Don't Ask

  ‘Sorry, Jack.’

  ‘It’s OK, it’s just not that important. It’s the past and now I’m with you.’ He closed my maths textbook and moved closer towards me, putting his arm across my shoulders.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘The door’s open and my parents are downstairs.’

  ‘Let’s go outside to my car, then.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m just going out to say goodbye to Jack,’ I shouted, as we walked down the stairs, arm in arm.

  Dad came into the hall. ‘You’ve got five minutes!’ he said, firmly. ‘After that, I’m coming out to find you.’

  Dad hated the fact that Jack had a car. If he wasn’t worrying that he would speed and crash, mangling us both, he’d worried that we’d get up to no good in a car park.

  ‘God, my dad is so uptight,’ I said, as we clambered into the car. It’s not true – my dad is a pussycat – but it gave me an easy path on to the subject of dads and I figured this might be my very last opportunity to uncover some information. ‘Was your dad strict too, Jack?’

  He stiffened and moved away a fraction.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He wasn’t looking at me.

  ‘Did he ground you and stuff? Were you allowed out on weeknights?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ He took his arm away from my shoulders and I was suddenly aware how cold it was in the car. ‘What is up with you tonight, Lily? I feel like I’m in Guantanemo Bay, being interrogated. I’ve told you before, I don’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just don’t.’

  ‘You can trust me, you know,’ I said, softly. As soon as I said it, I had the horrible realisation that it wasn’t true.

  ‘Yes, I know. But it’s in the past and it’s got nothing to do with anything. Just drop it, Lil, OK?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, again. Not sorry I asked, just sorry I’d upset him.

  We sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Maybe I’d gone about it the wrong way. Maybe I always did. Did I keep asking the wrong questions, or make it too obvious that I was prying? Or was I just stupid? What had I expected, that he’d come round after college and suddenly confess his past to me, like a villain in a crime drama when they’ve been caught out by ‘zee’ clever detective? ‘It’s a fair cop, Lily, you’ve got me and now I’m going to tell you why that pesky Alex dumped me, and reveal the terrible truth about my tragically dead dad.’ As if.

  ‘You know, if you ever need to talk about it I’m here for you,’ I said. And I really did mean that. I took his hand and he let me. ‘I don’t want you to be sad.’

  ‘I’m not sad,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘And one day I’ll probably tell you about him. But I don’t want to talk about it now. So don’t ask me.’

  ‘OK, Jack.’ I tried hard not to sound too disappointed. There was another silence. ‘Look, I should go back inside.’

  He draped his arm over my shoulders again, drawing me towards him. ‘We’ve only been out here for a few minutes,’ he said. ‘And it’s freezing.’

  I gave him a quick kiss on the lips and pulled away. ‘I’m tired, Jack. Thanks for coming round though, it was really nice of you.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, with a wink. ‘I am nice. Very nice.’

  He stroked my hair, tucking it behind my ears for me. I loved it when he did that; nobody else ever has. It made me feel warm and tingly and special. I wanted to melt and let Jack kiss me, I really did, but I couldn’t relax because I knew that very soon I’d have to go back inside and email Alex to say I was coming to the match.

  ‘My dad will be out in a second,’ I said, pulling away. He looked confused. ‘Good night, Jack.’ And before he could try to stop me, I opened the door, climbed out of the car and ran into my house.

  I thought about Jack a lot as I waited for Alex to arrive at the football stadium. I thought how I’d rather be with him than here, sprawling across the sofa, ruffling his hair. I remembered how disappointed he was when I told him I had to see Katie that afternoon, and how the anxious look that rippled across his face for just an instant revealed that he wondered if I might be going off him. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was thinking it wasn’t like me to rush off or to cancel an arrangement. He was right. It isn’t like me. Or at least, it didn’t used to be. Perhaps it was like Laura.

  I also thought about how many times I’d had to lie that day, and to how many people. White lies and black lies. Huge lies and tiny ones.

  There was the biggest lie of all, the megawatt lie: I’d lied to Jack. Not only by what I’d said, but by what I hadn’t said.

  I’d lied to Alex, over and over, and I was about to spend an afternoon telling her still more lies.

