Coming of Age (12 page)

“But you've only just
met
.”

“Well, not exactly, but I hear what you're saying. It
has
happened very fast.” Dad looks down at his hands. “It was something you said that got me thinking.”

“Oh?” Amy's stomach starts to bubble. She grabs the edge of the table, squeezes it, bites her tongue until she can feel the pain.

“About me acting like a besotted teenager.” He grins. “You were right!”

“I was?”

I'm supposed to say congratulations. Aren't I?

“Thing is, when you fall in love, it doesn't really matter
how
old you are. It just happens and suddenly you're in it up to your ears.”

And I hope you'll be very happy together?

“After Mum died, I thought there'd never be anyone else again and Hannah, she was engaged to a man called Jack, I never knew that before, but she told me a couple of evenings ago. So for both of us, it's second time round the block, but we're absolutely sure we're doing the right thing.”

He pauses for breath.

Amy slithers on to the nearest chair. Her feet are so cold she can hardly feel them. “Congratulations,” she says mechanically. “I'm very happy for you both.”

“I
knew
you would be.” Dad's eyes flash with relief and joy. “You've been so wonderful, all these years. I don't know how I'd have got through them without you.”

Amy swallows. Her tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of her mouth. She tries desperately to find something polite to say. “Are you going to have a long engagement?”

It's as if she's talking to a stranger.

Dad shakes his head. “We're going to marry in a Register Office as soon as we can, and then have a short blessing at our church. Something simple and dignified. I know Frances will fit us in. She's such a great vicar and she was marvellous when Mum . . .”

“I see.”

“And Hannah says –” Dad's face breaks into the widest smile the world has ever seen – “my darling Hannah says, ‘Would you be maid of honour?'”

Amy lurches towards the kitchen sink and heaves into it.

Fifteen

“I
knew
it would happen!” Amy paced up and down Ruth's bedroom, hopping over the litter of clothes. “I saw it coming the minute I saw that woman. I could've written the bloody script if they'd asked me!”

“Sit down, Amy. It's like watching a tennis match!”

“But nobody ever does ask me. They go right ahead and do whatever they want. I'm tacked on the end of their plans like a donkey's tail. Splitting up your family and going to live in Italy? Take Amy along for the ride. Getting married again? Let's ask Amy to be maid of honour . . .”

“So what did you
say
?”

“I didn't get a chance to say
anything
. The minute Dad had told me, Dora came banging on the door. Tyler hurtled through it like the soppiest dog in the universe and there was me puking into the sink. Dad told Dora his news –”

“You're wearing the carpet to shreds!”

“And then told Dora I'd
agreed
. God, it's
unbelievable
. Don't I have
any
say?”

“You can hardly refuse, can you? It's not as if Hannah's a chain-smoking alcoholic nutter about to gobble up her fourth husband.”

“But that's exactly it. She's got it all, hasn't she? She's clever and young and beautiful . . . And to crown it all, she's got my dad!”

“Look, if you don't sit down
now
, I'll open the window and you can chuck yourself out of it.”

Amy stopped in her tracks. “What? . . . Oh, all right. Shove over.”

There was a moment's silence. Ruth seized her opportunity.

“If you saw it coming, it's hardly a surprise.”

“But the
speed
!”

“Maybe they've got their reasons. Marrying Hannah's got to be better than skulking out of bedrooms in the middle of the night.” Ruth glanced at Amy's flushed cheeks. “There's gossip in the village.”

“
I
haven't heard anything.”

“It's twitchy net-curtain stuff . . . Mum told me.”

“What are they saying?”

“Tut, tut! Two doctors, same practice, is it ethical? Total garbage. But everyone
saw
them together at your party. They obviously meant to make it public.”

“You don't understand.” Amy clenched her arms round her body, rocked backwards and forwards. “Hannah will be moving
in
. Into our house . . .
my
house.”

“Where else?”

