Something Only We Know (18 page)

‘But he genuinely isn’t interested in material possessions. It’s not a pose. And he does make sacrifices. He’d love a car but he won’t have one, on principle. He
just wants to help the world.’

Ned shrugged. ‘Why doesn’t he work for a proper licensed charity, then, instead of faffing about inventing daft campaigns?’

‘Because, because . . . he doesn’t want to be restricted by corporate hierarchy. He wants the freedom to put his creative energy into lots of different areas.’

‘Doesn’t want to be restricted by having to get up in the morning like the rest of us.’

‘You barely know him!’

‘OK.’ Ned held up his hands, palms out. ‘You’re right. If he wants to live like that, I suppose it’s his choice. Whatever else is going on here, though, I’m
not having you beating yourself up about any “moral inferiority”. That’s crap. Just because he makes himself out to be the saviour of society doesn’t mean you have to
believe the hype.’

‘I can’t hate him. Not yet.’

‘No.’

‘He said I lacked zeal.’

‘Well, he knows where he can stick his zeal, doesn’t he? Come here.’ I let him draw me into a close hug again. ‘The bottom line is, Jen, the way he’s been treating
you is just wrong. He’s had you running about after him like a servant. As far as I can see, he’s never appreciated you. And yet look at you. You’re great. You’re pretty and
funny and smart. You’re kind, you’re sane. You’ve got a decent set of pins on you. Most guys would fall over their bar stools to get a date with you.’

‘They wouldn’t.’

‘Trust me, they would. Don’t do yourself down.’

I let myself rest against him once more. Thoughts spun in my mind’s eye like the barrel of a fruit machine: Chelle’s sneer, Owen’s brimming eyes, the slam of Rosa’s door,
everyone in the office looking as The Diary fell out of my bag. Useless, I was, on every front.

‘And weren’t they queuing up to date you at uni?’ Ned went on. ‘I remember Hel said you had three boyfriends in your very first term?’

‘They were dorks.’

‘Ouch. Cruelty, thy name is Woman. OK, look, I know it feels shit at the moment, but that won’t last forever. It won’t. You’re going to have a pretty dark few weeks, and
then things’ll begin to lift and you can get out there and enjoy yourself again. Doing what
you
want to do, and no one to drag you along to Save the Woodlouse demonstrations or Smash
the Rich leaflet drops. No more sitting in draughty village halls being lectured on your failings. That’s got to be a silver lining, yeah? Instead you can get on with ordinary fun stuff like,
I dunno, going to the cinema and shopping and watching live comedy. I’ve been meaning to check out the Civic’s Laughter Nights for ages and never got round to it. How about we start a
monthly comedy club, the three of us, and take it in turns to pick a show. I really fancy that. What do you say?’

I didn’t answer at first because I was thinking how bloody lucky Helen was to have a boyfriend like him, and whether she fully appreciated him. Thinking about whether the ghost of Joe
Pascoe had been truly erased. Joe and his smug philandering; Owen and his platonic crush on Chelle. It came down to the same hurt in the end.

‘What do you say, Jen?’

I realised Ned was staring at me, waiting for some kind of response. ‘Mm. Perhaps, when I’m feeling more in the mood. Right at this minute I don’t feel as if I’d have a
lot of tolerance for comedy.’

‘No, obviously. When you’re ready.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Deal.’ He lifted my chin with his fingers. ‘This business with Owen – I won’t be so crass as to say it’s for the best, but in the end you’ll be grand,
you know. You will.’

His other arm was still round my shoulders, and he felt so nice I heard myself blurt out, ‘God, I wish you had a brother.’

‘Hah! When I was born my mum took one look at my ugly face and went, “That’s it, no more.”’

You were never ugly, I thought.

And through the window came the sound of an engine idling, cutting out, a car door slamming, a stamp of boots on the step, the rattle of the porch being opened. My sister was home, to claim her
property.

She came to me after dark, bearing a Walnut Whip.

‘What’s that in aid of?’ I asked, sitting up in bed.

‘I thought it might help.’

I shook my head. ‘Can’t face eating. Even if Mum is going to go mental with me.’ On the bedside table sat my plate of sausage and mash. I hadn’t been able to manage a
bite earlier so she’d made me take it up to bed.

‘She won’t go mental with you. She’s sorry. She wishes she’d known what was the matter.’

‘Well, I’m not going to risk it. Has Ned gone?’

