All About Mia

  ‘Hey, Mia,’ Paul says as he comes into the room. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ I say, tossing my hair over my shoulder.

  ‘Duncan OK?’

  ‘Yeah, all good,’ I say, even though I haven’t given Duncan a single thought all evening. ‘You’re back early,’ I add.

  ‘I’ve got a rule when it comes to work dos,’ Paul says, taking off his blazer. ‘Quit while you’re ahead.’ He drapes the jacket over the back of the sofa. ‘I already predict some rather red faces on Monday morning,’ he continues, laughing as he removes his cufflinks and rolls up his sleeves to the elbow.

  An extra couple of buttons have come undone on his shirt. His chest is hairy. Manly. Nothing like Jordan’s – he used to wax the tiny bit of chest hair he had with a kit from Boots. What a loser.

  Paul’s eyes flicker towards the TV. ‘Oh, I love this film,’ he says, sitting down on the sofa next to me. ‘Has it been on long?’

  ‘Half hour or so.’

  ‘There goes the rest of my night then,’ he says, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

  For a few seconds we watch together, laughing out loud in unison. And it feels nice. Like we’re a couple almost.

  Paul glances at me. ‘God, sorry, Mia, what am I thinking? You must be wanting to get home to bed.’

  He arches his back to get his wallet out of his pocket. I can smell his aftershave. It smells nice, expensive. Paul is going through all the compartments in his wallet and muttering something about how he could have sworn he had another twenty on him. As he talks, I stare at his arms. I love the way his muscles strain against the pale blue cotton, how strong and safe and reassuring they look. They make Jordan’s arms look pathetic and weedy in comparison. In fact, everything about Paul makes Jordan look like a silly little boy.

  I imagine him wrapping his arms around me and kissing me, telling me how beautiful and sexy I am.

  He turns to me, a roll of notes in his hand. I realize I’m holding my breath.

  ‘I’ve only got thirty on me,’ he says apologetically. ‘All right if I pop round with another ten tomorrow?’

  I scoot along the sofa a little. He turns his head to look at me, his lips only centimetres away from mine. It’s now or never. Before I can change my mind, I lean in and press my mouth hard against his.

  ‘Dad?’ Duncan’s reedy voice suddenly floats down the stairs.

  Paul shoves me away and leaps to his feet, the money he was holding fluttering to the ground. The straps of my vest top have slipped off my shoulders. I rearrange them and tug at the hem of my skirt.

  Duncan appears in the open doorway, his Star Wars pyjamas rumpled and riding up his skinny little legs, snow-white hair sticking up on end. Paul has shot over the other side of the room faster than the Road Runner. He’s pressed up against the fireplace, his neck and face flushed pink.

  ‘Hey, buddy!’ he says a bit too loudly, sounding like an overexcited children’s TV presenter. ‘What you doing up?’

  ‘I heard you talking,’ Duncan says, sticking out his lower lip.

  Paul shoots me a look, but it’s too quick for me to have a decent stab at interpreting what it might mean.

  ‘Sorry, kiddo,’ he says. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you up. C’mere, I’ll come up and tuck you back in.’

  He swoops over to Duncan, draping an arm round his shoulder and guiding him back out into the hallway. I plop down onto the sofa and listen as they climb the stairs together, Paul speaking to Duncan in a low voice.

  I lift my fingers to my lips. A few minutes later, I hear Paul’s footsteps on the stairs. I sit up straighter, arching my back so my tits stick out.

  Paul enters the room hesitantly. I wait for him to rejoin me on the sofa but he doesn’t. Instead he returns to the spot in front of the fireplace, raking his hands through his hair before placing his fingers on his temples like he’s trying to communicate with the dead.

  ‘Look, Mia, you’re a lovely girl, you really are …’

  Girl. So all of a sudden I’m a girl again.

  ‘… but you can’t go round doing things like that.’

  I feel like I’ve been slapped. Hard.

  ‘But I thought you liked me,’ I say. I hate the way my voice sounds, like a sulky little kid denied their share of the sweets.

  Paul smiles this sad sort of smile that makes my cheeks burn with humiliation.

  ‘Of course I like you,’ he says. ‘But not like that, Mia, not ever like that. I’m, what, twenty-odd years older than you?’

