is he?’ I ask, sitting down.
‘God knows. Buggered off years ago. They were only young when they had me. She drove him away, always on at him about something. Nag nag nag, the way she does with me. Tells me I wouldn’t understand, like I’m a bloody kid. But I know it’s her fault he left, that’s for sure.’ There’s a pause before she adds, ‘And I’ve not seen him since. Not even a phone call.’ She sits up and gnaws at her fingernails, her eyes dark and brooding. Tentatively I move closer to her and, after a few seconds’ hesitation, put my arm around her. She sinks against me, resting her head upon my shoulder as though she were a little girl and my heart thumps loudly as I stroke her hair. After a silence she murmurs, ‘God, it’s shit not having any brothers or sisters, isn’t it? Someone else to deal with all their crap. Don’t you ever wish you weren’t an only, Heather?’ When I don’t reply she glances up at me and her face falls. ‘Christ, what’s the matter? What have I said?’
And so I tell her about Lydia. Not everything, of course, but still, it’s more than I’ve ever spoken about her to anyone else before.
‘Oh, Heather, that’s awful,’ she says when I’ve finished. ‘I’m so sorry.’
We sit in silence for a while and I wipe my eyes, listening to the sound of some kids playing outside in the street. In the quiet I notice a drawing pinned to the wall above her bed. ‘Did you do that?’ I ask, nodding at it.
‘Yeah,’ she says, and jumping up, stands on her bed to take it down. ‘It’s a bit crap really.’
She passes it to me and I stare at it. It’s a self-portrait, a close-up of her face, pouting and narrow-eyed like a model on the cover of a magazine. It’s amazing. ‘Wow,’ I say, ‘it’s great.’
‘Nah,’ she ducks her head. ‘Do you honestly think so? You can have it if you want.’ She goes and pulls out a folder from underneath her wardrobe, takes out a pile of drawings and puts them on my lap, watching my face as I look through them.
My tears, Lydia, Edie’s dad, everything is forgotten as I examine them one by one. A child holding a balloon, a couple kissing, a handsome boy holding some flowers, moonlight shining on water. I think they’re wonderful, romantic, a version of life where everyone’s happy and in love and beautiful. ‘Oh, Edie,’ I say, ‘they’re fantastic. You’re so talented, you really are!’ I look at her in amazement.
She shakes her head, ‘Oh leave off, they’re pretty rubbish.’ But she jumps up and pulls out a sketchpad, waiting eagerly for my reaction as I turn the pages. And as I heap praise on her I watch as her sadness begins to lift, receding with every compliment I pay her. She’s smiling, I’ve made her happy again.
Suddenly she says, ‘You’re different from other girls our age, aren’t you?’
My heart sinks. ‘What do you mean?’ My classmates’ voices come hissing back to me: Weirdo, fucking freak.
She yawns and stretches like a cat, her top riding up to reveal her midriff. ‘Don’t know. You don’t go on about clothes and who felt you up last night, and what a bitch so-and-so is. It’s good.’ She hesitates, glancing away before adding very softly, ‘Even with my friends back in Manchester, I used to feel lonely sometimes. None of them seemed to have the same crap going on at home that I did. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘I do.’ And we smile at each other in the silence.
‘He’s asked me to meet him on Saturday,’ she tells me a few moments later.
‘Who?’
She grins. ‘Connor, of course! Will you come with me? In case he doesn’t show.’
‘Oh, I don’t—’
‘Please,’ she says. ‘Oh go on, be a pal.’
I hesitate, and she makes a daft face, fluttering her eyelashes until I laugh, and say OK.
It’s Saturday lunchtime and we’re sitting on the bench by the statue in the town square. Edie can’t sit still, tugging at her dress, reapplying lip gloss and spraying herself with the White Musk her Uncle Geoff sent her last Christmas. A couple of girls from school walk past us and look Edie up and down before turning to each other and sniggering. ‘Skank,’ they whisper, but I don’t think Edie hears.
‘Where is he? We’ve been here half an hour now.’
‘I’m sure he’s on his way,’ I tell her, secretly hoping that he’s not. I think about how I’ll comfort her when he doesn’t show, how maybe we can go to the café instead. Perhaps I’ll buy her a milkshake and listen sympathetically as she confides in me about how disappointed she is. I’ll tell her it’s probably for the best after all, that he wasn’t worth it and she can do a whole lot better – all the things I’ve heard you’re supposed to say in this situation. But when I next look up, there he is.
The market’s on today and the square is full of people, huddled beneath umbrellas or caught unawares by the first rainy day we’ve had in weeks, but Connor cuts through the crowds as though there’s no one there at all and I see him through Edie’s eyes: his handsome face, his confident swagger, something bold and focused against the smudgy grey blur of the square.
He stops in front of us. ‘All right,’ he says. I’m surprised by how nice his smile is and I find myself momentarily dazzled by it.
‘Hiya!’ Edie jumps up as if he’d pulled her by a string.
He looks her over. ‘You got dressed up.’ His eyes are a little mocking now, and she shrugs, her own smile flickering uncertainly. Then, reaching out a finger, he traces the low neckline of her dress, not taking his eyes from hers. Edie flushes, opens her mouth as if to speak but seems hypnotized by the slow sweep of his finger. Her flesh goose-pimples beneath his gaze and the rain. Something passes between them, thick and private, containing them, wrapping them together, leaving me outside.
At that moment a passing dog rears back on its lead, barking and snarling, baring its teeth at me and I jump back, giving a little cry as its owner pulls it on. My heart pounds with shock. They both stare at me. ‘This is Heather,’ Edie tells him.
He nods then lights a cigarette. ‘You coming?’ he says to her.
‘Where’re we going?’ she asks.
‘Back to mine.’
She hesitates. ‘Aren’t we going out?’
He takes a drag on his cigarette and looks away. ‘Where to, the Ritz?’
She flicks her hair again and bites her lip, weighing it up. ‘Can Heather come?’
He glances at me and shrugs. ‘If she wants.’
The look she shoots me is so beseeching that I nod and we set off, the two of them walking ahead, both so slim and good-looking as though made for each other, me trailing along behind.
I’ve never been to the Pembroke Estate before and I pause in its centre, staring up at the three high towers, looming black against the grey sky. The motorway is very close here; you can hear the traffic as it roars past somewhere just out of sight. There’s a kids’ play park with broken swings and a sandpit filled with bottles and dog mess and a group of teenage
