Paper Alice (22 page)

Needless to say, we didn't get much sleep that wonderful night. And between everything else, we lay in one another's arms and talked. And talked. About everything and anything. About our childhoods, things we loved and hated, our parents . . .

I discovered, for example, that I hadn't imagined the shadow that had crossed his eyes that night at their house when Lil had mentioned his mother. Since Andy was little his mum had suffered from severe schizophrenia, her condition getting progressively worse. After a great many attempts at taking her own life she now more or less lived permanently in a psychiatric hospital, under heavy medication. She mostly didn't even recognise Andy when he came to see her, or else imagined him to be someone else.

‘I'm so ashamed,' he cried, burying his face in my neck. ‘These days I only go and see her about four or five times a year. It's just too . . . painful.'

I put my arms around him; kissed the top of his head. ‘Poor baby,' I murmured. ‘Poor baby . . .'

I thought about his clowning around; how easily he made everyone laugh. Marvelled at it, in fact, considering.

Then again . . .

‘So . . . how old were you,' I asked, ‘when she first . . . became ill?'

Andy sighed and lay back against the pillow, his eyes suddenly without their sparkle. He shrugged.

‘Lil says the signs of it were always there, though they didn't realise at the time. It was only after having me that she had her first full-blown episode.' He gave a small, mirthless laugh. ‘Guess I was just too much for her.'

‘Hey,' I cried, my heart giving a little lurch of love and sympathy, ‘it wasn't your fault!'

And from somewhere in my brain that echo sounded, yet again. Dad's words that day.

‘I know.' Andy sighed again, then added in a more normal voice: ‘Anyway, Dad was great, and Lil. Between the two of them they dragged me up.'

‘So,' I said, ‘your dad–'

‘Dad finally married again.' Another half-laugh. ‘You could hardly blame him. To Sandy, my step-mum.' He smiled. ‘They're great. They live on the Central Coast. I've got two little sisters, aged five and three. Bella and Chloe.' He gave a big grin. ‘Full-on!'

I laughed, picturing two excited little girls jumping on him as he walked through the door.

‘Hey,' he said, smiling, propping his head in his hand and running his finger lightly down my cheek, ‘you'll have to meet them.'

‘Yeah . . .'

I put my arms around his neck and kissed him again, feeling so happy it was scary.

‘So,' he said drowsily, about an hour later, ‘when am I going to meet your twin – the famous . . . weird-named one? Wilda.'

I shrugged; smiled up at him playfully.

‘Dunno whether I want you to meet her,' I said,
only half-jokingly. ‘If she's so much like me. You might fall in love with her instead!'

Then I realised how this sounded. ‘I
mean
–' I stopped, feeling myself going pink. ‘I can't believe I just said that!'

He laughed. ‘I don't think,' he said, giving me a squeeze, ‘there's much danger of that!' Adding, deadpan: ‘I could never fall for anyone called Wilda.'

I giggled, giving him a tiny punch. Suddenly remembering Dunc saying something similar, right here in this bed. It seemed like such a long time ago.

Nonetheless, I felt a tiny twinge of anxiety. Would Andy think I was like Milly, sleeping with him the very first night we got together?

‘She can actually carry it off,' I murmured. ‘It kind of suits her – there is something a bit . . . wild about her.'

‘Mmm, a feral, eh? Sounds intriguing!'

‘
No-o
–' As I laughed I breathed in the lovely smell of him. I buried my face in his neck again. ‘It's just that . . . well she's had to cope with a pretty hard life in some ways – not like me!'

‘Yeah,' he said, grinning, ‘you're
such
a princess.'

‘Well compared to her I am! She's had a really hard life . . .' And I told him about Wilda's being shunted around between various relatives.

‘God,' said Andy, ‘at least I always had Dad, and Lil . . .'

‘Well, what about sheltered little me?' I cried. ‘A doting mummy and daddy all to myself, all my life!' I snorted. ‘Well, doting when it comes to Dad, at least. Mum can be a bit . . . critical sometimes.'

He was silent, waiting for me to go on. I shrugged and added:

‘I know she loves me and everything, but . . .' I sighed and yawned, my eyelids starting to droop. ‘Somehow she always expects me to be Miss Perfect. Which,' I added in a bimboish tone, ‘I'm actually
not
?'

