Something Only We Know (8 page)

Before Owen could answer, Saleem was half-turning, calling over his shoulder, ‘Come hear this. Listen to what Chelle’s found out about GM mosquitoes.’

And with that my boyfriend dropped my hand and hurried to catch up.

It must have been about midnight when I reached home. I’d wanted to hang around the flat to say goodnight to Owen on my own – or as on our own as we could manage
with Chelle camped out in the next room – but no one else was for budging. They all wanted to carry on the chat till the small hours. So in the end I’d given up.

I was too frazzled to go straight to bed, though. We’d passed such an important milestone this evening: that theoretical invitation to sleep over had felt critical. Sometime soon –
next week even – I’d be staying at my boyfriend’s properly, putting my soap bag on his windowsill and my clothes over his chair. A short step from there to asking for a drawer or
the bottom of a cupboard. Then, if I was effectively half-moved-in, he was bound to find more space in his life for me and we could rebalance ourselves. He’d be more available and I’d
be less clingy. It would be like it was when we first started going out.

I hung up my bag and loitered downstairs for a while. Mum stopped waiting up for me about a year ago, and although her nervy clucking and offers of late Ovaltine used to annoy the hell out of
me, I kind of missed it.

I tiptoed up the stairs and went into my room. Played back the day, wished Rosa a bad night, tormented myself with a few images of Chelle and Owen bumping into each other as the dawn rose. Took
off my make up, pulled on my pyjamas. Then I thought, I wonder if Hel’s still awake? Not that I necessarily wanted to share what had happened this evening. Though I could ask her what
she’d think if Ned moved a lodger in. I might just have ten minutes with her.

I opened my door as stealthily as I could, reached round and tapped on hers. I waited. 12.30 wasn’t late for my sister; it was unlikely she was asleep. I tapped again, a little louder in
case she hadn’t heard. Nothing.

I whispered, ‘Hel?’ But she wasn’t for answering. Tonight she’d decided she was off-limits.

I gave up, stepped across the landing and switched off the light. Along the crack at the bottom edge of Helen’s door I could make out the faintest blue glow, as if from a laptop
screen.

CHAPTER 3

Under the Gavel – our regular round-up of what’s hot in the antique and auction world

This month: vintage dolls’ house furniture

How many of us will have played with a dolls’ house at some time during our childhood? Whether it was a Lundby or a Tri-ang, or something plywood that a family member
knocked together for you, the likelihood is you’ll have spent hours engrossed in furnishing and arranging the rooms.

But did you know that some vintage miniature furniture is now highly collectible and fetching good prices in the sale rooms? David Roper, of Holyman Auctioneers, gives some top tips on
identifying the real treasures.

‘Jen.’ Gerry spoke just behind my chair, making me jump. ‘Are you busy?’

I clicked save, then swivelled to face him. ‘Not critically, no. Just crafting a gripping piece about toy furniture.’

‘Do you want to see something funny?’

‘If it’s that YouTube video of a snake eating another snake, then no. Don’t ever show me anything like that again.’

‘It’s not YouTube.’

‘What, then?’

‘This.’ He reached forward and shrank my file away. Then he brought up Google and typed in a name. A black page with flowing white font filled the screen.

‘Top Flight Dating . . . because sometimes,’
announced the strap line
, ‘life doesn’t send you what you deserve.’

‘Eh?’

‘Alan spotted it this morning on Rosa’s machine and he made a note of the name. It’s a singles’ site. But only for your posh, upwardly mobile types. The rest of us can
sod off.’ He began to read aloud in a fake-sincere newscaster voice: ‘“Our mission is to provide a superior romantic networking site, exclusive to professionals. Are you smart,
attractive, discerning? Hold down a high-powered senior position? Been working hard, and now you’re looking to play hard?”’

‘Eew, stop that, Gerry. You sound like Joanna Lumley on steroids.’

‘“Top Flight Dating offers an efficient, friendly service for the busy executive. We can help you meet like-minded people from your area.” In other words, we sift out the scum
for you. No freeloaders here, no one who licks tomato sauce off their knife or skulks round Primark of a Saturday. Brilliant, isn’t it?’

‘Disturbing, more like. You’re not saying Rosa’s a member? She might just have been doing some research.’

‘Alan says he tried to view the page she had open, and it’s a restricted area. You can only get in when you’re registered.’ He stepped away smugly.

‘Blimey. That’s bizarre. I didn’t know she was interested in the squelchy stuff.’

‘Apparently.’

‘So beneath that tweedy power suit lurks a trembling girlish heart, ripe for romance.’

