Hey babe, want to come over to Gem’s tonight for a bit of Christmas love? Just us. What’s on your list this year? We have asked for loads of clothes. Fingers crossed!!!
Come tonight?
Carla and Gem x
I don’t know why they bother with the ‘fingers crossed’ bit. There hasn’t been a Christmas in history that they haven’t got everything they asked for. I’m like a homeless kid in a movie at Christmas, walking the streets and watching families through windows being all happy and celebrating with tables and tables of gorgeous food. Our Christmas Day is quite different. We get one present and it’s really just a Sunday lunch with party hats and turkey instead of chicken, which is literally the most boring meat ever and always so dry that I need a swig of water with every mouthful to get it down my neck. I’d much rather have a tin of Chicken in White Wine Sauce instead. No one wants to do anything other than watch the TV in our house, so that is pretty much all we do all day long. Unlike Carla and Gem’s families, who play games and take hours over opening all their amazing presents. I have to block their voices out when they tell me about it because it makes me really sad.
I get to Gem’s house at about 8 p.m. The driveway is glowing with fairy lights and Christmas decorations. It’s a winter wonderland. I try to imagine what it might be like to come home to a house like this every day after school in the run-up to Christmas, and then to walk in the door and for the house to smell like pine cones and the fridge to be full of food, everyone smiling and Christmas music playing. Carla’s house is just the same. They both think this is normal.
‘Helloooooo,’ I shout as I walk in the door.
‘Renée! So good to see you. Happy Christmas and welcome.’ Gem’s dad leads me into the kitchen, where everyone else is.
‘Renée, YAAAAAY!’ say Carla and Gem at the same time.
There’s Carla and Gem, their boyfriends Adam and Mark, and Gem’s mum. I hadn’t expected their boyfriends to be here so I instantly feel like a gooseberry and my mood crashes. Almost as soon as I walk in I want to get out.
‘Renée has been AWOL. We think she’s got a new boyfriend,’ says Gem suggestively.
A chorus of ‘Oooooooo’ fills the room.
‘No, honestly, I’ve just been concentrating on schoolwork,’ I tell them, hoping to end that conversation.
‘PAHAHHA, good one,’ says Carla. ‘You never concentrate on schoolwork. It’s a boooooyyyy.’
‘No. Honestly, I haven’t get a new boyfriend.’ I turn to Gem’s mum. ‘The house looks lovely, Mrs Gardner.’
‘Well, you have to make an effort at Christmas, don’t you? I am sure your grandparents have the place looking super too,’ says Gem’s mum. There’s an awkward silence. ‘Right then. We’d better be off,’ she continues. ‘Have fun, all of you. ONE glass of wine each, OK? Oh, and Renée, I keep meaning to call your grandmother to ask her, but can you bring Gem’s white jeans with you next time? You’ve had them for a while.’ She says it nicely, but she gives me a weird look.
‘OK, Mum,’ says Gem. ‘GO. God, why are parents SO embarrassing? Go. GO!’ Gem ushers them out of the door.
Mr and Mrs Gardner think this is hilarious. They leave.
‘So is it just us then?’ I ask.
‘Yup, just us and loads of wine,’ says Gem as she pours herself a huge glass and then gives Adam the kind of Frenchie I thought only happened in films. Carla is sitting with her legs wrapped around Mark, and I feel like the world’s biggest lemon sitting on my own on a kitchen chair. I used to feel like this all the time and it didn’t bother me, but it’s different now.
‘So seriously, where have you been? We haven’t seen you in months. You disappear after school every day and we never see you at the weekends. Who is your secret?’ Gem takes a huge swig of wine then hands it to Adam for some totally unnecessary glass sharing.
‘No one. Things have just been really tough at home. Things are hard, that’s all.’
I know this is a slight fabrication but I have promised Flo I’d keep quiet about us, and besides, I want to test them. I have been the third wheel in this friendship for around ten years. They have no idea who I really am. It’s the exact opposite to my friendship with Flo. All these years I’ve passed off their lack of interest in me as an innocent vacancy, but it’s now feeling more like selfishness. I don’t belong here.
