It’s nine-thirty when I wake up. This is very late for me, but let’s face it, I was late getting to sleep.
I take a long, hot shower and it’s so soothing that I find it difficult to switch off the jets and finish it. But of course I do, and I wrap a towel around myself and saunter back to my room, yawning.
I notice that Madeleine’s door is closed and I hope that she is sleeping. All that sobbing will have tired her out. I’m still concerned for Madeleine, of course, but today I am going to visit Sylvia. So I’m thinking of Sylvia as I dress. Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia. As if I don’t have enough to worry about with Madeleine and all. When I think of Sylvia, all I can think of is that massive argument that she walked right into in her house last night. That sure as hell did sound violent. So now I’m just wondering if Sylvia is okay. I wonder if I should call Sylvia to see if she still wants me to come around this afternoon, but I think better of it. She just might have changed her mind after what happened last night. And sure, I realise that that makes me sound incredibly insecure. And maybe I am. But I’m not going to risk it all the same. I’m just going to show up at her place and present her with a fait accompli. Isn’t that what you would do?
So I’m sitting downstairs with the TV on and not really watching anything. Well actually, I’m watching the clock, if I’m really honest. And have you noticed that when you’re waiting for something that you’re looking forward to, how time just stands still? It does. It really does.
And I keep trying to think of things to do to occupy me while I wait, but a kind of lethargy has set in. It’s like all I want to do is focus on the clock. And the fact that it isn’t moving.
Apart from the TV, the house is quiet. Mom and Dad are out – they’ve gone shopping for something or other that they can’t possibly need – and I haven’t seen a sign of Madeleine. Sometimes I get up and wander about the living room and look out of the window, as if that is going to help the time move faster. I’m focused on Sylvia so much that it must be the twentieth time I’ve looked out of that big old window before I realise that Madeleine’s car is not in the drive next to Mom’s. Wow, I wonder what time Madeleine got up and went out. I sure as hell never heard her. Well, I won’t be able to ask her if I can borrow some nail polish and stuff to take over to Sylvia’s. I’ll just have to assume that it’s okay – which I’m sure it is. Madeleine won’t mind.
At last the clock has moved some. I’m walking down Sylvia’s street. People are washing cars in the driveways, cutting the grass in front of their houses. All typical suburban stuff, I guess, but it’s all a lot noisier than where I live. Now and then you can hear a dog barking and little kids are playing – in back yards I suppose because I can’t see any out on the street.
As I near Sylvia’s house, I’m strangely nervous. I guess I’m wondering if there will be an atmosphere. That sure sounded like a fierce fight last night. And I still have this picture of her dad as a slob in a dirty vest and I can’t get past how aggressive he’s sounded on the couple of times I’ve called Sylvia’s house. I’m telling myself that I must be wrong, because the people I’m seeing on this street are nice and clean and wonderfully suburban, and the cars in the drives are all pretty new and well-maintained. But the image persists all the same.
For some reason, standing outside Sylvia’s front door, I can hardly believe that I have pushed the button to ring the bell. But I must have, because the door is opening and then there is Sylvia and she’s smiling and I can just smell the soap and the scent and stuff. She’s wearing jeans and a strappy pink top and no shoes and she looks just absolutely gorgeous.
‘Well, are you going to come in?’
The house is pretty quiet as Sylvia closes the door behind me. It’s smaller than our place, for sure, but it’s neat and it’s light and not at all like I was expecting. You know, I’d actually built up this stupid picture in my head of the house being a bit dingy and perhaps a little run-down. And where do you suppose I got this idea from? Well I know that it came from the image I have of Sylvia’s dad, and that’s only based on the few words I’ve heard him bellow on the phone. Anyway, the point is that images we create in our heads can be way off the mark.
We’re standing in a small entrance hall and off to the left is the kitchen, and a guy is stepping out. He’s kind of tall and well groomed and he’s dressed in tan cotton Dockers and a polo shirt with the unmistakeable Ralph Lauren logo on the chest. It’s like looking in a mirror in a way, because I’m wearing tan Dockers and a Ralph Lauren shirt too, although mine is green and his is lilac. Of course, I’m not a hundred years old like this guy, but that’s some coincidence, wouldn’t you say?
