Vintage (5 page)

I'm so shocked I take my elbows off the table and almost drop my book on the plate.

The mother sighs.

“I'm good aren't I dad?” It's the brat. “Not like Maz.” He doesn't know anything about sibling solidarity either.

“Shut your mouth.” It's out before I think.

“Marilyn! Be quiet and finish your food.” The mum wipes her plate clean with the last piece of toast. OCD, I just know. Puts her knife and fork together.

I go back to the book. Not so bad when you get into it. Historical. Loads of long frocks. Heaving bosoms. Still don't look at anyone. Nobody looks at me.

Everyone's finished the food. Then he kicks my leg. The boy. Under the table.

The first time I pretend I haven't noticed.

He kicks me again. Harder. Not looking at me.

I kick him back. Harder than I meant to. He lets out a huge howl.

“Mum! She kicked me! Maz kicked me!”

My mouth drops open. I can't believe he just did that.

“You liar! You kicked me first!”

The father looks up from his paper. “Marilyn, how dare you call your brother a liar at the tea table!”

“But it was his fault!”

“I don't care. You can get up to your room.”

“But…”

“Look young lady, you're not too old for me to take a slipper to you. Get up there.”

I've got a lot more to say. Think I'd rather go. Can't help putting two fingers up at the dad. He begins to get up. Slumps down again. Looks like he'll have a heart attack. The mother's hands fly up to her face. Her mouth opens. She starts to cry. I push back my chair. Slam the door shut behind me.

This family is seriously dysfunctional.

Marilyn sat on the bed. It must be about five o'clock. Nobody else was home. She wondered when the mother would start cooking tea.

But tea didn't come. Nobody came, even by six. She began to explore the room. It was strange. Grey and black plastic stuff everywhere. Some odd boxes with wires and a keyboard like a typewriter. Everything looked like it came from some faraway planet or a space ship.

One wall was covered in posters, postcards and photos, stuck on with some kind of blue chewing gum. She looked up close. This girl lived a completely different life. One postcard caught her eye. It was tucked in at an angle, above a framed photo of a family. The postcard was covered in loads of pictures, like potato prints, all different bright colours, of the same face. She knew that face.

It was Marilyn Monroe. She took the postcard down and turned it over. There was a name she'd never heard of – Andy Warhol.

She opened the huge wardrobe. It was full – clothes stuffed into every corner, and most of them were black. On the floor of the wardrobe were piles of clumpy shoes with stacked up heels, all black, some with bows or decorations. There were no flat shoes, except a dirty pair of white gym shoes hidden at the back. And a pair of bright pink canvas boots with white printing, white laces, and a star on one side.

Marilyn was starving, so she went downstairs. There were carpets everywhere, covering the whole of the floors. It was chaos in the kitchen. Everything from the cupboards was piled up on the counters, and one of the cupboards had been pulled off the wall and dumped on the floor.

She found some bread in a packet, already sliced. It looked soft and it didn't have a crust. And it was brown, not like her mother's proper white homemade bread. She took a piece out and looked round for something to put on it. Then she heard the front door close and a woman's voice call out.

“Hi, Holly! I'm back. Sorry I'm so late, I had this massive case to finish before the weekend and…”

The woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was about Marilyn's mother's age, but she looked years younger – almost as if she could be Marilyn's older sister. Her hair was down to her shoulders, shiny and brown, and it swung as she moved. She seemed to be wearing make up, but Marilyn couldn't see the red lipstick, blue eye shadow and specks of powder her mother wore when she went out. Her eyes were strong and hazel coloured – and she had a direct look, like she wouldn't be scared of anyone. Now she stared at the bread in Marilyn's hand. Marilyn felt like she'd been caught stealing.In a way, she had. This wasn't her house, and it wasn't her kitchen. Except it seemed to be.

“You're eating. No, carry on, I'm just a bit shocked, that's all. The butter's in the fridge – some cheese in there too if you want, or peanut butter in the cupboard – no, not in the cupboard, somewhere.”

She waved her arms helplessly at the mess.

“I'll cook something a bit later – I think there's pizza in the freezer. No, we'll get a takeaway, I'll phone. Oh my god, look at this. I'll have to get it all down by the time they come on Tuesday – what are you looking at me like that for?”

Marilyn realised she was gawping with her mouth open. She shut it and shrugged.

“To put the new kitchen in. I told you days ago. You are in a different world.”

“Oh. That.” She was glad the woman talked so much. She didn't have to say anything herself.

“Did you have a good day? I had this massive case – worst I've ever seen. Neglect, abuse, I don't know how parents can do it, do you? Good job we've got each other, isn't it, hon?” She came over and hugged Marilyn. Marilyn wasn't used to such affection, but she liked it. Her own mother was always there when she got home from school. She didn't approve of latch-key kids, she said. It stored up nothing but trouble. Marilyn didn't know what kind of trouble, but she would like the house to herself sometimes.

“Let's have a girls' night in, shall we? We could watch crap TV. I'll phone for a pizza. Then I'll have a bath and get in my jamas and we can eat.”

Marilyn wasn't listening any more. She didn't understand much of what the mother was saying. She didn't sound like her own mother at all. She didn't look like her either. This mother was dressed in trousers, for a start, men's trousers, with a jacket, like a man's suit. Then Marilyn looked up and saw the wall behind this mother, where the cupboard had come down.

