I feel excited about the trip, but nervous too. I keep thinking about my meeting with Wilf and how awkward I was. It’s typical of me to be bad at socializing—and I’m worried that Belle will find me too difficult to be with.
On Friday, the anxiety returns, and on the train to York I keep going to the toilet to brush my hair and put on makeup. I’ve bought Fanomenal Lashes mascara and Miracle Touch blusher from Boots and I apply them, then worry that I’ve put on too much blusher, and smear it off again. I’ve tried to dress nicely, and I’m wearing clean jeans and a new T-shirt, white with a smiley face. I told Belle about the T-shirt, so that she can recognize me at the station, and she said she’d wear a green dress and carry a jute bag with a picture of a bee. I look for her through the window as the train draws into York station.
At first I see nothing but crowds of tourists, and when I do spot a woman in a green dress, standing apart, I have to stare hard because she’s nothing like I expected. I thought of Belle as a big, flamboyant person because of her larger-than-life messages online, all the exclamation marks and capital letters, and I imagined a made-up round face and blond frizzy hair, like a huge doll. In reality, she’s tiny—her skin is brown and her hair sleek and black, and she looks like she’s from somewhere like the Philippines or Indonesia. I walk towards her, cautiously, but then she spots me and holds up her bee bag, and I point at the smiley face on my T-shirt. When we meet, it’s embarrassing because we both don’t know what gesture to make—she leans forward to kiss my cheek, but she changes her mind and we shake hands instead.
As we walk out of the railway station I notice that Belle has a nervous habit of scratching her hands and arms. Also, she has a little chirrupy voice, as she tells me excitedly that the candlelit vigil had been at the hospital but has now moved to a small park by York Minster. “We can go there later,” she says. “It’s so lucky you came today, because Chloey’s brother’s going to speak. At least, that’s what people are saying. Have you heard of the Flicks? They’re a York band, and they’re going to perform their new song . . . Oh, it’s lovely to have you here! Perfect.”
She gives my arm a squeeze, then adds, “And you can stay at my flat tonight, in Dringhouses. I have a spare bedroom, and I don’t live far away. It’s just a bus ride. Really short.”
I don’t commit myself. Instead I ask Belle about Lavender, and soon we’re talking about her and Chloey Percival and Tilda (or Pink, as I continue to call her).
It turns out that being with Belle isn’t difficult at all, and we chat as we walk the streets. Then we stop for lunch at Pizza Express, which is by the River Ouse, and while we eat our dough balls she tells me that Lavender has changed her plans. Instead of escaping to her mother’s house with the two children, they’re going to Belle’s flat. She’s bought inflatable mattresses and bedding from Argos, and treats for the children—a Nerf gun for Alfie and a jewelry-making kit for Saskia. I think about telling Belle that she’s gender stereotyping, and also that she has revealed the children’s real names, but I don’t. I just nod and ask if she’ll be able to cope with having them crowding out her flat. She says, “It will be fantastic having them around, and there’ll be masses to do—finding Lavender a new home, consulting lawyers to get a non-molestation order to keep X away, and a consent order to get him to pay her maintenance money.”
“What if X shows up at your flat?”
She puts her head to the side so that her long hair falls from behind her ear. “Luckily he never sees me and doesn’t even know my address, or my phone number, or anything. I’m not sure he even knows my surname. And Lavender will bring her laptop and her phone, so he can’t go snooping there.”
“But still. He’s violent.”
She leans in, and her little voice goes up a note. “I know. And he’s been making threats, literally about killing Lavender, and he puts his hands round her throat while he screams at her, and makes her choke.”
“Oh God . . . He’ll go crazy.”
Our pizzas arrive, and Belle starts cutting her margherita up rather intensely. I can tell she’s mulling something over. Then she lowers her voice to a hush:
“Actually Scarlet has been talking to me about that in the Zone. She has some radical ideas for a way to fight back. She’s trying to figure out the details. . . . Scarlet has asked me to help her, and I am. I want to play my part.”
This is a surprise. I didn’t know that Scarlet and Belle plotted together without including me. I raise my eyebrows, encouraging her to go on. But she retreats.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Callie, I shouldn’t really have said that. Scarlet told me to keep everything a secret.”
“Fuck Scarlet!”
Belle looks shocked.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just that there are so many examples of Scarlet being bossy.”
“It’s because she’s prey; she’s closer to the danger than us. Of course she has strong feelings.”
“I suppose.”
For a while we eat our pizzas in silence, looking out the window. Six girls with ponytails row down the river, their oars slicing the water so that they are gliding along at speed and for a moment it seems like, on the other side of the glass, there’s nothing wrong in the world. We carry on eating, not able to think of anything to say, until Belle asks me about Pink’s holiday in Martinique, and my opportunity to get into her flat.
My mouth’s full of pizza, but I speak anyway. “I’m not sure what I’ll find. But I’m hoping that something there will unlock things. Make it clear what’s going on.”
“You might find notes. Lavender’s husband is always leaving her notes giving her instructions. ‘Clean this.’ ‘Buy that.’ ‘Wash the bedsheets. . . .’?”
“I’m not sure that’s Felix’s style.”
“Felix! Callie, you shouldn’t . . .” She blinks unnaturally, and scratches her left hand and her arm.
“Oh crap. . . . It slipped out.”
“Oh well.”
After lunch she shows me around York; we visit several old churches and then the shops, stopping at Marks & Spencer to buy food for a picnic and a bottle of Frascati wine that’s on special offer. As the sun goes down, we make our way to the vigil by York Minster. It’s busy already, with people sitting in groups on the grass, some of them holding posters with Chloey’s face and the words End Male Violence and Enough Is Enough. Most of the crowd is young and dressed for an indie music festival or an environmental protest. Beside us, an older scrawny guy with a one-eyed dog and a guitar sits on a crate and sings “Hey Jude,” while a fair-haired girl with dreadlocks and piercings and a bare stomach drifts about handing out cupcakes. A breeze sends scraps of debris, mainly food wrappings, swirling around the ground, causing an herby fragrance to come and go. I turn to Belle:
“What do they think this is—a party?”