Andy laughed. ‘Really?'

‘Anyway, she expects herself to be perfect. Some of my friends,' I added, thinking of Dunc again, ‘find her a bit scary. Though you mightn't . . .'

‘So,' he said yawning, ‘reckon I'll have to brave her this morning?'

I laughed, getting another twist of nervousness.

‘'Fraid you probably will.'

We fell asleep properly soon after that and when I opened my eyes again my clock said 11.40.

I lay there, quite still, barely game to check if it hadn't all been a lovely dream. But the boy next to me was real enough, sprawled half on his stomach, tousled head facing me on the pillow, one arm flung across me. So I snuggled into him and he opened his eyes and smiled, murmuring, ‘Good morning . . .'

A little while later we both realised, having had practically no dinner, that we were starving; I said I'd go and start rustling up some brekkie. Plus, although I didn't say so, Prepare the Fossils. After all, I hadn't even mentioned Andy to them, let alone having him emerge from my bedroom at midday. Dunc had been my first and only real boyfriend.

My bathroom is right next door to my room, but if I thought I could hustle Andy in there unseen, I was sadly mistaken. Just as I was grabbing a towel out of the linen cupboard, we heard a ‘Hullo . . .'

We both spun around to spy Dad, emerging from
their bedroom, eyes and mouth in round Os of amazement.

In a second I was scarlet. And Andy, standing there in just the tattered jeans he'd pulled on, with rumpled hair and bare feet, wasn't exactly a picture of relaxation either. We both stared at Dad, who stared back at us. Or rather, at Andy.

‘Oh, hey, Dad,' I mumbled. ‘This is Andy. Andy, Dad; Dad, Andy.' Adding: ‘He's just having a shower.' And I pushed the towel into Andy's arms, shoved him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, as though he was some rare, newly captured wild animal.

Then I turned and faced Dad again.

‘
Well
,' he started, obviously still in shock, but I was seizing him by the elbow and marching him towards the stairs.

‘That's Andy,' I murmured needlessly, through gritted teeth. Adding in a growl as we started down the steps: ‘And I really,
really
like him.'

Dad was slowly collecting his wits. He slipped an arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.

‘Well, darling, that's . . . great!'

Poor old thing – it can't be easy when your child suddenly emerges from his or her bedroom with a total stranger.

Mum looked up from perusing the phone book as we clomped down the last couple of steps.

‘Hi–' she started, then stopped, registering that something was up. My face was still glowing like a beacon, for starters.

‘Gunna get some brekkie,' I muttered, making for the cupboard, my gaze sliding from hers.

‘For two, I hope,' Dad said. He turned to Mum.
‘Tinks, there's an Andy upstairs having a shower, and Al really,
really
likes him.'

Silence. I knew they were exchanging major Looks, but I couldn't bring myself to face either of them.

‘Yes,' I said grimly, fishing out a couple of plates and bowls and banging them on the bench, ‘I do.' I suddenly felt myself starting to smile; I bit my lip. ‘So . . . be nice.'

‘What else would we be?' cried Dad jokily. ‘And anyway, if you like him, I'm sure he's delightful!'

‘
Dad
,' I hissed, glancing towards the stairs, ‘ssshh!'

Dad pointed a finger and one ear towards the ceiling, roughly in the direction of the bathroom.

‘Shower still going strong, as far as I can hear.' He was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘So,' he went on cheerfully, ‘we haven't heard a word about this . . . Andy. Fill us in.'

I shrugged, still avoiding Mum's gaze.

‘Oh . . . I've known him for a while . . . round Uni.' I was still busying myself, hauling out Weet-Bix, muesli, juice and bread. ‘He's one of the directors of the revue – y'know, the one that I'm helping out with.'

The moment I'd said it I knew what was coming. Dad simply couldn't resist.

‘Ah-ha,' he cried, ‘sleeping with the director, eh?'

‘Da-ad!' I half-glared at him, almost wishing he was still depressed. But then Mum, out of the blue, laid a hand on his arm.

‘Come on, Pete,' she said with a laugh, ‘give her a break.' She turned to me. ‘That's great, darling,' she said with a little smile, ‘that you've found someone nice . . .'

A pause. Yet again, I knew what was coming. I braced myself.

‘I hope you're taking pre–'

‘Yes!' I cried furiously, reddening again. ‘I'm not stupid!'