“Last night, she came for supper. She'd unpacked, had a shower, all frightfully efficient. There she was, sitting in Mum's chair, reeking of lily-of-the-valley, looking like the cat who's drunk a barrel of cream.”

“She has just got engaged!”

“And there's me like the biggest gooseberry . . . She's spent a whole week with Dad. I haven't seen him for ages. I don't get a chance to talk to him for more than three minutes.”

“You got away with your week in Florence without him finding out. You should be
pleased
his attention's elsewhere.”

Amy shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. It sure is that, I can tell you.”

“And yours should be too. We've got exam results on Thursday. And a new term soon.” Ruth stood up, stretched her long arms above her head. “Forget your dad and Hannah. Let them get married. Look stunning and be a good little maid of honour.”

“It's all right for you!”

“Don't forget there'll be other people at the wedding you really want to see.” Ruth grinned down at Amy's miserable face. “That brother of yours will be coming back from Rome with a certain special someone in tow.”

Amy sniffed. “Yeah, maybe . . .”

“No maybe about it. And he'll be there for
you
.”

Amy and Ruth stood in the school crush, opening their envelopes.

“I got straight As,” Amy said. The letters jumped up and down in front of her eyes.

Ruth gave her a bear hug. “I got three As, three Bs and two Cs. Thank God you don't have to be a rocket scientist to play the violin.”

Amy shoved the envelope into her skirt pocket, feeling relieved but hardly full of joy. “Dad'll be pleased.”

“Course, he will, Amy. He'll be
thrilled
.”

“I suppose.
If
I can get a word in edgeways.”

“How d'you mean?”

“Ever had wedding plans shoved down your throat morning, noon and night?”

“Can't say I have. I thought it was going to be a small family thing?”

“That was bad enough. But it's grown. It's getting totally out of hand.”

“Have you heard from Chris?”

“Not yet. Dad caught me waiting for the postman this morning. Asked what I was doing.”

Ruth flung an arm around Amy's shoulders. “Eddie and me and some of the gang . . . we're driving into Guildford tonight to celebrate our results.”

Amy wasn't listening. “I've read those sonnets so often I know them all by heart.”

“Why don't you come with us? Bit of clubbing might cheer you up.”

“What, tonight?”

“Come over to mine at eight-thirty. Wear that red dress again. You look gorgeous in it.”

Amy stood on one leg, held on to Ruth's shoulder, shook a stone out of her trainer.

“You know what? That's the best offer I've had all week.”

“Hi, sweetheart!” Dad pokes his nose round the kitchen door. “That smells wonderful.”

He vanishes.

I'm not going to mention my results. I'll just wait and see whether he remembers.

She carries two plates of pasta into the dining room and dumps them on the table. “Supper's ready.”

“Brilliant!” Dad stops hovering in the hall. He jumps about in the doorway, his hands behind his back. “How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“Great.” Pause. “Do you want to see something very special?”

Amy blushes with pleasure. “Sure.”

Perhaps he's remembered and bought me a present. Tickets for something . . . A West End show . . . A weekend in London as a treat for his brilliant daughter.

Dad's hands reappear from behind his back. One of them is holding a small black velvet box. He holds it out to her. “Take a look at this.”

Amy gasps. “Is it for me?”

Dad looks sheepish. “Not exactly, sweetheart . . . It's for Hannah.”

Amy opens the box. The sapphire winks up at her, crystal cool, sophisticated, nestling in a circle of perfect diamonds.

“It's her engagement –”

Amy grits her teeth. “I can
see
what it is.”

“Don't you think it's beautiful?”

“Stunning.”

The box snaps its teeth at her fingers. She gives it back to Dad.

“You're not just saying that?”

“No, it's really lovely. Congrat–” The room begins to spin like a child's top.

“Amy? Are you OK?”

“I'm fine . . . Sorry . . . Got something in my eye.”

