Fishnet (26 page)

I got up, at that point. I got up without saying anything and I went to the bathroom and I rested my forehead against cold porcelain and I counted to twenty. Then I stood by the mirror and splashed my stupid painted, plucked Rona-face with water and the expensive mascara didn't run, and I wondered how one person could so casually tell another person these things,
and then I went back to our table. Camilla had kicked off her shoes and curled her feet up under her, and ordered another two drinks.

‘I was being insensitive again, wasn't I lovely? God, sorry. I'm running on numb just now, you know? Need to watch my whorish mouth!'

She reached out a lazy arm to me, pulled me down onto the sofa with her, ran her thumb gently over my hand. Then she told me something.

Then she told me something.

Then.

Anyway, after that, these are some of the things that I said:

‘And so – no. No. I'm fine, really – you went to Manchester, or was that just her?'

‘I hadn't even considered she might have left the country. We checked – her passport hadn't been–'

‘But you're here now. What happened?'

These are some of the other things she said:
‘No, we were never in Manchester. God, why the fack would we go to Manchester, lovely? I was in Carlisle to meet her off the train, after she left you, hotel room already sorted and all. We got the next London train in the morning. Figured that was the best way, you know. And god, I wanted to show my girl London. Best cure for anything, London. Just to get her out dancing again, you know, skin on skin. Bring her back to life. We had, ah, contacts, you know? On the club scene. Promoter chums, DJs we'd met when we were – well, when we were in Edinburgh. And this was how we'd planned it. This one guy, I don't know if you'd have heard of him. I mean, he was super-huge for a while, on the scene, you know. DJ Fleidermaus, he called himself. Except it was spelled flee-da-mouse. He thought that was really funny, god, I never got it. Anyway, he was off to take up a residency in Strasse in Berlin – that's like, techno mecca, darling. Or it was in 2001, you know? So. We went with
him, moved into his flat. He called us his two girlfriends, but well, he paid the full whack for it. We were basically supposed to laze about and be in his pad if he threw parties; put on a little show for his friends, sometimes. We weren't to tell anyone about the paying, yeah? It was all supposed to be like we were two girls who genuinely wanted to share our lives with him, you know, because he was, like, so phenom. And from there, we made more contacts. I mean, neither of us really spoke German, but they loved us anyway, you know. T–Rona just bloomed out there, darling. It was like she had found her calling, yeah?'

‘Pff. Passport? It was pre-9/11. Nobody checked! We'd borrowed one off some girl we knew in London who had hair a bit like yours. Like your sister's. Told her we were just going for the weekend! And we went took the train. Great big rail jaunt across Europe, no serious border checks. Ah yeah, we were facking happy out there. For a while. I mean, obviously our gentleman friend got a tad much to take after a bit, but we'd already cosied up to another couple of promoters then. We had far bigger fish to fry, you know? And it was phenom. I mean, we'd spend our nights dancing until dawn, then running these amazing, immense sex parties darling, I mean you really can't imagine. It was like we were the hub. I mean, it put turning tricks for facking shoes back here into some perspective.'

‘What happened was, she got bored of me, darling. We had a fight, one of those that had been brewing for a while, you know, and then the next morning I found she'd just gone. Facked off in the night. Ha. I'm sure you know the feeling. And the place just wasn't the same without her. I mean, she wasn't quite as good at covering her tracks with me, you know. I had a pretty good idea where she'd gone and who she was with, which is more than you ever did, isn't it lovely? But fack it. The whole point was that it was the two of us, and besides, Berlin was always more her scene than mine. So facking grungy, god. So, yah, I ended up back here. There's only one job I'm really any good at, darling, and
London's a bit of a saturated market, you know.'

She was bruised with her own failure, with having to admit it to me even as she spread clues about more worlds I wouldn't ever understand. And then we were both quiet, the sort of quiet that buzzed the air.

I said:

‘She's been using another name, hasn't she? You keep wanting to call her something else. I've noticed.'

She said:

‘Astutely deduced.'

I said:

‘Are you going to tell me what it is?'

