Good Me Bad Me

When it’s time for dinner I go down to the kitchen, the smell of something roasting in the Aga, the air hot and uncomfortable. Mike feels it too, opens the window just after I arrive. Phoebe stands against the sink, head in her phone. There’s a bottle of red wine open on the counter by the radio, which is off, nobody wants to run the risk of me hearing about you.

  ‘Smells nice,’ I say.

  Phoebe looks up, scoffs, a dismissive noise from the base of her throat. Mike looks over at her, shakes his head. Saskia turns away, busies herself with stirring gravy on the stove top.

  ‘That would be Sas’s legendary roast chicken you can smell.’

  ‘Legendary because it’s so dry you’ll be chewing until next Sunday. Not too late to order Chinese, peeps.’

  Phoebe’s comment is ignored, head drops down to her phone again. I’m new to this family but I feel it too. Saskia’s inability to mother, to be strong. I look at Phoebe and it saddens me to think she can’t see that she and I are more alike than we are not.

  ‘Right, Phoebs, time to put the phone down, no arguments. Can you and Milly lay the table please.’

  ‘Fine, just don’t expect me to have fun.’

  ‘Perhaps if you tried, you might,’ Saskia says, turning to face us.

  Her timing is off, years too late to soothe the angry ruffles of Phoebe’s feathers. But why?

  ‘Perhaps if I tried? Coming from you?’

  ‘Please, guys, I don’t think this is necessary in front of Milly.’

  Wobbles, threatens to come toppling down. A deck of cards, carefully, painstakingly, arranged in a pyramid. Fragile family.

  Nobody speaks, the only noise Rosie’s paws on the tiles as she comes into the room, tail wagging, nose high in the air. A sneeze of pleasure as the scent of chicken now resting out of the oven tempts her, draws her near.

  Mike leans down and scratches behind her ears, just where she likes it, then says, come on, old girl, out, and removes her, shuts her in the porch. Phoebe and I lay the table while Saskia serves up roast potatoes and veg into white bowls. When Mike comes back he sharpens a long knife, elaborate swishes and swipes, carves the chicken with it. He doesn’t ask me to spread my fingers on the table while he stabs in between each one, as fast as he can. Not his kind of game.

  Once we’re seated it takes a few minutes of passing plates around, trading bowls from opposite sides of the table, for everybody to be ready to eat. Mike pours wine for Saskia and himself, and half a glass for Phoebe. When he offers me some, I say no, water is fine. Phoebe calls me a bore and we all laugh it off, I bet the name she calls me in her head is much worse.

  ‘Cheers,’ says Mike, raising his glass.

  Nobody joins him.

  ‘Milly tells me you’re doing Lord of the Flies this term.’

  He strikes gold, he knows where to mine.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve pretty much got the biggest part, I’m onstage narrator. Miss Mehmet says it’s because I’ve got such a clear voice.’

  ‘That’s nice to hear, isn’t it, Sas?’

  She nods, her heart’s not in it though. Fantasizing about fucking Benji, or walking out the door, never coming back. Her eyes glassy, her hand reaching at her nose every now and then. Mike’s not blind, nor blinkered. Chooses to ignore. Tolerate. Her stash, replenished. She’s high. Fucked. Getting fucked. Fucking high.

  ‘Milly. Earth to Milly,’ I hear Mike say.

  I’m staring again, this time at Saskia.

  Phoebe makes the comment, if looks could kill. Saskia straightens up, attempts a mouthful of food. Mike says, enough now, that’s enough. The conversation goes on. Bland. Tame. We eat while we talk. Phoebe was right though, the chicken’s dry. Mike asks her how she’s doing with learning her lines, suggests taking a leaf out of my book, reading and rereading the text. A red rag to a bull, a match to a flare.

  ‘That’s so typical, I’ve actually been working really hard on my lines, perhaps you’re just too fucking busy to notice.’

  She drains the wine in her glass, the heat of the alcohol adding fuel to her rage.

  ‘Any more language like that and you’ll leave the table, okay? Especially when your mum has cooked such a nice dinner.’

  ‘I must be eating something else,’ she replies.

