Tell Me Everything (14 page)

And then when he sat down next to me and did that gasping thing of his, everything of mine that had been in him a minute ago slotted back into place between us so I felt a rush of peace. I didn't even have to touch him to feel us coming together.

We recognized each other, Tim and me. Not just who we were, but all we had been and all we could be too. That was when I knew nothing more was asked of us when we were together but just being; what we had was plenty enough. I was going to ask him what had really gone on that night in the shop, but it was too nice, both of us sitting there like that. “I'm happy,” I told him.

“And so am I.” His fingers moved to hold onto mine, and I lay my head on his shoulder.

“Tim?”

“Herummmm,” he replied.

“Just that,” I said. “Just Tim.”

And once again I couldn't stop laughing.

I
t was quiet in the shop for the whole of the following day. Mr. Roberts shut himself up in the kitchen with a hot cup of tea— Mrs. Roberts's orders, he said, although I was sure the whiskey he was lacing it with liberally wasn't her idea—and the shop was empty, so he said I could nip out for a break some time. I went to ask Miranda when she was free.

She was blow-drying an old lady's hair but beckoned for me to sit down and wait. I flicked through a magazine, half-watching the customer, who had her eyes wide open, a blissful smile on her powdered face as she watched Miranda gently twist the curlers out and brush her hair so it circled her like a silver halo.

“They come alive like flowers,” Miranda said to me, after she'd helped the woman on with her coat and taken her to the desk to pay. “I love doing the old people best, you know. It means more.”

I tried to hold back the shudder. “Her scalp was so pink,” I said. “It was like you could see everything underneath. It doesn't feel right. It's disgusting.”

Miranda stared at me. “I'm going to the library on my lunch hour,” she said. “You can come too.”

At lunchtime we walked up together. Two fat ladies, I thought, trying not to catch sight of our reflection in the shop windows. I looked like Miranda's shadow, peeping out from behind her.

“This is nice,” I said. “We should do more things together. Go to the pub and stuff.” If Tim wouldn't come with me, maybe Miranda would.

“The pub?” Miranda seemed doubtful as she pushed the heavy library doors open. She'd been very silent since I'd made the “disgusting” comment, so it was almost a relief when Liz came up to us straight away.

“My two best readers,” Liz said. “And I didn't even know you knew each other.”

I looked at the two of them. And I didn't even know
they
knew each other.

“I've kept that book you were asking about, Miranda,” Liz said. “I'll just go and get it from the counter.”

Liz was choosing books for Miranda too now? I followed her up to the counter to check what it was.
The Women in Shakespeare's Plays.
I read the title upside down as Liz handed it over. It was a thick, academic-looking book.

“Bet that hasn't got many pictures,” I said, but Miranda just ignored me.

“Second-best bed,” I said.

Miranda started flicking through the pages.

“He left his wife his second-best bed in his will,” I said. “I remember that from school. Guess he didn't think much of women. Or maybe just her.”

“Is that all you remember about English?” she asked.

“Well, no.
Nothing will come of nothing,”
I intoned dramatically.

“Give me strength,” Miranda said, but at least she was smiling now. “Some of us actually want to learn useful things. Stretch our minds.”

“Think again,”
I continued.

Liz came up then. “Got one for you, Molly,” she said. “This is another French writer.”

“Let me see. I love Marguerite Duras,” Miranda said greedily, but I clutched the paperback to my chest.

“No, you've moved on,” I said. “Go and stretch your mind with your useful things and leave me to mine.” I took the book off to my favorite chair. After a while, Miranda came to stand next to me.

“Got bored?” I asked. “I said you should have got one with pictures.”

“Oh you,” Miranda cooed, but I could tell her heart wasn't in it. “I've got a customer coming soon. Are you walking back?”

I looked at my watch. “I'm just going to stay here for a bit longer,” I said. “It's cooler here than the shop.”

It was only half an excuse. Although I was enjoying the cool of the library's air conditioning, there was something interesting I'd just read. What this writer seemed to be saying was that it was impossible to
make
yourself desirable. In fact, often you didn't know what was inside you that another person was going to want. You couldn't manufacture it; it was up to them to spot it in you.