  I’d lied to my parents, who would never have allowed me to go to a football match with a strange girl and her dad, let alone travel there by myself.

  And, if I’m keeping count, I was also about to lie to Alex’s dad.

  All that lying made me feel empty. Empty and a little bit sad. Perhaps, I thought, I should have called myself Liar Thompson, not Laura Thompson. Laura the liar. Liar Laura. Lira. Interesting how it was almost the same word. Was it an accident that I’d chosen that name . . .?

  ‘Laura!’

  There was a hand resting lightly on my shoulder. I’d been so immersed in my thoughts I hadn’t heard anyone approaching. I jumped out of my skin. Into Laura’s.

  ‘I knew it was you,’ said Alex. She was taller than me, slender and healthy-looking, without a jot of make-up on her face. ‘I’ve been calling you. Didn’t you hear?’

  Of course I hadn’t heard. I wasn’t programmed to answer to someone else’s name. My heart was beating so fast it was hard to speak without gasping. I willed it to slow down. ‘No, sorry. I was in a dream.’

  ‘Anyhow. Hello, Laura,’ she said, beaming a big-toothed smile. She leaned over to give me a hug. ‘It’s so great to finally see you again.’

  ‘Hello Alex, I’m Laura,’ I said, slowly and deliberately, as if by repeating the name I might make it stick. ‘It’s good to see you too.’

  Chapter 10

  Nobody would have recognised me. At least, I hope not, because that was my intention. On the morning of the match I’d woken early and asked myself, ‘What would Laura wear?’, the answer to which was an emphatic, ‘Nothing you’ve got in your wardrobe!’ No doubt, worrying about Laura’s outfit was a way of distracting myself from the nerve-wracking task ahead. I felt as if I was about to perform in a play without having seen the script. It would help if at least the costume were right.

  Katie had saved the day (or so I thought) when she came to ‘pick me up for shopping’ by bringing me a pair of black jogging bottoms, a stripy black and white T-shirt with buttons at the collar, which had once belonged to her older brother, and her black quilted zip-up jacket. This was the closest to ‘sporty’ that either of us could get. To complete the look, I’d tied my hair into a high ponytail with a pink scrunchie, a bit like I had it in Laura’s profile picture on Topfriendz. I studied myself in the mirror, and a girl with no dress sense stared back at me. Lily, meet Laura.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked Katie. ‘Will Laura do for a football match?’

  ‘You look hideous,’ she said. ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘I look like Vicky Pollard after she’s been run over on a zebra crossing. And that’s supposed to be good? Alex has taste, remember. She went out with Jack.’

  ‘Not that much taste – she dumped him, remember?’

  ‘Fair point. The only good thing is I feel less nervous now I’m done up as Laura. It’s like when we went to that fancy dress party and I could act totally stupid because I didn’t feel like me.’

  ‘Probably best not to bring that up,’ said Katie, wincing. ‘I’m still trying to erase it from my memory.’

  Alex didn’t seem all that impressed with my sartorial efforts. One of the first things she said to me, as we walked up the stairs towards the stand entrance with her dad, was, ‘Are
you sure you support Arsenal?’

  I felt a jolt of fear. Had I been discovered? ‘What do you mean?’

  Her eyes scrolled down my body. ‘Your clothes. I’m worried they won’t let you in.’

  I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or insulted. I glanced at Alex’s outfit. She had on a pair of faded jeans, with a white T-shirt and a red hoodie – the type of clothes I’d normally wear. Around her neck was a red and white woolly scarf. ‘What’s wrong? Do I look too chavvy?’

  ‘God, no. I didn’t mean that at all, I wasn’t being rude. It’s the colours. Had you forgotten, we’re playing Newcastle today. You’re wearing black and white stripes – their colours.’ She pointed to a sign above the entrance. It read: No away colours permitted. ‘You’ll have to sit with the away fans, if you’re not careful.’ She giggled.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said, trying to think on my feet. In all my anxiety about meeting Alex, I hadn’t remembered to look up the details of the match on the web. ‘Silly me. I thought that was next week’s fixture. I was in such a hurry this morning, I just didn’t think.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, smiling reassuringly. ‘Have you got any cash? We need to buy you a scarf.’