At the bottom of the stairs, she turns. “I'm not all that hungry. I'm going out with Ruth tonight . . . It's getting a bit late, so I'd better go and change.”

Amy ran up the stairs two at a time before Dad could follow.

As she reached the landing, the phone rang. She froze. It might be Julian. It might even be Chris. Before she could decide what to do, Dad had answered.

Amy crouched at the top of the stairs, motionless. She held tight to the slippery wood of the banister. A blob of tomato sauce had stained her jeans. It looked like blood and smelt almost as bad.

“Frances? How kind of you to . . . No, it was sweet of you to see Hannah and me this morning. I know how busy you . . . You have? . . . That's
wonderful
. . . Saturday 8th September at noon . . . Perfect . . . It's engraved on my heart . . . Hannah will be thrilled. I'll tell her tonight . . . You're a star, Frances . . . Thank you so much.”

Click. Pause. Dad jabbed at the phone.

“Good evening. I wonder if I could speak to Julian Grant? . . .
Julian
. . . Is he? . . . Could I leave a message? . . . Could you ask him to telephone his father as soon as possible? . . . No, it's not bad news . . . It's the best . . . But it's most important I speak to him tonight . . . Tell him to ring me any time, it doesn't matter how late . . . Thank you . . . Good night.”

Amy released the banister. She dashed into the bathroom and locked the door. She turned on the radio and all the taps, full blast.

In Guildford, the Wizard throbs with noise. It thunders out into the street, which rocks with the sound.

Ruth and Eddie and the gang, dragging Amy with them, have slunk quickly through the door saying they are all “eighteen, going on nineteen”. Amy feels ninety-eight. The doorman is dealing with a drunk and hardly notices.

Someone hands her a tall glass of something cold. Fresh and potent, like cider. Amy drinks it fast, to give her confidence.

Someone else asks her to dance. In the crush of bodies it's almost impossible to move. Her partner has a Mohican haircut. He's dyed the crest a bright pink to match his shirt, which flops undone to his waist. He has wide, coal-black, spaced-out eyes.

After a while he disappears into the crowd and Amy cannot see him.

She dances on her own.

The beat of the music thunders in her ears. The strobe lights flash around her, turning her red dress into an inky black, a lime green, a luminous orange. Her hair tumbles to her shoulders.

When the track ends, someone else pushes another drink into her hands. This one has a great kick. It tastes like honey and orange and aniseed and gin and caffeine rolled into one glorious sickly combination.

It slides, thick and fiery, down her throat.

She shoots on to the dance floor again, by herself. This time it doesn't seem so crowded. In fact, it seems as if nobody else is dancing, only her. Though lots of people are watching. Their eyes, when she happens to glimpse them, wink at her under the lights like that sapphire in its bed of diamonds.

She kicks off her shoes and dances on. Her dress slips from one shoulder but it doesn't matter. It simply gives her more freedom to move. Much more . . .

She flings out her arms, twirls this way, that way. Nobody else is dancing now, nobody at all . . . Only her . . .

“Amy, this is Ruth. Can you hear me?”

“What? . . . Where?”

“You're in Eddie's car and you've been a bit sick.”

Amy tries to lift her head. She changes her mind. It's not a good idea at all to move any bit of her, anywhere.

“We're going to try to get you out of the car and into Terra Firma without waking your dad . . . Amy, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Amy says. Her dress seems to be sticking to her legs. “I can hear you.” She opens her eyes. Again, this is not a good idea. She can't see anything and they feel much better closed.

“OK . . . Eddie's going to carry you.”

Voices mutter somewhere in the distance.

A car door slams.

Bang.

Like the clap of thunder.

Then everything once again goes a blissfully deep sooty black.

Sixteen

Amy hangs over the lavatory bowl and spews into it.

It's not a pretty sight and the smell is worse.

She gets up from her knees and flushes the toilet. Pieces of green sick float around the surface of the water. They remind Amy of the watercress soup she'd longed to throw over Hannah and Dad. Maybe if she'd had the courage to chuck it, Hannah might have disappeared for good, there and then.