‘Yup. And Mum’s watching people on TV murder each other and Dad’s lost inside his earphones. It’s a riot.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Half eight.’

‘Feels way later than that.’

Helen perched on the end of the duvet. ‘Seriously, can I do anything?’

‘No. Yes, finish what’s on that plate for me.’

I’d meant it as a joke, but to my astonishment she got up and went over to my abandoned meal. She frowned, picked up a fork and speared one of the sausages. Then she held it to her lips.
For one crazy moment I thought she was actually going to take a chunk out of it, but after a cheeky mime she instead walked over to the window, unhooked the sausage and flung it out far into the
night.

‘Don’t! For God’s sake, Hel! I’m in enough trouble for littering as it is. If Mum steps through the front door tomorrow and squashes a sausage, I’m dead.’

She looked at me as if I were simple. ‘Oh, sweetheart. Haven’t you heard of my good friends Mr Fox and Mrs Cat? Nature’s little hoovers, as I like to call them. Hugely useful.
Happy to dispose of any amount of evidence as long as it’s edible. In fact, let’s give them a double treat tonight. Chuck us the other sausage and they can have that as well.’

I did as I was told, imagining what my mother would say if she could see us. Me still blotched and washed-out in my fuzzy dressing gown, Helen at the window like Rapunzel, her white shirt loose
around her cuffs and her cheeks slightly flushed. My beautiful, complicated, grown-up sister, one day sneaking into my infant bedroom to tell me Santa was on his way because she’d heard
hooves on the roof, another day thoughtlessly filling the front pocket of my school bag with her unwanted porridge.

‘Ned’s been telling me about his comedy night idea,’ she went on. ‘I think it’s great. I’m up for it. And you know, we could have some girly time together,
you and me. Now you’ll be around more. Like, didn’t you always want to try out gel nails? And you never would because Owen hates that sort of thing. Well, sod him, you don’t have
to bother any more. You can do what you want. We could go to a salon together and I could have a facial or something. Go mad and get a fake tan, false eyelashes, the works. What do you
reckon?’ She made a pouting face.

‘Maybe.’

‘I just thought it could be fun. And I’ll take you shopping if you like. Treat you. We could hop on a train to Manchester and have a trawl round there. We’ve never really done
that kind of stuff, have we?’

‘No.’

She was trying so hard.

I said, ‘I know you think Owen was a dick, and that I’m better off without him, and that I’ll get over it. But whether that’s true or not, right at this minute I miss
him. It hurts. It bloody hurts.’

She turned to face me, her huge eyes full of tenderness.

‘You don’t need to justify yourself to me, sis. I know exactly what it’s like when someone breaks your heart.’

CHAPTER 6

Join the Litter-Picking Gang!

Anyone keen to make Leewood Green a nicer place to hang out can meet this Saturday and take part in a family litter-picking day. Members of the public are invited to come
along and complete an hour’s tidy-up of the footpath, wood and river banks, followed by a warming cuppa in the village hall.

‘It’s an opportunity for local people to get involved with improving their community and to meet with friends and neighbours at the same time,’ says 17-year-old Daisy
Williamson, who came up with the idea of the litter-pick. ‘We’ll have live music and tea and cake, and we’re confident everyone will have a fun morning. Just come along and get
stuck in!’

Daisy came up with the idea when she was walking her dog Scoffie along the public footpath and noticed the messy state of the grass and hedges. ‘Now the hedgerows are bare you can
really see what a mess they are. I just thought, instead of moaning about it, why not get busy?’

Plastic refuse sacks, easy-grip litter-pickers and gloves will be available on the day. Meet at 10 a.m. on the Rovers car park.

What else was there to do but throw myself into work? Already this morning, as well as blasting through my first article, I’d cleared the office sink, washed
everyone’s dirty mugs and wiped the drainer. I’d tidied the mini fridge and chucked away a black banana, a half glass of something horrid and cloudy and some curled-up cheese slices.
I’d disinfected the salad tray, taking care not to contaminate Rosa’s carrot batons, and then scrubbed all the tannin off the teaspoons. I’d watered the plants and sorted the
post. I’d been through the competitions cupboard and binned an unclaimed basket of dried flowers and a box of out-of-date local restaurant vouchers. I’d bought, out of my own pocket, a
large wall planner as a back-up in case the damn Diary ever went missing again, and I’d jotted down some notes for a new feature on the website.

