4
Lying back on my bed I listen to the lyrics of Gordon’s music. The chorus of one song is:
Christ, you are my smile
Christ, you are my sight
Christ, you are my every thought
Christ, I love your might.
How can Christ be your smile? I try not to overthink it and attempt to lose myself in the music. I want to have learned all of the words in time for the gig tonight. I have an hour before I have to leave. That would be a pretty cool thing to do. Cool in a going-to-a-God-themed-rock-concert kind of way.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Gordon since Thursday. I know he isn’t the sexiest guy ever, but there is something about him I really fancy. I think it’s just how well he knows himself, how self-assured he seems. How comfortable he is with his faith. Comfortable enough to stand on stage in front of a room full of people and sing songs about it. I can’t imagine doing anything like that. I haven’t even told my own mother I am religious, let alone an entire ticket-paying audience. I want to have as much conviction – I want to feel what he feels and believe the way that he does. I close my eyes.
‘Dear God,’ I say quietly, ‘thank you for the last few weeks. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you. I’m not sure I am at the stage of head banging to rock songs about you, but I am not really the kind of person who would head bang to rock songs anyway, so please don’t be offended. I will give it a go though, I promise. I just wanted to tell you that I have been feeling better about Dad. I still miss him every day of course, but I think I feel less guilty, or at least more understanding about the fact there was nothing I could have done to stop his heart attack. And I can breathe through those moments where I miss him so much I could cry. I just focus on him and smile and somehow the tears just don’t come. That is when I feel you the most, when I find a way to stop the tears. It’s like you dry them up for me. I have created a voice for you in my head – I think you would like it. It’s quite deep and slow, and soothing. It wouldn’t work on anyone else – a human might come across as a bit creepy – but for you, it works. I think you might have sent me a message the other night at Tudor Falls? I thought making me sit through the sex with Miss Trunks and Mr Carter was a really odd way to do it, but I did get your message. You showed me that I am a good person, didn’t you? You reminded me how other people do bad things, how they lie, how they cheat, and that my guilt and my issues with myself really are not based on anything I have actually done. That is right, isn’t it? That is the lesson you wanted me to learn? So thank you, God. I … ’
‘Who on earth are you talking to?’ asks Mum. She is inside my room. I can feel the heat coming off her. What do I do? Do I tell her, or do I pretend I am learning something for school? She looks exasperated with me, but then she often is. This is who I am now. I must be strong.
‘I was talking to God.’
‘What?’
‘God. I’ve been going to church for weeks.’
She looks confused.
‘God?’
‘Yes, God. Do you believe in God, Mum?’
‘No, I do not. You know I don’t go to church.’
‘Well, I do. Did you want anything?’
I can’t quite gauge her reaction. It’s impossible to tell whether she’s angry, or surprised, or possibly even frightened. She just keeps staring at me lying on the bed, her eyes scanning me up and down. Then it’s almost as if she remembers what she is here for.
‘I need you to babysit Abi tonight. I have been asked out.’
‘By a man?’ I ask.
‘Yes, by a man, Flo. I wouldn’t have thought I will be late.’
I very rarely say no to my mother. Partly because I rarely need to, because I hardly have the world’s most kicking social life, but mostly because even though our conversations might make us sound like two people who are virtual strangers to each other, we actually get on better than ever now, and I want it to stay that way. My life is now a juggling act of trying to keep her on a level so she doesn’t have a nervous breakdown – something I am aware she could have at any given moment if she had the opportunity – and I worry that saying no to her will put us back to where we were even two years ago. She hated me, and I hated her. These days we can just about stomach each other. It’s a vast improvement. But tonight I am not available, and she is going to have to be OK with that.
‘Sorry, Mum, I can’t. I have a date too.’
‘You have a what?’ She looks flabbergasted, which doesn’t do much for my ego. ‘Is Renée going?’
‘No, Mum. I love Renée, but I wouldn’t take her on a date with me.’
Mum is obviously having trouble processing almost everything I have laid on her since she walked into my room.
‘What is this music?’ she asks.
‘It’s The Trinity. My boyfriend is the lead singer.’
She stands, staring at me, like I’m an alien. I close my eyes again. I feel so stupid for calling Gordon my boyfriend. I don’t know where that came from. Maybe God made me say it. I keep my eyes shut and hold my breath, hoping that my face doesn’t turn bright pink.
Mum continues to stare at me for a bit, and then she gives a small shrug.
‘Well, I guess I could ask my date to come here,’ she says at last, before she leaves the room.
I am shocked at two things. One is the fact that my mother is being so reasonable, when she is not a reasonable woman. And the other is that I just called Gordon my boyfriend, which he isn’t. Yet. Did Mum and I just have some weird mother–daughter chat about boys by accident? I suppose I shouldn’t question any of it. Just go with it.
Now, what on earth am I going to wear?
I struggle with outfits at the best of times, usually opting for the same thing of black trousers and either a black T-shirt with sparkly bits on the shoulders and my denim jacket, or I borrow something of Renée’s. She has got some really nice stuff now that her aunty Jo takes her shopping. Mum, on the other hand, still thinks that as long as my naked body is hidden I don’t need anything new. Even though we are not broke, not after Dad’s life insurance came through, and she now works full-time on reception at an insurance firm, she still can’t bring herself to give me money. My job helps – I get thirty-two quid a week from Smellies, and much more when I work the holidays, so I am doing OK after Easter. But since shelling out to fix my car, buying new shoes and paying Mum back for the magic kit she agreed to buy for me last year – as long as I paid back every penny – I am not left with much.
I put on my black trousers and the black T-shirt with sparkly shoulders. It’s fine. The Trinity gig will hardly be the fashion party of the year, will it?
