Something Good (21 page)

“Yeah.”

He didn't know how to respond. Had Hannah, too, been having sex with this two-timing jerk? He hadn't the first idea how to broach the subject.

“It's okay, Dad,” she said, touching his hand across the table, “I'm not that dumb.”

Max smiled weakly. “I'm glad to hear it.”

“To be honest,” she continued, “I feel sorry for her. Some poor girl landing herself with such a shit. And his mum—I went round to see him, and she thought I was the pregnant one. I felt sorry for her, too. She seemed kind of…fragile.”

Max nodded, trying to appear interested, though mustering any sympathy for his daughter's ex-boyfriend's mother was beyond him. What was it about the female psyche that made them so fascinated about people they barely knew? It was too hot in here, Max decided, flapping the neck of his T-shirt. The food smells, plus the smoke that was drifting from a table with five cackling women crammed around it—it was all conspiring to make him feel quite unwell. He wondered where the waitress had stashed his crutches. “Dad,” Hannah said, “are you listening?”

“Sorry, Han, I'm just feeling a bit—”

“What's weird,” she continued, “is Celia seemed really nice. The kind of person, if I hadn't been so upset, I'd have stayed and talked to for longer….”

“Celia?” Max could feel a trickle of sweat on his temple.

“Yeah, Ollie's Mum. Celia Tibbs.”

The waitress approached their table. As if his arm were mechanically operated, Max flapped her away. “What's wrong?” Hannah asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He snatched a menu from the table, realizing his hands were drenched with sweat, and pretended to focus on it.
Celia Tibbs.
It was hardly a common name; she had to be the same person. Celia, who had worked in his shop for one hot summer, who'd hung around him after work and been there when they'd all gone out to celebrate a great review in
Your Bike
magazine. She had a child of her own—he'd have been seven or eight then. “Bet you're a wonderful dad,” she'd told him.

They hadn't acknowledged him being a dad or a husband that night they'd staggered drunkenly into her bedsit off the Holloway Road. There'd been a child's bedroom, he remembered that much, but no son sleeping in it. “He's at his gran's,” she'd told him, adding with a laugh, “Good timing, eh?” One little mistake, that's all she'd been. He could picture the well-worn teddy bear sitting on the bed, watching them reproachfully.

“I'll have a poached egg salad,” Hannah said. “How about you?”

He tried to focus on the words. “The mushroom thing,” he muttered, picking the first thing that leapt out at him.

“Ugh. Can't stand them.” He felt her frowning at him over her menu. “Are you okay, Dad? You've gone really pale. Is it your leg or something?”

“I'm fine,” he said, catching a waitress's eye and indicating that they were ready to order, even though there wasn't one hungry cell in his entire body.

J
ane blinked at the neat, compressed handwriting. Winnie: the name was so old-fashioned as to be almost comical. Winnie and William—they could have been an old-fashioned comedy act. William seemed ill-fitting, too. Her mother had always called her husband Bill. Jane had almost forgotten that her father had been a William.

Jane folded up the sheet of blue airmail paper and slipped it back into the file where she'd found it. She hadn't intended to snoop through the drawers, hadn't even realized her mother kept personal things there. She had planned to spend an hour or so checking through her mother's mail, clearing out the fridge and doing a quick, superficial cleanup.

She forgave him, Jane thought, after everything he'd done. Her eyes had misted, and she wiped them against her sweater sleeve.

Her phone bleeped, and she fished it out of her pocket to read the text.

One little mistake was all it had been. Like her mother, Jane could have forgiven, but now it was ten years too late.

 

“You've done
what?
”

Jane gripped the phone as she cleared away the pencils and half-finished drawings that Hannah had left scattered on the living room table. “I've resigned, Mum. Well, not completely. I'll do one shift a week until Sally finds someone else.”

“You're misunderstanding,” her mother barked. “Why not make a clean break from the place? What's all this one-shift-a-week nonsense?”

“Sally's my friend. I can't just leave her in the lurch.”
And Hannah and I have to live,
she added silently.

“You're playing safe. If you're going to make a go of—”

“Mum, I am! Three shops are stocking my work. I've advertised, dropped leaf lets and cards off at every local business I can think of, carted panels all over East London…”

“And in between that,” Nancy added with a chuckle, “you've been salt-dough modeling or whatever it is you get up to with the kids.”

“I
like
salt-dough modeling,” Jane said huffily, wondering how this could possibly be the person who'd written such a forgiving letter.