There was some old wallpaper left over, yellowing and torn as if it had been there for many years. It looked familiar. It looked strangely like the paper her dad was putting up this week. She'd seen the rolls waiting in the kitchen, white background with drawings of cups and saucers and loaves of bread. But this was all faded and yellow, except where it had been out of the light completely, behind where the cupboard had been. There it looked almost the same, except for the rips and cobwebs.

But it couldn't be the same.

“Holly, where've you gone to?”

The mother moved away and smiled at her. She brushed Marilyn's hair back.

“You're beautiful, you know? Shame about all the face paint, but you're such a beauty. Kyle been round?”

“Yes, earlier on.”

It was the first thing she'd said, but the mother didn't seem to notice anything different.

“He okay? He's such a sweetie, pity he's gay. I could go for Kyle myself, but he'd have to change his hairstyle as well as his preferences. Okay, I'm off for a bath. You have your sandwich, I'll see you in a while. Nice to have an evening in together for a change, I've been so busy lately. Do you want to choose a DVD? You must tell me all about your day.”

She was out of the room before Marilyn could say anything else. A mother, talking about a daughter's friend like she wanted to go out with him? Where was the father? What did she mean by preferences? Did she ever stop talking? She was nothing like Marilyn's own mum, more like a big sister.

Marilyn looked at the bread in her hand. The slice had clogged up into moist patches where she'd been holding it too tight. She looked round for a bin and couldn't see one. She ate the bread as it was. It tasted of nothing. Remembering the yeasty smell of her mother's bread made her sad. She looked up at the wall again, where the cupboard had come down. She could see pencil marks, numbers, measurements perhaps. She recognised the hand-writing easily. It wasn't like anyone else's she knew, small and neat, slanting. She put a hand up to the wall and traced the numbers with her fingers. Her dad's writing.

For a minute, she longed to be back home with her parents and her brother. But then she thought again. She'd much rather be here, wherever it was. As far away from her family as possible. And this mum was much better than hers.

The doorbell rang. Marilyn could hear the bath running upstairs, and a muffled cry from the mother telling her to go and answer it. She went slowly to the front door, not knowing what she'd do, who it would be. It was too late for the milkman, or the postman.

She opened the door, clinging to it so whoever was there could only see her head and shoulders. There was a boy outside, not Kyle, but an older boy, foreign, with light brown skin and long hair. She had to look up at him to see his face, he was so tall.

He smiled. He had big brown eyes with thick black eyelashes, and a big smile. He looked like an exotic animal. He was gorgeous and he knew it.

“Hi. I thought I'd come over and introduce myself. I've seen you a couple of times. It's what new neighbours do, isn't it? Before they ask you to feed the cat or something?”

Marilyn's mouth dropped open. He spoke like she did, like he'd been here forever.

He was smiling at her. The smile was wide. His teeth were very white, and there was a small chip off one of the front ones.

Marilyn edged out from behind the door.

“Did you want my mum? She's in the bath.”

He laughed. “It's okay. I only wanted to meet you properly.”

This was good. Nobody usually wanted to meet Marilyn. She grinned and edged out a bit further, so she was standing in the doorway with the door wide open.

The boy looked down at her bare feet. “Haven't I seen you at the club? With shoes on, I mean?”

She looked down at her feet and blushed.

“You look a bit shorter without those heels. Are you going down tomorrow night?”

Marilyn remembered Kyle talking about going to the club, whatever that was. She expected it was a youth club.

“Yes, I think so.”

“See you there, then. My name's Saleem.”

“Oh. I'm Marilyn.”

“Marilyn. That's a strange kind of name, retro, like Marilyn Monroe. ”

“Oh. Right. Yes. She's great. I love her films.”

“Yes, all those old black and whites. Now they were really classy. Vintage.”

She couldn't believe they'd heard of Marilyn Monroe here. Her dad loved Marilyn Monroe. Her mum said he insisted on calling their first daughter after her. Her mum didn't look pleased about it. There wasn't another daughter. After Andrew was born, her mum said all that was over.

Saleem was looking at her with his head slightly on one side.

“It's funny, I thought you'd be more – wild. You were when I met you up the street yesterday”.

“Oh, that wasn't…”

Marilyn realised she had told the boy the wrong name, her own name. She'd stopped pretending to be Holly. But he went on.

“That's okay. I might see you tomorrow then.”

“Yes. All right. I mean…” Her voice trailed off into embarrassment.

The boy looked again at Marilyn, and smiled the big smile as he turned to go.

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

Marilyn watched him turn and walk away. She shut the door and held on to it for a long time, with her eyes closed, thinking through the conversation she'd just had with a truly gorgeous boy, who seemed to like her. Or, he seemed to like the other girl, Holly. But he knew she was Marilyn, so it must be her he liked.

She wasn't sure if she liked him.

But perhaps that didn't matter.

Saturday morning. I didn't sleep much last night. Thinking. Nobody came up to see me. After the dad sent me upstairs. I was going anyway.

Marilyn's room. It's dead cold in here. No radiators or anything. I went to bed in her pyjamas. Flowers all over them. Scratchy sheets and blankets. About eight o'clock now, by the Noddy clock on the shelf. Nobody seems to be up yet.