She stands shivering, her bare feet on the cold tiles, waiting for the cistern to fill up. It's doing a lot of gurgling. Perhaps it doesn't much enjoy what she's retched into it.

She reaches out for the edge of the handbasin and grips it as hard as she can.

She dares not look at her reflection.

She runs the cold tap until the basin has filled with water. She takes a deep breath, gasping as her face hits the flat icy puddle.

She raises her head.

Jesus! That can't be her in the mirror. The apparition has greenish skin, a lopsided jaw, lank hair and puffy eyes. She hadn't meant to look.

Her head throbs.

She limps to the door, turns off the light, fumbles back across the bathroom, bumps into the bath, stubs her toe, swears, finds the lavatory bowl, flushes the toilet for the second time, flips the seat down and sits on it. She might be sick again.

The cistern is having a field day. Gurgle, churn, slurp, blip. It sounds like the contents of her stomach. Or what remains of them.

Chinks of dawn light filter through the window. A solitary bird begins to cheep.

If I put my head between my knees, maybe the walls will stop spinning.

The door opens. A painfully garish light flashes into her eyes. A long pause hangs in the air, together with the stink of vomit.

“Amy?”

She peers into the voice. It's wearing a long, floaty, smoky-blue nightdress, with deep lacy ruffles around the neck.

“Good
grief
, Amy! What's happened? Are you all right?”

“Hannah.” Amy finds it hard to move her lips, so the word comes out sideways. “Never better. What are
you
doing here?”

Hannah ignores the question. Quietly, she closes and locks the door. She moves swiftly towards Amy. In a single swoop, she takes her in her arms.

Amy feels the soft, fragrant nightdress wrapping around her. It's like having Mum again. Hot tears dribble down her cheeks. She mumbles, “I think I must've drunk too much by mistake.”

Hannah says firmly, “I know
just
how you feel.” She strokes the wet hair out of Amy's eyes. She grabs a handful of tissues and dries Amy's face. She unhooks a bathrobe from behind the door. It belongs to Dad. She lifts Amy to her feet and cuddles her into it.

She whispers, “Come on. Back to bed with you . . . Quietly . . . Don't wake your dad.” She unlocks the door. “I'm going to make some tea, and a hot-water bottle, and bring them up to you . . . Quickly now . . . Go and tuck yourself in.”

Amy woke to a stone-cold water bottle and the sound of Dora hoovering.

She sat up and groaned. Waves of pain flowed through her head and down her spine. A squalid heap of red silk huddled at the end of the bed.

Someone had wedged a piece of paper on her bedside table, between the clock and the lamp. She reached for it and held it to her eyes, squinting at it gingerly.

Dear Amy

Hope you had a good sleep and that you're feeling better.

Are you free tomorrow? I've got the day off as it's Saturday. I thought we could go to London together. I need something to wear for the wedding and I'd love to buy you a new outfit too. And shall we have our hair done at somewhere really special?

Give me a ring at the surgery and let me know.

Love

Hannah

From the driveway, Amy could hear Ruth practising.

She opened the door, still holding her beloved violin. She dragged Amy into the hall. “Have you survived?”

“Just about.”

“You look a bit peaky.”

“You should've seen me at the crack of dawn! . . . Look, about tomorrow.”

“Don't tell me. You can't make the concert.”

“Would you mind desperately if I didn't? Hannah's offered to buy me an outfit for the wedding.”

“Cool!”

“And I felt I couldn't turn her down.”

“Where will you go?”

“London . . . Somewhere posh, I expect . . . We probably won't be back till late.”

“I think that's
fantastic
.”

“We might not find what we want.”

“I mean it's brilliant that you're getting on with Hannah.”