“I suppose you have responsibilities,” Nancy added dryly.

“Yes, I do.” Jane sighed and gnawed the end of Hannah's charcoal pencil.

“Are you eating? Have I disturbed your meal?”

“No, Mum. Anyway, how are things? Have you settled in?”

A small laugh. “Busy as anything. A full summer program set up and running with bookings already coming in. I suppose you've seen our new website?”

“Yes,” Jane lied.

“So, are you going to?”

“To…what?”

“Book a place for the summer school. We can offer a discount.”

“I can't keep coming to Scotland! I've got stuff to do here, Mum, like—”

“What's so important that you can't give yourself a week off, now you're only working one day a week?”

Jane burst out laughing. “I've got…stuff.”

Nancy snorted, then her voice softened as she said, “We'd like to see you.”

“We?”

Nancy paused. “Conor asks about you. Thank goodness for him, is all I can say, working with this drunken imbecile…”

Something twisted in Jane. She wanted to say,
What do you mean, he asks about me? He could have got in touch if he'd wanted to.
“I popped into your house today,” she said quickly. “It was strange, being in the archive room without you.”

She heard her mother take a breath. “You could do me a favor and clear it out.”

“What would I do with it all?” Jane asked.

“I don't really care. It's only
stuff,
Jane. I've had enough of hanging on to things that no longer fit into my life.”

 

The house seemed too quiet after the call. Hannah was at Zoë's birthday do, and Sally was coming round later to share a bottle of wine. Stuff, Jane thought, casting an eye around the living room. So much stuff she'd accumulated since moving here ten years ago. The house had been pleasingly empty the first time they'd walked in. Plain pale walls, plain faded carpets, the only artifice being those window boxes filled with blowsy plants. She'd tried to remember to water when she noticed them reprimanding her with their sagging heads.

So he'd been asking about her, had he? Jane wondered if the laundry-basket Dalek was still in one piece. Lewis, unlike Hannah, struck her as a careful child who'd look after his possessions. She doubted if Conor had to rake under leaves for lost Dr. Who figurines.

Jane found a notebook between numerous drawing pads under her desk. The pages were the flimsy airmail kind like her mother had used for her Dear William letter. She found a pen on the table and wrote:

She looked down at the page. What was she thinking, spilling out her feelings to him? She'd been home for four weeks. He could have got in touch—found her number or e-mail on Archie's computer, or asked her mother for it. As for the panel—couldn't he have thanked her, even if he hadn't liked or wanted it?

It was obvious, she realized with crushing certainty, that Conor had no plans to contact her again. A one-night stand—that's all she'd been to him. When the next batch of students arrived he'd pick one out to befriend, asking her round for supper and taking her up to the foothills of the mountain to see the broken-down church.

Tear pricked Jane's eyes as she reread her letter. They weren't the words of a responsible adult but a hormonal fifteen year-old who couldn't even keep geraniums alive. She ripped out the page, scrunched it up in her fist and fired it across the room, scoring a direct hit in the waste bin.

Then, telling herself that she had nothing to fear—that she was just late, and probably panicking over nothing—she headed upstairs to the bathroom to do the pregnancy test.

H
annah wasn't sure how Zoë had managed to rake together a collection of friends for her birthday dinner. They were occupying the largest table in the Italian restaurant, tossing and flapping their hair like changing-room curtains. Veronica sat at the farthest end of the table like a queen surveying her subjects. Everyone, Hannah realized as she twirled linguine around her fork, was blond, apart from her. She felt like a different species. “So,” whispered the girl beside her, “I presume you're the latest?”

Hannah frowned. “Latest what?”

“NBF.”

“Don't know what you mean,” she said with a shrug.

“New best friend.” The girl grinned, showing gleaming pink gums.

Hannah tried to catch Zoë's eye, but she was too busy laughing theatrically with a girl who kept throwing her head back, as if she were having trouble controlling her neck muscles.

“It's the way she operates,” the girl added. “Gets super-close to someone, hangs out with them all the time, then drifts away and moves on to someone else.”

“No, she doesn't,” Hannah said hotly. Even listening to this girl's remarks was making her feel disloyal. No wonder Zoë preferred being with her if all her schoolmates were as bitchy as this.

“A toast, everyone!” Veronica was saying, standing up now and gripping the stem of her glass.

“We've all been there,” the girl railed. “We've all been the NBF.”

“To my beautiful Zoë,” Veronica announced, “happy birthday, darling.”