As I arrive at St James, a large church just above town that is now a concert hall, there are a lot of people outside standing in front of a big poster on the wall – with Gordon’s face, a crucifix and the band name and logo (another crucifix with a hand around it) and the words The Trinity, TONIGHT!
People are smoking. There doesn’t seem to be anyone over about twenty-five, and at a glance it looks like any other group of young people hanging around outside a gig. Kerry runs over to me.
‘Flo!’ she shouts to get my attention. ‘Here, have some of this before we go in. They are checking bags.’
She passes me a big bottle of cider and I have a sip. I didn’t realise she drank. On Thursdays we just have tea and whatever high-sugar snacks Sandra brings, and we all munch away happily as we talk through whatever part of the Bible we are discussing that week. But no one has ever mentioned booze. I think I just presumed they didn’t drink. Kerry definitely seems a bit pissed tonight, though. It doesn’t take much to make me drunk, and I want to have a clear head tonight, so I just have a sip and hand her back the bottle.
‘I am so glad you came,’ she says, hugging me affectionately and kissing my cheek. It’s the kind of lingering hug that feels like more than just a hello, and more like a needy thank you. ‘I wanted to invite you myself, but wasn’t sure if you were ready for a load of rocking Christians all in the same room. It can be a bit full on.’
‘I’m ready. I’m looking forward to it. Gordon said he would get me in for free.’
‘He did? Wow, he is usually quite tight with the tickets.’ Kerry doesn’t look too impressed. ‘Shall we go in?’
As Gordon promised, my name is on the door, but Kerry’s isn’t. I feel bad about that, but I guess I have to get used to that, if he is going to be my boyfriend. He can’t get everyone free entry, can he? I feel cool for the first time in my life.
The room is huge, very churchy in shape but not churchy in how it’s decorated. There is a big balcony with lots of seats and there are already lots of people up there, but down in the main bit in front of the stage people are just standing and waiting for the band to come on.
I had no idea there were so many young people on Guernsey who are into God. It’s like another world. I recognise some of them from other years in school – a couple of girls from Tudor Falls, for instance – and some from just being out and about. I should probably say hello or something, but I am happy sticking with Kerry, and I am keeping my eyes open for Gordon. I wonder if he’ll come and see me before he goes on stage?
‘I learned all the words to Gordon’s songs,’ I tell Kerry. ‘Well, most of them.’
‘Wow, you’re like their groupie,’ Kerry says in a weirdly unfriendly tone. ‘Free entry, memorising his lyrics … Next you’ll want to get together with the lead singer.’ She isn’t looking at me, but her body language has completely changed. I could take a guess that Kerry is being so off with me because maybe she’s jealous because she fancies Gordon and wants him all to herself. But I like Kerry and I don’t want to go there. So instead I pretend I haven’t noticed and allow myself to fantasise about going out with a guy like Gordon. I wonder if he’s ever had sex.
I’m eighteen and a virgin. I’m all right with that – I was never in a hurry to lose my virginity before – but I definitely feel like I might be ready, if I find the right guy. Since going to church and meeting with the group I feel a bit more confident, like I am really part of something. I don’t feel like the saddest person in the room when I am with these people. Like I can trust them. The thing that put me off sex in the past was the idea of a boy getting to know my body before he gets to know me. I overhear so many conversations in the common room where the boys are telling their mates about the girls they got off with, or making fun of girls’ fannies and boobs in some way. It makes me really paranoid. I would rather be a virgin so no one could make those jokes about me than have sex with someone just because I feel I should, and open myself up to that kind of humiliation. The last time I let a boy put his hands in my knickers I forgot I had my period and he told everyone. I’m still not really over it, wondering who knows and who is laughing about me. The thought of someone laughing about how I smell down there or how weird they find my body is too much for me. It’s horrible. A guy like Gordon wouldn’t laugh and joke about a girl’s body, I can tell.
And there’s something else – I’ve never been hugely sexual, and I don’t think I’m normal. Renée is so comfortable with being sexual with guys that it’s kind of intimidating to talk about it with her, because she doesn’t understand how it feels to not want to share yourself with anyone else. She also masturbates a lot, but I rarely do. I try it sometimes but nothing really happens and I just feel embarrassed. I am generally of the mindset that if you are doing something that makes you feel embarrassed when you are on your own, you should probably just stop.
The lights dim a bit and people start clapping. Then Gordon and his band walk out onto the stage. He looks different. There is something about his aura that has changed. He looks a bit like a rock star. I get a fizz of excitement.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ Gordon says into the microphone. Everyone cheers, and it is obvious that the vast majority, if not all of the people in this room, are already fans of the band. I have only ever been to one gig. It was when Sister Sledge performed at Beau Sejour, the local leisure centre, about ten years ago. It was full of screaming girls under the age of twelve. This is full of seventeen- to twenty-five-year-olds with bottles of beer in their hands. It is not the same kind of gig. Still, I like the atmosphere. When I’ve been to a few more Trinity gigs I’ll probably know how to behave at them. For the moment I am just being an observer.
‘I am Gordon Macintyre.’ There is a cheer from the crowd. ‘We are The Trinity. Welcome to St James – is everybody ready to tell the big man how we feel?’
Everyone in the room shouts yes. It makes me jump. Gordon looks so sexy up on stage. I don’t feel cool, and these people aren’t supposed to be the cool kids, but here, in their world, they kind of are. The band kicks off, a sea of hands go into the air. Most people shut their eyes and drop their heads, which seems a bit odd when you have come to watch a band. I soon pick up the words to the first song.
‘I will follow you, Jesus, I will follow you, Jesus, I will follow you, the Lord.’