  Saskia’s mouth opens, about to speak, but closes again, doesn’t feel, and isn’t, half as brave as her daughter. She excuses herself to the bathroom, her nose is hungry.

  ‘It was only a joke, for god’s sake.’

  ‘Last warning, Phoebe, I mean it,’ replies Mike.

  She stabs her fork into a potato, looks at him, says, ‘Fine.’ He runs his hands through his hair, lets out a sigh, asks me if I’d like some more chicken.

  ‘No thanks, I’m almost full.’

  ‘Do I not get offered any?’

  ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘No, I’ll have some more wine though.’

  ‘Not tonight you won’t.’

  Too late. She picks up the bottle, half pours, half spills herself another glass. Full this time. Her lips, stained purple.

  ‘I don’t think so, Phoebe.’

  He stands up, removes the glass from her hand, tips the wine down the sink.

  ‘You never used to mind.’

  ‘You used to behave better.’

  She stares at me and I know somehow she’s blaming me. When Mike sits back down he tries a different approach.

  ‘Why don’t you guys work together on the play, help each other out?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I reply.

  ‘Me and Iz are working on it together.’

  ‘Perhaps you could include Milly?’

  ‘She’d only be left out.’

  ‘There’s no need to be rude.’

  ‘I’m not being rude, why are you taking her side?’

  ‘I’m not taking anybody’s side.’

  ‘Yeah you are, I might as well be invisible.’

  He could tell her, defuse the bomb. Explain why he and I spend so much time together, where we went when I missed school. The lawyers. Our evening conversations, what they’re about. You. But he doesn’t, he tells her it’s important he helps me adjust to life as a member of the family, a little extra time and attention is needed. Phoebe’s about to respond but Saskia comes back, heavy-bottomed glass in her hand. Ice. Slice of lime. She sits down, plays with her necklace, the gold one that matches Phoebe’s, and mine. Phoebe doesn’t miss a trick, not where her mother is concerned.

  ‘Well, seeing as you’ve moved on to spirits, I might as well drink your wine.’

  She reaches for Saskia’s glass, drinks what’s left of it. Lolita, a teenage temptress, knows all the buttons to push. Mike’s hands press into the table, he’ll be telling himself to calm down, employing tactics he uses in his work. He stands up, speaks.

  ‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Leave the table, Phoebe. If you’re still hungry, take whatever you want with you, but go straight to your room and I’d prefer not to see you again this evening.’

  She does as she’s told. Steam runs low. What goes up, must come down.

  And then there were three.

  I can’t help but feel sorry for her, I’ve felt it too. The hunger of loneliness around the people, or person, you’re supposed to be protected by. Nurtured. Mike apologizes, asks me if I’ve had enough to eat.

  ‘Yes thank you, I think I’ll head up too if that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course, and I’m sorry, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.’

  I pause outside Phoebe’s room, imagine what she’s doing. Texting Izzy? Telling her how much she hates her family, how much she hates me?

  No such thing as a shiny, new family.

  ‘Milly, it’s Mike, can you hear me?’

  Please, stop crying.

  ‘Milly, who are you talking to?’

  I’m going to help you, I promise.

  ‘Everything is okay, Milly.’

  No, it’s too late for that.

  Somebody places t
heir hands on my shoulders, holds them there. Applies pressure. A voice says, Milly, you need to come out of there. I open my eyes and I see Mike in front of me.

  ‘Let me help you up.’

  ‘No, they need me, Mike. They’re frightened.’

  ‘Take my hand, Milly. That’s it, good girl.’

  When Mike leads me out of the cellar, the light in the corridor blinds me. A spotlight. Exposed. This is who I am. I begin to cry, he holds me into his chest. His heart beats with something strong, I feel it through the thick material of his dressing gown. He’s not supposed to touch me, but I’m glad he does.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, deep into his chest.

  ‘You have no reason to be sorry, Milly.’

  I do.

  I have many reasons.

  12

  Mike told me everything was okay when he took me back to my room on Saturday night, said we’d talk about it in this week’s session, but how can I be sure he means it. That everything’s okay. The ground beneath my feet, less firm when night comes. What I do, say. What I reveal about myself in those moments. My biggest fear was you, still is most of the time, but now I have a new fear, that I’ll be shown the door, Mike recognizing he’s bitten off more than he can chew. More than he wants to.

