I wake up and it’s the middle of the night. My TV is switched off and the lights are off, but I’m still lying on my bed wrapped inside the Dior robe. There’s a space next to me because Madeleine has gone. Yes, of course she’s gone. We’re not in the habit of sleeping together, sicko. That would be appalling.
I twist my head to look at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. It’s just gone three in the morning. I don’t feel sleepy at all so I reach for the TV remote but something stops me. I can hear someone sobbing. And I listen harder and I know it’s from the next room. Madeleine’s room.
There’s nothing I hate more in the whole world than the thought that someone I care about is unhappy. And I don’t just care about Madeleine; it goes deeper than that. There was definitely something on her mind earlier. Now I’m wishing I’d come straight out and asked her, but you can never turn back the clock.
I am still wearing my robe so I creep out onto the landing. It’s definitely Madeleine. I wonder if I should go to see what the matter is. Would she want me to see her crying like that? Probably not, but it’s too late because I’m already tapping on the door as loud as I dare. She’s definitely heard me because the sobbing stops immediately. I know that she knows it’s me; Mom or Dad would have just barged in.
‘Maddie – it’s me.’
I’m hissing the words. God I hate whispering. Even the sound of other people whispering makes my skin crawl. Some people can’t stand the sound of chalk on a blackboard. I can. I can listen to that all day. But whispering – it makes me want to commit acts of violence. It really does, I swear to God. I just can’t stand it.
So here I am, whispering and hating the sound and hating myself, but it’s for Madeleine so I grit my teeth. And she doesn’t reply and there’s only quiet from beyond that door. So I have to hiss again.
‘Maddie, come on…’
And then the door clicks open and through the two-inch gap (I’m guessing but it couldn’t be much more) I can see Madeleine standing in those cute Tiffany Blue pyjamas. I can barely see her face but what I can see are tear tracks down her cheeks and an eye that is swollen and red.
‘Maddie, what’s wrong?’
I barely notice that I’m hissing now.
‘Nothing.’
‘Then why are you crying? Aren’t you going to let me in?’
I realise that standing on the landing pleading to get into my sister’s bedroom – well, it must seem like a Tennessee courtship, but really, what else can I do?
‘Come on Maddie, it’s obviously something. You can tell me about it, you know that.’
But already I know that she’s not going to tell me anything at all. Not right now. She’ll have to tell me something at some point though. I already know that there is something wrong. And she knows that I know. I won’t let it go until I know that she is going to be alright. That’s the way it works when you care about someone. I know that and she knows that. And you know it too, don’t you? It’s a universal law.
‘No, not right now. Just leave me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
Well, there’s not a lot I can say to that. She closes the door on me and I hear it click. She’ll talk to me tomorrow, so I’ll have to wait until then. But my mind is racing all the same, and it keeps coming back to just one thing. A boy.
When girls cry like that, there’s pretty much always a boy involved. Madeleine has a boyfriend – David Lloyd. He’s a year older than her, twenty, and they’ve been seeing each other for about a year. Actually, he’s a pretty cool guy and we get along really well. I love the TVR that he drives – yes, his family has money alright. But right now, I’m thinking that if he’s done anything to hurt my sister, I just want to tear his arms and legs off. And this is what I’m thinking as I eventually drift into sleep. And that’s another reason to hate David Lloyd; I should have been dreaming of Sylvia.