Tell Me Everything (10 page)

“But she didn't win though, did she?” I spoke more decisively than I meant to. “The man was interested in O, the character, not the writer. So she lost him doubly. He only wanted her for something she made up, and not even something. She was a gap. It's sick.” As I spoke I could feel my cheeks redden, tears coming to my eyes. I was aware of Liz looking at me sharply.

“You didn't find it arousing at all?” she asked. She spoke as plainly as if she was asking one of her other customers whether they were aware that their books were a day overdue.

“No!”

“Some women do,” she said. “I do wonder why it should shock you quite so much.” And then, after a pause during which I kept silent to show just how sick I thought it all was, she continued. “It can be empowering to give up your life for someone else's pleasure like O did.”

I thought about this. From what I had read, O didn't seem to give up anything. She seemed to be too actively passive for that, but it was hard to explain this to Liz. She was so adamant, going on about sophisticated women and love as if it was something she knew about. “It can't have been worth it,” I said flatly. “She was nothing in the end. Just an O. A big fat zero.”

“Maybe that's what we all are, in the end,” Liz said, but she was gentle in the way she spoke, and she rested her hand on my arm. It was the first time she'd touched me. It reminded me of Mum and how when things had got really bad, all I wanted was
for her to give me a hug and for us to laugh together. Maybe if we had managed to do that, even just the once, I wouldn't have had to leave.

“I'm not,” I said. “I'm not nothing.”

Liz burst out into a peal of giggles. It definitely was one of the things I liked best about her, that healthy gust of happiness that couldn't help but make you smile back at her, marveling at such a hidden, unexpected side to her. I couldn't stay angry any longer.

“Do you know what?” she asked. “I don't know quite what you are, Molly, but I think you're right about one thing. I don't think you'll ever be nothing. So go on with you. Tell me more about your young man. Bet you don't need to write him a book in order to get him to do what you want.”

“
Y
ou want me to get you the bear?”

Tim asked. “The bear,” I nodded.

“I can't.” Tim was sitting on the top of the bench, leaning over as far as he could, his feet hooked under the seat to keep him anchored. I traced the bare skin of his ankle with my thumb, pressing into the white flesh to make prints.
This little piggy
… They faded as quickly as I made another. “It's not mine to give.”

“But it's in a shop so it's going to be someone's one day,” I pointed out. “Why shouldn't it be mine? It would be like rescuing it. It'll bake in that hot shop, and we need something cool to take our minds off this weather.” I flapped my skirt out in front of me so air could reach my legs. Mr. Roberts's newspaper had been full of stories about the sudden record-breaking sunny weather, although I noticed how he was carrying on wearing a vest under his shirt and a carefully knotted tie for the shop. Mind you, he was coughing even harder and complaining of a cold that wouldn't go away.

“We could go and visit it, I suppose.” Tim came up straight again and beamed at me. His hair was tousled and thick at the front. I sat on my hands to stop myself brushing it straight. There
was something so childish about him at times. “Would you like that? You're always saying about us going places.”

“No. Not just to look. I want to have the bear, otherwise there's no point.”

“What about going to listen to the happy woman, then?” Tim was gently pushing my hands away now that I'd let them go. Just as I thought, they'd flown straight up to his hair and were trying to tidy it. “She's bound to be on the phone again.”

“She's miserable really,” I said. “She came into the shop one day and you could tell.”

“Really?” Tim bounced onto the bench so he was squatting next to me. I rested my elbows on his knees and smiled up at him. “Hello you,” he said, kissing me.

“Hello.” I tried to catch his mouth for more, running my tongue over his crooked teeth, but he moved away. He was always doing that these days.

“So how could you tell she was unhappy exactly?”

I thought back to when she'd come in. I'd hid behind the counter at first, scared she'd recognize me until I realized that, although I'd been watching her, she had no idea who I was. It was a strange feeling, almost powerful. “She had this walk,” I said. “A sort of heel-sole walk. Happy people always walk on their toes. They prance on tiptoes.”

“Show me.”

