“You know she’s only fifteen?” I say. Hannah’s one of the youngest in our year.
“So? I lost my virginity when I was thirteen.”
“Thanks for that,” I say and concentrate on trying to thumb the cards together.
“Sandy Dixon — two years older than me. I thought I’d hit the jackpot, I’ll tell you. She were a corker, had a tiny waist but hips you could hang a coat off.” He’s gazing off into the middle distance, remembering. “Fantastic arse.”
I smile. Swapping sex stories is definitely not why Mum got me this placement.
“Mine was a girl I met on holiday this summer,” I say.
“A girl?”
“Yes, Neville, a girl.”
“Short hair, tiny tits and a moustache?”
“No. Long hair. Medium breasts. No moustache that I could see.” I look at him levelly and he grins.
“Does she have a name?”
“Kerry,” I say, remembering sneaking away to the beach and finding a discarded sun lounger, hands getting into places easily because she was only wearing a sundress and a bikini and I wasn’t wearing anything under my shorts. We were both utterly rubbish, but it hadn’t been unpleasant. The next night had been better.
“Did you see her again?”
I shake my head. I left her behind in Australia along with the pain I’d taken with me.
I watch as Neville lifts up the corners of the cards I’ve dealt. It feels good to share my history with someone. I can’t do this at school — there’d be too many questions. The past isn’t something to be cut and pasted into the present; I’d have to unfold the whole thing like a newspaper, showing every column just to point to one caption. I don’t want anyone to see the headlines in my past. All Neville and I know about each other are our names. No context, no politics, no preconceptions. Knowing absolutely nothing about each other makes it easier to share the most private of memories.
Neville might not be the type of friend my dad had in mind, but he’s good enough for me.
HANNAH
I’m knackered. Bone-tired. I think it’s to do with the pregnancy. And I’ve been drinking loads of water, so I need the loo every five seconds. I squeeze in another pee before I leave and it’s when I come out that I see Aaron leave the dining room with Neville. At least, I assume that’s him.
When the old coot sees me he winks at me.
Must be Neville. Gran told me that the guy Aaron comes to visit is a perv. Well, she used better language than that, but that’s what she meant. Apparently the nurses call him Randy Robson — which I guess is his surname. Grandad on Aaron’s mum’s side? Although I find it hard to believe he’d be related to anyone so dodgy.
Aaron sees me and waves.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” the old man says.
“Hadn’t planned on it,” Aaron says, but he’s grinning. He’s got a good smile, that boy. Not that you see it enough. “Hannah, this is Neville. Neville — Hannah.”
“Charmed,” Neville says, taking my hand and kissing it with dry lips.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” I say and wink at him the way he did just now.
Neville just looks at me and nods, then looks at Aaron. “Told you,” he says. “I’ll leave you babies to see yerselves out.”
Neville shuffles off down the hall.
“He told you what?” I ask, but Aaron just shakes his head.
“How come you’re here tonight?” he asks, as we walk to the glass doors.
“Jay’s visiting this weekend,” I say. “I don’t want to miss Sunday dinner if he’s going to stick around for it.”
“Jay?”
“Stepbrother. He’s doing Psychology at Warwick uni.” Even I can hear the slight swell of pride in my voice. I sound like Robert.
“His dad your little sister’s dad?”
I nod.
“She looking forward to seeing him?”
“Yup. He’s stronger than me so he can chuck her about a bit more, which she loves. Until she bumps something and then she cries and comes running to me for a cuddle. Lola’s not quite as tough as she thinks she is.”
He’s holding the door for me and when I glance up I see him looking at me closely.
SATURDAY 14TH NOVEMBER
HANNAH
I’m standing by my bedroom window. I’m clean, dressed and waiting for Jay to arrive. The window’s wide open and I’ve stuck my head out like a dog in a car. It rained last night, so everything has that damp, fresh sheen to it, like the world’s been given a once-over with a polishing cloth. It’s weird. There’s a whole world outside carrying on no matter what and I’m just here, standing in my bedroom, growing another little human inside me.
I put my hand on my tummy and wonder how big it is right now. Baked bean? Broad bean? Butternut squash?
Seriously. What’s with my baby/vegetable obsession?
I look at my watch. He’s late, which is hardly a surprise. I’ve decided I’m going to tell Jay about the baby — family hasn’t exactly been his number one priority recently, but something like this trumps all-night drinking sessions and falling asleep in lectures. This is Jay: someone I can trust to stand by me while I tell everyone else.
Decision made, I feel almost calm, although God knows I shouldn’t be. So much of this baby’s life has already been decided, like whether it’s a boy or a girl. If it’ll have curly hair or straight. Right- or left-handed. Good at Maths or sucky at Science. Sporty or lazy. A life mapped out before it’s even started living.
It’s only my role that’s left up to chance.
I feel a familiar rising panic and tap my tummy to distract myself.
“You OK in there?” I say. This is the first time I’ve spoken to it and it sounds like I’m a loony. Surprisingly enough the foetus has nothing to say back. I’ll have to look up when they start kicking and stuff — not for a long while yet, I know, but I figure if I’m not sure what to look out for I might miss it.
A car pulls into our road. A red hatchback with a missing hub cap on the front wheel. Jay’s car.
AARON
I close my book. I’m bored.
This is an epiphany. I haven’t been bored in my own company for months.
I don’t really know what to do with this information though. Who do I think I’d rather be hanging out with? There’s only so much of Neville’s company I can take and it’s not as if I have many other options. I think about Hannah, but she gave me her number under very different pretences. Besides, it’s not like she’d welcome a call whilst the anointed Jay is there.
I go and get a different book instead.
HANNAH
I don’t like her. At. All.
She’s too skinny. Too posh. Too blonde. Too loud. Too snooty. WAY too patronizing.
I don’t like the way she says Lola’s name. “LO-la” — really stressing the “o”, as if it’s a sweet she can’t quite fit in her too-perfect mouth. And she’s one of those people who’s all “don’t mind me” when you can’t help but mind her because she is UNBELIEVABLY ANNOYING.
I tear a strip off my naan with a vengeance.
Lola begged for Chinese, but this one says she can’t eat Chinese, something about MSG. Then she said how much she loves Indian food. Lola’s five years old — what’s she going to find to eat at a curry house? But no, we’ve got to do what Jay wants and he’d rather make this angel-faced bitch happy than the little sister he hasn’t seen for two months.
I helped Lola find something she could eat, but poppadums are no replacement for prawn crackers and she’s sulking. She’s knackered too — you can tell because she keeps rubbing her eyes every other forkful. Only no one seems to be paying attention to her because they’re all too busy listening to Bitchbag tell us how amazing the curry in India is. She spent her gap year there, teaching blind/deaf/disabled children how to open up to love or some such shit. That’s where she got her nose pierced and where she bought the thousand and one bangles that she’s wearing round her wrist. It’s like sitting at the table with Santa’s reindeer trotting round you.