To my surprise she was suddenly by my side, putting her arm around my shoulder, giving me a hug.

‘Of course you're not,' she said. Then she kissed the side of my head. I smiled and hugged her back, getting another happiness rush. Interlaced, I have to say, with nervousness.

‘Now Pete,' she said, deliberately changing the subject, ‘have you got everything ready for tomorrow?' Dad was starting his new job the next day. ‘Shirt and tie picked out, shoes clean,' she added, teasingly schoolmarmish.

‘Yep.' Dad rubbed his hands, mock-gleefully. ‘All set. It's like the first day at school!'

We chatted inconsequentially for a couple of minutes, our minds not really on what was being said. Waiting.

Then suddenly here he was, coming down, thongs flip-flopping on the wood. We all turned – we could hardly ignore him – which made even him go a little bit pink.

He was unshaven, of course, in yesterday's jeans and torn T-shirt, a large dirty mark down the front where he'd been helping shift bits of scenery from another production. Though I could tell he'd made some kind of an attempt on his hair with my brush – without much result.

I stole a look at Mum. Her face was expressionless, but I caught a glint of interest in her eyes.

He reached the bottom, and gave a bashful little grin.

‘Hey.'

‘Hey,' I mumbled back, swallowing. Then added, gesturing idiotically: ‘Mum and Dad – this is Andy. Andy – Mum and Dad.'

‘Pete McBean.' Dad launched forward heartily, seizing Andy's hand. ‘G'day, mate!' He laughed. ‘It wasn't much of an introduction before!' Then he turned to include Mum. ‘And – Marisa.'

Who took a step towards him with a small smile, extending a slender hand.

‘How d'you do?'

Please Mum, I begged silently, don't come over all chilly.

‘Want some brekky?' I asked.

‘Oh,' said Andy with another little grin, the fingers of one hand in his pocket, scratching his head, ‘that'd be great. Thanks . . .'

‘What would you like?' asked Mum, glancing from him to me. ‘Eggs and bacon? Cereal?'

Andy smiled at her, then at me. ‘That sounds good.'

‘We're starving!' I cried.

There was a tiny silence.

‘We actually . . . hardly had any dinner last night,' said Andy.

Our eyes met; I felt myself starting to blush. ‘What with one thing and another,' I mumbled. Then added: ‘I think I'll have eggs too.'

‘Gosh,' said Dad, ‘a cooked breakfast for you! You must be hungry!'

I frowned, starting for the fridge. ‘I'll get it. Sit down,' I said, to Andy, gesturing at the table.

‘No, I will,' said Mum. ‘You help yourselves to some cereal.' She bent down and pulled open the saucepan
drawer, pausing to look up at us. ‘Scrambled, poached or fried? With bacon, tomato and mushrooms?'

Another grin from Andy.

‘That sounds great!' We looked at one another. ‘Scrambled?' we both said together, then laughed.

‘Scrambled with the works please, Mum,' I said, smiling. I just couldn't seem to stop.

I hauled out a bowl for Andy and the muesli; he poured himself a large amount. Dad made coffee and I started on the toast.

‘So,' said Dad, turning over his shoulder to Andy, ‘Al says you're the director of the revue.'

Andy rolled his eyes, swallowing a mouthful.

‘One of them – if you can call it that . . .'

‘Of course you are!' I cried. ‘And co-writer, and actor . . . You should see his trans-gender vet,' I added, dropping bread into the toaster. ‘It's hilarious!'

Andy made a face. ‘My one-woman fan club,' he said wryly, and we all laughed.

We chatted a bit more about the revue, and other things. Dad asked Andy what he was doing at uni and I could tell they were both taken aback/suitably impressed when he said he was studying Pure Maths.

‘So,' asked Mum, glancing across from the sizzling frying pan, ‘are you doing any abstract algebra?'

He looked at her, his eyes widening slightly with surprise. ‘Yeah, we've done some basic groups, rings and fields, and we're gunna be moving on to some Galois Theory next.'

‘Oh,' said Mum with a laugh, flipping the sizzling bacon, ‘I took some pure maths courses in first year uni, but we never got anywhere quite as far as that!' She pushed a lock of stray hair back with her wrist.
‘But I guess it's all about computability and logic these days.'