So, although she didn't come out and state this exactly, what I guessed you had to do was to put everything you had out on display, otherwise you could walk past Mr. Right and run the risk of him not noticing the big arrow saying you were for him.

Or something like that.

The girl in the book Liz had given me really put it out there by wearing a big hat and gold shoes. Everyone noticed those so of course the hero spotted her too, but I'd taken to wearing black cover-up clothes from the charity shops. I couldn't help but wonder what it was inside me that Tim had spotted.

As I sat down to read the book I looked round the library for other clues as to what would make people noticeable. The middle-aged woman browsing the biography shelves was wearing heels so high she had to rest her foot half-out of them when she wasn't walking. The dark-haired woman in the children's section had almost black lipstick that made it impossible for you not to stare at her mouth. The boy about my age flicking through the sports books was carrying a basketball. I looked round for Liz.

She was talking to the man who'd once complained about the lack of a
Daily Telegraph.
I got ready to rescue her.

“But I don't know how to bloody use a computer,” he said as I
came up. “And what's more I'm not going to learn. You can't make me.”

I took a step back. He looked smaller somehow today, and I didn't want to see him humiliated, whipped into shape again by Liz's sharp tongue.

“Shall we see about that?” she said, but although the words they both used were severe, their manner wasn't. Liz was only looking at him with half her face for a start, turning the other half over to her shoulder as if she really was asking him a question, but then she saw me and straightened up.

“Molly,” she said. “How's it going? Your friend Miranda's a clever one, isn't she? And what about you? Did that French goddess have a certain
je ne sais quoi
today?”

She made it all sound so silly, and sure enough the
Daily Telegraph
man looked at me indulgently.

“I'll come back later,” I said pointedly. “When you're not so busy with other customers.”

“No need,” the man said. “I'm just going. Thanks for the help, Liz.”

We both watched him go. Liz was absentmindedly stamping the pad in front of her with the date stamp. “He's nice,” I said. “And he likes you.”

She stamped a bit harder. “Now don't be silly. He's just a customer. We have to be polite.”

“No,” I said. “There was something else, like electricity between you. He really really liked you. It was as if no one else in this library existed for him.”

There was hardly an inch of the pad that Liz had left uninked now. “Really?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” I said. “You can always tell. But he's such a gentleman, I bet he'll leave it up to you to do the running. He'd never do
anything if he thought you might not like it. With someone like that, you'd have to make it clear that you were interested.”

And then I left too, even though I knew Liz wanted me to stay to talk about this more. I was still smiling by the time I got back to the shop, but then the torpor of the afternoon quiet got to me. I busied myself tidying up the already immaculate shelves but it was a relief when Mr. Roberts finally shut up shop and I could disappear up to my room. I threw myself on the bed and wept until I was spent, and then I thrust my face deep into my pillow. Something sharp dug into my cheek. It was my bag. I pulled out my book, turned to a page at random and began to read.

You don't have to love me. I have love enough for both of us. Just do with me what you will.

“Do with me what you will.”

No fuss, no bother. Maybe this was the message I'd been waiting for. Although I'd rather Tim did love me. Love me so much it hurt him. I washed my face with cold water in the sink downstairs and let myself out of the shop to go and see if he was still waiting for me at the park. Don't ask me how I knew he'd be there, but I did.
Do with me what you will but do love me. Just love me as I love you.
How stupid I was. What was written on my forehead loud and clear was the fact that Tim could take what he needed from me. This is what he'd seen in me.

I wanted Tim to do with me what he would. That was how I was going to get him to love me as I did him. Or something like that.

T
he next day Miranda was staring fixedly at the shop mannequin in the window of the boutique as I walked up to her. “Fancy yourself in that?” I asked. The display was summer-themed, designed around tennis. Bright yellow balls were scattered on the floor, giant cut-out rackets were hung from the ceiling as if in disembodied mid-shot. The clothes were all white; tiny little sleeveless and halter-necked dresses that looked more like handkerchiefs for women our size.

