Read Me Like a Book (18 page)

“Oh, you know. The usual.”

He nods, as though he has the first clue what “the usual” is. When do we ever talk about school?

“What are you studying, Ashleigh?” Elaine asks with a smile. She’s got a bit of spinach between her front teeth, but I don’t want to tell her.

“English, law, and sociology.”

“Oh, Jason did sociology!” she exclaims with delight, looking from one to the other of us as if this is a double date and she’s just figured out that Jayce and I are soul mates. “Didn’t you, Jason?”

“Yep.” He demolishes most of his main course in one mouthful.

“What do you do now?” I ask.

“Work at Smiths.”

I look at him for a beat before I burst out laughing. A second later, he starts too. Pretty soon the pair of us are hysterical, Jayce covering his mouth so he doesn’t spit his food out onto his plate, and me covering my eyes so I can’t see the looks of disapproval I know we’re getting from Dad and Elaine.

“He’s trainee manager, aren’t you, Jason?” Elaine’s saying somewhere in the distance. That just makes us laugh harder.

Eventually we calm down. Dad’s face is bright red, and Elaine has pursed her lips.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But you can see the funny side, can’t you?”

They look blankly at each other.

“It’s just”— Jayce wipes his mouth —“just that after all those years of slaving away, and you being so proud of me doing all those ‘interesting’ A-levels —”

“Jason did psychology and theater studies as well, you know,” Elaine interrupts. “And nearly got As in them both.”

“Which means I actually got Bs,” Jayce says to me. “And Ds in general studies and sociology. And, after all that, what am I doing? I’m just working in a shop.”

“You are not
just
working in a shop,” his mum counters. “You are training to be a manager.”

“OK, Mum. Whatever.”

“And you know very well you could have gone to university,” she adds. Then, looking at me, she says, “He had a place at Nottingham, you know.”

Jayce glares at her.

“It wasn’t me who told you to turn it down,” she tells him.

“Defer.” Jayce reddens slightly.

“Defer, then,” she says, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “But till when? Are you planning to go this year? You’ll lose your place altogether if you don’t. And then what? What on earth is holding you back?”

“I don’t know.” Jayce puts his knife and fork together. His face has colored even more deeply. “Can we drop it now, please?”

I glance at Dad. I’ve not got the giggles anymore.

“I’m going to university, I hope,” I say, trying to direct the attention away from Jayce.

“What do you want to study?” he asks quickly, gratitude in his eyes.

“English, if I get the grades.”

“Where have you applied?”

“Leeds is my top choice. Then Birmingham.”

“Nice one. Well, good luck.”

“I’ll need it,” I say with a smile. “The way things are going at the moment, I might be coming to you for a job stocking shelves come September.”

Jayce laughs briefly, but then glances at his mum and stops.

Dad quickly picks up his menu. “Right, who’s for dessert?” He smiles broadly around the table, and we study the choices with the eagerness of last-minute crammers before an exam.

You up? Got something I wanna run by you.
I’m sitting up in bed early the next morning, texting Cat. I’m wide awake from an idea that I’ve just had.

My phone pings two seconds later.
Whassup?

I text back my idea.

BRILLIANT! Do it!

Fab, thanks. Coffee later?
I ask.

Yup. Back to bed for me now. Let me know how it goes xx

I put my phone away and creep into Mum’s bedroom. She’s still asleep. I’m standing just inside the door, like when I was little and had nightmares. I’ve got my laptop under my arm.

Mum opens an eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you asleep?”

She looks at her clock and groans. “It’s half past eight.”

“I know.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” I perch on the side of her bed, holding my laptop next to me.

“What is it, Ash?”

“There’s something I want you to do.”

“Now?”

“I don’t know what you’ll make of it, but I think you should give it a try.”

She rubs her eyes and sits up. “What is it?”

I put the laptop on the bed and open it up. “Take a look at these adverts.”

“What are you buying?”

“I’m not buying anything.”

“Selling?”

“Not selling.”

I type in the web address for the site. “It’s this . . .”

“You want to go fishing?”

“It’s not about fishing.”

“It’s called
Fish in the Sea
. If it’s not about fishing, what . . .” Mum’s voice trails off as the penny drops.

I pull at my pajama sleeves. “I just don’t think you should be on your own.”

“I’m not on my own. I’ve got you.”

“Mum, you know what I mean.” I think about Dad and Elaine last night, and my resolve strengthens. “You deserve to have someone. A partner.”

Mum sits up. “Oh, Ash, I don’t know. It’s only been a couple of months.”

“Yeah, a couple of months of misery. Come on, Mum. What is there to lose?”

“I just don’t think I’m ready.”

“How will you know if you don’t look?”

Mum straightens out the quilt in front of her. I perch on the bed and grab both her hands. “If you’re not ready, I won’t push it, but let’s just have a look together.”

Mum gives me a quick, tight smile. “All right, then,” she says, shaking her head in resignation. “But I’m not doing anything without a cup of tea first.”

Twenty minutes later we’re sitting on her bed with a pot of tea for her, a steaming strong coffee for me, a plate of toast between us, and a screen full of descriptions of various men seeking love. Each has a one-line heading above his profile. That’s all you get to see without signing up to the site.

“OK, let’s just go through them one by one.” I scroll down to the first one.

Professional male, GSOH, seeks attractive female for friendship, possibly more.

“What’s GSOH?” Mum asks me.

“Good sense of humor. God, Mum,
everyone
knows that! Only you’ve got to have a really bad sense of humor to write it. So forget that one.”

“What about this one?”

I look where she’s pointing.

Young male, seeks an older female for fun times.

“Mum!”

She smiles. “I thought you didn’t want me to be alone!”

“I know, but . . .”

“OK, this one, then.”

