Before She Was Mine (11 page)

He smiled at me, and my heart lifted just a fraction.

I thought, I could deliver Joe’s pint, then come back and play a quick game of pool, catch up on news, enjoy an hour of easy, mindless banter. God knows, I could stand a dose of that.

So I waved back, and picked up both drinks. At the exact same instant a girl I’d never seen before came up behind him and put her arm round his neck possessively. He jumped in surprise,
recovered himself, smirked at us both in turn.
Hey, what can a guy do?
said his expression.

Oh you prize tosser
, I vibed back, like someone who couldn’t care less. Still, the moment was his. He disentangled himself from the girl and turned away from me, but before he did
he raised his cue at me in a Zulu-style salute. I’d have given him the finger if I’d had a hand free.

I took the drinks and trudged back to Melody. When a day’s as tough as this, there’s really nothing to do but get on with it.

Case Notes on: Melody Jacqueline Brewster

Meeting Location:
42,
Love Lane, Nantwich

Present: Miss Melody Brewster, Mrs Abby Brewster, Mrs Diane Kozyra

Date:
11.30
a.m.,
09/12/86

Melody has been experiencing faintness and dizziness in the last week, both at home and at school. A recent blood pressure check by her GP was normal, so I asked whether she
might be anaemic, or had any other explanation for the faintness. She said the fits came on when she felt under pressure, e.g. for a biology test or when she thought about making a decision over
her baby. She asked me whether I thought people would believe she was ‘shabby’ if she chose adoption. Mrs Brewster said that people would think a lot worse of her if she kept the baby
and it ‘wasn’t fair to put the family in the firing line’.

Shortly afterwards Melody said she had a headache and asked to go upstairs for a lie-down. While she was out of the room, Mrs Brewster suggested the faintness might be a ploy for attention. I
asked whether Melody had ever suffered fainting fits before and
she said no. I advised Mrs Brewster to keep a record of when Melody felt faint and to note any possible triggers so as to try
and avoid them. I stressed the importance of fully supporting Melody in making what was a very difficult decision. Mrs Brewster said she would try, but it was hard because she herself had never
felt like a very confident mother and also Melody was sometimes ‘her own worst enemy’. Gave her the BAAF number again.

Next visit:
16/12/86

Signed: Diane Kozyra

When we were younger, Nicky and I loved to make plans for the future. What pets we’d have, what jobs we’d do, where we’d live and in what kind of houses, who
we’d marry. How we’d lose our virginity, and who to. We’d make actual written lists. Sometimes I’ll be tidying my room, or re-visiting a favourite book, and find one. If
I’m in a mellow mood they make me smile. I was going to keep chickens, train Palomino horses, breed chinchillas, run a wildlife sanctuary. I would be a vet, an artist, a web designer, a TV
cameraman, a TV naturalist, a crofter, a postie. I’d live in a cottage on the Stiperstones, in a gamekeeper’s lodge,a windmill, a camper van. I was marrying the man who drove the
veg-box van, Simon Willis in Year 6, Tom Settle in Year 8, Liv’s student research assistant, the presenter of
Countryfile
, Oggy. And I would lose my virginity either in a moonlit attic
or a mossy New Forest glade against an autumn sunset while a robin sang in the background. ‘Watch out for midges!!!’, I remember Nicky writing underneath this last entry.

I’ve often wondered whether she kept her own lists. To my shame, I can’t remember much about them, barring the fact she was in love with the music teacher we had in Year 10, and she
quite fancied city living or moving to a Greek island and keeping her own boat. The wanting to be a solicitor didn’t figure till she was in the sixth form. I think she may have offered to
help run my chinchilla farm at one point.

I was pondering all this now, our shared history of dreams, as I waited in the bridal-wear foyer for Nicky to come out in her seventh dress. The area was spacious and plush with springy carpet
and you could tell someone had been round with an air freshener before opening. We were drowning in vanilla. Three walls were taken up with racks of snowy gowns and I sat in the middle of the room
on a chesterfield sofa while an assistant eyed my Doc Martens and fingerless gloves.

