It had been fun. But it had still been a mistake, because it had led to a much bigger one.
Melissa runs her finger along her jaw, squeezing her eyes closed. She’d had to apply her foundation carefully to hide the slight stubble rash that had erupted on her chin. The evidence of last night was there too in the residual ache between her legs.
There was no point in pretending to herself that it had been a surprise. The squeak on the landing. The bedroom door opening; the slice of moonlight on the floor crossed by a dark shape.
By her third glass of Merlot it had started to feel inevitable. She told herself it was a little ‘fuck you’ to Mark that he would never need to know about.
She hadn’t been sleeping when he’d climbed into her bed.
They didn’t speak.
His body was so different to Mark’s and not just because he was younger. Mark was soft and familiar. Jamie was ripples of velvet skin over taut muscle. Everything silken smooth and hard at the same time. While Mark smelled of aftershave and soap, Jamie had a hint of clean sweat about him that made Melissa bite and scratch, hating him at the same time as wanting him to burrow into every part of her.
It was good to feel that desirable again.
When it was over they lay for a while in the dark, listening to the sounds of the sleeping house and their own gasped breaths, bodies bathed in soapy sweat. And then Jamie had rolled over, ready for her again. This was a novelty too. She and Mark hadn’t been like this since the earliest days. No one was, surely, when there were kids, late-night conversations about putting the bins out, or the box set they’d just watched?
She’d kicked him out at five a.m. and it was the only time they’d spoken since he came into the room. All the words had been used up earlier in the evening.
She didn’t want specifics of why he was here. She couldn’t have cared less. Her main priority was waiting until Tilly was out of the house today before she could get him to leave. The half-light in the bedroom last night had made everything seem sexy and illicit. Now it all just felt squalid and cheap and she wanted to wash all evidence of him away.
Melissa runs the filtered water tap and pours herself a long glass before taking a desultory sip.
She wonders how Hester is feeling. She hopes Hester won’t try to be friends again. The thought of her cringing all over the place and apologizing makes Melissa feel even more weary.
In the end, Tilly had been remarkably sensible about the whole thing. She hadn’t gone so far as to help mop it all up, but she had been the one who insisted Hester be covered by a duvet and she laid out water and painkillers for her. When Nathan had confessed to what he’d done, Tilly had let rip at him in a way that had surprised and impressed her mother. She said that Hester could have been on medication for all he knew, and that alcohol could have killed her. This thought hadn’t really occurred to Melissa, who had then fretted her neighbour was dying all over her spare room.
She’d forced herself to check on her at one point, just in case she choked on her own vomit, but the older woman appeared to be sleeping quite peacefully, gentle snores puffing from her lips.
It was funny, but sometimes Tilly could be very mature for her age. Other times, well …
Melissa pictures herself at fifteen. Mature, yes, but in all the ways she shouldn’t have been.
***
When she’d first met Jamie, back when she was Mel for short and Melanie for long, he’d been living with their foster parents, Greg and Kathie, for six months.
She remembered that first evening in Technicolour clarity. They were sitting round a table to have their tea, which had seemed way over the top. She’d sat back in her chair and rhythmically lifted dollops of the mashed potato (which tasted weird and not at all like Smash) before letting it slop back onto her plate.
Jamie had watched her with wide brown eyes, his mouth hanging open a bit to reveal a mess of masticated chop and liquid potato. Eventually, Kathie had lightly reprimanded him in her soft Glaswegian accent.
‘You just concentrate on your own dinner, Jamie,’ she’d said. And then, ‘Are you no’ enjoying that, hen?’
Melissa had shrugged, exaggeratedly. She wanted them to kick off at her. Angry lava was bubbling up inside her and she was aching for a way to let it out. ‘Come on,’ she’d thought, ‘just give me a reason.’
There was no point in getting comfortable, like that weird boy. Didn’t he understand anything? She wouldn’t be allowed to stay for long and neither would he, in the long run.
‘Maybe she isn’t used to good cooking,’ said Jamie smugly.
It was almost a relief.
Smiling broadly, she’d given him the finger, then lifted a forkful of potato. She’d then flipped it neatly across the table, splattering hot stickiness across his cheek. Jamie let out a howl of pain and outrage.
And so she sat back and waited for the explosion of anger. But it didn’t come. Jamie had started to cry and rock, very softly. Greg went to the boy, wrapping his burly arms around him tightly and muttering, ‘Shoosh, it’s okay, it’s all right.’ Soft, meaningless words that seemed to comfort Jamie quickly, and then Greg was wiping away the remains of the globby potato with a paper napkin.
Kathie told Mel sharply that she was to help tidy and wash up. And that later on she would apologize to Jamie.
Mel had obeyed the first command at least, surprised into meek submission by the lack of violence.
She’d then avoided talking to Jamie at all for the first week, but felt his eyes roaming over her constantly. It was obvious that he fancied her, but at thirteen had no idea what to do with the seismic feelings she invoked.
Melissa kneads a fist between her eyebrows now and makes a small sound of repressed frustration. Why is he here, bringing all these unwanted memories in his wake? He carries the past about him, like body odour, and she can’t stand it.
The sound of footsteps above fills her with resolve. He’s up. Time to get him to leave, however badly he takes it. This can’t go on for another night.
HESTER
I don’t know why Saskia would think these flowers were an appropriate gift.
I hadn’t looked at them properly outside. Now I am staring down at them on my kitchen table and I can see they aren’t at all the sort of thing I would buy.
Everything is ugly and alien-looking. There are ornamental cabbages, which I hate, plus white pom-pom things, and orchids with thick purple petals and long red tongues that seem to leer. The worst ones though are almost black; with their spiky tendrils, they look like those fascination hats women wear to the races.
Black flowers! What an idiotic idea.
The entire bouquet makes me think about death. I rush to my bin and thrust the whole thing in there, head first. What on earth would have been wrong with some nice gerbera or some tulips?
I remember now that Saskia had another bouquet, which must surely have been meant for Melissa.
I had also been intending to go round with flowers, albeit from Tesco, rather than Petal and Vine. So those ghastly people have effectively scuppered my own apology.
Damn them.
A tear slides down my cheek again and I angrily swipe it away.
None of it was my fault. But I can’t imagine what Melissa must think of me. Getting drunk like some kind of teenager and being sick like that. Another hot burst of shame washes over me now.
I’ve never been someone who drinks very much. Growing up, we only had sherry in the house for occasional guests, so when I met Terry it didn’t occur to me that he would expect to go to pubs all the time and have wine with dinner. I hated when his face would get all red. He’d start talking too loudly and drape a heavy arm around my shoulders when we were out, as though I belonged to him. I never much liked his friends either. They were all a bit loud for my taste. Plus they all liked pubs just a little too much. In the end, I told him to go out on his own.