We saw Gary every fortnight, but Tilda refused to get any better. She clung to her grief and desolation, and her self-harming and bulimia became worse. While her school friends were taking their qualifying exams, she became an inpatient at an addiction unit for teenagers at a Victorian hospital in south London, where the doctors medicalized her character, offering us no answers that made sense. There was talk of her codependency, of her addictive personality, of something called a borderline personality disorder; one doctor mentioned the word narcissism. It seemed like every specialist wanted to recruit Tilda for his own diseased community—and I was proud of her when she refused to cooperate. By the age of eighteen she’d been in hospital twice, and she’d acquired a permanent aura of fragility and frailty. But somehow she retained her old charm—that ability to switch in an instant from intensity to a beautiful, vague otherworldliness, and back again. Also, she managed to build herself up from skeletal to merely thin.
Her life started to improve when, after an intense period of studying at home, she scraped three GCSEs and two A-levels, the minimum requirement to study acting at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama in London. She performed well at her audition, and when she was offered a place we celebrated with pink sparkling wine, which we drank in the back garden at home in Gravesend. We all felt so happy (nobody mentioned my mediocre exam performance a year earlier), all the flowers that I had planted with Mum were in bloom, the roses and geraniums and sweet peas; and Tilda and I got drunk and danced together, barefoot on parched grass, sweet peas stuck in our hair, and singing her most successful composition—“Demented on a Sunday.” That September she left home, pulling a gigantic red suitcase onto the train. I said to Mum: “She could live in that if she doesn’t like the accommodation,” and we waved her off. I guess both Mum and I were nervous that she’d regress once she was out of our influence, but the opposite was true. At Central she became her old self again—the girl who’d been a dazzling Peter Pan and who commanded the spotlight. We heard stories of her new friends—Henry, “the star of our year,” and Lottie, “my girl crush.” She told us that her teachers were inspirational, and said that acting was her passion.
At the end of the first year, Mum and I saw her play Ophelia in Hamlet, and we realized that she’d matured; her performance was subtle and beguiling. By now, I was living in Willesden Green, and Mum had moved to Wales, so merely being together made the occasion special, and afterwards Tilda introduced handsome Henry, who played Hamlet, and pointed, across a crowded bar, to a serious girl with dark plaits pinned up across her head—Lottie. She looked up and waved to us. It seemed that Tilda had found her tribe and was somehow settled. But, because of her teenage breakdown, we couldn’t ever take that for granted; we’d always have to look out for the signs. As I say, she is the damaged one.
I can’t believe that her letter makes no acknowledgment of this, that it’s so self-righteous and insulting, and I reread it hoping that I’ve missed something, that I’m able to find some positive message buried in the words. But as I read I feel even worse: battered and miserable and disbelieving. I pour more wine, gulping it down like water, and open up the dossier on the laptop in order to write down all my new worries. Tilda is becoming delusional, I type, and has formed the ridiculous, perilous belief that she is in control of her relationship with Felix. I note that her trust in him is misplaced; and I record the incident with the purple vase. What sort of person would do that? It’s such an angry, hate-filled act. And then to make sure that sex is excruciatingly painful for her, leaving her with bruises. The emotional and physical brutality is horrendous. I write also about the increased isolation Felix is forcing on Tilda, separating her from me and Mum, and from her work, her acting. I feel like telling him, You can’t do that! Acting is in her soul; you can’t take it away. Then I note that Tilda’s letter is so obviously and willfully incomplete. She hasn’t mentioned anything that truly explains her psychological state—the way she’s so nervy and jumpy, always seeming on the edge. Possibly on the point of another breakdown—brought on by Felix, and exploited by him too. I decide to go online, to discuss the situation with Belle and Scarlet. This time, it’s Scarlet who’s already there:
Hello Calliegirl. Have you seen the latest news on Chloey Percival?
No. What?
Her condition has deteriorated. They say it’s critical. Every day, another death, maybe Chloey, or Pink, or me. I’m burned-out, and tired of feeling frightened. And, Callie, I’m fed up with this stupid X stuff. I’m going to refer to my bf by his first name from now on—with you and Belle anyway—so let me introduce him: meet Luke. I’ve told you about the role-play sex games we like, but it’s become too violent. He stuffed a tie down my throat last time, and tied my neck, pretending to hang me. And sometimes he locks me in the house, tied up, knowing I won’t be able to get to the bathroom when I need to. He likes the mess when he gets home.
I’ve never known Scarlet to be so revealing, and I’m revolted. I stop her right there, and switch the conversation to Tilda:
Scarlet, I need your advice. There are some parallels between your relationship and Pink’s. Not the role-play sex games exactly. I just mean that her situation with Felix (following your lead) is becoming deeper and dangerous. I stole a memory stick from P’s flat, and on it I found a letter to me, saying that I’m right about Felix. He is isolating her, preventing her from working and sometimes being violent. He threw a vase at her head, and her arms are bruised. But she won’t listen to me. It’s hard to stand by and do nothing.
I wait, but it takes Scarlet a long time to reply. Then this:
Calliegirl, you know I’ve been working on a proposal, something that might help me escape from Luke and also save your sister from Felix. We’re both in life-threatening danger, and we need to act before it’s too late. I’ve already briefed Belle, and she’s helping me. I think now’s the time for you to be involved also, but I can’t give you all the details yet, and I don’t want to do it online. I’ve reconsidered, and think we’ll have to meet. Btw I know that you met Belle in York. She told me.
I knew Belle was incapable of keeping a secret. I write:
I loved seeing Belle, and would like to meet you too. But when? Do I have to come to Manchester?
No, I’ll come down to London, maybe next month. We’ll go somewhere anonymous—maybe a park, or a Starbucks. Luke about to come home—I have to go.
As soon as I log off, I go to Curzon Street to return the memory stick. I hope to steal it again in a week or two, to see if Tilda has added anything to her letter. Then I clean the place, wiping dirty marks off the coffee table, putting clothes back in the cupboards, re–cling filming the crockery. Once I’m happy with my efforts, I leave, deciding not to take the bus to Eva’s house to return the key.
17
I’m at home, tidying, and my phone rings. It’s Felix, the soft tone of his voice meaning that I have to turn the radio off and concentrate on listening.
“We’re home from Martinique,” he says. “We should meet up for a drink. Champagne if you like, or cider. Or would you like dinner?”
“You, me and Tilda?”
“You and me.”
“What for?”
A quiet laugh. “To reestablish good relations. Remember how we used to get along so well? Let’s get that vibe back. I’d like to; and it would please Tilda. I’ll take you somewhere special. How about dinner at the Wolseley?”
“You’re joking. . . .”