4 March 2000
Eighteen.
It sounds so grown-up. I can vote, get legally smashed on vodka in a pub, die for my country. Not that I’m interested in doing any of those things. But there is one new experience I do want to try.
I’m throwing a party. Well, Tim is organizing it, on my behalf. Nothing on the scale of Marilyn’s four years ago, which featured a Spice Girls fancy-dress theme, a vodka bar, and my sister bursting out of a birthday cake, like her namesake, singing Happy Birthday to Me. (It wasn’t even ironic.)
Now she rushes into my room, wielding tongs and a fistful of hair products. ‘That’s perfect on you,’ she says, surveying my dress, a fifties style in a red mermaid print, which Mum bought me from a shop in the Lanes. ‘A great fit. It even makes your boobs look as big as mine. Tim’s not going to know where to look.’
‘We’re mates. Not all men are obsessed with . . .’
‘Sex? For a doctor-to-be, you have a lot to learn about biology, dear sister.’
Marilyn yanks me into my chair by my hair and, without ceremony, begins to tong a section of it. I’ve been her model since I was a toddler and she backcombed my fuzzy baby hair so roughly half of it fell out. I had the last laugh: my hair is now chestnut-coloured, glossy, and possibly the one thing about me she envies.
‘He’s probably organized a Harry Potter read-in at the library,’ Marilyn says. Tim hasn’t invited her.
‘You’re just jealous.’
‘Yeah, clearly I’m missing out on the party of the century.’
It is my party of the century. Maybe the best one I’ll ever have. I’m not stupid. I know none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for that night. Before that, I didn’t have enough friends in the sixth form to fill a Mini.
Tim isn’t as keen on making new friends, but if I’m on my own now, other kids ask to sit with me at lunch or in the common room. And after they’ve got the cringeworthy stuff about me kissing Joel out of the way, we move on to chatting about normal things, too: music, and travel, and why no one has been arrested yet for killing Jill Dando.
‘Ouch!’ The hot tong sizzles against my neck. ‘Watch out, Marilyn.’
‘Who is coming? Will Joel be guest of honour?’ she asks, in a sing-song voice.
‘I’ve no idea.’
I want him there, obviously. But Tim has been in charge of invitations and he’s not exactly Joel’s biggest fan. Which is why I haven’t told Tim how often I still check in on Joel. Nothing’s happening between us – I am so not Joel’s type – but I can’t bear to think of him and his dad rattling around that huge house now Lynette’s away filming a property programme in Spain.
At first, Joel’s teammates would show up, trying to talk him into a night on the town, but he’s said no every time, and they’ve stopped asking. So all he has to break up his week are visits from Ant and me, hospital appointments, and visits from the private physio helping him get his fitness back.
I worry about his rages. Once, he got so mad I thought it might set his ICD off, but it abated as soon as it started, leaving him as sleepy as a toddler who’d overdone it. As I walked home, the guilt came again, and the fear he might be in better shape if only I’d stepped in thirty seconds faster, or done CPR more firmly . . .
There’s no way of knowing. But he’s no longer Joel Greenaway, Local Hero. He looks the same, but he seems a lot less confident and laid back, more snappy and stressed. I’ve researched it, and behaviour change can affect people who’ve been resuscitated after several minutes ‘down’. It might get better but there are no guarantees.
The doorbell rings.
Dad calls up the stairs, ‘Your carriage awaits, Kerry!’
‘I’d better go.’
Marilyn unplugs the tongs and gives my head a quick blast of hairspray. ‘Don’t want to keep Prince Charmless waiting, I suppose.’
I smile. ‘He’s gone to a lot of trouble.’
My sister surveys me. ‘You scrub up well. You could pull anyone, the way you look tonight.’
I think of Joel and blush.
Marilyn winks at me.
Has she read my mind?
I hurry down the stairs. My dad does a comedy wolf-whistle, and Mum is grinning. ‘Look at my baby girl!’
As I get into the cab, Mrs Palmer waves at me excitedly from her window across the road. She must know where the taxi is taking me.
The driver pulls away and I look out the back, as our house – and Tim’s bungalow – get smaller and smaller. It feels like I’m finally leaving shy schoolgirl Kerry behind.
Long live the new me.
As the taxi pulls up outside Ant’s parents’ cafe, the fizzy feeling of excitement grows. The idea of the party being here had crossed my mind, though I tried not to get my hopes up. All the best parties have happened after hours at the Girasol – a.k.a. the Arsehole – over the years. I’ve just never been cool enough to be invited to one before.
The string lights between the lamp posts sway and creak in the dusk light. Ahead, the Palace Pier sign seems to be flashing just for me. My night.
‘Have the best birthday, beautiful girl,’ the driver calls after me as I get out.
Beautiful? No. But perhaps the stuff that’s changed inside is beginning to show through.
Before, I’d have done anything to avoid walking into a roomful of people. Now, whoever I meet, there’s this kernel of knowledge inside me, a rabbit I could pull out of the hat if I am feeling shy. Hello, my name is Kerry, I’m eighteen today, I’m doing A levels in Biology, Chemistry and Physics and – oh, did I mention? I helped to save somebody’s life.
The lights are turned down in Girasol, though I think I can see the flicker of candlelight. I hesitate at the door, suddenly afraid that this is the best bit, this anticipation.
When I think of what disappointment would look like, the image of a packed room, with no Joel, flashes through my mind.
As I push the door open, a cheer deafens me. It looks like the whole sixth form is in here and I take in the medical-themed decorations: red crosses and bunting made from bandages and ‘Dr. Beat’ blasting out of the speakers. I see Tim straight away, dressed in blue scrubs, his hopeful face seeking confirmation that he’s got this right.
But even as I head towards him, I am scanning the other faces, my fixed grin faltering, until . . .
There. Joel leans on the bar, a distance between him and the others, maybe because he’s still scared someone might knock against his abdomen.
My smile turns goofy and my heart changes rhythm, a blush spreading across my cheeks and the warmth travelling all the way through my body. And for a split second, his face changes and I wonder: could he fancy me back?
Now Tim is embracing me, his herbal aftershave making me want to sneeze, but I can’t break eye contact with Joel.
‘Is this OK?’ Tim whispers in my ear. ‘Did I get it right?’
‘God, yeah! You know me so well. It’s everything I wanted.’