  ‘So? Age is just a number,’ I babble. ‘If you like someone, you like someone, age shouldn’t even have to come into it.’

  But do I even like Paul? I don’t know any more. All I know is that I hate the way he’s looking at me, with this excruciating mix of pity and confusion that makes me want to curl up in a ball and have the sofa cushions swallow me up.

  ‘Oh God, Mia, if I’ve given you the wrong idea somehow, then I’m truly sorry. That was never my intention, OK?’

  My brain is spinning. I try to rewind, get the details straight, but the kiss is already a blur, my thoughts all jumbled up.

  ‘I think we should call it a night,’ Paul says. He’s still glued to the fireplace. ‘And perhaps it’s best if I find someone else to look after Duncan from now on,’ he adds.

  ‘Right,’ I mutter, standing up and grabbing my handbag.

  I want to go home. I don’t want to be in this room, this house, a second longer.

  Paul picks up the money he dropped and puts it on the coffee table for me. God, he can’t even bring himself to hand it to me. ‘I’ll stick that extra tenner in an envelope and pop it through your letterbox tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ I snap, snatching up the money.

  ‘Mia, don’t be like that.’ His voice is condescendingly gentle. I half expect him to pat me on the head and say ‘there, there’.

  ‘Are you going to let me out or what?’ I say, my eyes on the door.

  He sighs and digs in his pocket for his keys. I just want him to hurry up.

  Ordinarily, he’d walk me to the bottom of the driveway, his hand resting on the small of my back, but tonight he stays inside. The air outside is oven-warm, but I’m trembling like I’ve just been shoved into a walk-in freezer. Hugging my bag to my chest, I stalk down the driveway, praying to see my house is in darkness so I don’t have to face anyone. All I want to do is creep up to bed, fall asleep and forget tonight ever happened.

  24

  ‘Hungover, are we?’ Jeremy asks the following morning at work.

  ‘No. What makes you say that?’ I snarl.

  ‘Number one, you’re wearing sunglasses when it’s overcast. Number two, you’re on your third can of Coke. And number three, you just gave that woman change for a twenty when they only gave you a ten.’

  ‘What? Who?’ I ask, scouring the playground for disgruntled customers.

  ‘Don’t worry, I sorted it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do I get a thank you?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mutter.

  ‘Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.’ He cups his hand to his ear, his eyes dancing with amusement.

  ‘Thank you,’ I growl.

  Jeremy smirks. It doesn’t help that he looks annoyingly healthy today, his face tanned and freckly from a cycling trip to France he’s been banging on about all morning.

  The fact is, I’m not even vaguely hungover, just knackered after a crap night’s sleep. I spent hours tossing and turning, reliving the shame and humiliation of Paul’s rejection.

  When I get home after work today though, I can hear him out in their back garden, playing Frisbee with Duncan. Part of me wants to brazen it out, go and lie in the hammock in my white bikini and show Paul what he’s missing. The other, bigger part of me never wants see him ever again. All I know is, I can’t concentrate on anything with their stupid voices floating in through the patio doors.

  Dad is still in bed,
sleeping off his stag do hangover. I was still awake when he stumbled in at almost 5 a.m., tripping on the stairs and frantically shushing himself. I stick my head behind the living-room door. Mum is lying on the sofa with the curtains drawn.

  ‘Good night?’ I ask, nodding at the pint glass of Berocca she’s sipping from.

  ‘Not so loud,’ she says, wincing.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, adjusting my volume to a loud whisper. ‘Did you have a good night?’

  ‘Hmmmm, probably a bit too good.’

  ‘Did they get you a stripper?’

  ‘No. Thank God. I have absolutely no desire to have to see anyone’s dangly bits other than your dad’s.’

  ‘Ew, Mum.’

  She smiles. ‘Come sit with me for a bit,’ she says, patting the sofa. ‘We haven’t had a proper chat in ages.’

  I hesitate, tempted. When I was younger I used to tell Mum everything. We’d sit at the breakfast bar every day after school and I’d tell her all about who fancied who and who had fallen out with who and she’d listen patiently and ask lots of questions, and not in an annoying patronizing way, but like she was actually interested. I imagine telling her about the events of the last two days, how it might feel to let it all just pour out. I know I can’t, though. If I tell her about last night she’ll go bananas, and somehow the idea of sharing an edited version of events seems worse than saying nothing at all.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say eventually. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Where?’ she asks.

