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SARAH SALWAY
Tell Me Everything
Find yourself a cup of tea; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things.
Saki
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Sarah Salway
Copyright
You can tell me anything, she said.
And I believed her.
I only have your best interests at heart, my biology teacher told me. It’ll go no further unless I consider you at risk.
There are moments when you really can stop time. Make a decision to go one way, and not the other. There’s just a sense, a prickle on the skin, something impossible to describe, that tells you you’re at the crossroads. But it’s only when you’re too far along to change direction that you realise you ever had a choice.
So, lulled by the warmth in the biology lab and the novelty of an adult really listening to me, I spent the afternoon telling her stories. In the cosy web I wove there, I lost sense of where I began and she ended. We seemed to be in it together; my words pulling expressions out of her face that made me want to carry on, to take the two of us higher and higher up a ladder of emotions. I was filled with something outside myself. I didn’t have to think, to struggle and stumble in the middle of a sentence for a thought or a word, not even once. I was floating. It was only when we reached the top that I realised how exhausting it can be to empty yourself out.
When it was time to go home I stood in the doorway, not wanting to cross the threshold back into the outside world.
‘I can come here again, can’t I?’ I asked. ‘We can do this another time, can’t we?’
I was watching the tears falling down her cheeks. They looked like icicles dropping off her chin. It made me want to laugh, but I was proud too. Proud that I’d made her feel that much. On the wall behind her there was a poster of a dissected human heart. All the tubes coming from it were left dangling in mid air. Cut off with a bloodless straight line.
By the time I got home, she’d already spoken to the headmistress who had rung my mother, and nothing was ever quite the same again. Not even the blood that pumped through our bodies, not even the air we all breathed. Everything had become thick, hard to absorb. It iced up the inside of our throats until we longed for any kind of warmth, even the fiercest hottest words that burn you in hell. At least they would melt the silence.
That’s how I learnt the power of stories.
‘How did you meet?’
People always ask you this when you become part of a couple. It’s throat-clearing, before they get to the really interesting stuff which normally involves what they think about things, or how they met their partners, or just anything about them really.
Miranda was different though. She was only about a year older than I was, but was already a
