Read Me Like a Book (6 page)

So I decide on some form of the truth. But before I’ve opened my mouth, Mum squeaks from between tight lips, “Is that it, Gordon?”

“Hmm?” He looks at her, genuinely bemused.

“Is that
it
?” she repeats, growling the words like a pit bull on a bad day. “The Gordon Walker school of discipline. That’s it, is it?”

Dad’s face has gone slightly pink and seems even thinner than usual. “Give the girl a chance to answer, love,” he says calmly, but with a bit more force than you usually get with Dad. Think “poodle,” but with attitude.

“It’s
obvious
she was out. I heard the
door,
Gordon! You
must
have heard the door.”

Dad’s pink deepens into mauve.

“The door?” I break in. “When?”

“You tell me, young lady,” Mum replies without moving her eyes from Dad.

If there’s one thing I can’t
stand,
it’s when Mum starts calling me “young lady.” The only thing that annoys me more is when she uses my full name.

“Yes, Ashleigh, I’m talking to you.” She turns to me. Face like a brick wall.

Seriously? This is what we’re doing here? The pair of them give each other the silent treatment for days on end, and then, instead of sorting out their marriage problems, Mum decides to turn her anger on me?

Something’s starting to bubble inside me, like the beginning of a pan coming to the boil. How many times have they been through this? How many times have I tried to block it all out, left them to fix it, convinced myself it’ll get better if I don’t say anything? How many things have I told myself I haven’t seen, haven’t heard, because if I admit I have, it means admitting how awful things really are around here? And while I’m doing all this,
nothing
gets better; it gets worse and worse. And then they turn the whole thing on
me
? Like that’s fair?

“Steady, Julia,” Dad says, trying to crack a smile. “Even criminals have a right to defend themselves before being hung, drawn, and quartered, you know.”

I kind of appreciate Dad for trying to make a joke of it, but it’s a bit sad too. His inability to stand up for himself and deal with what’s going on is just as annoying as Mum taking out her frustration on me.

The bubbles boil more fiercely.

“What if I
did
go out?” I grumble.

They both turn to look at me.

“I mean, can you honestly blame me for not wanting to be in this house? Do you
know
what it’s like living with you two, day in, day out?”

Mum’s jaw drops open. Dad blinks at me.

“Let me tell you. It’s horrible. When you’re not scrapping like wild dogs, the atmosphere around here is cold enough to give us all hypothermia. You’re so busy scoring points off each other, neither of you has noticed I
exist
for months. And then, when
do
you notice me? When I’m not bloody
here
!”

“Ash.” Dad reaches a hand across the table toward me.

“No, Dad. Forget it. I’m sick of you both. You can’t even tell me off without it turning into a sparring match between the pair of you.”

Under normal circumstances I’d storm out at this point, but I’m sitting at the far end of the table with Mum and Dad on either side and I think it would take the lightning out of my storm if I had to squeeze past them saying “excuse me” along the way.

So I stay put and fold my arms.

Dad’s looking hurt. Why does he always have to be
hurt
? Why can’t he just get angry? Mum’s glaring at me, then turns to him. “See?” she says.

“What?”

“This is what happens when you don’t stand up to her. This is how she talks to us. What do you expect when she knows her father will never tell her off?”

“For God’s sake, Julia,” Dad says, quiet anger rising in his voice. “I told you I didn’t want to bring it up. Why didn’t
you
do it if you were so bothered?”

“Why do I always have to be the baddie?”

“I could ask the same thing,” he says between his teeth.

“So it’s all my fault, is it?” She slams his plate onto hers and takes them over to the sink, throwing them both in so hard I can’t believe either will come out in one piece. “What a surprise!” she says without turning around. “Of course, none of this is your fault. You’re so bloody perfect, aren’t you? Never do anything wrong, I’m sure!”