‘Yeah,’ I continue. ‘Nell is really sick. She’s anorexic. Pop is getting angrier and angrier. Nana is showing signs of madness, I’m sure of it. I share a room with a person who hates my guts, I’m not allowed to watch the TV shows I want to watch and the food I get given is generally burnt or out of date. All in all being at home is really shit and I hate my life.’
Silence.
More silence. Except for an occasional awkward laugh from one of the boys.
‘Right . . .’ says Carla. ‘Um, well, at least it’s Christmas, right? You can all have a really nice time and then 1995 will be a whole new year and you guys can make everything better.’
‘Yes, I am sure your grandpa is just upset because it’s so cold,’ Gem says dimly.
‘No, Gem, he isn’t upset because it is cold. He is upset because my mum died of cancer and lumbered him with me and Nell, who is starving herself because she hates herself so much. I wake up every day in the room that my mum died in after spending the night dreaming about her in various states of her illness. Considering all that, I really don’t think anything is going to improve when the sun comes out, do you?’ I say with an intense stare.
They look at each other for support. Neither of them even thinking to support me. There is more silence.
‘Well, this has all got a bit depressing, hasn’t it?’ says Adam finally, in his big, dumb, posh voice. ‘Shall we all get pissed and move on?’
A round of wine is poured and some crisps are emptied into a bowl. I am acting out of character and I’m not quite sure where it’s come from. I didn’t plan this.
‘So what are you asking for for Christmas then?’ asks Gem nervously, clearly unsure of how I will respond and equally as unsure of how she will cope if I carry on with more depressing stories about life outside of My Little Pony Land.
‘I don’t do a Christmas list. It feels a bit mean when Nana and Pop have so little money. Not everyone can have what they want,’ I say, being deliberately snide.
They all flinch at my snarky remark and just for a moment I feel bad. They have asked me over for a fun Christmas party and I am throwing this stuff at them out of nowhere. Spending time with people who only want a version of me is exhausting though, and it’s making me angry.
‘Renée, babe, not being funny, but it’s Christmas and this is all a bit of a downer,’ offers Carla. ‘We should all just have some fun. I’m sure everything with your family will work out in the end.’
My friendship with them makes no sense. I get up.
‘I’m going to go. You guys don’t have the brain space for anyone else and I am a bit tired of trying to get you to notice me.’
‘Bloody hell, someone’s ego thinks it should be the centre of attention,’ guffaws Adam.
‘Yeah, Renée. Carla and I are best friends. We don’t mean to leave you out, but we are best friends,’ says Gem.
‘I know,’ I say, ‘and you’re lucky to have each other, but I don’t want to be your tag along any more. It makes me feel like shit. I don’t want to ruin your Christmas, I just felt I had to be honest with you.’
As I get to the door I hear Carla say, ‘She’s just in a bad mood. She’ll get over it.’ Then they carry on talking about something else.
I walk to Flo’s house. All the lights are on so I brave her crazy mum and knock on the door, hoping she’s home.
The door opens.
It’s him.
Every time I see him words become a challenge and my heart pounds with fear, or panic, or something.
‘Ahh, Little Miss Chocolate Fingers. Hello.’
I want to push my finger into his mouth. Have him suck it while I gaze into his eyes. Be cool, Renée. Be cool.
‘Hello.’
Trying to act cool isn’t easy when you feel like your heart is going to burst through your chest. ‘Is, um, Florence home?’ I have no idea why I just called her Florence.
He pauses. There is no need for it. He obviously knows the answer.
‘No. She went to the cinema with that Sally girl. Want to come in and wait for her? I’m up in my bedroom.’
Did I hear him right? Is he joking?
‘I . . . in, your . . .’
‘I’m kidding, but she won’t be much longer. Come and wait with me. I’ll give you some Nutella. You like that, don’t you?’
I follow him through into the kitchen like a dog on a lead, past the Christmas tree in the hall, which is surprisingly impressive, and into the kitchen. At the table I take a seat. He puts a pot of Nutella in front of me with a teaspoon in it.
‘More licking, less sucking this time, don’t you think?’
