‘Lapsang Souchong,’ says Simon. ‘Not, in any circumstances, to be taken with milk. You have to take it black. You’ll understand that, Joanna.’
He lifts the lid off the teapot and wafts the steam with his hand. It smells like a packet of bacon flavour Frazzles.
We’re in Mr Badger’s tearoom again. Simon promises this will be the last tutorial before Christmas. He says we’re making ‘progress’. When he says this he rolls up the sleeves of his diamond-patterned jumper, like he’s going to do some dirty work. Like he’s getting his fists ready for something, or someone.
‘Try a cup?’ He holds the pot over my side of the table and raises his eyebrows. His hair’s a bit off today. The fringe isn’t as sculpted as usual. I can see the grooves where he’s tried to comb the hairspray through.
In the background, classical music is playing at low volume. Violins and cellos chug along together. That sort of music always sounds like it’s straining for something.
‘I’m hungry.’
‘They do good soup here.’ He pours himself a cup of smoke-coloured tea, then gestures to the girl in the frill-on-frill apron. She gives it a minute before unpeeling herself from the kitchen doorway and walking over to our table with her greasy pad, chewing on a plait.
‘This young lady would like something to eat.’ Simon takes a good look at frill-on-frill. She’s got sharp cheekbones, little pig eyes lined with electric blue pencil, thin pink lips.
‘Sausage and chips,’ I say.
‘Don’t do chips.’ Her plait falls from her mouth. ‘We’ve got sausage in a roll.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ says Simon.
When she’s gone, he leans across the table. His watch glints at me. ‘Good appetite. I’ve always liked that about you. Can’t ever imagine you being anorexic.’ He says this with a smirk and a gleam on his small teeth. As if it’s a filthy word. Like cocksucker.
‘Mind you,’ he continues, ‘I have been worried about you, Joanna. You haven’t seemed yourself lately.’
He lets a silence grow. He spends a long time looking over my shoulder, squinting into the air, as if he’s considering the swag-tied chintz curtains. He even drums his fingers on the table. He’s waiting for me to spill it.
All I can think of is money. How much I’ll need to get to London with Rob.
Finally he picks up his copy of Frankenstein and fans through the pages. ‘I love the smell of books,’ he says, sucking a breath in.
‘We’ve finished that.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘We finished it ages ago.’
He puts the book down and folds his fingers together in a tent shape. ‘What are you doing now, then?’
‘Poetry.’
He waits for more. I look out the window. It’s greyer than my school uniform out there. The tea room’s lit by a couple of pink corner lamps, which means I can’t see Simon’s wrinkly cheeks in detail. But he looks grey, too. Grey and wilting.
‘What poetry are you doing?’
‘John Donne.’
He takes off his glasses and places them on the tablecloth. Then he closes his eyes and starts. ‘Mark but this flea, and mark in this, how little that which thou deny’st me is…’
‘It’s good.’
‘Yes! Isn’t it?’
‘Having someone who worries about me, I mean. It’s good. Nice.’
He pinches his bottom lip between finger and thumb, fixes me with a stare.
I tug on a strand of hair and wrap it round a finger. ‘I just wanted to say, you know, thanks.’
‘Well. I do worry about you. Your mother says you can look after yourself. But I’m not so sure.’
The violins grind away, quietly. I gaze at the tablecloth, concentrating on a pink embroidered daisy, petals stained with grease. I let a moment pass, then look back at his grey crinkly cheek. ‘Tell me more about John Donne,’ I say.
‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘I’m interested.’
‘Well. Donne is perfect for you, Joanna. Now I think of it, he’s absolutely perfect.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Oh yes. He’s a bit bawdy. Bold. Like yourself. Colloquial – that means he uses everyday language. Likes playing games. But doesn’t shy away from true feeling, real passion.’
He’s gripping his teacup and he hasn’t blinked for ages. ‘My favourite’s always been – ’ he pauses, chuckles, ‘ – “To his mistress going to bed”.’ He winks, takes a breath, opens his eyes wide. Then starts again. ‘License my roving hands, and let them go, before, behind, between, above, below.’
Simon slaps the table before stretching his arms out on either side like he’s won the 100 metres. Olympic Gold. ‘Fantastic. And all in the seventeenth century.’
My sausage arrives. A ledge of margarine spills over the roll’s crust. I take a bite. Grease leaks out of the bread and onto the rose-patterned plate.
When I’ve swallowed, I say, ‘There is something I’d like to talk to you about.’
He nods and tries to stop himself smiling.
‘I need money.’
He stops smiling.
I blink a lot and gaze down at the grease-stained daisy. ‘I really need money, and I don’t know where to get it.’