The song pretty much just repeats that line with various levels of intensity as it goes on. Everyone, absolutely everyone, is singing along, totally consumed, from the second it starts. They are lost in it. Arms in the air, eyes closed, praying. Gordon looks up the whole time, staying focused on a spot on the ceiling at the back of the room as if he is talking directly to it. In church it’s so quiet that people are subdued in the way they pray. Here it’s different. This is dramatic worship, loud, expressive, confident. I am standing in the middle of it feeling for the first time since I started coming to church that I don’t fit in. This is all a bit much for me. I don’t get it. I look at Kerry. Her head is facing up but her eyes are closed. Her arms are in the air and she is limp. She knows all of the words, and there is even a tear rolling down her cheek. I want to be like that – I want to feel that too. I close my eyes, put my arms in the air and reach up. I try to imagine God above me, watching me, grateful for my love. I want to feel my faith tingling in my fingertips as I connect with him and everyone around me in this other dimension they have all gone into. But I can’t. I feel silly and self-conscious. Insincere and unconfident. I want to ask Kerry to teach me, but I don’t want to disturb her. Plus she’s been sending out hostile signals for the past half an hour, ever since we talked about Gordon. Right now, her mind is somewhere else.
I lower my arms and I push my way gently through the crowd to the toilets. People smile as I brush past them, but hardly anyone opens their eyes. I lock myself in a cubicle and wait until it’s all over. I feel a bit ridiculous and glad I didn’t wear anything more fancy.
An hour and a half later the music has stopped. Quite a few people have come into the toilets, knocked on my cubicle door to ask if whoever is in here is OK, and I have shouted back ‘food poisoning’ far too many times. It’s time to brave the outside world again, but I feel so silly. Checking my face for dislodged make-up, I wash my hands and make my way back out to the main hall. There are around half the people in there, and in the middle I see Gordon, his band mates and Kerry all chatting with bottles of beer. I’m certain I have the indentation of a toilet seat on my bum and thighs from sitting on it for so long. Thank God for clothes.
‘There you are!’ says Kerry, cheerily. She’s definitely changed her tune. For some reason this annoys me.
‘You were so great,’ I say, looking to Gordon.
‘You’re here? I was looking for you but couldn’t see you,’ he says, but I am not sure I believe him. When I saw him on stage he only looked up.
‘I thought you’d left.’ Kerry seems friendly now. I can’t work out why she’s changed moods so quickly. Maybe she’s got her period or something.
‘No, I didn’t leave. I just went closer to the front. I was down there, by the stage, about two from the front. It was brilliant,’ I lie.
‘I knew you would get it it,’ says Gordon. ‘You are the kind of person wh—’
‘Does anyone want to come to the pub?’ Kerry says, cutting through him. ‘It’s only 10 p.m. We could get a few in before last orders?’
‘Not me,’ says Gordon. ‘I’m done after all that singing. Do you need a lift home, Flo?’
‘Aren’t you coming to the pub, Flo?’ Kerry sounds like she really wants me to come. What is up with her?
‘Well … ’
‘Flo looks like she needs some quiet time,’ says Gordon, looking right into my eyes.
Oh my God, it’s so obvious that he fancies me. I pray my face doesn’t change colour and just say, ‘Thanks, that would be great.’
I hug Kerry goodbye, but she’s back to being a bit frosty. ‘See you at church in the morning?’ I ask.
She half nods, half shrugs and turns back to the group quickly.
Leaving me and Gordon alone together.
Driving along in Gordon’s car he plays a tape of his own band, and sings along with a song that he wrote. It’s one where the chorus manages to rhyme the word might with Christ. It isn’t very good. He turns down the volume to speak to me. ‘Thanks for coming tonight, Flo. It means a lot to me that you were there.’
‘It does?’ I say, wishing I had just said thank you. ‘It does?’ sounds so pathetic and under-confident.
‘Yes, it does. To see that you are serious about worship. It’s not just for Sunday church services and a weekly Bible meeting. It’s for all days, with all people. The band gives us a new way to pray, a more youthful connection with God. I feel so close to him when I am on stage singing these songs.’
‘Everyone was really into it,’ I say, unsure of what the right thing to say is. I want to impress him, and make him feel like I understood tonight. Even though I spent most of it pretending to have diarrhoea in the toilet. ‘It’s a different thing, though, isn’t it? When the band and the audience are all singing about the same person. Like when you hear a song usually, like, I dunno, when Toni Braxton sings ‘Unbreak My Heart’, she has a picture of someone in her head that she wrote the song about and is singing it to. When people listen to it some of them have a person that they can think about too, but some people don’t. It doesn’t mean they can’t enjoy the song, but it doesn’t mean as much to them as it does to the people who can visualise something. But with your music, on a night like tonight, everyone is thinking about the same person, Christ, so everyone is involved with what you are singing. You, I mean, we were all sharing the exact same experience,’ I say, wishing I would just shut up.
‘Flo, you are so right. That was spot on. I knew you would see it.’
We drive up the road to my house. ‘This is me,’ I say, and he slows down. I undo my seatbelt slowly, not really knowing if I am supposed to get out or stay put. Will we kiss?
He turns off the engine and shifts to face me.
‘I can take you further into faith than you ever imagined, Flo,’ he says, looking me right in the eye. I wonder if this is meant as a euphemism, and hope a kiss is on its way. ‘I think God has asked me to embrace you.’
‘He has?’ I say, shyly. ‘Embrace me, then?’
I reach my arms across to his seat and try to hug him, but his arms don’t move. He just lets my head rest on his chest and he pats it. ‘There, there,’ he says.
There, there?
