Read Me Like a Book

  I want to wrap up what she’s said and take it home with me. It feels like a gift. And I want to say something clever and witty so she’ll keep on liking what I say — but I can’t think of anything. We don’t speak for a minute, and I have a brief panic. I don’t want the journey to end in silence. I don’t want it to end at all, actually. Each time we come to a set of lights, I will them to be red.

  I decide to take a risk. “So, what was your unforeseen domestic emergency?” My voice trembles a bit.

  She winces. “Didn’t know you’d heard that. Well, I’d like to tell you that my washing machine exploded, but unfortunately it wasn’t quite as simple as that.” Then she looks across and half-frowns, half-grins. She doesn’t say anything else.

  “Is it something to do with Mr. Philips?”

  “What would Mr. Philips have to do with it?” Her grin deepens, but she looks puzzled. I usually love it when she smiles, especially when it’s me who’s made her smile. It’s like getting an A+ and a gold star on your work. Only this time I feel stupid. I wish I could take the words back. She says, “You don’t think Mr. Philips and I are —”

  “No, course not,” I leap in. “I just meant . . .” What can I say? That was what I meant. My voice trails away. I’m an idiot and she’s laughing at me; she thinks I’m a stupid kid who doesn’t know anything.

  She stops laughing. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just that I didn’t think you would imagine I’d be with someone like Mr. Philips. I thought you’d have known . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “Known what?” I ask with more urgency than I can account for. We’re nearly at the Manor estate, and my time is running out.

  She turns into the estate and pauses before replying. I’m panicky and excited, and I’m sure she’ll hear my heart over the engine.

  Then she opens her mouth to speak. I hold my breath; letting it out would pierce the moment. I just want to stay sitting in her car with her, like this. I steal a quick look at her. As soon as she faces me again, I know I’ll look away, embarrassed, caught out.

  Her hair is tucked behind her ears, a few stray strands lazily brushing her cheek. I suddenly have the strongest sensation of wanting to reach out and curl them in place behind her ear. Oh, my God! What the hell am I thinking? What’s happening to me?

  My face burns. But I carry on looking at her. She’s got laughter lines, like Mr. Philips. They make her look sophisticated. She’s probably only five or six years older than me, but I suddenly feel boring and young. I don’t want her to see me as a kid.

  She turns to me and I instantly look away, just as I knew I would.

  “Sorry, Ash,” she says. “I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s only that . . . Mr. Philips isn’t exactly my type, that’s all. He’s a nice man, a very nice man — just not for me.”

  I want to ask her something more, but I’m not sure I can find the right words.

  “Now, where’s this Willow Road?” she asks. The moment has passed. I give her directions and we drive in silence.

  “Thanks for the lift.” I fiddle with my seat belt as she pulls up at my house.

  “It’s fine, Ash. Any time. It was nice to have your company.”

  “Yeah, you too,” I mumble.

  “And Ash,” she says, briefly putting her hand on my arm as I open the door, “I’m glad you joined the group. It’s good to have you there.”

  My arm’s burning and so is my face. I’m desperate to get away, and I want to stay all evening. As getting away is the only option, I step out of the car. “Thanks again,” I say, and I stand in the road for a while as she drives off.

  The street’s quiet. Something about it feels different; something’s shifted, but I don’t quite know what. Or maybe I do, but I’m not ready to admit it just yet.

  Looking up at the sky, I think about the way things change: faint blue day to this dense, jet-black night, marriage to divorce, certainty to uncertainty. Maybe I’m not everything I thought I was. The thought gives me a prickly sensation at the back of my neck, like an itch, only one that doesn’t go away when you scratch it. It’s like watching a horror film when you know something scary’s coming up but you don’t know what.

  Perhaps nothing is as simple as it looks. Perhaps everything has another layer, a hidden room that only reveals itself when you accidentally stumble across the secret door.

  Or perhaps I’m talking bollocks and it’s time to go to bed.

  “Another cup of tea, Ashleigh?” Elaine hovers over a tray of delicate white china teacups. I reply with a shrug. She looks nervously at Dad, who looks nervously at me.

  “What?” Am I meant to be happy about this? Bizarrely, I’m only here for Mum. She said we should show them we’re not bothered.

  To be honest, I don’t hold it against Dad. It’s actually been quite nice at home not having arguments going on every day. And Elaine’s not all that bad, I suppose. It’s just weird. At least she’s not a blond bimbo half his age. She looks stern when she listens to me, as she frowns and screws up her eyes.

  “The cake’s delicious,” I say, smiling at Elaine through gritted teeth. Mum also said to be polite.

  She beams at Dad, who gives me a grateful smile.

  “I’ll give you the recipe if you like,” she says, cutting me another piece.

  “Ash making a cake?” Dad says with a laugh. “That’ll be the day.”

  “She’s a talented young lady, Gordon.” Elaine pats his knee and leaves her hand there. She gives me a quick wink — or is it a nervous twitch? “I’m sure she could do anything she wanted.”

  I’m looking at Dad’s knee. Too much too soon, Elaine. I’m his daughter. He only split up with my Mum two months ago. Move your hand.

  Dad shifts a bit in his seat and she eventually takes her hand away.

  “Wouldn’t mind another piece myself,” Dad says. He holds out his plate and they smile as their eyes meet. Did he and Mum ever look at each other like that?

  Next second, the front door opens, breaking their gaze, thank God.

  “Jason, darling!” Elaine jumps up and flies to the door.

  “Hi, Mum.” A boy about my age squeezes past her, throwing a gray raincoat over the sofa.

  “You’re just in time to meet Ashleigh.” She takes him by the hand.

  “Hi, Ashleigh,” he says without looking at me.

  “Hi,” I say. “It’s Ash.”

  “Ash, this is Jason, Elaine’s son,” Dad chips in.

  “Hi. It’s Jayce,” he says with half a grimace — or is it half a smile?

  “Hi, Jayce,” I say.

  “Right, then.” Jayce heads toward the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Elaine snaps.

  “To my room. Why?”

  “You’ve not forgotten we’re going out for dinner?”

  Jayce heaves a heavy sigh. “I’ll be down in a minute. I’m just making a phone call.”

  “He’s probably had a difficult day at work,” Elaine says once he’s out of earshot. “He’s such a good lad.” Then she and Dad exchange little conspiratorial smiles.

  It’s going to be a long evening.

  I stare down at a huge white plate with a small circle of meat in the middle and tiny slivers of vegetables balanced beautifully across it. A line of sauce has been delicately drizzled around the edge of the plate. Fine dining. Polite clinks echo around the restaurant as well-dressed family groups and trendy young couples talk in waiting-room whispers across glass tables. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn my jeans.

  “How’s school going, love?” Dad cuts into a minuscule piece of fish.

  “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 exc
laims 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?