“See?” I shout, pulling away from the table now that Mum’s moved out of the way. “Even when you’re supposed to be angry with
me,
you just turn it into an excuse to have another argument with each other. You don’t care about anyone except yourselves! You’re the most selfish pair of —”

Mum grabs my arm. “Ashleigh, don’t you dare speak —”

“No, Mum.” I shake her off. “I’m not having it. You’re not telling me what to do anymore. And until you stop acting like five-year-olds, I don’t want anything to do with either of you. Just get it sorted one way or another, and leave me out of it till then.”

This time I do storm off, slamming the kitchen door behind me. And the hall door, and my bedroom door. And then, because there just aren’t enough doors between the kitchen and my room, I open my closet door and slam that too.

Next morning, it crosses my mind to leave home, but I’ve done that once before and it wasn’t much fun. It was last year. I’d gone into town. It had poured with rain and I was sheltering in a shop doorway, waiting for it to stop. I couldn’t even afford a cup of coffee. All I had was two quid for my bus journey, God knows where to, but I knew I’d have to end up going somewhere.

So I was standing there minding my own business — well, feeling totally sorry for myself — when this woman came up to me and started yelling.

“Why don’t you go and get a job, you lazy scrounger?”

“I’m a student,” I replied, looking at her in amazement, too shocked to get angry.

“Yes, I’ll bet. At the University of Life, is that?”

“No, St. Martin’s.”

“Don’t get clever with me, young lady.”

I switched off after that. I thought, if I’m going to get lectured by mad old bints who shout at me and call me “young lady,” I might as well be at home. At least I can get a cup of coffee there.

So, no, I’m not going to run away.

Walking to school in a daze, I’m suddenly aware someone is calling my name. I look around and see a load of people stumbling along in the rain, heads down, hoods dripping water in front of their faces, like miserable versions of those Mexican sombreros with little trinkets hanging on strings from the brim. Then I notice Cat, waving like a mad thing. I wait for her to catch up.

“Bloody hell, Ash, I’ve been yelling at you for the last half a mile,” she gasps between wheezes as she gets out her cigarettes.

“Sorry.”

“What’s up, mate? You look like a zombie.”

“Nothing. Just my parents.”

“I know what you need,” she says as she lights up.

“Let me guess, I need to ditch school and come into town with you.”

“Oh, go on, Ash. It’s been ages since we’ve gone out and had a laugh together. We can go to all the clothes shops and —”

“I haven’t got any money.”

“Who needs money? We’ll just go window shopping.”

I don’t really want to miss school. We’ve got English this morning. The good thing about shutting myself in my bedroom for most of yesterday evening was that I managed to read a good chunk of
Wuthering Heights.
And, shock horror, it’s actually pretty good once you get into it. Not that I’d tell Cat that; I’d never hear the end of it. Teachers and books and lessons are not on Cat’s list of favorite things.

We go back a long way, me and Cat. We met when we were both eight. She’d hung a flier; she had a hamster who’d just given birth to seven babies, and I persuaded Mum to let me have one of them. Cat had sold all the rest and she missed them, so I said she could come and visit mine. It all took off from there.

A few years later, I had my first boyfriend, Scott Brown. I was twelve. I’d been going out with him for three weeks and he hadn’t kissed me. Finally, we were dancing to the last song at the school dance and I practically
made
him snog me. I was nearly sick. He thought the idea was to stick his tongue as far down my throat as possible. I did actually retch when he did it, but I don’t think he noticed because he didn’t stop. The next day, Cat confessed she quite fancied Scott, and I told her she could have him. After all, she’d given me her hamster. So that was that. He was hers. About three weeks later, we both agreed I’d gotten the better deal.

I’ve lost count of the number of scams and deals we’ve hatched up since then. If it’s her idea, it’s usually a bit crazy, occasionally dangerous — and always a laugh.

So I agree.

Cat breaks into a grin, and I can feel my mood lift as we head into town.

Half an hour later, we’re in Boots, experimenting with anything we can find that has the word “tester” on the side.

