otherwise Mum would hit the roof, emailed some friends, but said nothing about Kate and Nick to anyone, not even Phil. I read a bit, watched MTV. Last year I would have killed to be able to do nothing like this all day; now I feel like life is a head-to-head game with boredom.
Tuesday – much the same, except I went into Manchester and looked round the shops. I was getting low again. Sometimes Manchester strikes me as the best place to live – home of United, Oasis, Coronation Street – even when you meet people from other places and they take the rise out of you for your northern accent. At night, down Deansgate, the clubs in the village, girls walking down the middle of the road mad for it, you feel there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. But other times, when the sky is loaded with grey rain clouds and the smell of burger stalls hangs around and makes you sick, you wonder. All the shops are the same – HMV, Virgin, Our Price; Next, Top Shop, Burton; JD Sports, JJB Sports – you’re supposed to have all this choice but you can never find anything you want. I get to thinking that life never delivers. I have this feeling on some days that anything’s possible, that round the next corner it will happen – whatever it is – that there’s a prize waiting for me, and me alone. But I haven’t found it yet and I reckon that maybe I never will. That’s Manchester melancholy for you.
Wednesday was better because I had a shift at the Red King. It gave some focus to my day. Since I was working late, I had to sleep in, didn’t I? I began to think about whether to go to Todmorden at the weekend. I even got as far as asking my dad if I could have the car, and to my amazement he said yes. But by now I was feeling nervous. Sunday seemed a long time ago and maybe Nick was just being polite. A lot of people find it hard to say a plain goodbye and kid you with I’ll ring you, speak soon. Crap like that. I know, I’ve done it often enough. I reckoned, if something else came up, I’d give Todmorden a miss. Nick and Kate’s address was in the drawer by the computer. Lower Fold Farm, Lumbutts, near Todmorden.
There was fun and games that evening. Dad came home and opened the telephone bill.
“Bloody hell!” he shouted.
Mum, Gemma and I were in the lounge watching TV. I saw Gemma go dead still. Mum just raised her eyebrows. Dad came storming in, talking to us as if we were skiving employees.
“It’s over a hundred pounds this month. I just don’t credit it! What’s this? Eight pounds seventy-two to a mobile number? Which of you made that call?”
I saw Mum tapping her foot in irritation at Dad’s bad temper. Meanwhile Gemma’s eyes were glued to the local news. I felt it would be disloyal of me to say the call wasn’t mine (it wasn’t), so I just shrugged and grinned at my dad.
Well, as they say, the best form of defence is attack, and Gemma was no slouch as a military strategist. She suddenly bounced up from the sofa.
“Why are you all staring at me? You think it’s me, don’t you?” (It was.) “I get blamed for everything in this family! It’s so unfair! Other people use the phone, you know.”
“Fiona?” my dad said, passing the buck. It killed me how Dad never had the guts to tell Gemma off. He always went through my mum.
“Was it you?” Mum asked Gemma.
“That’s not the POINT, is it!”
I just kept my mouth shut. Dad ranted on.
“I just don’t understand why you have to be on the phone all the time. Absolute waste of money. Next time, you pay me back.”
“Like I have my own private income,” muttered Gemma.
So Dad marched upstairs, tail between his legs. Gemma sighed expressively and settled down in front of the TV. I couldn’t tell whether she was bothered or not. She’s quite good at cutting out the things she doesn’t want to hear. This didn’t include her mobile, which announced the arrival of another text. She’s all right, really, my sister, but she’s just typically fifteen – into boys, friends, gossip, all the girlie stuff. I tease her sometimes about being such a clone until she loses her rag, but she makes sure we’re never bad friends for too long, as she fancies most of my mates.
I went into the kitchen to get a coffee before work and Mum followed me out, as I thought she would.
“Your father,” she said, shaking her head. “Why does he have to come home and stir it up? I find it difficult enough to manage Gemma as it is.”
“He’ll have forgotten about it by the time he comes downstairs,” I said.
Mum just grumbled. She tends to use me as a sympathetic ear. When my GAP plans fell through she told me she was only too pleased to have me at home for another year, and she meant it. She once said I was her safety valve, whatever that meant. I’m certainly a bit of a go-between in the family Mum moans about Dad, Dad moans about Mum, Gemma moans about both of them, and they both moan about Gemma. Welcome to the Woods family.
Not that any of this was serious. Life in our house was much better than a lot of the families I knew. It was more that I’d outgrown them, which was natural. I was pleased to get to the Red King that night, even though there was a darts match on and we never stopped. So the next day I was shattered – I still wasn’t back to pre-glandular fever fitness levels. Then the pub again in the evening. And so on. And then it was Saturday.
It was slack at Electric Avenue and I did more than my fair share of staring into space. I’d decided more or less not to go to Todmorden. It just seemed too much effort. I thought I’d have an early night instead, gather my strength.
Kevin, the deputy manager, sidled over. He wasn’t much older than me, and because of that, he liked to throw his weight around, in my direction.
“Have you brought out the new Golf Tournament?”
I nodded.
“Got to keep you busy,” he said, only half joking. He was dressed in a flashy suit and his hair was brittle with gel. His eyes darted about the shop and were held by some girl who’d come in and was hunting through the GameBoy games. He nudged me conspiratorially. Kevin was pretty disgusting. He’d relay to the shop floor exactly what he got up to every weekend. Not that any of us wanted to know. When a bloke came into the store and put a proprietorial arm around the girl’s waist, Kevin looked away.
“Not my type,” he said. “No bum.”
I made no comment. I might think things about girls, but I don’t normally say them. Most of the time.
“So,” Kevin carried on. “What are you up to this weekend?”
“My little secret,” I said, trying to sound as careless as possible.
“Come on! Who is she?”
“Girl I met last week coming back from Birmingham,” I lied.
“You’re a fast worker,” Kevin said.
I felt a shit for lying but pleased the lie took effect. And then I thought, what the hell, I might as well make the most of it.
“Yeah, an artist. Lives out in West Yorkshire. I’m going out to her place.” I sounded cool. I liked how I sounded. Of course, I knew this meant I would never go to Todmorden now. But I wasn’t going to go, anyway.
“An artist, eh? So what are you going to do? Model for her? A Life class?”