I laughed but stood up, walking—no, prancing—up and down the path in front of Tim. He was sitting back on the bench watching me, like the perfect audience I used to dream of when I was younger and would have given anything to play games like this.

“Now do unhappy,” he demanded.

I sloped along, shoulders hunched, heels slapping down aimlessly on the path behind me. Heel-sole.

“Jealous.”

I stopped and thought about this, then put my shoulders right back, my chest forward and stared right ahead at him, my whole heart open for anybody to mock.

“Scared.”

I scampered, my foot hitting the ground lightly, my body as small as I could make it. But then, without warning, the feeling took over and I could almost hear the blood start to race through my body, my hands flapping at my sides as if I wanted to hit out at somebody, although it was me I was hurting. The bones in my head were tightening so they pressed against my brain.

“That's good.” Tim clapped. “We can really do something with this. It'll be useful for the project. And now …”

I sat back on the bench and blew air out through my lips. I wanted to empty myself of all that had gone before. “Tim,” I said, “just kiss me.”

L
ater, I sat in the changing room at the leisure center and watched the television screen as women scurried around me trying not to let their towels slip from their naked bodies. The TV was on mute but I could work out what was going on from the scrolling headlines that ran along the bottom.

On the screen, a middle-aged man was wiping sweat off his brow with a white cotton handkerchief as, behind him, a woman looked on blank-eyed. The reporter leaned forward in front of them, talking urgently into the camera.

Sudden heat wave tragedy, I read. Schools send children home.

There was a film of a group of children splashing in a river that reached only up to their knees. They were laughing as they poured water over each other and themselves, rolling round and round in the muddy water. One boy lifted up his arms and the camera caught the glistening drops of river water that poured
through his fingers. He did it again and again, laughing as he eventually put his mouth down to drink from his cupped hands.

Doctors warn about disease threat, read the caption. I hurried back to my room and made notes. I ignored the two packets of Smarties and the doughnut I'd bought for my supper. I had an idea.

The next morning, despite the three fans Mr. Roberts had put on at full blast, the shop was still hot and airless. I stood up at the top of the ladder and let a trickle of sweat run down my upper lip before catching it with my tongue. My head was resting on my arms and I'd lifted my hair up to let any breeze around blow onto my neck. If I leaned my nose into my skin I could smell the musky scent of animal sweat.

“There was this guy who liked to take me to bathrooms,” I said. “Not the one in his house or anything. He'd book into a hotel and ring me with the room number. I couldn't go straight up though. He preferred me to wait in the lobby. I'd sit on one of those little chairs they leave out, rifle through the newspapers or the hotel brochures until he came.

“He'd always say the same thing when he walked up to me. He'd pretend he was part of the hotel staff, that they'd had a complaint about how dirty I was and he was wondering what could be done about it.

“I had to look ashamed then. If I was feeling really in the mood, I'd even pretend to cry.

“I'd tell him that I had nowhere to wash. I'd beg him to take pity on me and he'd ask me then about the conditions I lived in. That's what seemed to excite him as much as anything. I told him how I lived in a room with no bathroom, no proper washing facilities.”

I looked down at Mr. Roberts as I said this, but all I could see was the kidney-shaped bald patch on top of his head. I guessed he
was getting the message though. I was spending precious time going to the leisure center for showers every evening in this hot weather. Time I could be spending with Tim.

“He asked me if I wasn't worried about getting diseases, even fleas. ‘Look at your hair,’ he'd say, lifting up a lock of my hair and letting it fall in disgust. Although, of course,” I added, “my hair was always perfectly clean.”

Mr. Roberts gave a sort of snort from below. He was always teasing me about how many times Miranda did my hair.

I continued. “He'd say then that he had to see what he could do about it. He hemmed and hawed and looked at me over these big glasses he used to wear. And then he'd send me upstairs in the elevator. I had to go and stand outside the hotel room and wait for him. He would always have these big bags with him. I was worried the first time, but they were just full of towels. He'd bring his own.

