‘So where you from anyway?’ Sandy asked conversationally.

‘Iowa,’ Maddy mumbled, looking into her tumbler.

‘
Iowa
?’ Sandy’s voice rose incredulously. ‘Like, the Midwest?’

Maddy nodded, embarrassed. Sandy made it sound like a disease. ‘Are you from New York?’ she asked quickly, wanting to change
the subject.

‘Sure am. Upper East Side. My mom wanted me to stay home
for freshman year but I was just
dying
to get away. I’m going home this weekend, though. You should come with. One of my friends is having a party Friday night.
Why don’t you come?’

Maddy hurriedly swallowed the rest of her wine. Twin surges of excitement and fear rippled through her. A party. A weekend
at someone’s home. She felt as though she’d stepped on to the set of a film. She’d only been gone from Iowa for a day and
a half and already her life felt as though it belonged to someone else.

NIELA

Hartishek, October 1991

It took the Adens almost a week to make it to Hartishek, the sprawling refugee camp just across the Somali–Ethiopian border.
They drove into the camp before dawn. No one spoke, not even the driver, as they wound their way slowly through the maze.
As the light came up, the sprawling mass of tents and shacks revealed itself to them, a vision of hell. A thin pall of smoke
hung over everything – in front of the makeshift shelters women cooked on tiny stoves over coal fires. Hassan looked around
him, too stunned to do anything other than stare. It was Niela who ordered the driver to stop. She wound down the window and
asked a young man wandering aimlessly in front of them if he could direct them to the UNHCR HQ. He pointed out the dusty two-lane
track that led to the centre of the camp. ‘But don’t expect them to give you anything,’ were his parting words. ‘They’ve run
out of everything. Useless.’ He spat the word out bitterly.

‘What d’you think he means?’ Niela asked her father as she wound up the window again. ‘Run out? Run out of what?’

Hassan shook his head helplessly, unable to answer. Niela repeated the directions to the driver, her heart sinking. For the
past three days, the whole family had focused on getting to Hartishek, somehow imagining it to be the end of their journey.
Now that they’d arrived, it was clear that this was only the beginning.