‘Seems that way. I’m wondering how we can break in, see her profile.’

‘Yeah.’ I felt torn. It was fun to mock Rosa behind her back, especially considering how she’d had the cheek to accuse
me
of surfing date sites at work. But at the
same time it felt bad to go rooting through her personal stuff. Even trolls are entitled to a love life.

Gerry said, ‘We’ve tried “password” and “rosa-heffer” and “messenger” and “cream”. Alan suggested “cheshire-oaks” because
she spends half her life shopping there. Or “grosvenor” because we know she rates their restaurant. I thought you might have some more creative ideas.’

‘Hmm. How about “evil-lizard-hearted-boss”?’

‘See, I knew I could rely on you to think outside the box.’

‘Always.’

My phone bleeped with a text, and Gerry scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘You could register on there yourself. Then it’d be access all areas.’

‘I have a boyfriend,’ I said primly, opening up my mobile.

‘It’d only be for a laugh.’

‘A laugh costing ninety quid a month. Or didn’t you notice their tariff page? Executive rates, those’ll be. To keep the commoners out.’ The message turned out to be from
Ned, asking if he could meet me for lunch.
OK
, I texted back.

Gerry began to walk away, shaking his head. ‘All I can say is, if I was paying the best part of a hundred smackers a go, I’d be expecting a damn sight hotter date than our
Rosa.’

‘That’s because you’re a pleb,’ I called after him.

If it wasn’t for Gerry, I’d pack the job in tomorrow.

When I got to the café, Ned was waiting for me. He was wearing mucky combats and a T-shirt and he looked whacked.

‘Busy day, then?’ I asked, pulling in my chair opposite him. Ned is odd-job man/caretaker at Farhouses, a gracious, castellated nursing home off the A41. It’s one of the
Bedevere group of care homes, so top-end clientele and facilities. Ned tends the gardens, fixes pipes and transformers and loose carpets, deals with vermin, and has been known to step in as a
bouncer if emergency dictates. I also know he’s helping one of the care assistants to pass her EFL exam, and that he sometimes plays the piano for the residents if he’s free and they
ask nicely.

‘We’ve been shifting furniture out of the dining room,’ he said. ‘So they can start the renovations.’

‘To the ceiling?’

‘Ceiling first. Then the walls, the floor, everything else that’s been water-damaged. It’s a bloody mess. That’s the trouble with old sandstone buildings.
Randolph’s pulling his hair out at the cost. And squirrels have broken into the attic and eaten some of the wiring. I daren’t tell him about that yet.’

Ned had taken me up onto the roof of Farhouses once, completely against the rules, and shown me the view from the turrets: flat green Cheshire plain spreading out lushly on all four sides.
I’d seen the squirrels from there, leaping between the trees and scratting about on the lawns. He’s supposed to live-trap and then shoot them, however I know that he drives them in
secret up to Delamere Forest and releases them there. This is completely illegal because they’re classified as a pest species, but he’d break any number of laws rather than upset my
animal-loving sister.

I said, ‘Anyway, it’s nice to see you. To what do I owe this honour?’

‘Do I need a reason to take a pal out to lunch?’

He was smiling, his body language open, and a casual observer would have thought he was at ease. Yet I could see the slightly too-wide grin, the tension in his shoulders. Our Ned had something
on his mind.

I knew if I asked straight out he wouldn’t tell me, so I decided to kick off the conversation with a worry of my own. Once we’d placed our orders, I had another moan about
Chelle.

‘Two weeks she was supposed to be staying, at the outside. It’s already nearly four and she’s showing no signs of shifting.’

‘Ah.’

‘And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I think she’s a proper threat – well – no, I don’t. I trust Owen in that way. But the situation’s still
disturbing. Just, her
being
there. Parading round in her little vest tops and shorts, drinking with him into the night. Plus she has a front door key. How can that be right when I
don’t?’

Ned was sniggering.

‘What?’ I asked him. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘It sort of is, though. You can’t take her seriously. I mean, what kind of parents call their kid “Shell”, for God’s sake? Or is it one of these eco-tags
she’s adopted for herself – “Dances-with-whelks” sort of thing? Hey, over breakfast does Owen go, “Do you fancy an egg, Shell?” Does he go, “Have you seen
my razor, Shell?” “Look at my muscle, Shell.”’ Ned made me laugh in spite of myself. ‘And when you first walked out of the bedroom in your jim-jams, was Shell
shocked?’

‘Enough already!’