“We'd go straight to the bathroom. Candles were placed everywhere, which he would light, but the bath would already be full of water. Cold water, as clear and sparkling as if it was ice. I'd have to fold my clothes up as I took them off. He requested that especially; he wanted everything to be neat. And he wouldn't touch me, wouldn't even look at me directly as I did so. Just watched my reflection in the mirror. And when I was naked he'd turn round and point toward the bath. He'd be fully dressed, although when I was in the bath he'd put on one of those blue-and-white-striped butcher's aprons. He'd kneel down beside me, take out a big white sponge from his bag and start to clean me. Not with soap or anything, just with the water.

“It was freezing sometimes. I'd catch my breath when he'd trickle it over me, but I never complained. Never said anything. Neither of us did. He'd rub me all over, pushing me back gently to immerse my hair in the water, spending time stroking my
breasts with the sponge, dipping in between my legs and then back again to my breasts. He let water trickle down my back, following the curve of my spine. And then when he'd done it all, he'd do it again. We were there for hours.

“When he'd had enough, he'd get up and stand again with his back toward me, looking in the mirror. I'd have to wake myself up sometimes. I used to fall into a kind of trance. I'd wrap myself up in one of the white towels he'd brought and he'd come and rub me dry. And then I'd get dressed and leave.”

“That was that?”

“That was all,” I said. “He never touched my skin directly once. He always used the sponge. He was a perfect gentleman.”

Mr. Roberts was quick to step out of the way as I came down the ladder. And when he came back from his lunchtime walk I noticed a carrier bag by the door up to my room. “What's this?” I asked.

“A present,” he said, bustling round with the till so he didn't have to take too much notice of me. “Thought it might come in useful upstairs in this hot weather.”

Later that night, I filled the large bucket Mr. Roberts had given me with cold water from the downstairs sink and carried it up to my room. Then I lit the candle he'd bought and, using the white sponge I'd also found in the bag, I trickled cold water all over my naked body. It was like being baptized. I didn't rub myself dry with the matching towel though. Instead I draped it out over the floorboards and lay down, letting the air from the open window dry my skin naturally. I emptied my mind of everything, breathing in and out slowly as I imagined myself a glass bear sitting on an ice cap, watching the ocean swell before me.

E
ven when there was no chance of seeing Tim, I looked forward to my daily visits to the Seize the Day bench. I was the same age now that Jessica was when she died, but these days with my new life in place I felt like an older, more sensible version. I even felt smug, sitting on her bench, safe in the bubble of my new worldly wisdom, confident that I'd found that other way out of an uncertain future that Jessica had been searching for.

I went to the park one Thursday morning to find the bin had been moved, just how I wanted it. The concrete patch it had stood on still remained, but they'd cut the grass carefully around it.

“It's much better, isn't it?” I told Jessica. “I think I know who arranged this. Tim. But we won't say anything. Not if he doesn't want us to. We'll get more flowers, surround you with beautiful things.” I was thinking of asking Tim to build an arch over the bench so I could grow honeysuckle through it, extending the bed all round the outside and planting spring bulbs for next year, bringing in pots of lilies to hide the rough concrete. “Nothing funeral-like though,” I whispered. “Just somewhere we can both enjoy.”

Afterward I was walking back to the stationery shop, pausing
across the road from the salon so I could wave at Miranda, when a hand touched my arm. I jumped.

“Molly! Molly Drayton, isn't it?” I glared up—and then down—to see a small guy in a basketball top standing in front of me, looking pleased with himself. “I thought it was you. Haven't seen you since school.”

“Joe,” I said dully, recognizing him. He'd been an occasional member of one of the gangs who used to stand outside my door and anger my father so. “What are you doing here?”

“This is a coincidence,” he said. “I'm only here because my orthodontist is stuck out in the back of beyond. I suppose the rents are cheaper, but this area always feels like the land of the living dead.” He checked himself then, rubbed his finger over his perfectly straight teeth. “Don't tell me you live here now?”

I nodded, and he looked embarrassed for about a second before continuing. “Anyway, what are you doing back in town? I heard you went to London with your mother. I hadn't heard you'd seen anyone from school. I don't blame you, mind. St. Mary's is such a dump, although I will admit it was different in sixth form. I ended up being head boy for my sins.”