She said:

‘Not unless you want me to. And I'm not sure you do, darling.'

I didn't say anything.

She said:

‘She's got no facking online profile with it, though. I've checked, obv. She's too good. God, she may have even changed it again for all I know, yeah?'

I still didn't say anything.

She said:

‘But I could give you leads though. If you want them. I know people who could get her scent, mm?'

I said:

‘Sure. For a price.'

She said:

‘Of course for a price. But it would be a good price.'

I didn't say anything, because she was suddenly leaning right in to me, her hand cupping my face. And she was kissing me, and I was being kissed, and the loud group of men at the table beside us got even louder. And I don't think I kissed her back. I don't think, but everything was slow, and smelled sweet and boozy, slightly of vomit. And she pulled away again.

‘Sorry darling. That was tacky of me. You want to know, I'll tell you. Just. I just couldn't resist. You just look so facking much
like her, yeah? Lost loves and all that.'

And she laughed at my face, and broke the slow spell with what she said:

‘Yes, yes. Lost loves. Come on, darling. Our speciality was girl-on-girl. I mean, we're not
lesbos
, not for anyone else, but honestly. You don't lick someone's muff that often and not come to feel something for them, you know?'

XXX

It's still early, on this train full of drunks. Sun finally setting, condensation on the windows, and the elephant stamps of football fans trying to tip their carriage over.

Camilla had been apologetic, charming, expressed a vague idea of walking me to the station that she hadn't meant me to take seriously so I didn't. She'd said:

‘Listen, go away and think about it. I'm not going to tell you now even if you beg me. Even if you kiss me, baby. Ha. Ha. Go away and sober up, and tell your parents if you want, mm? Come back to me after a week, if you're really sure. And god, if you decide to go ahead and declare her dead, don't worry about me popping up to chuck a spanner in the works, you know? I might be a money-grabbing slattern, darling, but I'm honest with it.'

And then she'd called me back, and she'd said:

‘Ooh, by the way. You wouldn't happen to have twenty for a taxi, would you? I've only got bloody plat cards, and they don't take them.' But before that, and before that, when she'd pulled me down to her and held my hand, this is what she said:

‘I mean the thing is, lovely, I assume she didn't tell you why she left the bub with you? I suppose she couldn't really. She said it had to be done that way, you know. She said if you got any sort of wind of what was up, you'd stop her. Well, of course you would. Anyway. We were trying to work out what to do, and she was like, I can't give her away. What if I want her back again?
And I was like – because I was being bloody honest with her at that point, only way to get through to her – listen babe, you're doing a facking shit job of being a mother right now. Give the kid a chance, you know? I mean, I have to say, I was fearing for its life at this point. So I said look, why not stick her with your mum or something? And my god she went mental at that. I mean, I knew your parents were a bit of a touchy subject with her, but god. She said, god, my dad can't even look after himself, and my mum would only fack off on her – sorry, I need to watch my mouth, your parents, sorry. Anyway, the point is –'

Her thumb went back and forth, back and forth over my hand.

‘– the point is, the next time the bub woke us up, she said, I've been thinking. Do you think I could leave her with my sister? And I asked, like, are you sure, and she said, and I still remember this:

“I think right now, my sister is the only person in the world I trust apart from you, Cam. And you're doing just as shit a job as me.” And that's when it was decided.

‘And I was surprised, when you said there'd been no word from her, of course I was, but, you know, at her lowest she was utterly worried she would do some sort of damage to that baby, and you were the only person she was sure wouldn't. Maybe all the dark, facked up bits of her kept her away, you know? Maybe she feels like she can't come back now, like she hasn't earned it. But I rather think she ought to have let you know that one thing, lovely. So. Now you know it. Message passed along, yeah?'

And I'd said another thing.

‘Christ,' I'd said. ‘I don't know how I ever came to deserve that.'

The train pulls away, like it seems to do a lot recently, taking me away from this place, back to where I'm supposed to be. And I make it home, and I'm still held together by skin, even if I can feel something else underneath, something breaking and turning.

I creep into the flat with the lurch and guilt of a teenager trying to pretend she isn't drunk. I'm not sure I fool my parents.