I can barely coordinate my hand to pick up the spoon. He sits next to me watching me, smiling, his eyes squinting. I feel like a mouse again, so small and squeaky, and he is big, like a bear. He could pick me up and ravish me with his mouth if he wanted to. I want him to. Why am I being so pathetic? He looks at my face like he wants to eat it.
‘You not hungry?’
I realise I’m sitting still with a spoon full of Nutella in my hand, trying to take my eyes off his face.
‘I can’t swallow.’
He takes the spoon out of my hand and puts it to my lips. My mouth pops open and the spoon goes in.
‘Lick it,’ he says.
My tongue rigidly works the chocolate spread off the spoon and I gulp to get it down.
‘That’s it,’ he says. He moves forward until his face is so close to mine that I could touch it with my tongue. His breath smells like chocolate and beer and the heat from his face makes my top lip wet. I worry he might hear my heart, it’s beating so fast.
‘You’re very pretty,’ he says, his lips now so close to mine that I can feel them move.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, breathy and shy.
‘Can I kiss you?’ he asks, but starts before I have the chance to answer. It’s the softest, wettest kiss I’ve ever had. He pushes his tongue in past my lips and moves it perfectly around my mouth. I try to reciprocate but my tongue won’t do what I want it to do so I stop trying and just let him kiss me. I barely notice his hand moving up my leg and into my knickers. Even if I wanted him to get off me I wouldn’t be able to make him. I feel like my muscles have stopped working and there is no way I can speak. He is kissing my mouth and all around my mouth, but I’m unable to kiss him back. I just take it, my jaw dropped open, my tongue hanging uselessly. Then I feel my body clench, my feet leave the ground and I fall forward like I’m wrapping myself around a ball. I know my cheeks are blushing, and my whole body is tingling. No one but me has ever made that happen before. I don’t know what I am supposed to say or do. I don’t want him to look at my face so I keep looking down.
He takes his hand away and pulls my skirt back over my legs.
‘My turn,’ he says, as he stands up and unzips himself.
My mouth is so dry it’s hard to move my lips. Here? Now?
His hands are on the back of my head as he gently moves backwards and forwards. I don’t have the confidence I’ve had when I’ve been drunk with other boys at parties. I’m sure that I’m doing it all wrong.
His groans get louder and quicker. His hands hold my head firmer with every thrust and then he comes. I haven’t let anyone do that before and I don’t like it. A small dollop trickles down my throat and makes me cough, another dollop smears across my cheek, the rest goes splat on the floor because I start gagging. I feel so embarrassed. I don’t want him to look at my face.
‘And there was me thinking you would know what to do,’ he says, laughing. I feel like a mouse again.
‘It took me a bit by surprise, that’s all,’ I say, wanting to wipe my mouth but not knowing if I should or not.
He puts himself away and zips up his jeans. I rub in what hit the floor with my shoe and sit there. I feel unsexy and inexperienced.
The front door opens. Flo is home. There isn’t time to do anything but sit up straight.
‘Renée, what are you doing here?’ Flo asks as she comes into the kitchen.
I can barely speak from the shame.
‘I, I thought you might be home.’
‘No, Sally made me go and watch some crap film then talked the whole way through it about some guy who apparently keeps coming over to their house and telling her how sexy she is. I wish I hadn’t bothered,’ Flo says, obviously annoyed.
Julian is at the fridge drinking out of a Sunny Delight bottle. He winks at me behind Flo’s back. I still haven’t processed what just happened.
‘What’s that on your cheek?’ asks Flo, so close to me that she steps on the wet patch on the floor.
I put my hand up to my face. Some tiny flakes come away in my hand.
‘Yoghurt,’ I spurt. ‘It must have been there since Carla and Gem’s. When I was there I had a yoghurt. Strawberry. A strawberry yoghurt.’
‘Here you go, wipe it off with this.’ She wets a piece of kitchen roll under the tap and passes it to me. ‘Shall we go to my room?’
‘Sure,’ I say, feeling like I just swallowed a chair.
As I follow her out of the kitchen Julian grabs my arm. ‘Next time wear those white jeans.’
Next time?
Christmas, I can tell you, is not something I have been looking forward to for so many reasons. Least of all because the 25th of December is also my birthday.