“What d’you think?” Cat holds up her wrist and I try to distinguish this latest aroma from the four I’ve been offered already. Her arm smells like a garden center.

I cough loudly.

“Yeah, maybe not.” Cat withdraws her arm and moves on to the makeup.

I sniff a classy-looking bottle and try to find a bit of skin that I haven’t already sprayed. I’m like a junkie looking for a virgin piece of arm for the next fix.

“Nice,” Cat replies as I shove my wrist in her face.

“Yeah it is, isn’t it? Sea Mist.” I look at the bottle and nearly faint. “Thirty-eight quid! That’s a rip-off! I could
get
to the bloody sea for that.”

I put the bottle back reluctantly and join Cat. We find these mini bottles of hair dye testers that you comb into your hair. Cat combs a bit of purple into my bangs; I’m about to pick one up to try on her when I notice her slip one into her pocket.

“Cat!” I whisper in alarm.

She shoots me an angry look. “Keep it down, Ash! D’you want to get the store detectives on me?”

I’m terrified, but kind of excited too. I know Cat sometimes nicks stuff from shops, as she’s told me, but I’ve never seen her do it before.

“Chill out,” she says. “Anyway, it’s your turn now.”

“No way. I’m not going to prison over a crappy tube of hair dye.”

“Don’t be daft. No one’s going to prison. What about that perfume?”

I breathe in the musky smell on my arm and imagine putting it on for a date with Dylan. I am tempted. But scared.

“Go on. It’s your moral obligation.”

“How d’you make that out?”

“You said yourself it was a rip-off. It’s scandalous that they should charge that. They’re the thieves.” She pauses and lets a slow smile crawl up her face. “Come on, Ash. I dare you!”

She knows I can’t resist the challenge of a dare. I wander back to the perfume counter and pretend I can’t decide which one I want. I pick up Sea Mist and hold on to it as I look at the others. It’s heavy and hot in my hand. I wander around the displays, pretending to look but not seeing anything. My heart is beating so hard it’s hurting my chest. Then I casually put my hand in my pocket and carry on walking, both hands in my pockets now. I try to look relaxed, but I feel clumsy and heavy. I know my face is bright red, and the bottle in my pocket is slipping against my wet palm.

I walk around a bit more, telling myself to stay calm and look natural. I think of all the times I’ve wandered around this shop with no intention of stealing anything, and try to act in the same way. After a few minutes, I can feel my face cooling down. I take one last look around to make sure no one has seen me. Here goes.

I take my hands out of my pockets, hold my breath, and saunter out of the shop. Easy.

I am euphoric for a moment. Eight seconds, to be precise. That’s how long it takes the store detective to catch up with me. When I feel the hand on my shoulder, I think it’s Cat and I’m laughing as I turn around.

“Ha, ha. You can’t fool —”

“No. You can’t fool us either.” A dodgy-looking bald geezer in a raincoat is staring down at me. For a second I stare back. My first thought:
Isn’t it sad when men try to hide the fact that they’re going bald?
He’s a comb-the-remaining-three-strands-across-the-shiny-expanse-of-skull-and-no-one-will-notice type.

My second thought:
Oh, shit. I’m in trouble here.

I don’t like the look on his face. I saw him earlier, actually, and thought he was some kind of pervert. He kept looking across at me from behind the mascara stand, and at one point I’d thought he was going to open up his raincoat and give me a flash of the shop’s biggest bargain. Then he disappeared and I didn’t give him a second thought. Till now.

It slowly dawns on me that he isn’t a pervert. Well, he might be in his spare time for all I know, but it’s not his day job. His day job is much, much more terrifying for me right now.

He pulls a badge from an inside pocket and waves it at me. “Store detective,” he announces.

I smile innocently. “Can I help you?” I ask. Sweet, misunderstood child.

Over his shoulder I notice Cat quickly walking out of the shop like she doesn’t have a care — or a conscience — in the world.
What?
She dragged me into this mess and now she’s leaving me to fend for myself? Just wait till I —