‘What for?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘What for, Joanna?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
He leans forward. ‘If you won’t tell me, I can’t help you.’ He waits. I can see my reflection in his specs. My cheeks with their little blusher-spots of flush. My lips wet and a bit quivery. I wrap another strand of hair around my finger and examine the splitting ends. I think about taking another bite of sausage; decide against it. Eventually, I say, ‘I’m in – trouble.’
Simon puts his glasses back on and flicks his stiffened fringe. The violins chug to a stop.
‘What kind of trouble?’
I make my voice very, very, very small. ‘The usual kind.’ I sweep my lashes up and look out from under.
‘Joanna – ’
‘The kind teenage girls get into.’
He huffs out a breath.
‘Will you help me?’ Under the table, I put a hand on his knee and rub at his rough trouser leg. I even stroke a bit down his shin. ‘Please. I need your help.’
He’s silent.
‘I didn’t mean it to happen.’
He’s staring into his cup of smoky bacon flavour tea.
‘I don’t want to waste my life.’
‘Whose is it?’
I bite my bottom lip and look towards the window. It’s dark outside now. The tearoom’s emptied. The music’s stopped. There’s just the big tick of a grandfather clock in the corner, as regular as an ECG monitor on one of those hospital programmes.
‘Joanna. Whose is it?’
My sausage will be cold by now. The roll soggy. The margarine too soaked in.
‘Whose is it, Joanna?’
‘You don’t know him.’
‘Oh lord.’
After a minute he says, ‘It’s not that backward boy, is it?’
I hang my head and wilt my shoulders, like a sunflower that’s on its last gasp.
‘He didn’t – force you, did he?’
Don’t say anything.
‘Oh my God.’ He grasps both my hands in his and pulls them to his thighs. ‘It’s all right,’ he says, pumping my hands up and down.
Tears would be perfect.
‘Poor girl. Poor girl. Poor girl.’
After another minute of combined hand squeezing and thigh rubbing, I say, ‘I just need the money.’ I give a little sniff. ‘Then I can, you know, start again.’
He crushes my fingers and stares at me with pop-eyes. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he says. He’s breathing like a buffalo. ‘It’s crazy, but maybe…’
‘What?’
His crinkly cheeks get a sudden rush of blood and he looks almost shiny. ‘You could get yourself – fixed – and then, then we could go away. Start again, like you said.’
‘What?’
‘I mean. We could go somewhere. Together.’
‘What?’
‘You and me. As – friends. I could look after you, Joanna. It would be perfect. You’d escape all this. And I could get a new start. We both could.’
‘What about Mum?’
‘She’ll understand.’ His lips settle into a tight line and he looks straight at me. ‘We can visit her.’
I can’t speak for a moment. He’s twisting my fingers now, wringing them like wet washing.
‘It will be for the best. We’ll be friends, that’s all. You need to get away – and so do I…’
I tug my hands loose. They’re damp from his grip.
‘I can get you the money, Joanna.’ His eyes bulge. There’s a ridge of sweat on his upper lip. He swallows. ‘When do you need it?’
I shrug.
‘Well, how far gone are you?’
I stare at Simon’s V-neck jumper. The diamond patterns move with his heavy breaths. I can’t think of an answer.
A minute ticks by, slowly.
‘You are sure, aren’t you?’
‘I – think so.’
He lowers his voice. ‘Have you done a test?’
Frilly apron appears and swipes my plate and glass. She lets her plait dangle over the liquid left in Simon’s cup. ‘Closing now,’ she says, slamming the bill in his saucer and reclaiming the teapot.
Simon waits until she’s gone. Then he takes off his glasses. ‘Joanna?’
‘We’d better go.’
‘Joanna.’
‘What?’
‘You’re sure you’re – ’ he lowers his voice, ‘pregnant?’
I trace a line in the crumbs on the tablecloth. I run my tongue along my bottom lip and give him two blinks. ‘I really need the money.’
He sort of throws himself back in his chair. Lets out a big huff. Then a little huff. Then a big one again. He shakes his head.
When he’s finished shaking his head, he puts his hand over his mouth and wipes away some invisible crumbs.
‘Are you pregnant or not?’
I blink at him some more. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Yes or no, Joanna.’
We stare at each other for a minute. Then I do a big shrug.
‘Priceless,’ he says. ‘Bloody priceless.’ There’s a lot of huffing and wiping of the mouth again.
Finally he slams his hand down on the tablecloth. The Lapsang Souchong shakes in his cup. He scrapes back his chair and throws Frankenstein into his rucksack.
‘You’re as bad as your mother.’ I think he’s going to spit. Or use that fist.
But he doesn’t. He walks out. He walks out, and then it’s just me, the bill, and the ECG monitor clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.