  Eleven weeks today your trial begins. Eleven weeks, the same building as you, same air. I want to know what it was June told Mike on the phone. Something you’ve said. Something they don’t want me to find out. Go slow and tell the truth, that’s all you have to worry about, Mike said to me last week. Easy for him to say.

  I sit up in bed, take one of the elastic bands from my wrist, pull my hair into a high ponytail, it’s how the other girls wear it at school. Once I’m dressed I roll up the sketches I did over the weekend to show MK. I’m looking forward to seeing her again, I feel like I get it right when I’m with her. Just before I leave my room a text comes through. Morgan, saying she had fun on Saturday, see you soon, followed by a host of emojis. A star, a thumbs up. Two girls dancing in unison and a red balloon. She likes me, I think. Has seen only the good parts. Certain things should never be disclosed, that’s what you used to say to me. Show only the side you know they’ll like. Trust.

  ‘Morning,’ Mike says as I enter the kitchen.

  ‘Morning.’

  Phoebe is there, arms crossed over her chest, turns her face away when she sees me.

  ‘Phoebe,’ Mike says.

  She looks up at him, exhales noisily and says, fine, then turns to me.

  ‘Sorry about Saturday.’

  I nod, reply.

  ‘Thanks, it’s okay.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t okay and she knows it. I’ve been very clear that if anything like that happens again, there’ll be consequences. Right, Phoebe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ Mike says. ‘Now let’s draw a line under this. Why don’t you guys walk to school together? It’s not often you leave at the same time.’

  ‘I’m meeting Iz, we’ve got stuff to talk about.’

  ‘As mentioned at dinner on Saturday, Phoebe, I’m sure you could include Milly from time to time. No?’

  ‘It’s okay, I like walking on my own, gives me a chance to clear my head.’

  He looks disappointed, but lets it go. We finish breakfast at the same time and end up leaving together anyway, but when we exit the driveway, on to the main road, she says, ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, but for the record, Mum and Dad never keep anyone longer than a couple of months. Pretty soon you’ll be sent back to where you came from.’

  She jogs away from me, rucksack bouncing, and joins Izzy, who’s waiting at the end of the road. Back to where you came from, she said. I want to shout after her, ask where does a person go if they can’t stay where they are, or go back to the place they’ve come from. Where will I go after the court case is over? A temporary placement, that’s what June said when I met her at the unit. Mike and Saskia have decided I’m the last foster child they’ll take until Phoebe finishes her A levels. She has no idea how lucky she is and how much I wish there was room for us both.

  When I get to school I check my timetable inside my locker. First period I’m supposed to have maths but as I walked past the office on the way in, there was a note pinned up outside announcing that Miss Dukes, our teacher, was off for the day, Year Elevens to work in the library. I decide to go to the art room first to see if MK is around. Her room is empty when I arrive, a tasselled cardigan hanging on the back of her chair, an art textbook open, face down on the desk. I want to turn it over, see what it is she’s looking at, but the door to the corridor opens and she comes in carrying a pile of paper plates decorated with felt faces. She smiles when she sees me.

  ‘This is a nice surprise. How was your weekend?’

  ‘It was good, thank you. How was yours?’

  ‘Pretty quiet, to be honest,’ she replies. ‘If it’s me you’re after you’re in luck, I’ve got half an hour spare before the little ones pile in.’

  ‘I wanted to show you some drawings I did over the weekend.’

  ‘Wonderful, let’s have a look then.’

  I slide the roll of sketches out of my rucksack flap, hand them to her.

  ‘Wow, you have been busy.’

  ‘There’s only three,’ I reply, enjoying the way her enthusiasm makes me feel.

  ‘Let’s flatten them out on the table.’

  We use pots of felt-tip pens to hold down the corners of the pages, she steps back when all three are laid out. Nods.

  ‘These are great, particularly the girl with the eagle wings. Have you always liked to draw?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Are either of your parents artistic?’

  How to tell her, how to explain that you believed what you did was art.

  Skin, not paper.

  ‘My mum left when I was young, so I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Sorry, that was insensitive of me to ask, I know you’re staying with the Newmonts.’