  ‘Stella’s. We’re going to revise.’

  ‘OK, sweetheart,’ she says, stretching. ‘What time will you be back?’

  ‘I’m not sure. When we’re finished, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, let me know your dinner plans so I know how many pizzas to order, OK? I can’t face doing any proper cooking today.’

  ‘OK.’

  She blows me a kiss. I pretend to catch it and blow one back, feeling a bit sad but not really knowing why.

  I leave the house with no real intention of heading to Stella’s. I’m still pissed off with her about the prospectuses and I’m too tired to have it out with her and too tired to pretend everything’s fine.

  I head into town instead, wandering aimlessly from shop to shop. In WHSmith I flip through magazines until one of the shop assistants asks if she can help me, which of course is unsubtle code for ‘buy a magazine or bugger off’. I tell her ‘no thanks’ and shove the copy of Heat I’ve been looking at back on the shelf. I can feel her eyes boring into my back as I sashay out of the shop and it takes all the strength I have not to turn round and give her the finger.

  Having exhausted all the browsing possibilities on the high street, I find myself skirting the perimeter of Rushton Park. The weather has brightened up. Maybe I’ll go lie down in the sun for a bit. Yeah, I’ll listen to some music on my phone, try to relax a bit and forget about last night.

  I stop at the newsagent’s near the park gates and buy a Twister ice lolly. When I open it, it’s all mushed-up and wonky, like it’s melted then been frozen again. I eat it anyway, but it tastes sort of funny.

  I wander into the park with no real aim or destination. I just know I don’t want to be at home listening to Paul and Duncan do their father and son act in the garden. The park is busy, kids swarming the adventure playground like locusts.

  I’m passing the little wooden hut that sells bird feed when I spot Aaron.

  He’s sitting with a bunch of other boys in a raggedy circle, a beer cooler in the centre, a couple of scratched-up guitars scattered on the grass. I contemplate texting Kimmie to alert her, knowing she’d be down here like a shot. But after the other night at Stella’s, I’m not in the mood for seeing Kimmie either. I’m not in the mood for seeing anyone I know today.

  I veer off the path and walk towards the boys. One or two of them look familiar but the majority I don’t think I’ve seen before. A couple of them notice me approaching and are already sitting up to attention like meerkats by the time I arrive. After what happened with Paul last night, their reaction feels good, really good.

  ‘It’s you,’ Aaron says, standing up.

  My heart does an unexpected little leap. Not that I fancy him or anything, it just feels nice to know that he has noticed me before, that I didn’t imagine his lingering stares; that I’ve still got it after all.

  ‘It’s me,’ I confirm, my lips curling into a smile.

  ‘Aaron,’ he says.

  I resist the urge to say, ‘I know’. Instead, I tell him my name and ask if he and his friends can spare a beer, cocking my head to the side and biting my lip. It has the desired effect and at least half of the group scramble to be the one to hand me a can from the cooler. Aaron gets in there first though, triumphantly pressing it into my hands, his long, skinny fingers purposefully brushing mine.

  The rest of the boys open up the circle so I can sit down. I hold the can against my forehead for a few seconds, before transferring it to my chest, multiple sets of eyes tracking my every move. I open the can and take a long sip.

  One of the guys picks up a guitar, strumming it a couple of times and asking if I have any requests. I name a Taylor Swift song. Everyone laughs. They think I’m being ironic. He plays some gloomy song I’ve never heard before instead. I pretend to listen carefully to the wanky lyrics, nodding along with everyone else and adopting the same vaguely stoned expression. Aaron grins at me across the circle. I hold his gaze in return and try to ignore the guilt tugging at my brain cells.

  The song ends. I realize my can is empty. As if by magic, Aaron passes me a new one, open ready.

  ‘You’re a mind-reader,’ I say.

  He performs a little bow. ‘At your service.’