I look up at him. Maybe he’s being gentlemanly and respectful. Should I show him that I want him by kissing him first? My lips are underneath his – it’s obvious what I want. And then he does – he kisses me. Just off my mouth and no tongues, but it was still a kiss. Then he pushes me gently back over to my side of the car. Was that good? I really can’t tell, but I want to say all of the right things, so I lie.
‘That made my fingers tingle,’ I say, hoping he wants to do it again, this time properly.
He smiles. ‘I know that feeling well. It’s how I feel when I sing my songs to God. It’s like he runs through me.’
I want to tell him that God had nothing to do with it, but I think better of it. I don’t want to ruin the moment, or to be rude. I liked the kiss, kind of. It was better than no kiss. And in a way I much preferred it to the horrid, sloppy, beer-smelling snogs I have had in The Monkey on the nights when I have got so drunk I thought I might as well.
‘Goodnight, Flo,’ he says.
‘Goodnight, Gordon.’
I get out of the car, and before he sets off he pushes in his tape again and turns up the volume. I can hear him singing along to it as his car drives out of sight.
It wasn’t exactly a passionate encounter, but it’s a start.
Is it possible that I, Flo forever-the-virgin Parrot, have a boyfriend?
As I walk into the house I hear noises coming from the kitchen. Mum is still up and she obviously isn’t alone. Her date must still be here. Usually I do everything I can to avoid anything to do with her love life, but her laughter stops me going upstairs. Because my mum never laughs, at least not like she is now. It’s not the fake, sexually charged laughter I have heard her do around boyfriends before, but more natural-sounding.
‘Mum?’ I say, opening the door.
‘Flo, you’re home.’ She looks a bit flushed. ‘This is Arthur.’
Usually when meeting Mum’s blokes I brace myself to have either my hand shaken or my cheek slobbed on, but when I look at Arthur, I am happy to have my hand shaken by him. He is tall, with dark brown hair, small glasses and a nice suit.
‘Hello, Flo,’ he says. ‘Lovely to meet you. Are you desperate to get to bed or would you like to join us for a glass of wine?’
Mum and I both look at each other strangely. Us? Have a glass of wine together? That’s the weirdest thing I have ever heard. But before I have the chance to say no he has poured me one and put it in my hand. I then do something I thought I would never do – I sit up until the early hours of the morning laughing and joking with my mother and her really nice new boyfriend.
I call my boss at about 5 p.m. to say I have been feeling sick all day, and I can’t work tonight. He says, ‘Sorry to hear that,’ but in an annoyed voice, which means he knows I am lying, but nothing is going to stop me from going to see Dean’s play.
I drive into the youth theatre car park and see Meg and Dean standing outside smoking. I quickly put some make-up on using my rear-view mirror. I’m wearing blue jeans with a light blue jumper, a black bomber jacket and Converse boots. I think I look quite cool. Getting out of my car I am careful to look like I don’t care if Dean is watching, but I do, I do – I want him to be watching me so much. As I walk over to them my heart is pounding, but I am determined to be confident and not show my nerves. I have been such a nervous idiot around so many boys, but this time I am not doing it. Cool, I am going to be cool.
‘Hi guys, you all right?’ I say, like I have been coming to plays on Saturday nights for years.
‘Renée, you came,’ says Meg, in her usual laid-back and slightly stoned way. ‘This is Dean. You guys haven’t met properly yet, have you?’
Rather than shake my hand, Dean kisses me softly on the cheek. ‘I feel like I know you,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen you around for years.’
Flattered, I feel I should reciprocate. ‘Me too. I love your work. I read the piece you wrote in the Globe about the controversial right turn up in Torteval. I thought it was really great.’
‘Ha! That’s very kind. But I hardly get to flex my creative muscles in the Globe. Guernsey is hardly the epicentre of gripping news stories. Tonight, though, you’ll get to see some of my real work, the stuff that makes me tick. You should go in – curtain up in five. I’ll see you two afterwards.’
‘He’s so nice,’ I say to Meg as we take our seats.
‘Yup, and such a talented writer. His stuff is really deep.’ The lights go down and two actors come on. They are half dressed and look intense. Meg turns to me and smiles as if I am about to experience something wonderful. I see Dean sitting down in the front row. He must have seen this a thousand times, if he wrote it. I am excited. Coming to the theatre feels so grown-up.
I spend the next hour and a half trying to follow what’s going on, but I just don’t get it. Two men, speaking in low monotone voices, using modern language but really long and complicated words that nobody in real life would ever use. The basic plot is that one of the men slept with the other man’s wife, and that they are trying to work out who should have her. In the end they decide they both should but just not let on to her that they know. I didn’t realise it was possible to feel so sorry for a fictional character that wasn’t even in the play. That poor wife. When the lights go up, the thirty-two (I counted) people in the audience clap, and we go outside. Dean is already at the door and people are congratulating him as they leave.
‘That was so great,’ drawls Meg, hugging him languidly.
‘Thanks, babe.’ Dean looks to me. ‘What did you think, Renée?’ he asks.
‘It was really interesting,’ I reply, taking note from Aunty Jo, who told me that if you can’t think of anything to say about an artist’s work, you should always just say it was ‘interesting’.
Dean obviously likes what I said. He smiles and I see his eyes start to wander down my body. I try not to look too ecstatic about that. Which I am.
‘Shall we go into town?’ suggests Meg, who seems oblivious to the electricity between me and Dean. ‘I think you probably want to get drunk, don’t you, Dean?’
‘I certainly do. The Ship and Crown?’
‘Oh no, I can’t go there tonight,’ I say quickly. ‘I am supposed to be working and I did a sicky. I probably shouldn’t go into town at all. If I get spotted I’ll lose my job. You guys go.’
Dean frowns.