  I looked in my purse; I had ten pounds, enough to buy some coffees and for my fare home. ‘This is all I’ve got,’ I said, holding it out to her. ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘Don’t worry, my dad will lend you some, won’t you, Dad?’

  Alex’s dad smiled at me. He was also tall and slim, with a full head of silver-grey hair, and the same toothy grin as his daughter. ‘That’s fine,’ he said, taking a twenty-pound note out of his wallet and passing it to me. ‘No need to pay me back.’

  ‘No, no, I can’t take your money,’ I said, waving his hand away. I meant it. I felt bad enough about deceiving Alex, but her dad, who seemed really sweet, was totally innocent in all this. Taking his money was like extortion; I could probably get arrested for it. Con Woman Arrested at Football Match the headline would read. A teenage con woman stole the life savings from a kindly old man . . .

  ‘I insist,’ he said, pressing the note into my hand and closing my fist around it. ‘It’s nice to finally meet a friend of Alex’s who shares her passion for football.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I muttered. I couldn’t look him in the eye.

  Alex took me into the shop, while her dad waited outside. There were about five different scarf designs, which I could barely tell apart. ‘You should get this one,’ Alex said, pointing to a red and white striped scarf identical to hers. ‘It’s the latest one for this season.’

  ‘Cool,’ I said. ‘It’s great.’ I paid for the scarf and then wound it around my shoulders, tying it at my neck. It felt scratchy and I could sense red, itchy welts forming on my skin underneath. In a strange way, I liked the discomfort; it would serve as a reminder that I couldn’t let my guard down, that I must not relax and slip out of character.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Alex’s dad, with a warm smile, when he saw me. He wouldn’t take the change. ‘Buy me a cup of tea at half time.’

  The stadium was enormous, with countless bars and restaurants surrounding a giant, perfectly manicured football pitch. It was strange to be in a place where there were so many more men than women. The background noise was a low rumble of deep voices and there was an overwhelming smell of clashing aftershaves mixed with beer. I was struck by the fact that there was no queue at all for the ladies’ toilet, while the queue for the gents’ snaked around the corner. It felt like a little victory. Hah! I thought. Finally they understand what it’s like to be a girl.

  As we walked outside to our seats – posh seats, because Alex’s dad had got the tickets through work – I’ll admit that even I was excited by the charged atmosphere, by the raucous singing and the sense of anticipation. All around me was a red and white sea of thousands of supporters wearing Arsenal strips and scarves. In one corner, the sea was broken up by a little puddle of black and white, the loyal away supporters who were doing their best to be heard over the din, trading insults with the home fans surrounding them. I zipped my jacket right up to my neck, so nobody could think I might be one them.

  ‘When the camera comes round, smile and wave,’ said Alex, as we sat down.

  I tried not to show my panic. Camera, what camera? Jack was sure to be watching the match. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being seen on film, sitting right next to Alex. Talk about being caught red (or should that be red and white) handed. Even I wouldn’t have been able to explain my way out of that one. ‘What? Someone who looks like me was sitting next to your ex-girlfriend? At a football match, while I was out shopping with Katie? What are the chances of that?’

  ‘I don’t want to be on telly,’ I said, shuffling uncomfortably, even though my red plastic seat wasn’t as hard as I’d expected.

  ‘You’re not shy, are you Laura?’ She smiled at me. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just for the fans in the stadium. The camera pans round and the pictures show up on those big screens.’ She pointed to the corners of the ground, where there were giant screens showing the crowd. ‘Of course there are TV cameras here too, but they usually focus on the super fans, the people with painted faces or big banners.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being filmed. It wasn’t worth the risk. What if one of Jack’s friends was there? Or someone I knew, who might tell my parents they’d seen me?

  Too late . . . ‘Here we go . . . Wave!’ said Alex, as the image on the screen showed the people directly to our left. I had a split second to think and so I did the only thing I could do – I kicked over the can of Coke that I’d placed at my feet, sending a stream of fizzy brown liquid over our shoes and bags.

  ‘Whoops!’ I cried, as I bent down to pick up the can, ensuring that the only image that might have appeared on screen was of the back of my head. As far as I know, the back of my head isn’t particularly distinctive.