  Someone else has the guitar now – a boy with scruffy brown hair and cut-off jeans. He plays a never-ending version of ‘Hey Jude’, with Aaron sitting astride the cool box, drumming on it with his palms. I join in on the endless ‘na na na na’s’. The next song is fast and upbeat and one of the other boys pulls me up to dance. The two beers have stripped away my inhibitions. Along with the added incentive of ten eager pairs of male eyes, I grind and writhe in time to the music. At the end of the song everyone begs me not to stop. I do, though. Best to keep them wanting more.

  The sun is starting to go down. I find my phone and text Mum, and tell her I’m going to eat dinner at Stella’s. Without my noticing, everyone has changed places and Aaron is next to me now, lying on his side, propped up on his elbow. I mirror him, knowing my body looks extra hot this way. I’m pleased when I notice Aaron’s eyes trace my curves from head to toe and back again.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a drummer,’ I say, nodding over at the cool box. ‘Are you in a band?’

  ‘Nah,’ he says.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Dunno. I just play for fun.’ He pauses. ‘If I was in a band, would you come watch me play?’ he asks.

  ‘Maybe. Depends how nicely you asked.’

  He grins. ‘You’re Grace Campbell-Richardson’s sister, aren’t you?’ he says, inching closer.

  The mention of Grace’s name sobers me up for a second. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘So?’

  ‘You’re really different from her.

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘Oh, good different,’ he says quickly. He leans in so his lips are only centimetres away from my right ear. ‘Sexy different.’

  His breath tickles and makes me shiver. It feels good to hear him say that. It feels safe. Because being sexy is one thing I’ve always been good at, the one thing I can beat Grace at.

  ‘You come to the lido sometimes, don’t you?’ Aaron adds.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I’m a lifeguard there.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I bluff. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you.’

  ‘Yeah, you were there a few weeks ago, with a really camp guy and a blonde girl who kept screaming about getting her hair wet.’

  Mikey and Stella.

  ‘And Kimmie,’ I s
ay quickly. ‘Our friend Kimmie was with us too.’

  Aaron looks blank.

  ‘Super-cute Chinese girl?’ I add. ‘Shiniest hair on the planet?’

  He shrugs. ‘To be honest, it wasn’t really your friends I was looking at,’ he says, fixing me with a meaningful look.

  I glance away, down the rest of my beer and try to push Kimmie’s face out of my head.

  With the sun steadily dipping in the sky, it feels cold suddenly, goose pimples breaking out on my arms and legs and stomach. I sit up, wrapping my arms round my knees. Aaron notices and whips out the hoodie he’s been lying on, placing it round my shoulders. It stinks of his aftershave. After a bit I slip my arms through the armholes and zip it up to my chin. The sleeves are too long, just the very tips of my fingers poking out.

  ‘Aw, you look well cute,’ Aaron says.

  I roll my eyes towards the sky.

  ‘You do!’ he insists.

  A couple of girls turn up, each of them carrying blue plastic bags full of more beers. They glare at me, the interloper. I ignore them and rest my hand on Aaron’s thigh as I reach into one of the bags for another can of beer. The taller of the two girls sucks in her breath but doesn’t say anything. Someone starts playing the guitar again and we all sing along. The whole time Aaron draws on my back with his index finger.

  A few songs in, I realize I need the loo. I stand up, wobbling a little. Aaron jumps up to steady me.

  ‘Hey there, Bambi,’ he says, not letting go of me until he’s satisfied I’m capable of remaining vertical without his assistance.

  We’re miles away from the toilet block so I stagger into the bushes and pull down my shorts and knickers, squatting down. I seem to pee for ages. It feels good. I can see the group through the foliage, their faces illuminated by cigarettes and mobile phones.

  I’m making my way back towards the group when someone grabs hold of my arm and pulls me back into the bushes, leading me to a small clearing.

  ‘Hey,’ Aaron says.

  ‘Hey,’ I murmur back.

  As he puts his arms around me, I think of Kimmie. I know I should probably shake him off, return to the others, give Aaron back his hoodie and go home, but I can’t resist the look in his eyes, the look that says ‘I want you’. He kisses me. I kiss him back and do all the things I know boys like. I sigh and moan and run my hands through his hair and trace them round the waistband of his jeans, and wrap one leg around his. He responds, groaning and murmuring my name into my hair. He smells of grass and beer and sweat.