‘I tell you what, fuck The Ship. Why don’t you two come back to mine? I have loads of booze, and some other treats. It’ll be fun.’
A very high-pitched and annoyingly girly squeal is released into my brain, but I manage to contain it and just say, ‘Cool. Sounds great!’
‘And I think we should go in your car, Renée. Looks like a laugh.’
We all pile in. Dean in the front, Meg in the back. Dean laughs at the way I have to pour anti-freeze into the engine before we can leave, and I warn them that there is a good chance they’ll have to bump-start me if the engine doesn’t start. But it’s OK. My little car is on my side for once.
‘I live in the Canishers,’ he says, ‘just above The Royal Hotel. On the far side of town. There should be plenty of parking down there.’ He pushes in the tape that’s currently poking out of my stereo and I prepare to cringe, but Dean laughs when he realises it’s the Spice Girls.
‘GIRL POWER!’ I shout, though neither of them shout it back. I must remember that I can’t act the way I do with Flo with everyone else.
When we arrive at Dean’s flat it is obvious that Meg is a regular there. She goes straight into the kitchen to get some drinks from the fridge. As she clanks around getting glasses, Dean and I are left alone in the living room.
‘So I liked your dance the other night. They were some moves you were throwing.’
‘It was the routine Madonna does in the ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ video. I wanted to put on a bit of a show for you.’ I laugh, letting him know I don’t take myself at all seriously.
‘Well, you succeeded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that.’
‘Really? I saw you at the bar with Meg and thought you guys were together.’
Dean shakes his head.
‘No, we haven’t been together for a long time. Just friends.’
Meg comes in with three glasses and a bottle of white wine. I am turning things over in my head. Dean and Meg are exes? I wonder what Dean means by ‘a long time’? Why has Meg never mentioned it? I take a glass of wine from Meg and decide not to bring it up right now. I can’t be jealous yet – nothing has even happened between us.
‘Where’s the gear?’ Meg asks Dean.
‘You know where it is. It’s where it always is.’ She goes over to a little wooden box on the mantelpiece and gets out a big bag of weed.
Dean’s flat is small. It’s nice, though – the few things he has are interesting. A glass coffee table that has thick, hand-made wooden legs. A deep-green sofa, loads and loads of books on shelves around the room and tons of VHS along the skirting boards. There are photos of him and various people all over the walls – it is very obvious that he is well travelled.
‘You live on your own?’ I ask him.
‘Essentially, yes,’ he answers. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’ We leave Meg skinning up on the sofa; she doesn’t even look up when we leave the room. Down a short corridor he shows me his bathroom and then leads me into his bedroom. The bed is very low, a wooden frame that slightly elevates a double mattress from the floor, but not by much. It smells of essential oils, cedar and neroli, I think. I recognise them from the selections Flo has given me as birthday and Christmas presents. She gets a good staff discount from Smellies.
‘Here, sit here,’ says Dean, sitting down on his bed and patting the spot next to him. I feel slightly odd about the fact we left Meg in the living room, but she looked pretty happy, just her and her weed. I sit down next to him. I feel inexplicably horny. He is so fit. Dark hair, nice deep-brown eyes, big eyebrows, a good nose, thick lips, strong jaw. Handsome. Interesting. Arty. Writery. He oozes experience and knowledge. He makes me want to know stuff, about everything.
‘I’d like to see those later,’ he says, pointing at my breasts. From anyone else this would have sounded like the sleaziest line of all time. Somehow from him, it just sounds sexy.
‘What about now?’ I catch myself saying in a whisper. I don’t want him to see me as too young. I am eighteen – I am an adult. I need to act like one now.
The light is off in the bedroom, but the hall light gives enough that my skin will look nice.
‘What about Meg?’ I say as I start to take off my top.
‘Don’t worry about her. Meg’s happy sitting in there for hours just smoking and reading my books. She’s fine.’
My jumper is now on my lap. Dean wets his lips.
‘I knew they’d be good,’ he says, stroking my left boob with his hand. Then he leans forward and licks my nipple. The lick turns into a suck, and then his teeth gently nibble it. Then he nibbles a bit too hard and I jump from the pain.
‘Gently, please,’ I say, and he goes to lick the other one.
It’s hard to tell guys when they do something you don’t like, but I have learned that you have to. Or they just don’t know. Imagine a world full of men who have never been told by women about the things we don’t like? It would be awful. So we have to tell them – it’s our duty. It feels good that I am grown-up enough to say it to someone like Dean.
‘Dean?’ comes Meg’s voice from the living room. ‘Dean, do you want some of this?’
‘Yes babe,’ he shouts back, then whispers to me, ‘Stay here tonight,’ before he gets up and heads back into the living room, leaving me on the bed.
I pull my jumper back on and take the opportunity to use his bathroom, which is right opposite the bedroom in the narrow hall. It’s pretty clean, for a guy’s bathroom. There are quite a few products – shaving foam, aftershave, a selection of deodorants. His toothbrush is in its holder and the lid of the toothpaste is on. I open a little cupboard to the right of the sink, just to see what else he likes to spray himself with, but amongst an impressive selection of aftershaves is a bottle of women’s deodorant, some mascara and a box of tampons.
Meg’s? Who else’s could they be?
‘He isn’t your boyfriend, Renée,’ I say at my reflection. ‘Stay calm.’
I have a wee, and head back into the living room.
‘What the fuck?’ are my first words when I see their faces up against each other’s. Kissing. So blatantly. How was I so … And then I see the jet of smoke shooting from Meg’s mouth. She’s giving him a blow back. I feel like a total fool. ‘Sorry, I thought you were … ’
‘Come and sit here,’ says Dean, patting the sofa next to him. It’s obvious that he and Meg are both so stoned they haven’t even noticed what I said. He passes me the spliff.