‘She's just gone to sleep, about an hour ago,' Dad says, like a soldier reporting mission accomplished.

‘Thanks. Thank you.'

I'm trying to stand up straight, trying to cope with all of it and still seem normal.

‘I think I need a nap, now. Can I pop down and see you both tomorrow? I want to have a chat with you about a few things. To do with Rona.'

And then it's just me and my daughter. I stand perfectly still so that her breathing is the only sound in the flat and I think about that. About
my sister is the only person in the world I trust
.

Bethan stirs a little when I push the door, but she doesn't wake, and it's enough just to stand there and watch her. Fat little pink thing. Asleep, she doesn't resemble anyone at all, just herself.

Camilla's job is to make people feel this way about themselves. Give them release: work out where they need to be touched and peel back till she gets there. I could carry on investigating that moment in my head, play it back and back on itself, weigh out every nuance, until I conclude that it was very probably a lie.

Or I could let it go.

Me

The taxi cranked its old brakes to a stop.

‘There you go, ma dear. Six pounds twenty,' the driver said.

White hair. Grandfatherly. Familiar. He needed to be reminded about the receipt and I hit a white note of panic, right off. Was it a giveaway, asking for a receipt? Should I tell him I was here to interview someone? Or for a business meeting? Would that make it look more suspicious, covering myself with excuses? Fumbling for a pound coin stuck in my purse, I heard myself apologising over and over again. This was no good. I couldn't be like this.

The first trick was just to walk smoothly past reception, wasn't it? Not even to acknowledge them, or that you might not know where you were going. Even if you didn't. Especially not to acknowledge the tightness in your stomach or that high-pitched flush of adrenaline flooding you.

The second trick was Paulette's. Look for the toilet near the lobby bar, she said. There's always one. Get in there, and just you take a look at your gorgeous self there in the mirror. Drink yourself in, lovey. Drink her in.

There she is. My fancy new frock of an other self, put on for the occasion. She winks like a corny cheesecake pin-up, dabs at her lipstick with gestures too delicate to be mine, and is completely in control again. Her heels ring out on the tiles, loud and teacherly.

In the lift on the way up, I thumb out a text to Paulette, on the new slim mobile that slots into my new slim handbag.

In the lift. On the way up.

She's got the grandchildren today, but she's there for me anyway, at this appointed time.

Will phone u in 3 min. Ur beautiful honey!

I'm sure it will prove to be a fairly solitary life, but over the last couple of months, ever since all the pieces fell into place and I began to make mousy enquiries about buddying, I've
been surrounded by concern, advice, affection. A new sort of sisterhood, one I've never really been involved in before. They don't get paid for it, Paulette, Jo, or any of the other women I've met through the buddying system; they're just there because they know that someone has to be.

More than once, one of them has asked if I was sure. Did I completely understand. More than one person has told me that it won't be all wine and roses. In the end, though, there was no great ethical struggle. No threshold. Just a very logical click.

Here's the room. The mad jolt through my veins as I raise my hand to knock. I could run away, right now, another half-crazed dash down an air-conditioned corridor. This, now, is the threshold. Is everything really, really going to change after this? Is everything about me going to change, my cells begin a slow death, shift to not-person?

I don't think I could be here if I still thought that, could I?

Too late. The door's opening, on a skinny man, shabby, in his early forties.

‘Hi,' he said.

‘Hi,' I said.

‘I'm Jimmy.'

Irish accent.

XXX

Noise of cooking and conversation steamed through from the kitchen next door. I thought I could hear Helen's harsh, raggedy laugh, like a bassline. Music was playing – Dolly Parton, something corny like that. Shania Twain.

Suzanne's living room was cosy and unfashionable. Slightly shabby grey three-piece suite, perked up with flowery cushions. She'd put out a plate with jammy dodgers and iced fancies in an interlinking display on the coffee table – no-one had taken one. Paulette and another woman were sitting in the corner talking.
I had tried to tune out what they were saying, just to be polite. Paulette's intonation was high, calming, lilting up.