‘Snap!’
It’s a second or two before I realise that the guy is talking to me. I see Sylvia rolling her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Just ignore him. This is my dad and he’d do just about anything to embarrass me.’
The guy is grinning, and despite the words I can tell that Sylvia and he are quite close. It’s just banter, and I recognise it because it’s how me and my mom are together. You’ve seen that for yourself. And remember what I was just saying, about images in our heads being way off the mark? Well, if this is Sylvia’s dad, then I have been totally wrong. No dirty vest stretching over a paunch. No lack of grooming. No lack of humour either. You know, it’s so hard to match the guy standing before me with my telephone experience of him that it makes me wonder if I’d been calling the wrong house! But of course I hadn’t been, because Sylvia came to the phone. And actually, it’s something of a relief to find that he’s not the slob of my imagination, if you want to know the truth. That’s an image I can throw out with the trash, thank God.
‘So aren’t you going to tell me who this is?’
Sylvia looks at her dad and rolls her eyes again. I’m seeing that Sylvia can be very theatrical.
‘Dad, this is Tom. He goes to my school and he’s in my year, but we’re not in the same class. Is that okay or do you want to interrogate him?’
Her dad ignores this sarcasm. He’s looking at me. At least Sylvia hasn’t said that my name is Holden, so that’s something, I guess.
‘Tom eh? I’ll try to remember that. Another one to add to the list.’
By the time he’s finished saying this he’s already turned and he’s disappeared into the living room. Sylvia’s grabbed my hand and she’s pulling me up the stairs. All I can hear is the muffled thump of her bare feet on the stair carpet but inside I’m cold as hell. Another one. That’s what her dad had said. It’s what he’d said on the phone that time too. I’m feeling sick inside. I really am. And I know that I shouldn’t and that Sylvia and me have only just started seeing each other and everything. But I do believe that I’m jealous. I really do. And I don’t even know what I’m jealous of. Or even if there’s any need to be jealous at all. I’m just screwed up is what it is. I really am.
Anyway, Sylvia’s room is not how I’d expected it to be. I’d been expecting dark walls, gothic posters of indie bands and stuff, and candles, but it isn’t like that at all. The walls are pale pink and while there are posters, they are Sheryl Crow and Blondie and George Clooney – but not Tom Cruise. And amazingly, the posters she’s chosen do have colour schemes that go with her walls. I’m impressed, I really am. The bed is quite big for the room, but it doesn’t dominate, and there’s a dressing table and a built-in wardrobe, all of stripped pine to match the bed. And there is surprisingly little clutter. Seriously, this is something I’d never expected, and you have to know that it delights me. I was expecting loads of stuffed toys and trash like that. But there are two bowls of coloured glass beads on the dresser and a glass box that contains costume jewellery and stuff, and photographs of her mom and dad in a frame, and that’s about it. I feel truly comfortable in this room.
I’m actually sitting at the foot of the bed, leaning back on it. Sylvia is sitting on the bed behind me and her legs are dangling over my shoulders. She has the prettiest little feet with perfect straight toes, but they’re looking a little bit silly at the moment because of the foam toe-separators that are there to stop the nail polish from smudging while it dries. I’ve already done her fingers and now I’m doing her toes to match. I’m using the I’m Not Really A Waitress lacquer from the OPI Hollywood Collection. It’s a really confident, rich red colour that I feel suits Sylvia particularly well. Madeleine has been using it a lot lately and I took it from her dresser, but I’m sure she won’t mind. If she ever even notices.
Looking up at the dressing table mirror in front of me I can see Sylvia inspecting her fingernails, holding her hands away from her and splaying the fingers out.
‘You’re really good. Do you know that? Salon good. I’m impressed.’
Well I don’t exactly glow with pride at that, because I know that I’m good. But hey, everyone enjoys compliments, right?