I take it, but I know it’s probably a bad idea. I haven’t smoked much pot but when I have I’ve spun out, felt sick, had what I have come to know as a ‘whitey’. It’s when the world stops spinning and you spin instead, and then everything stops, and you can’t even move. So I do that, then I go into a coma. It’s nothing dangerous, just a heavy drug-induced sleep, but I am always really jealous of the people who smoke loads and get the giggles, or do what Meg seems to do and get cleverer and cleverer the more she smokes. Regardless of my experience, I take the spliff. After one drag, I know it was a bad idea. Everything goes hazy. I pass out.
My eyelids can barely block the light of the morning. It feels like a torch is being shone right into my face. Before I open my eyes I assess myself. I am lying down, I am under a cover. I don’t have socks on. As I move I feel that the duvet is directly on my skin. My hands reveal I have my bra and knickers on but nothing else. My eyes ping open. Where am I?
I’m in Dean’s bedroom, in his bed, and he is asleep next to me. His back is facing me. It’s a nice back, smooth. There is a tattoo on his left shoulder – it looks like a Chinese symbol or something like that. His boxer shorts are Calvin Klein. He looks nice, but this is so weird. I have been in bed with boys I don’t know before, but at least I remembered getting into bed with them. I don’t even know if we had sex or not, but I have my pants on so I presume not. I try to get out of bed quietly. I don’t want to wake him and I really need the loo.
‘Good morning, sleepy head,’ he says, turning over.
Damn it!
‘Morning,’ I say, sitting on the edge of his bed. ‘It goes without saying I can’t remember anything.’
He laughs. ‘Don’t worry, you were perfectly dignified. You just fell asleep after about four drags. It’s Meg’s fault, she packs so much in when she skins up. I carried you to bed at about midnight. I took off your clothes, but I didn’t think you would appreciate me stripping you naked.’
I try not to dwell on the thought of being carried. I hope I wasn’t too heavy.
‘Thank you,’ I say, meaning it. A lot of boys wouldn’t have missed an opportunity like that. I feel a little less ashamed knowing that I wasn’t spreadeagled in front of him.
‘I’m just going to pop to the loo,’ I say, getting up and slipping on his T-shirt.
‘Don’t be long. I am not such a good boy when the girl I fancy is awake.’
In the bathroom I feel very aware that he is still lying only feet away from where the toilet is and that the flat is silent. I am desperate for a poo. I run the cold tap, lay a few sheets of loo roll in the toilet and sit down, leaning forward so I can reach the running water. I flap my hand under the tap so it sounds like I am washing my hands and hope to God I manage to do this without any embarrassing noises.
I get through it and feel oddly proud of myself. I have never actually spent the night at a boy’s house before. An entirely plop-free poo was surprisingly easy to achieve. It’s a skill I feel glad I have acquired. After a quick spray of the women’s deodorant I found in the cupboard last night, I think I dealt with that really well. When I come back into the bedroom, Meg is sitting on his bed. I’m relieved to see that she’s wearing a big dressing gown that comes down to her ankles. It must be Dean’s, but at least she’s not naked.
‘Morning,’ she says, as if her being there is completely normal. Then she runs into the bathroom with a towel and I take it upon myself to close the bedroom door.
‘Meg stayed, then?’ I ask him, trying not to sound jealous.
‘Yeah, she stays a lot. Freshened up?’ he asks, moving the conversation on too quickly.
‘Yup,’ I say as I get back into bed and under the covers. I shiver a little as my body gets back to the temperature it was more happy with. Dean’s hands are on me straight away.
‘I can have you now that you are awake,’ he says, laughing. He lifts up my T-shirt and I wriggle out of it, even though the daylight is so bright, and his curtains are thin. I tell myself to be grown-up about my body, and not insecure. But I don’t like my white flesh in raw daylight, the way all of my imperfections glow.
‘I love stretch marks,’ he says, running his hand over my hip. I want to scream and tell him to get off. I hate them so much. But here we are, and I have no choice but for him to see them. I can either get all insecure about it, or take what he says as what he means.
‘What do you like about them?’ I ask, uncomfortably.
‘What they do to the skin. How they make it feel so soft and delicate. A symbol of how you have grown. Like the rings of a tree. Your own private markings, unique to you. Nature’s own tattoo.’
‘Anyone’d know you were a writer,’ I tell him, unable to keep the wariness out of my voice. ‘That was pretty convincing.’
Come on, Renée, I think to myself. Your body could be worse. Relax.
‘Renée. I have seen you around for so long, and I always thought how sexy you are,’ he says. ‘I came into The Ship once and you were wearing this low-cut black top and your jeans. Every time you turned around I would look at your bum. You didn’t even know I was watching you.’
‘I knew,’ I say. ‘I always knew. I was watching you too.’
‘Can I make love to you?’ he says softly, even though he is tugging at my knickers. Relaxed as I have convinced myself to feel, it takes every shred of will power I have not to burst out laughing. No one has ever said ‘make love’ to me before. Do people really say that? I thought it was just in the movies. I guess this is what happens when you sleep with people in their twenties. I embrace it, it’s kind of sexy, once you get over the shock of it. So I tell him he can.
We start slowly. Instantly I realise how unsensual the sex I have had before has been. Dean takes his time, he seems to understand every part of me already. Like he’s seen it before. He asks me what I want, and I am brave enough to tell him, even though it feels embarrassing to ask for it out loud. He tells me what he likes too – he likes to be in my mouth. He makes noises that make me feel good about what I’m doing. He is firm with me but not rough. His penis tastes faintly of soap.
‘Wow,’ I say when we are done. ‘Just. Wow.’
‘You liked that?’