Amy looked around Ruth's untidy kitchen, at the dishes piled in the sink, the mound of crumpled clothes waiting for the iron. Instead of wanting to clean everything up, Amy suddenly thought the room looked friendly and comfortable.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Give me a ring on Sunday,” Ruth said. “I'll come over to inspect your loot.”

Amy wallows in a deep tufted chair in a Knightsbridge coffee shop.

Hannah looks at her approvingly. “Your hair's
fabulous
.”

“You don't think it's too short?”

“Absolutely not . . . Anyway, it'll grow.”

“Yes.” Amy sips her cappuccino. “Thanks. It must've cost a bomb.”

“Worth every penny. I've only got one maid of honour, haven't I?”

Hannah's crossing things off a complicated list on her organiser. She's left-handed. The sapphire glitters. She says, without looking up, “It's gorgeous, isn't it?”

Amy is silent.

Hannah presses on. “I thought I could wear a kind of blue-green. What do you think?”

Amy remembers Marcello's eyes. “Great.”

“Tell you what, let's coordinate our colours. If I wear a slightly darker shade of blue, you could wear a paler one.”

“Fine.”

“For us, I thought straight dresses with short matching jackets, very simple, but terribly well cut, in a wonderful fabric with a proper lining.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“And no hats . . . I hate them . . . When I was sixteen, my mother made me wear a tall green creation. I looked like a Christmas tree.”

Amy laughs. The sound surprises her. It rings through the coffee shop. There is a sudden hush while people listen.

“I got straight As,” she says.

The sapphire stops dead in its tracks.
“What?”

“My GCSEs. Straight As.”

“Amy! That's fantastic!
Another
cause for celebration.” Hannah hesitates. “Why didn't William tell me?”

“He doesn't know.”

“You mean you haven't
told
him?”

Amy runs her fingers through her new sleek bob. She longs for Chris to see it. She clinches her advantage. “Dad hasn't asked. He's got other things on his mind.”

Hannah has the grace to blush.

Over supper that night, as the three of them sat on the terrace, Dad apologised.

He said he'd been a complete idiot to have forgotten about Amy's results. He wanted to take them all out for a slap-up meal next Sunday. Not tomorrow, because there were so many things he and Hannah had to do, but next Sunday was a date. Where would Amy like to go?

Amy sighed. It didn't really matter any more.

He
loved
her new hairstyle. And he quite understood he wasn't allowed to see their new outfits, that Amy had locked hers away and wouldn't even have a dress rehearsal.

The phone rang. Again. It rang incessantly these days, but it was hardly ever for her. It was often for Hannah. Amy wondered irritably why she couldn't use her own mobile . . .

Over the next fortnight Terra Firma began to change its identity.

Wedding presents arrived. Dora stacked them in the living room and the hall and then piled them on the dining-room table.

They ate all their meals in the kitchen.

Hannah's possessions crept into every corner of the house, one by one, as if by magic. Amy would get back to Terra Firma to find a strange coat hanging in the hall, a foreign hand-towel in the downstairs loo, a new painting on the landing wall, a weird-smelling tea in the kitchen, a huge pink toilet bag zipped on the bathroom shelf.

One morning a van arrived. Burly men unloaded two brown-leather armchairs and a wooden chest. Dad said they could take the chairs up to the top floor. The chest was for his bedroom.

Afterwards, Amy checked Mum's study. Her adorable sagging sofa with the squashy Blue Grass cushions had vanished. The chairs sat stiffly in their place.

She raced on to the Common with Tyler, ran until her legs gave way. She'd never forgive Hannah and Dad for dumping Mum's furniture without asking her. Never.

Sweaty and puffing, she sat on a bench, pulled Chris's letter from her pocket. She carried it everywhere, her only crumb of comfort.

Hey, Amy!

How are you? How was the flight home?

We arrived in Rome two days ago and it's blisteringly hot. I'm doing my best to keep up with Jules, whose appetite for all things beautiful seems to increase daily. I must admit mine's starting to flag. I want to see
your
beauty more than anything . . .