‘What the bloody hell’s up with you?’ said Gerry as I plonked an unasked-for Crunchie on his desk.

‘I’ll have it for myself unless you’re properly grateful.’

‘Oh no you won’t. Hey, how about making us a coffee, since you’re up?’

‘Made you one. It’s by your elbow.’

He gave me a considered look. ‘Seriously, what is the matter?’

‘Nothing. I’m trying to be more professional.’

‘Hmm. Right-ho.’

I watched him unwrap the Crunchie and snap the end off. Flakes of honeycomb exploded across his keyboard, and I knew that if Rosa had caught me doing that I’d have had such a telling
off.

‘Also, I’ve got this idea,’ I said. Gerry carried on chewing. ‘What it was, you know how we do the Bonniest Baby comp in the summer, and it boosts circulation because
families buy extra copies to get hold of the voting coupons? And Rosa was saying she wished we could run it all year round?’ Gerry nodded and took another bite. ‘Plus, you know how
popular TV talent shows are right now?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well, I was wondering if we could combine the two. If we could organise a website-based comp where people could send in clips of their kids demonstrating some sort of skill –
doesn’t have to be showbiz, singing or dancing. It could be football control, or gymnastics. Anything that can be filmed.’

‘Times tables? Scrabble?’

‘If they wanted to send it in. No one would vote for it, though, so it would just filter out. The good stuff, the entertaining and interesting clips, would rise to the top
naturally.’

‘Unless there was some corruption involved. Pushy parents block voting.’

‘Which would also be good. Circulation-wise, at least.’

Gerry scrunched up the chocolate wrapper and leaned back in his chair. ‘Pff. I’ll be honest, Jen, it sounds bloody hideous. Badly filmed brats performing their party pieces.
“Look at me, aren’t I clever?” Hell-on-a-stick, I’d call it.’

‘Child-hater.’

‘Yep, that’s me. The fewer kids I have to come into contact with, the happier I am.’

‘I expect the feeling’s mutual. But you wouldn’t have to go anywhere near this comp. I’d organise and judge it.’

‘God, you are ambitious all of a sudden, aren’t you?’

Rosa’s office door opened and she paused on the threshold for a moment, studying the screen of her mobile.

‘I’m just trying to climb out of the hole I seem to have dug for myself lately,’ I said.

He grinned. ‘You’d better go for it, then. Off you trot, share your creative genius.’

‘Do you think she’ll like it?’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

Rosa had been undergoing a transformation of her own these last few weeks. She’d lost weight, had her hair restyled, and she’d taken to wearing bright silk scarves. She’d also
invested in a new and vivid lipstick, which left stains on cups and imprints on the cheeks of visitors. I thought this was a mistake; her face was alarming enough without any of its features
highlighted. But Rosa herself seemed chuffed with her new look. There was a spring in her step, a sheen to her cheek. ‘Word is, she’s bagged herself a man,’ Alan at the sports
desk had confirmed one lunchtime when our boss was out schmoozing some director or other. ‘She met him on that dating website. I don’t know any details, only that he drives a Merc and
lives in Alderley Edge.’ Which sounded about right. We’d all stood round the water cooler, wondering whatever kind of guy could be moved to look on Rosa and go misty-eyed. I said,
‘Personally I don’t care who she dates as long as it keeps her pleasant.’ She’d definitely been less snippy, a fraction more forgiving.

I glanced at Gerry for reassurance but he had his head down, working. I took a deep breath, then stood up and went across to her.

‘Rosa? Are you busy?’

She let out an incredulous huff.
How can you even ask? I run this office. Of course I’m busy. And so should you be, worm.

I stood my ground. ‘I’ve come up with an idea you might like. One that might really boost
The Messenger
’s circulation.’

Typically she made me wait another few seconds while she jabbed at her phone; just making the point that I was well down her list of priorities. Most likely she was only surfing the John Lewis
website after some even scarier lip colour. ‘Well, go on,’ she snapped.

So I quickly outlined a format for my talent show, stressing the likelihood of parents multibuying voting coupons, plus the publicity that the comp would generate in its own right. I explained
how we could get schools to spread the word as well as the usual social media, and stressed the fact that I’d do most of the admin myself. I said we could maybe market the idea to the whole
Messenger
syndicate, and in years to come, when momentum had built up, even hold cross-region contests. The more I spoke, the more feasible it sounded, until by the end I was feeling quite
confident. All the while Rosa listened, lips tight and unreadable.