‘Liked it? I, I … ’ I try not to sound too experienced. Even though I have slept with a few people now, I realise I have certainly never ‘made love’.
‘I loved it,’ is all I can think of to say.
‘Plenty more where that came from,’ he tells me. ‘Open the window there, will you? It’s got a bit stuffy in here.’
‘Sure,’ I say, throwing aside the covers. I don’t even think about the fact that I am naked and that I have to stand up in front of him, I just do it, I stand up, and with that comes a fart noise so loud that I fall to my knees on the floor.
‘IT WAS MY VAGINA, NOT MY BUM!’ are the first words that fly from my lips. Then I grab a pillow and put it over my face as I press my head into the floor. ‘I don’t know where that came from. I’m so sorry.’
I am so mortified. A fanny fart? That has never happened to me before – not an unintentional one anyway. I used to make Mum laugh by doing them on purpose when I was about five, but Pop used to get so angry that Mum told me I should probably stop doing them and think of some other jokes. This one was so loud, so powerful. The kind of fart you do when you have been having to hold one in for hours. The volume and the speed at which it shot out of me was such a shock. Why was there no warning?
‘Renée?’ he says to the pillow covering my head. ‘It’s OK.’
‘But it isn’t OK. It is everything but OK.’ I just almost took off from an explosion from my own vagina. Nothing about this is OK.
‘Seriously, get over it. I’m the one who pumped you full of air.’
This is true. It wasn’t like that would have happened if he hadn’t ‘made love’ to me. I remain still for a few more seconds. My bum facing up, my face down, too scared to move in case my fanny is plotting more evil.
‘Seriously, Renée, just open the window. Sex is all about weird noises and smells. I don’t care about that stuff. All I care about is that we do it.’
Smells? I daren’t even ask what he means by that.
‘Has anyone ever fanny farted in front of you before?’ I ask, then I quickly add, ‘Actually, please don’t answer that.’
Dean laughs.
‘I’ll go make us some tea. Get back into bed.’
I wait until he has left the room before I move. Standing up, I jog up and down to get any last puffs of air out and I put on my underwear and clothes. I grab my bag, which is by the bed, and leave the bedroom.
‘I actually have to go,’ I tell him and Meg, who are both in the kitchen. She is wearing one of his T-shirts and her pants. It feels weird.
‘What, no tea?’ he asks, looking genuinely surprised.
‘No, I promised my aunty I would help her with some things at home. I do have to go. Thanks for such a great night, and congratulations on the play. It really was great.’
‘Ahhh, is she all embarrassed about her farty sound?’ Dean says, coming over to comfort me.
‘Dean? Please, Meg will hear you.’
‘She doesn’t care about that stuff. Come on, babe, don’t go. We can stay in bed all day?’
‘No, I really do have to go. But thanks, I had fun,’ I say, walking to the front door.
‘All right. I suppose I’d better crack on with the piece I have to write anyway,’ Dean says.
‘Anything interesting?’ I ask, genuinely curious.
‘Not really. Some idiot stole the skeleton from the science lab at Tudor Falls. The paper has asked me to do a piece on immature school antics.’
I do a good job of keeping my expression totally blank as I say, ‘That’s kind of funny.’ I am hoping Meg and Dean will see it the same way.
‘Yeah, funny if you think stealing something that educates children is a good thing.’
That wipes the smile off my face.
‘Just kidding,’ Dean smiles. ‘It’s hilarious, but whoever did it is going to be in a lot of shit when they’re caught. Trespassing and theft? That’s pretty bad.’
Shit. I smile tightly, hoping he’s exaggerating, and then spot a pen on the table.
‘I’ll give you my number then?’ I suggest, writing it down on the corner of an Indian takeaway menu. ‘Call me, if you like,’ I say as casually as I can. ‘I’d like that.’ I go over and give him an awkward kiss goodbye. ‘See you at school, Meg.’
‘Bye, babe,’ says Meg.
I leave, wondering what the two of them will do now. Will they spend the day together? Will he tell her about my fanny fart? Boys talk, I know that much. Bugger it, I just have to suck it up.
Bad choice of words.
‘So did you two kiss?’ asks Kerry as soon as we get to church. She slips in next to me on my regular pew. I wonder if I should tell her or not. Will it cause a weird atmosphere on Thursday nights? But I am in church, I can’t lie in here.
‘Yes, but just a little one,’ I tell her. I can’t wipe the big stupid smile off my face.
‘So is Gordon your boyfriend now?’
‘No. I mean, we only kissed once. But maybe. I think I would like that. He is great, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose so.’ Kelly turns to face forward and I see something sag a bit in her expression.
The vicar comes in, and Kerry focuses on him in such a way that I can tell she doesn’t want the conversation to carry on. I subtly scan the church with my eyes looking for Gordon, bearing in mind that he could be behind me. Renée says you should always behave like the boy you fancy is watching you, in case he is. I know when she has a crush on someone because everything she does is like a performance. I could never be quite like that, but I do pull my tummy in and stick my neck out so I don’t have a double chin, just in case.
Then I see the back of Gordon’s head. He is about four rows in front of me with his head down. He is praying. I think there is a good chance that he is always praying. I know that most people in the church are thinking about God while they are here, but Gordon always looks like his mind has left his body and he is actually with God somewhere. Sitting on a cloud, having a chat. He is so connected to him, I wonder if I will ever get like that. I think I’d like to, I think it would probably be quite nice. To get off earth for a bit and go float around somewhere else chatting away to the Lord.
At the end of the service Kerry and I go outside, but rather than talk to me she walks off with Matt. I don’t know what I keep doing to offend her, but I need to try to sort it out. There’s a tap on my shoulder.