We'll soon be home. My agent rang to say he wants me to audition for a small part in a new West End play. He won't tell me what it is, which is infuriating. He says he has his reasons. Something about not reading the lines so often they get stale!

If by any miracle I get the part, it'd be goodbye to Cambridge before I got my degree. It's the last thing in the world my parents want – but then, hey, it's my life, isn't it? My choice.

I think about you all the time. Yesterday I saw a girl who looked so like you I nearly crossed the street and flung my arms around her! I can't wait for the moment when I can do that, once again, with you.

I send you all my love

Christopher

Amy stared at the calendar on her bedroom wall. Tomorrow was the big day. She was terrified. Last night she'd opened the door to Mum's study, only to find Hannah sitting at the desk, checking her wedding list.

“Come in,” Hannah sang out. “Plenty of room in here for both of us.”

Amy had flung herself out of the room. She slammed the door so hard that Tyler heard the noise from the kitchen and began to wail.

“Sis? It's me.”

“Jules! . . . Where are you?”

“On our way home . . . We're going to stop off at Chris's place to pick up his best suit! We should be at Terra Firma by early evening.”

“Thank God! It's
chaos
here.”

“I bet it is!”

“Everything's happened so
fast
.”

“Let's hope they're doing the right thing . . . What time does it all start tomorrow?”

“Register Office at eleven, church blessing midday, back here for a wedding breakfast . . . You'll hardly recognise the house . . . I can't move for flowers, and Tyler's going berserk.”

“It'll soon be over, sis.”

“Yes.” Amy bites the inside of her lip. “Is Chris with you?”

“He's just gone to buy some sandwiches.”

“Tell him I can't wait to see him.”

“Will do. See you, sis . . . Keep smiling.”

“I'll try,” Amy says, but when she does, her mouth won't lift into the right shape.

At four o'clock, Amy stops pacing the hall and watching for Christopher.

Suddenly exhausted, she climbs the stairs to Mum's study. Thank God the room is empty. She shuts the door. The stifling air stinks of lily-of-the-valley. Furious, she flings opens a window.

In the garden, someone is testing the fairy lights. They flash on and off like Morse code. Like a warning.

The sky lours, thick with weary cloud, heavy with heat.

After tomorrow, everything will be different.

Hannah will come up here all the time. She'll sit in those disgusting slippery chairs. She'll take over the room. My only real space will be my bedroom. Everything will change.

Something bangs against the door, as if kicking at it.

Amy jumps.

The door flies open.

Dad stands in the doorway, his face white, his eyes blazing.

“Ahhh . . . I thought I might find you here.”

“What on earth's the matter?”

Dad doesn't walk towards her. He goes on standing in the doorway, his legs apart, his arms spread wide, as if they are propping up the frame. Like he's doing some silly exercise in his gym.

“You tell me.” The words drop like stones. “Shall we start with the name Mrs Baxter?”

“Oh.” Amy shivers with shock. She clenches every muscle in her body, trying to keep it taut.

“Yes,
oh
.” Dad's voice is louder, heavily sarcastic. “She came to see me this afternoon, at the surgery.”

Amy mutters offhandedly, “Didn't know she was one of your patients.”

“And guess what she said to me just before she left?”

“Haven't a clue.”

Dad snorts with disbelief. “I think you have!”

“Mrs Baxter's a busybody.”

“Maybe that's a bloody good thing. She said, ‘What a
pity
Amy couldn't come to Paris with us. Is she
better
? We
missed
her. We had
such
a good time. '”

Amy looks at Dad in silence. Lines crinkle the skin around his mouth. His face has turned from white to a peculiar shade of purple. Like a foxglove.

“How d'you think that made me feel, eh? . . .
Have you any idea?
”

Amy likes remaining silent. It gives her time to think.

“Well? What've you got to say for yourself? If you weren't in Paris last month, where the hell
were
you?”