They always put me on the defensive, bridal shops, as if I should be accounting for where I am in life and somehow apologising for it. I wanted to take the assistant by her matronly shoulders,
give her a good shake and say,
I’m not jealous of this, you know. I wouldn’t be seen dead in a big frock and a tiara. Don’t look at me with that pitying gleam.

On the wall by the changing-room entrance a shadow moved. The assistant looked up brightly and here came Nicky, stepping out in a bandeau-top ivory gown with tiered skirt. She stood in front of
me, her face taut and unhappy.

‘What do you think of this one?’ she said.

I thought it was vile. It compressed her already small chest, whilst at the same time puffing out her hips to the extent that her bottom half looked almost fat. Essentially she was the same
shape as a toilet brush.

‘Nah. Not unless you want everyone to think you’re up the duff,’ I said.

At once I saw I’d made a mistake in being so blunt. She flushed and nodded, and turned quickly away.

‘I love this detailing here,’ said the assistant, darting forward and plucking at the ruffles round the waist. ‘Such a curvy shape, makes your waist look tiny. And if you want
more balance on top, you could always wear a stole. We do them in fur, chiffon, taffeta, silk. They’re ever so popular. Shall I get you one to try?’

‘No, you’re fine,’ said Nicky. ‘I wasn’t that struck. It’s too tight under my arms.’ She looked absolutely miserable.

Freya, you big-mouthed idiot
, I was thinking. Liv had warned me about women and their wedding dresses, how you have to pretend every outfit’s wonderful because it’s not your
decision to make, and also if the bride-to-be gets excessively emotional then the whole expedition’s scuppered. Nicky glanced over her shoulder, frowning, and tried to press down the back of
the bodice.

I said, ‘If it’s not comfortable, you won’t be able to enjoy the day.’

‘Do you want to try the next one?’ said the assistant, who knew when she was beaten.

She led Nicky back into the changing rooms and I was left to my thoughts again. I found myself remembering, out of nowhere, the summer we broke into old Mrs Finch’s garden to carve rude
messages on her marrows as revenge for her complaining about the noise we’d made playing hosepipe wars. I’d assumed, as we’d crawled about behind the bean-plant frames, that Nicky
was doing what I was, which was to be as filthy as my nine-year-old brain could manage. But I discovered later she was adjusting my graffiti, turning the words BUM into BUMP! and FUCK into PUCKER
UP X X X. The cartoon boobs I cut into one huge yellow squash she adapted into googly eyes, and my attempt at a hand giving a two-fingered salute she changed into a rabbit’s head, complete
with whiskers. At first I’d been annoyed and called her wet, but she’d explained she couldn’t bear for me to get into real trouble (and it would have been me, because Mrs Finch
was my next-door neighbour). As it was, the vegetable decoration, when it was discovered, was more or less dismissed by Liv as an inventive joke, which it certainly wouldn’t have been if my
messages had been left unedited.

That’s the thing about Nicky: she’s always been able to face the future better than me. I’ve a kind of shutter that comes down and blanks out consequences. When we first
started drinking as teens, it only took one time for her to get sick-drunk and then she knew her limits and stopped when she was getting near them. I, on the other hand, regularly ended an evening
by puking into a hedge. At school she always completed her homework before the deadline, whereas I’d be scribbling to finish during morning registration. For the whole of Year 9 I used her
lab coat because mine had gone missing and I couldn’t be bothered to sort out a new one; not once did she huff about this irritating state of affairs or tell me to bloody well get my own.

There are two other incidents I particularly remember, little moments where her loyalty saved my skin. The first happened when, only a month into high school, I was kept in after lessons for
forgetting my trainers twice in a row. Detentions were a big disgrace, and supervised by the deputy head, Mr Prentiss, who was an utter git. I was petrified all day and spent lunchtime in tears.
But when the three-thirty bell rang and I was led away, Nicky not only waited an hour for me, mooching about in a drizzly playground and missing the bus, but she kept my spirits up by sneaking
round the side of the building and holding funny messages against the window. If Mr Prentiss had caught her, she’d have been in serious bother.