  ‘Are you all right, Laura?’

  ‘Yes. What a klutz I am,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry about your bag and shoes. I’m so clumsy, I’m always doing stuff like that.’ I made a mental note: remember, Laura is clumsy, it could come in handy,

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Alex, wiping down her bag with a tissue she’d found in her pocket. ‘You made us miss our moment of glory, though.’

  I shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Forget it. Hey, we’re about to kick off. Excellent, we won the toss.’

  As the match got underway, I soon realised that, in spite of my enforced football studies, I still had a lot to learn about the game and, more specifically, the individual players. Without the benefit of a television zoom lens, or any commentary, I found it hard to tell one player from another. They were all dressed the same, after all.

  ‘Isn’t Walcott playing well today?’ said Alex.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Do you think he’s better off in this position?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘It suits him.’ Just agree with whatever she says, I thought.

  ‘Who’s your favourite player, Laura?’

  ‘Um . . .’ I wracked my brain. Who did Jack say he liked again? ‘Thierry Henry.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s everyone’s favourite. But he’s left. I mean current players.’

  Try to remember, Lily. Who did Jack talk about last week? ‘I think Rosicky is playing really well,’ I said. ‘And he’s cute, too.’

  ‘I agree with you there, Laura. But he’s on the bench.’

  Shit. ‘Really? Are you sure? I’m positive I saw him at the other end.’ I thought quickly. ‘It’s because I don’t have my glasses on. I feel like a right idiot. I didn’t bring them because they make me really self-conscious and I was meeting up with you for the first time, and you know . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Alex. ‘I wear contacts. If I didn’t have them in I wouldn’t be able to tell if I was watching football or tennis.’

  I know the feeling.

  The o
ther details of the match don’t bear repeating, except to say that Arsenal won by two goals to nil and that, yes, footballers’ legs are even nicer in the flesh, especially when you’re deliberately squinting a lot. Fearful of tripping myself up again, I said as little as I could to Alex, which was fine because she was so enthralled by the game. I clapped when she clapped, cheered when she cheered and groaned with her too. She kept glancing over and smiling at me, in a way which said she was glad we were sharing this experience, that it was bonding us. I smiled back, guiltily. Maybe there’s something to be said for pretending to enjoy yourself, though, because I have to admit the match really wasn’t all that bad and the hour and a half passed very quickly. Oh, and I didn’t buy Alex’s dad a cup of tea at half time because it turned out the tea was free. When we got to the front of the queue and he saw the realisation dawn on me, he winked.

  His car was parked about a ten-minute walk from the ground. It smelled new and leathery, not like my parents’ car, which always smells of nappies and baby lotion. My brother Eric, also known as ‘the accident’ (by my parents) and ‘the pain’ (by me), still wears them, even though he’s nearly three.

  ‘I’ll drop you off at the coffee place on the high street and come back for you in a couple of hours,’ said Alex’s dad.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Alex. ‘Are you still up for coffee, Laura?’

  I nodded, vigorously. Of course I was. Sod the football, the talking part was the whole point of the day for me.

  Alex’s dad parked up and got out of the car to say goodbye. He came round to my side, opened my door for me and offered his hand to help me out. ‘Thank you, Laura, for the pleasure of your company. You’re welcome to join us again any time you want.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, reddening with guilt. Why did he have to be so sweet? ‘And thanks again for the ticket.’ I felt horrible, like I’d just trodden in something nasty and was walking it through his home.

  I bought the coffees; it was the least I could do. Alex had a skinny cappuccino and I had a mocha, with extra chocolate on top, because I don’t really like the taste of coffee but I didn’t want to say so. I think the way you drink coffee says just as much about you as the way you eat pizza, and I’m not talking about reading coffee grounds or any of that airy-fairy rubbish. You can tackle the froth delicately with a spoon, as if it’s a dessert (my preferred method), or you can pick up the cup and drink it straight down, risking what’s known as a Belgian dip (when you get froth all over your nose). Alex did neither. She sipped her coffee so slowly from the side of the cup that the froth barely moved at all, and was left coating the bottom when she’d finished. If I hadn’t already known how different we were, I knew it then.