I used to think the reason Mum hated me so much was because I ruined Christmas for her in 1978. She’s never held back on the details of my ‘horrendous’ birth. Apparently getting me out was a military operation that took two midwives, a huge incision and a pair of forceps. There are very few pictures of me as a baby because my head was so wonky that Mum didn’t want pictures taken until I resembled a human baby rather than an alien from outer space. Luckily, Abi was a perfect bundle who just popped out so has been adored from the start. Makes you wonder how ugly I was, seeing that Mum loves me about as much as she loves cow pats.
The Christmas holidays are even worse this year because I’m grounded. Abi enthusiastically told Mum about our little adventure down at Havelet, and although Mum doesn’t seem to care why we were there in the first place, she is fuming with me for letting Abi get up on the wall. I’ve spent the days playing with Abi and the evenings studying. Our mock exams are coming up in January and I need to do well in them. I really, really miss Renée though.
On the morning of the 25th there is a dull ache inside me from the moment I wake up at seven thirty. Dad always used to wake me up before anyone else got up, so that he could come into my room with a present before Christmas made everyone forget about my birthday completely. But there is obviously no chance of that this year. I lie in bed imagining him at the door.
Flo, Flo, Happy Birthday to Flo, Happy birthday to Flo, Happy Birthday to Flo, oh . . . Happy Birthday to Flo . . .
He’d have a present in his hand. Sometimes it was huge, sometimes tiny. Last year it was a satchel I wanted for school with a really cool T-shirt in it. The present was always wrapped in birthday paper rather than Christmas paper, and the card was always just from him saying something like, Stupid Christmas. I love your birthday the best.
Today, when I go downstairs there is a single envelope on the kitchen table with my name on it. Inside it is a card saying Dear Flo, Many Happy Returns, Mum, Fred, Julian and Abi. Next to it is a present. It’s wrapped in Christmas paper but has a Happy Birthday rosette on it. It’s small and soft, obviously something to wear. For a few seconds I get excited about a cool new top, or some jeans, or maybe a new denim jacket. But it isn’t, it’s a pair of pink Marks and Spencer’s pyjamas.
I make myself a cup of tea and then go back to my room, put on my new pyjamas and get into bed. At eight thirty Abi comes in and jumps on me, and I take her downstairs to start opening her presents. The fact that it is my birthday isn’t mentioned again for the rest of the day. Fred cooks lunch.
‘I love a nice moist bird,’ he says as he pulls the turkey out of the oven. Mum does a slutty laugh.
He takes his seat at the head of the table, where Dad used to sit. Julian is at the other end, Mum and Abi on one side, me on the other. The middle of the table is covered in small bowls of different dishes. Brussels sprouts with bacon, cranberry sauce, roast potatoes, parsnips with parmesan cheese – to be fair to Fred, he is a really good cook, but I still hate him.
‘So Flo, how is the revision going?’
Being asked a direct question by Fred is uncomfortable for me, especially as I have an audience. The world’s most critical audience.
‘All right,’ I reply.
‘And what subjects are you doing for GCSE?’
The fact that this man is living in my house and doesn’t know what I’m studying for my GCSEs is everything I have a problem with. Who is he? Were he and Mum seeing each other while Dad was still alive? Is he the real reason Dad was so depressed? I hate that I’m expected to just accept him. Maybe the old Flo would have done, but not any more. I’ve had enough of being the one who feels like crap all the time because of everyone else.
‘You know, just cos you are screwing my mother doesn’t mean we need to be friends,’ I say, staring him right in the eye.
‘NO.’ Mum stands up, her face looking haggard. ‘Get out. GET OUT. I don’t want you at this table this Christmas. Your room. NOW.’
I take a moment to load some more food onto my plate.
‘Abi, come up and watch Pingu with me in a bit, yeah?’
‘She will do no such thing,’ Mum says, sitting down hard onto her chair.
I take my plate and go upstairs. I spend the rest of my birthday alone, and for that reason I actually have quite a nice time.
I have thought about nothing but Julian since that night in Flo’s kitchen. Every door I open I imagine him behind it, every street I walk down I plan what I will say if he is on it. Nothing Pop, Nell or Nana says is enough to take the smile off my face. I’m like a dog with a bone. My thoughts and fantasies are as far as my eyes can see. Even my appetite has completely gone. That is how I know I’m in love.