‘Honestly, you don’t need to stress about her,’ he said, taking two bottles of lager off the waitress and pouring them into glasses. ‘She’s just an annoying limpet.
One good shove and you’ll dislodge her from her rock. Things are going OK with you and Owen otherwise, aren’t they? You’ve managed to win half a mattress. Which is
progress.’

‘For one night a week.’

‘Yeah, well. Don’t knock it. Some of us don’t even get that.’

It was true enough. Mum and Dad would have been cool with Ned staying over – they’ve known him for years, his mum’s a friend of the family, they think he’s all-round
wonderful. They’d have been fine, too, with Hel spending nights at his flat: she is thirty. The problem lies with Hel and her insanely territorial attitude to both her personal space and her
routines. She loves Ned, but she always has to draw this line between herself and other people. Everything has to be done on her terms. That means no nights away from her own bed, and no one using
or moving her personal possessions. She once told me that even the thought of being away from her stuff makes her panicky, and also she hates the idea of being watched while she’s asleep. So
you see, Owen’s not the only one who has issues with sharing a duvet.

I said, ‘It’s just my sister’s way.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’

Our toasties arrived and I tucked in. Ned smiled approvingly. ‘You look as if you were ready for that.’

I nodded, my mouth too full to answer. The cheese was stringy and salty on my tongue, the bread fresh and crunchy. Later I was planning to have a slice of apple pie with cream. I love eating. I
celebrate the social and individual joy it brings. I could never turn food into an enemy, the way my sister has.

‘Is yours OK?’ I asked after a few minutes. Ned had taken a few half-hearted bites, then put his toastie down on the plate. He glanced up at me, back to the table, at me again. I
thought, Here it comes, whatever’s been bothering him.

The question, when it landed, took me by surprise. ‘Jen, I have to ask you. Do you think Helen’s getting ill again?’

‘Christ, I hope not. What makes you ask?’

‘She’s been kind of secretive, lately. More than she normally is. Like, if I walk into her room when she’s not expecting me she’s really twitchy and tries to cover up her
laptop. Last week she had a sheaf of printouts she shoved under the bed and then claimed was a list of RSPCA addresses. It might have been, except why did she hide them?’

My heart began to thud uncomfortably. ‘Did you check when she wasn’t around?’

‘No! I’d never go poking into her things. Not least because if she saw me, she’d go berserk. But I wouldn’t anyway. That’s not my style.’

‘Hiding papers isn’t a sign of an eating disorder.’

‘Not on its own, no.’

‘What else?’

‘Ah – she’s – she doesn’t – she won’t, you know. We’re not as close as we were. Physically.’

God. He was trying to say they’d stopped having sex. ‘Are you quite sure you want to share this with me, Ned?’

‘Sorry. Only, I thought it might be because she’d lost weight and didn’t want me to see her body.’

‘I don’t think she’s lost weight.’

‘Is she eating?’

‘Far as I can tell.’

We both knew Helen was a past master at appearing to consume normal meals. Her food-avoidance strategies were many and devious. They’d fooled us all at some point or other. Another problem
is that, although she’s officially recovered, anorexic-thinking for Hel’s become a permanent mindset that she has to manage daily, whatever weight she is. She still puts huge amounts of
effort into setting and maintaining the various mealtime rules that make her feel safe; she still weighs herself every morning and at the same time, and woe betide anyone who’s in the
bathroom when she needs to get in.

Ned took a long breath. ‘It’s probably nothing, then. I shouldn’t have worried you. For God’s sake, don’t mention it to your mum.’

‘No fear.’

We laughed uncomfortably. The thought of my mother’s reaction if she believed we were entering another phase was unbearable.

‘Back when she was at school,’ said Ned, ‘can you remember how it started?’

‘No. We never talked about it. So I didn’t catch on for ages. I mean, I knew something was wrong because there were a lot of arguments and people hushing when I came in, and talking
behind closed doors. But I didn’t take that much notice. You don’t at that age. I was, what, seven, eight? I was more interested in what was on TV or who got bollocked at school that
day. I do remember early on, though, when Mum actually smacked me and I think it was because of Helen, because I’d seen her refusing food so I tried it on as well, just for attention if
I’m being honest, and she went ballistic with me. Slapped my face, screamed in my ear. Told me I’d sit at the table the whole night if I didn’t clear my plate. I’d never
been smacked before, I was in total shock. Then Dad came in and
he
started shouting at
her
. Horrible. I couldn’t work out why everyone was getting so hyper over half a plate
of stew. But I suppose Mum was venting the stuff she never dared say to Helen. And then there was another evening when my dad caught Hel scraping her dinner into the bin, and he ended up shaking
her by the shoulders.’