Miranda gave me a tight half-smile that didn't reach the rest of her face.

“Hello stranger,” I said. “You've been busy recently. I came round to the salon yesterday evening for you to do my hair, but you'd gone out. The girls said you sounded very mysterious.”

“Just went to see a friend,” she said, and I was surprised to feel a sharp pang of jealousy.

“Which friend?” I asked.

Miranda was puffing at her cigarette in this way she had. She always held the butt between her thumb and index finger so the rest of her hand formed a tunnel for the smoke to travel through. I'd never seen anyone else smoke like that before, but when I
asked her about it she said it was commonly known that this stopped the nicotine doing any damage to the complexion. All the stars smoked like that, she said, even Julie Andrews, as if this fact too was commonly known. I'd tried it a few times out of curiosity—if it was all right for Julie Andrews!—but couldn't get rid of the feeling that I was making fun of Miranda somehow.

“Do you care?” she asked.

“What?” I was about to complain that this was unfair and our friendship was more important to me than that when I remembered talking to Tim in the park. “Only you,” I'd told him. “I don't have any other friends but you.”

“What about this tea date we were going to have?” Miranda asked. “Or are you still too busy with your mystery man for us these days?”

“Have you lost weight?” I knew whatever happened Miranda wouldn't be able to resist talking about her unsuccessful diets.

I was right. She brightened up immediately. “I have not,” she said firmly, “and yet do you want to know what I've been eating— or not eating, I should say—recently?”

I didn't particularly, but I was prepared to listen when she told me. Instead though she looked me up and down.

“Although I must say you're the one that's getting thin,” she said. “Come home with me now and have a decent meal. No excuses. Mum won't mind.”

She was changing, Miranda. She read her magazines less so the tales of misery were few and far between. Even her clothes were more businesslike. I felt sad for the way she'd stopped cooing and had started saying things like, “If I can be direct” or “I know you won't mind me saying.” These days you did what Miranda suggested.

So an hour later I was sitting in Miranda's front room. The windows had been painted shut and the room was so hot I couldn't
stop my eyes drooping. When I opened them I could tell by the way Miranda's parents were smiling at me that I must have been like that for some time. I shook my head and grinned back. I'd learned by now that it was always better to join in the joke. Much safer to be seen to be part of the pack.

“You were miles away, hen,” Mrs. Bartlett said.

“Welcome back to the land of the half-living.” Mr. Bartlett shook his head and poured himself some more tea. His wheelchair was pushed right up next to the table, a tartan blanket tucked tightly round his legs. I'd noticed already that the one slipper poking out beneath the cover was on the wrong foot. It gave him an even more lopsided look than he had already. I thought about pointing it out at first but then I worked out that they would have to buy both slippers anyway, and probably didn't want to waste the extra one.

“Manners. Don't just help yourself,” Mrs. Bartlett reminded him, and she winked at me. “I'm sure Molly here could do with something else to eat. You look tired out.”

“Boyfriend keeping her up, I shouldn't wonder.” Mr. Bartlett laughed so loudly at his own joke that he choked on the mouthful of cake he'd just taken and had to be patted on the back by Mrs. Bartlett. She hit him much harder than was really needed, smiling all the time. When she put a glass of water up to his lips for him to drink, I noticed she thrust the rim against his mouth, clinking it on his teeth. He pushed her arm away in annoyance, catching her on the shoulder so she winced.

Miranda was the only one not joining in the fun.

“Mum was just asking about your parents,” she said. “Before you fell asleep.”

I concentrated hard on peeling the chocolate icing off the slice of cake I'd just been given. When I raised my head, Mrs. Bartlett looked away quickly. Mr. Bartlett was fussing with his handkerchief,
wiping the water from his face where it had spilled. Only Miranda was still staring at me.

“I told Mum about how your father has to go abroad often for his work,” she said, “and all the lovely presents he brought you back when you were a kiddie. I'd so much like to see your collection of dolls in foreign costumes. More than a hundred, isn't it, Molly?”