Dirt on my hands, a towel in the sink. Mike should have left me where he found me late last night after our session. The dark of the cellar.
Phoebe’s on the landing when I come out of my room, balanced on the edge of the banister, head in her phone, one foot on the carpet. Perfectly painted toenails, in pink. She looks up as I pass, says, what was all the noise about last night, you woke me up. I reply with the first thing that comes into my head.
‘I had a stomach ache, Mike brought me some tablets.’
‘Yeah, well, next time, keep it down.’
I continue past her, down one flight of stairs, turn and ask.
‘How are your lines for the play coming along?’
She gives me the finger, mouths fuck you. She knows Mike and Saskia are around, could easily hear.
‘Let me know if I can help,’ I reply, smiling.
She pushes off the banister, storms into her room, kicking the door shut behind her.
Saskia’s at the kitchen table nursing a large mug, fingers thin, clasped round it, pronounced veins running up her knuckles to her wrists. She greets me with good morning, a faraway look in her eyes, more of a pleasantry than a genuine attempt at conversation.
‘Eggs?’ Mike offers, a wooden spoon in one hand.
He wears an apron with James Bond on the front, ‘licence to grill’ written underneath. He sees me looking, laughs a little, tries to mask his concern. The inadequacy he must be feeling. Even after our session, I’m still fucked up.
‘Saskia bought it for my birthday last summer, didn’t you, Sas?’
‘What’s that?’
‘The apron.’
‘Yes, darling, I think so.’
I look at Mike as he turns back to the stove top. Tall. His body, strong and fit, his hair sandy, streaked with grey. The weight of us all on his broad shoulders, though I’ve never heard him complain once.
‘Here you go,’ he says. ‘Scrambled eggs.’
I thank him and sit down next to Saskia.
‘Aren’t you having any?’ I ask.
‘No, no, I like to eat later.’
Or not at all. Mike goes into the hallway, stands on the first step, shouts to Phoebe. He has to shout twice for her to come out of her room and reply.
‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
He joins us at the table, dig in, he says, go on. He asks me if I have any idea what I’d like to do for half-term.
‘I don’t mind, I’m happy to stay here. I know you’re both busy.’
‘I think June was right the other day, we should take some time out. There’s a nice spot in the country we’ve been to before, the trees will be beautiful this time of year.’
‘Well, this is cosy, isn’t it?’ Phoebe says as she walks in.
‘Morning, grab some eggs, join us.’
‘What was going on last night? You woke me up.’
‘I already told Phoebe about the stomach ache I had, how you brought me some pills.’
Mike hesitates, it’s not in his nature to lie but he’ll rationalize it in his head. Protective. A necessity.
‘I didn’t hear a thing,’ Saskia says.
Nobody looks surprised.
‘Yeah, well, it took me ages to get back to sleep.’
‘Sorry, Phoebs,’ soothes Mike. ‘Anyway, we were just discussing half-term, it’s a shame you can’t come with us.’
‘Tramping about in a wood in the middle of nowhere, no thanks. I’d much rather go to Cornwall with my friends, thank you very much.’
Devon’s near Cornwall. It used to be home.
‘Lots of woods there too, you know,’ Saskia says.
It’s not a bad attempt, verging on funny, but Phoebe doesn’t think so, turns her back, fills a glass with water from the tap. I see Mike’s hand move off the table, rest on Saskia’s thigh. A captain of a shaky ship, he is. Mutiny possible. Likely.
‘You need to eat something, Phoebs.’
‘Nah, not hungry, I’m on a diet.’
‘Not first thing in the morning you aren’t, you need breakfast.’
‘Why? I don’t see Mummy dearest having any.’
‘She’s not spending the whole day at school or captaining a hockey team, is she?’
Phoebe mumbles into the lip of the glass, no, she’s not doing anything as per usual.
‘At least grab a cereal bar from the cupboard then, eat it at break.’
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Whatever.’
Phoebe and me leave together, no choice, Mike and Saskia wave us off. We split company the next house down. I watch her long lean body as she crosses the road, walks with confidence, a world away from what’s on the inside. A couple of weeks ago I went down to the laundry to get a clean towel, heard voices. Sevita doing the ironing, Phoebe cross-legged on the floor doing homework. Sevita looked up as I walked in, smiled, hello, Miss Milly. Phoebe’s face said it all, angry. Jealous. Didn’t want me to be there, didn’t want to share. What she can’t get from Saskia, she finds elsewhere, needs it.
Passing the tower blocks reminds me that I forgot to tell Mike and Saskia I’ll be late home from school. I send them both a text letting them know I’m helping with props for the play, should be back by six or seven. A lie, a little one, the colour white. I’m looking forward to seeing Morgan again. I looked after her at the weekend, I sent her home. I haven’t been able to shake the idea of telling her about you, not all of it, but enough so I’d be able to talk about it if I wanted to. June wouldn’t approve. I was given a new identity so I would feel protected. Invisible. Nobody would know who I am. London’s a huge city, she said, you’ll be just another face in the crowd. What’s most important, she said, is you never tell anybody who you are, or anything about your mum. Do you understand how important that is? Yes was my answer, still is, but I never realized how lonely it would be.
The day drags. German, then music. Maths and art. MK’s not my teacher. I think about her spending time with other girls, talking. Laughing with them. I sent her another email yesterday asking if I could come and see her but she hasn’t replied.
Biology, the last lesson of the day. Dissection. The heart of a pig. Human the same, almost. Ventricles. The atrium, the mighty vena cava. I know a lot about a person’s insides.
Glorious in their redness, fifteen hearts laid out on the bench as we arrive, one for each girl. Prof West, a little bit blind, a little bit old, tells us to follow the instructions on the white board at the front of the class.
Knives at the ready.
Slice we do, a cut here, a snip there. A struggle for some, easier for me. I’m the first one finished. I stare at the heart, now in pieces, spread out in a silver tray. Two bloody scalpels and a pair of tweezers to blame. I listen to the comments around me. Gross. Eww, I hate biology, can’t wait to give it up next year. Help me with mine. No way, I can hardly do my own. Bleugh.
I put my hand up. It takes a minute or two for Prof West’s bald head to look up, survey the class.
‘I’m finished, sir.’