Everyone cried “Happy birthday” and, in perfect synchronization, a waiter glided toward them with an enormous platter laden with fairy cakes. Each fairy cake had been intricately iced with spirals of piped icing. “It's okay, Hannah,” Veronica brayed over the table, “they're all natural colors. I was very specific about that. They won't set off your asthma or anything.”

Hannah smiled tightly. “Thanks.”

“D'you have asthma?” chirped the girl beside her.

“Um, yeah.”

“That's a shame. Listen, some of us are going clubbing after this. Want to come?”

“No, thanks,” Hannah said stiffly, “I'm going back to Zoë's. I'm staying there tonight.” She tried again to catch her eye—send her a let's-get-the-hell-out-of-here code—but Zoë was swooshing away in the direction of the loo, closely followed by her mother, who was clattering across the polished floor in her Emma Hope wedding shoes.

 

Hannah had hoped they might lie around gossiping in Zoë's bedroom, but Zoë seemed distracted, and more interested in admiring herself wearing her new earrings. “They're lovely,” Hannah said. “Who gave you them again?”

“Amelia.”

“Who's Amelia?” Hannah asked, aware of the strained tinge to her voice.

“She's just started at our school. She's dead clever and has this really cool family. You won't believe it but her mum's a fashion designer. Amelia gets to pick anything she wants from the collections. She's going to be a model.”

“Oh,” Hannah responded, picturing the girl who'd kept throwing her head back and filling the restaurant with extravagant laughter.

“You'd like her,” she added. “She's a laugh. Completely mental.”

Hannah watched Zoë twirling the earrings between her fingers and checking her reflection from all angles. She hadn't told her about visiting Ollie's flat, or Ollie's mother blurting that stuff about the pregnant girl. “It's just fizzled out,” was all she'd said, “and I'm glad. He was just messing me around.”

“I'm proud of you,” Zoë had said, and Hannah had felt vaguely ashamed for being so grateful for her friend's approval.

She picked up a copy of
Glamour
magazine but couldn't summon up the enthusiasm to read it. Hannah was aware of a hollowness inside her—a feeling of something missing. She could hear Dylan playing a guitar in his room. Zoë's cell phone rang, and Hannah saw her face light up as she took the call. “Hi Amelia. Yeah, I'd love to—what time? Okay if I bring Han?” Hannah kept her eyes firmly fixed on the magazine. Are Your Friends Toxic? the headline read. Find out if your buddies truly deserve you. “Honestly,” Zoë continued, “I'm really up for it. There's nothing much happening here.” She finished the call, her eyes gleaming excitedly. “We're going to town,” she announced. “New club in Covent Garden. Amelia's mum knows the manager and he's put our names at the door.”

“Our names?” Hannah repeated.

“Yeah. Zoë plus one. You do want to come, don't you?”

“I don't really feel like it. Anyway, I don't have any money.” She didn't add that she'd had to scrounge money for the birthday meal from her mum—only to discover that Veronica was picking up the tab—as she'd spent her last fifteen quid on a lacy Top Shop vest for a present. A top that Zoë had merely glanced at quickly before dropping it back into the ripped remains of its wrapping and moved swiftly on to more extravagant gifts, like Amelia's earrings. Hannah wasn't in the mood for clubbing, or being anyone's plus one.

“Come on,” Zoë pleaded. “It's my birthday. I'll get some money from Mum. You've got to—”

“I really don't want to. I'll see you over the weekend, okay? I'm going to phone Mum, tell her I'm getting the bus home.”

Zoë's face drooped with disappointment. “Okay. Sorry, Han, but I'll have to hurry if I'm meeting Amelia at ten. See yourself out, will you, while I have a shower?”

 

Dylan was leaning in his bedroom doorway as Hannah left Zoë's room. “Want to see something?” he asked.

“I'm just going home.”

“Come on,” he urged her, “it won't take a minute.”

She looked at him. Something about his expression suggested that the ‘something' was really important. Hannah paused on the landing, hearing the shower being turned on and Zoë singing to herself. “What is it?” she asked.

“Come in. It's okay, I won't bite.” The smile lit up his sweet, pale face.

“Okay. Just for a minute.” Hannah stepped into his room. It looked like it belonged to another house. There were no calico walls, no golden letters spelling his name, no cluster of body oils on a dressing table; just colossal piles of magazines, books and rumpled papers.