It’s the way he touched me. I thought I knew about boys – how to touch and be touched, but I knew nothing of how good it could feel until him. Before him it was all for show. Experimenting just for practice really. Julian knew exactly what to do, there was no showing off. I just need to do it again, this time to get it right. Next time I will do it better and show him that I can be perfect too.
‘Eat your turkey,’ orders Pop when he catches me gazing out of the window. If he had any idea of what I am imagining in my head he would throw me out of the house and never let me come back. I cut a small piece of turkey, squash it onto a fork with a soft Brussels sprout and swallow it with a big gulp of water. The only thing I can taste is salt.
Nell is now openly not eating food. Nana and Pop must be realising the seriousness of her situation because they never tell her to eat up. They know that whatever it is she’s going through is well beyond anything they can cope with, so they just watch her as she becomes thinner and thinner, none of us knowing where it will all end up, all of us hoping that one day she’ll pick up a piece of toast and eat it without cutting it into twenty pieces and making it last half an hour. I think Nell needs to see a doctor, but that would involve someone admitting that there was a problem, and I have no hope for that happening anytime soon. Sometimes I want to tell Nana and Pop to make her eat, but if I have learned anything living in this house, it’s that I should just stay quiet.
‘Shall we do presents now?’ asks Nana when we have finished our Marks and Spencer’s Christmas pudding. Her enthusiasm, at least, makes us all smile.
After we all watch Nell open hers – a pair of hair crimpers – it’s my turn. ‘This is for you, Renée. We know you wanted it last year, but here it is now.’
Oh my goodness. Is this the bomber jacket that I had admired in town with Nana last year when we were uniform shopping? I had picked it up off a rail in Pandora and told her that I liked it, but it was £30. I hoped that she would go back and get it, and that she would give it to me for Christmas, but on the day I was given a checked flannel shirt instead. Can she possibly have saved up all year for the jacket? Is this about to be the best present ever? I unwrap it like Charlie unwrapped the Wonka Bar that had the golden ticket inside. Everyone’s eyes are ready to capture my reaction.
Long pause.
‘Well, what do you think?’ urges Nana.
‘It’s a shellsuit,’ I say slowly.
Nell laughs for the first time in weeks.
‘Yes, I remember when all the girls were wearing them and we couldn’t afford one for you. Well, as it is your GCSEs this year, Pop and I thought you deserved something a bit special.’ Nana smiles at me.
I hold the top between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and raise it up in front of me. It’s purple with white and neon stripes on the arms. It’s disgusting.
She is right, shellsuits had been all the rage, three years ago. I had cried because I wasn’t part of the phenomenon that lasted all of a month, because after everyone’s initial bout of madness, we all realised quite quickly that aside from being major fire hazards, they are one of the most repulsive items that the 90s ever created. Shellsuits are now only mentioned in sentences like ‘She is so sad, I bet she wears shellsuits’ and here I am with a brand-new one.
‘Go on, Renée, put it on for us all to see,’ smirks Nell.
‘Yes. Put it on to show your nana,’ says Pop, not taking his eyes off the TV.
I walk out of the room and go up to the bathroom. How am I going to pretend like this?
I stand looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Even with mascara and lip gloss it is impossible to make a shellsuit look attractive. Aside from the fact that it is undeniably comfortable and its lightweight fabric makes me feel like I’m floating, it is hideous. If anyone beyond these four walls ever sees me wear it then any street cred I’ve managed to establish over the last fifteen years will be crushed. This. Is. Awful.
I go back downstairs and push open the door to the lounge. I think my eyes might be closed.
‘It’s perfect,’ gushes Nana. ‘It fits you perfectly. I am so pleased.’
‘Yup, that’s a good solid outfit there, Renée. Will last you years,’ adds Pop.
‘That is one hand-me-down I can’t WAIT for,’ gleams Nell, sarcastically.
‘It’s perfect for around the house,’ I say. It’s the only positive sentence I can muster.
I sit myself on the sofa and peel a satsuma. I can’t wait for the new term to start.