The second happened while we were on a school trip to Formby, and I had a period disaster. Nicky bundled me into the toilets and offered there and then to lend me her jeans. ‘What the hell
will you wear?’ I’d hissed, near-hysterical. ‘I can pretend my tunic’s a mini dress,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fine. See, it’s not far off my
knees.’ Only the fact her jeans would never have fitted me prevented her from peeling them off and handing them over. In the end she gave me her cardi to tie round my waist and hide the
bloodstain. Gestures like that seal a friendship forever.

And she’s always just
been
there. Even when she was away at uni, she called me every week. She’s listened to me slag off Oggy for hours, yet not got snippy when I’ve
ended up back with him. She’s never, to my knowledge, betrayed a secret I’ve confided, nor has she made me feel inadequate for jacking in my degree even though she completed hers with
flying colours (no surprises there). The nearest we’ve ever come to falling out was in Year 9 when she wanted me to go on the French exchange and I wouldn’t, and she called me a coward
and we didn’t speak for five days. It nearly killed us both.

So although I’d rather have been pretty much anywhere than marking the minutes away in this shop of frills, I was more than willing to do it for my pal. I just wished she’d hurry up
and make a decision.

There was a rustling, a cry of alarm as something evidently caught and had to be freed, and then out shuffled Nicky once more.

‘Woah,’ I said, determined to be more upbeat. ‘That’s a bit special.’

Her body was encased in a sheath of close-fitting silk, widening out only at the last minute to pool round her ankles. The neckline was high but the dress was sleeveless, so there was still
plenty of Nicky’s pale flesh on show. It made her look as though she’d been chiselled out of icing sugar.

‘Do you like it?’ she said.

‘It’s incredibly glamorous. You remind me of that woman who opens Columbia films.’

She laughed nervously. ‘I’m not happy with this cowl-effect here. Plus I can’t walk in it.’

‘That is a bit of a downer.’

‘But I love the skirt shape.’

‘Could you not wear roller boots underneath? I could shove you up the aisle. And on the way back down from the altar there’s a slope, it’d be a cinch.’

I thought this image would amuse her, but instead she only frowned and put her hand to her brow. ‘Trying to work out what’s best . . . I want this one, but with number five’s
bodice and the sleeves from that first. Or number three without the embroidery and that stupid bow.’

‘We do have an alterations service,’ said the assistant.

Nicky whipped her head up crossly. ‘I’m not talking little nips and tucks, I’m talking about a whole re-design. I just want a dress that suits me. Why is that so
hard?’

The assistant nodded and made soothing noises, and my eyes swept over the racks and racks of gowns.

‘Why do they all have to be so . . .’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘
Wrong
,’ she said, and turned and hobbled back into the changing room.

Behind the thin wall of the changing room there followed a heated consultation. I could hear Nicky’s indignant tones as she argued about the fit of the dresses and their general fussiness,
and then the assistant’s lower, slower voice attempting to instil some calm. At one point Nicky cried, ‘I wish my mum was here.’

‘Pretend I’m your mum,’ said the assistant. There was an ominous silence, then she came rushing out and snatched four or five dresses off the rails. It was hard to see the
detail of any of them because the action was so quick, but I got the impression of a great fishtail train, iridescent sequins and ruched, puffed sleeves.
Oh good grief, you’ve so not
understood
, I thought. The next moment she’d whisked back behind the wall and the arguing started up again. In desperation I opened
Wedding
magazine and attempted to read an
article about how sugared almonds were making a comeback.

Eventually I heard Nicky snap, ‘We’re not all built like Page Three girls, you know!’ There was a sound like someone wrestling cellophane. I put the magazine down and
waited.

‘Come on, Frey,’ she said, sweeping round the corner, jeans and shirt back on and her hair all mussed up. ‘I’ve had enough for today.’ She grabbed her coat and
jerked open the door. I felt a blast of lovely cold air.

Outside I said, ‘Do you want to go for a drink?’

‘I don’t know. Do I?’

‘Come on.’

I took her arm and led her across the shopping precinct to a tiny newsagent’s. From there I bought a couple of cans of Coke and a bag of Haribo because we both needed a sugar boost, then I
guided her down a side street to the amphitheatre ruins and found us a bench where we could get our breath.

I knew what a contrast we must make, her in her long, smart, tailored grey coat, and me in my khaki jacket clutching two tins in my mittens. Passers-by probably thought she was my care
worker.