‘Sure I know I’m good. I’ve had years of training at the hands of the most demanding client.’
‘Your sister, right?’
‘Yeah, my sister.’
She’s made me think of Madeleine and I wonder where Madeleine is right now. I can’t stop thinking of her sobbing if you really want to know, and that just about kills me.
We’re just sitting here, waiting for the lacquer to dry, and listening to – this came as a major surprise, trust me – Chet Baker playing mellow jazz, when I notice a small pair of nail scissors on the dresser, next to one of the bowls of glass beads. I can just about reach them as I lean forward, so I pick them up. They are chrome and sharp and pointed.
Actually, the music is kind of hypnotic and we’re not talking much as we listen to it so I don’t really imagine that Sylvia has even noticed that I’ve picked the scissors up. Truth is, the music has a slightly melancholic air to it, and I get to thinking about her dad describing me as another one, and who the others might be and what they might mean to Sylvia. And I’m on the verge of making myself stupid and silly about it.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Sylvia seems angry and I can’t imagine what she’s talking about. And then I notice what I am doing. I have the scissors in one hand, and I’ve opened them out. And without even realising I’m doing it, I’m running the sharp point up along the inside of my forearm. I’m pressing hard, but not quite hard enough to break the skin. All the same, I’m leaving deep red marks. And I realise that these marks sort of mirror the scars on Sylvia’s arm.
‘Do you think that’s funny? Or are you just dumb-ass crazy or something?’
Before I can answer, she’s swinging her legs over my head and she’s getting up off the bed. She’s having to walk back on her heels like a duck because of the toe-separators but I’m not laughing, or even smiling. Sylvia is mad upset, and I didn’t even realise what I was doing. I never meant to upset her, and that’s the certain truth.
She snatches the scissors out of my hand and she’s holding one of the points against the scars on her own arm. She’s glaring at me and I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. Then I see her soften and she just throws those scissors across the room. I don’t see where they fall – I just hear them hit a wall – because I’m fixed on her. She’s looking over my head, not looking at me.
‘I’m sorry. I guess I know you didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘I didn’t even know I was doing it. I swear to God I didn’t.’
She sits on the bed next to where I’m still sitting on the floor. We are talking to each other’s reflection in the dresser mirror, like we are too fragile to face up to our words directly.
‘I know. I know you didn’t.’
‘So what’s the matter?’
‘I’m not ashamed of these scars on my arm you know. But I’m not proud of them either. And I just kind of freaked out, seeing you running those scissors against your skin. I don’t know. I guess I really thought you were going to do it.’
‘Really? Wow, I wasn’t even thinking of it. I don’t think I’d have the nerve, to tell you the truth.’
Actually, I’d been pressing that scissor point in pretty damn hard if you must know. To the point where it was hurting, but only just enough so that it was almost becoming a pleasure. I know, I know that sounds sick and unbelievable, but I can only tell you, that’s exactly how it felt. And I’m going to confess to you here, I had been wondering – just wondering mind – what it would be like to simply press the point a little harder; to break the skin and watch the rivulets of blood run down my arm. To stare at them until all I could do was watch, until I just lost myself in seeing red. You can see why I don’t say any of this to Sylvia though, right?
Sylvia is taking me at face value. And she suddenly turns round on her knees so that she’s facing me. I find myself hoping that she’s not smudging that lacquer on her toes – I’d made a fantastic job of them, I swear to God – but that thought quickly passes because Sylvia is smiling a sultry smile that seems experienced way beyond her sixteen years.
‘I’m glad to hear that, Tom. Because there sure are better ways of passing the time.’
Before you know it, we are wrapped around each other and it’s just like a continuation of that kiss from last night on the doorstep. She really gives herself to the kiss, so that all you can do is let go with her. Which I do. And the last thing I can honestly tell you is that through it all, I can hear old Chet Baker mumbling something about a funny valentine or something, and that it seems just about appropriate. I could tell you more, but I’m not going to. Figure it out for yourself.