  I tell her it’s fine, but it’s not. It’s not what she said, it’s what I can’t.

  ‘You’re very talented. Have you thought about studying art once you finish school?’

  ‘Maybe, but I also really like science.’

  ‘Better money in science, that’s for sure. Thanks for sharing them with me, I love to see what you girls come up with. If you don’t mind I have to reply to some emails but feel free to stay and do some drawing for the next twenty minutes or so.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be in the library. Miss Dukes is off so we’ve got a study period instead.’

  ‘I can give the librarian a quick call if you like, let her know you’re with me.’

  ‘You don’t mind me staying?’

  ‘Of course not, the more the merrier. It’s nice to have company, isn’t it?’

  Yes.

  I sit at one of the easels while she phones Mrs Hartley, reach for a red piece of chalk from the box on the table next to me. I sweep, swirl. We work in silence. Dust flies, so does time. Red splinters stand out against the navy of my school skirt. I press too hard, the chalk breaks.

  ‘May I see?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She walks over, stands behind me.

  ‘The colour in this piece is very powerful.’

  I nod.

  The spillages and seepages.

  ‘Can you describe what you’ve drawn? Is that a person there?’

  MK’s finger hovers close to your face, but doesn’t touch it. She traces the air around it, does the same for the red sweeps of chalk surrounding you.

  ‘It’s an interpretation of something I saw.’

  ‘Something on TV?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘Have you heard of the Sula Norman Art Prize?’

  ‘Is that the girl who died?’

  ‘Yes, she died of leukaemia two years ago. A very talented artist I believe, although I never met her, before my time here. When she passe
d away her parents pledged an art prize to the school, a year’s supply of art materials and an exhibition at a gallery in Soho. Having seen your work, I’d recommend you enter it.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m good enough.’

  ‘Trust me, if you keep turning out work like this I think you’ve got a strong chance of winning. I shouldn’t say that, but it’s true.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll think about it.’

  I walk to the sink, focus on washing my hands, anything but the warmth spreading across my face. Stupid to blush, and she noticed. I pull a paper towel from the dispenser, dry my hands. She joins me at the sink, gives me a damp cloth.

  ‘For the dust on your skirt,’ she says.

  I spend the remainder of the period in the library, and leave as fast as possible when the bell goes, make sure I get to the gym before the others. I change in a cubicle. Private. My body’s my own these days, leotard on for vaulting practice. I’m glad I didn’t cut last night, Mrs Havel’s arms support either side of my ribs as she helps us turn headfirst over the vaulting horse. A younger pupil comes in and interrupts the lesson.

  ‘There’s an important phone call for you, Mrs Havel.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘No, Mrs McD in the office said it was urgent.’

  ‘Okay, I won’t be a minute, girls. Lay off the vaulting and do some mat work instead and for goodness’ sake no messing about, be careful.’

  The noise rises as soon as the door to the gym closes. Laughter and teasing, conversations about boys and things that happened over the weekend. I listen, it helps me learn how to fit in. Blend in. I watch Georgie, one of the smallest girls in the year, climb up a rope attached to the ceiling. She uses her feet to push against the large knot at the bottom, her arms to pull up, gain height. She’s doing well, almost halfway, the rope swings a little from side to side as she continues. I see Phoebe nudge Clondine, whisper something, then giggle and approach the rope. Georgie’s high up now, no crash mat, I know what they’re about to do, I can tell. I should intervene but for once it’s not me being ridiculed. Belittled.

  They start to swing the rope, gently at first. It doesn’t take long for the other girls to notice. The crowd soon gathers, high ponytails dip down as necks bend and heads look up to the roof. Phones would be too, but no pockets in the leotards. Georgie tells them to stop, but they don’t. Climb down, quick, I want to yell, but fear gets to her first. Tells her to hang on, whispers in her ear, hang on for your life. She pulls her body in close, tightens her grip round the rope, bare feet useless. Slips a little, scrambles up. One leg released, clamped in again. Somebody makes a joke, says what’s the weather like up there, Georgie. Laughter. Swearing. Oh fuck, look how high she’s swinging. Then a warning from Annabel.