“Hang on a minute,” Dylan said. He opened his wardrobe and crouched on the floor, rummaging through papers and notebooks at the bottom. He dragged out a pile of folders and spread them on the floor. Hannah sat on the bed, taking in the details of his face: the dark brown eyes that shone vividly from luminous skin, the unkempt dark hair that looked as if he'd hacked at himself with blunt scissors. There was a faint smell—a boy's bedroomy smell—but it was warm and biscuity rather than outwardly unpleasant. “Here it is,” he said, thrusting Hannah a folder. “Zoë said you're a really good artist. Tell me what you think.” He flashed a crooked grin. “You can say if you think they're crap. I can take it.”

She took the folder from him and slid out the drawings. They were comic strips, featuring a girl with creamy skin and purplish hair. She was dressed entirely in black, with fierce determination shining out of her dark eyes, and looked eerily familiar. “Did you really do these?” she asked quietly.

Dylan colored slightly. “Yeah. I've been working on them for ages. I was thinking of sending them to a publisher or something, some company that does graphic novels, but maybe you think that's stupid.”

“I don't think that's stupid at all,” she murmured, examining the loose pages in turn. The girl, she discovered, had a friend. A blond, ditzy friend who wanted everyone's attention and sulked when she didn't get it. “Not based on your sister, is she?” she said, laughing.

“I, um, don't really base the characters on real people. They're just made up.”

“So…what's the dark-haired one's name?”

“Haven't decided yet.”

She nodded, and their eyes met. Usually Hannah hated clutter—her mother's clutter at least—but Dylan's felt quirky and interesting. She felt quite at home in the chaotic room. “So, what happens to her in the end? The dark-haired one, I mean?”

“I haven't decided yet. Maybe you could help me figure it out. If you've got time,” he quickly added, “next time you're here to see Zoë.”

Hannah heard Zoë coming out of the bathroom, humming to herself in her room now, getting ready for her night out. She thought of the assortment of blond girls around the restaurant table—the pretentious restaurant Veronica had chosen—and felt relieved to be here. “Don't you want to go?” Dylan asked, as if reading her thoughts.

“I don't like clubbing. It's never been my thing.”

“Yeah.” He took the drawings from her and spread them out on the floor. Then, as he raked through his CDs and selected one to play, Zoë swept past his open door—either not knowing or caring that Hannah was still there. “Anyway,” Dylan added, “I'm glad you're not going.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you can hang out here. If you want.”

She liked the way he colored easily, the way she felt utterly unintimidated by him. It was good, she realized, to be with someone with whom she felt equal. “Okay,” she said, checking her watch. “I'll see if Dad'll pay my taxi fare home.” The front door banged shut, and Hannah heard Zoë clip-clopping down the stone steps.

“See you later, Princess,” Dylan muttered under his breath.

“She's not so bad,” Hannah said defensively.

“You don't live with her.”

“She can be really sweet,” Hannah added. “You know what she did when we were in Scotland? She gave me these.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled out the yellow box. Since Zoë had given her the worry dolls, she'd taken to carrying them with her at all times. They'd worked, too. The weight of the Ollie stuff had fallen away.

Dylan took the box from her and lifted its lid. “Where did you get these?”

“I told you. Zoë got them for me. It's amazing, what she did—they used to be mine. I'd hid them under the floor at Dad's old house, but he moved out before I could get them.” She glanced at Dylan, who was watching her intently. “Zoë went to the house and explained what had happened. That's how I got my worry dolls back.”

Dylan bit his lip. “What is it?” Hannah asked.

“Nothing.” He replaced the lid and handed the box back to her.

“Dylan, tell me….”

His eyes looked huge and deep. “I don't…she made it up, Han. The story about going to your dad's house…”

“How d'you know?” She was angry now—what was she doing, listening to Zoë's little brother? He was fourteen, for God's sake. A baby.

“Have a look at the dolls,” he said quietly. She tipped them onto her palm and regarded him coolly. “Look at the blue one,” he added. “See the thread stuff's unraveling?”

Hannah looked down and nodded. “If you unwind the thread,” Dylan continued, “you'll see some writing on the wooden part inside it.”

Slowly, Hannah unwound the thread. If this was a game, she was prepared to play along, if only to prove that Dylan was as weird as Zoë had said. She wanted to leave now, hurry round to her dad's and call a cab. A sliver of wood lay on her palm now. A sliver on which someone had written, in the same ultrafine black pen as Dylan had used for his comic strip. “It says Dylan,” Hannah said, frowning.

He smiled warmly and touched her hand. “She nicked them from my room, Han. I had worry dolls, too. Those are mine.”