Honest, open, medium-built male, good job. Seeks honest, straightforward, laid-back, slim female 25–35.

I stare at Mum.

“What?” She folds her arms.

“It’s absolutely perfect. Except . . .”

“Yes?” She holds her stomach in.

“Well, you’re not straightforward, you’re not laid-back, you’re kind of slim-
ish,
I suppose . . .”

“Anything else?”

“And you’re forty-two!”

Mum lets her breath out and closes the laptop. “You’re right. Why on earth am I doing this? I told you I’m not ready.”

“Look, I didn’t say you’re not attractive. You’re great. You’re funny and smart and interesting and pretty —”

Mum sticks her tongue out at me.

“And you’ve got a brilliant SOH.”

Her mouth starts to curl upward.

“What have you got to lose?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about my dignity, for starters?”

“Come on, Mum, let’s do it. Strike while the iron’s hot.”

“Wait. That’s it!” She opens the laptop again. Turning away from me, she taps a few keys.

“How’s this?” she says a moment later and turns the screen to me.

Strike while the iron’s hot! If you believe life begins at 40, then get in touch and let’s see if it does.

“Brilliant! Especially for someone who isn’t ready yet!”

Her smile wobbles. “Is this a good idea?”

“Yes!” And before she has time to argue, I’m signing her up to the website, showing her where to write her profile, and leaving her to get on with it.

A couple of weeks later, we’re packing up at the end of English.

“Timed essay on Monday, don’t forget!” Miss Murray shouts over the din. I’m trying to the be last to leave the classroom, as usual. Anything to gain a couple more minutes with her.

Robyn pauses by my side. “You coming?”

“See you in the morning,” I say to her. “I just need to ask Miss Murray something.”

Robyn heads off. Miss Murray looks up and smiles as I pause at her desk.

“I just wondered if you’ve got any advice,” I say pathetically.
Really?
Can’t I think of anything better?

“Advice?”

“I’m worried about the practice exams. I’m getting panic attacks and all that.”

“You’re going to be fine, Ash. I can feel it in my bones.”

“What would your bones know about my feelings?” I ask, then stop breathing and look at my feet.

When I glance up, she’s looking right at me. The pounding in my ears almost blocks out her reply. “You’d be surprised.”

I swallow hard. I can’t speak, and we’re locked in that game where you lose if you turn away or blink. It’s too much for me, and I look down first.

“You’re forgetting I was once in your position,” Miss Murray’s saying somewhere in the distance. “I know exactly what you’re going through.”

I can hardly bear the disappointment I feel. She didn’t mean what I thought, then. But what
did
I think? What the hell do I
want
from her?

“I’ll dig out some relaxation exercises for you if you like.”

“Um, yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”

“Anxiety is horrible. Go easy on yourself, OK?”

“Great, thanks. I’d, er, I’d better get going, then,” I say ridiculously, holding my breath and not actually getting going at all while I wait for her to answer. She’s started shuffling papers around on her desk. What’s she thinking? What do I do now? Leave? Say something else? Keep standing here, looking into her eyes forever?

“Ash, I . . .” She breaks the painful thrill of the moment.

“What?”

She looks up. “Sorry, just trying to organize my mountain of marking.” She points at the stack of papers on her desk and grimaces.

“Yeah, yes, of course. Sorry.” I pick up my bag.

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s fine. I want to help. And I’ll bring you the relaxation exercises for next lesson.”

“Brilliant, thanks.”

My mind’s racing for something else I can say, something that can keep me here one minute longer — but I know I should go. Time with Miss Murray is always on a meter, always on the verge of running out. And I’m always wanting to catch those last moments before I have to go.

Does she know how I feel? Can she tell how much I want to — to what? What the hell
is
it that I want to do anyway? Touch her? Kiss her? What’s the
matter
with me?

I drag myself to the door.

“Ash?”

“What?” I can’t meet her eyes.

“Don’t worry about the practice exams,” she says with a smile. “You’ll be fine. You’re doing great — I’m proud of you.”

And there it is. My crumb. The treasure that I can take away and store for later when I will turn it over and over, looking at it from every angle. My goingaway gift that means I am able to leave.

“Thanks,” I mumble as I shut the door and run to meet up with Cat in the yard. By the time we reach the bus stop, I’ve already replayed the conversation three times in my head.

The house is empty when I get in. Mum’s got her first
Fish in the Sea
date. The deal is that I’m going to phone her at eight o’clock. If it’s going well, she’ll just let me know and get back to her meal. If not, I’m to pretend I’m having a personal crisis so she can make a quick getaway.

Eight o’clock on the dot, I call. Mum picks up instantly.

“Ash, tell me the house is burning down.”

“What?”

“You’ve locked yourself out of the house, had to be rushed to the hospital — anything!”

“I take it he’s not the man of your dreams, then?”

“I don’t know about dreams, but he’s boring me to sleep.”

“OK, tell him I’m having a panic attack over my exams and you need to get home to calm me down. I’m a danger to myself in this state.” That’s the second time in one day I’ve used these exams in a panic-attack-related lie. It occurs to me that I probably
should
be a bit worried about them by now.

“Great. See you soon, then,” Mum says.

“Good luck.”

Half an hour later, I’m in my bedroom when I hear the front door open.

“I’m upstairs,” I call. “You managed to get away before he bored you to death, then?”

Mum doesn’t reply. Then I hear voices. I run to the top of the stairs. I try smiling politely while attempting to maintain the appearance of one who is mid–panic attack. Which I almost am now.

“Martin gave me a lift home,” Mum says.
He insisted,
she mouths at me, her back to him.

“Hi, Martin.” He doesn’t look too bad — until I get closer. He’s wearing pointy cowboy boots — who wears actual pointy cowboy boots? — with slim jeans and a black leather jacket. Just wrong.