‘Flo.’ It’s Gordon. ‘You get to sleep all right after I dropped you home?’
I want to tell him the truth. That I lay awake for hours thinking about him, that I fancy the pants off him, that I wished he had kissed me properly. But I don’t, of course. I tell him I got to sleep just fine.
‘What are you doing now?’ he asks. I presume he wants to do something so I tell him, ‘Nothing,’ but then he says he is going to play an acoustic set to the parents and kids at Sunday school, and I wish I had made up something exciting that I was doing too. Even though there is nothing. He scrunches up his eyes a bit as he looks over my shoulder. I think he might be seeing who is about before he gives me a proper kiss, but instead he says, ‘Isn’t that your friend?’
When I turn I see the unmistakable silhouette of Renée walking down the high street towards us. What is she doing out and about in town this early on a Sunday morning? She has the most spectacular bed hair, and black make-up is smudged under her eyes.
‘Is she talking to herself?’ remarks Gordon.
‘Renée!’ I call. She looks up and is obviously as surprised to see me as I am her.
‘Flo, what are you doing in town?’ she says, coming closer. ‘Oh my God, did you pull?’
I feel myself recoil as she says it. She couldn’t have picked a worse time to say something like that. Without looking at Gordon, I say, ‘No, of course not. I’ve been to church. This is Gordon, my, er, friend from church.’ My heart thumps with relief that I managed to stop myself saying boyfriend.
‘I thought it might be your boyfriend,’ Renée says, with that look in her eyes that tells me she is winding me up.
‘No. Friend,’ I say firmly. ‘This is my friend Gordon.’ My face explodes with blood vessels and I turn the most fluorescent shade of pink imaginable.
‘Flo, you’re blushing,’ says Renée, teasingly.
I screw my lips up and tilt my head to ask her to please stop embarrassing me. When people comment on my blushing it just gets worse.
‘Ah, you’re the one who’s into woodwork?’ says Gordon. I shake my head at Renée, begging her not to react. ‘God bless you, I have heard a lot about you,’ he goes on, not really taking any part in mine and Renée’s exchange.
‘God bless you too,’ she says back, sarcastically.
‘Anyway, didn’t you have to get off?’ I say to Gordon, needing this moment to end.
‘Yes, see you later.’ He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Bye bye,’ he says, as he walks away.
‘Bye bye,’ Renée mimics. ‘Is he even human?’ she asks, when he is out of ear shot.
‘Yes, he is human. And he’s really nice actually. Really interesting.’
‘Flo, he talks like he swallowed a Bible.’
‘All he said was “God bless”.’
‘I know! Who says that under the age of fifty?’
‘OK, well, I like him. Really like him.’ I can’t hide my disappointment at how mean she is being.
‘Oh Flo, I’m sorry. Come on, I’m starving. Let’s go for breakfast and you can tell me all about Bible Boy.’
‘RENÉE!’
She throws her arms around me and leads me back up the high street. She smells weird.
‘ … And then he kissed me,’ I tell her, taking a bite of my egg sandwich.
‘Hang on, back up the truck. There is a rock band that sings songs just about Jesus?’ she asks.
‘Yes. It’s Gordon’s band. They’re called The Trinity. They had a gig at St James. It was really good.’
‘Yeah?’ She orders some ketchup and doesn’t look up at me before she starts to speak again.
‘So, you’re serious about all this God shit then, are you?’
‘It’s not shit, Renée. I didn’t invent Christianity, it’s not some random fad a few people have told me about. It’s religion, faith – it’s always been a part of our lives in some way. I just haven’t chosen to embrace it until now.’
‘What is it you like about it?’ she says, sounding totally unconvinced.
‘It gives me something to believe in. It takes the pressure off me. It gives me guidance, when I am doubting how I should behave. It makes me feel like Dad is within my reach, like I am still connected to him in some way. It makes me feel part of a community, a group of people I can be myself with. But mostly it’s made me feel less guilty, less self-consumed. Less like I am all I have in the entire world and like when the time comes that I leave home and leave this island I won’t be completely on my own. It just makes me feel better, Renée. Is that so bad?’
‘I guess not.’
Her passive tone infuriates me. Why is her way OK, but my way is not?
‘So who were you with last night then?’ I ask. Let’s hear how she is living her life, if her way is so much better.
‘I pulled that guy, Dean, the writer. The one we saw in The Monkey, you know?’
‘Yeah, I know. You’ve fancied him for ages.’
‘Yup, and we got on really well. I just left his before I bumped into you.’
‘Did you have sex?’
‘Of course we had sex, Flo. That’s what normal people do when they pull and stay the night together.’
‘Was it good sex?’
‘Amazing.’
She goes quiet. She always does when we talk about sex. She thinks I will mention the fact she slept with my brother, but I will never mention that ever again. I made that decision at the time. But she isn’t telling me something, I know.
‘Are you all right, Renée?’ I press. ‘Did something happen?’
She doesn’t say anything, but I know she is thinking about whatever it is.
‘Flo?’ she asks, after a few minutes. ‘You know how I get really embarrassed buying tampons?’
‘Yeah. For someone as confident as you I find it really bizarre.’
‘Well, I think I have another fear.’ She puts down her knife and fork and takes a gulp of orange juice. ‘Would you mind going to Boots and getting me the morning-after pill?’
She has to be joking.
I have had to wait until today, Monday, to get the morning-after pill as everywhere was shut yesterday. So in our lunch hour we drive down to town in Flo’s car. Apparently you have seventy-two hours before it’s ineffective. I know I should have made Dean put on a condom, but he didn’t mention it and I didn’t want to ruin the moment. He is so experienced I did think he might do the withdrawal technique, but he didn’t. Anyway, it’s fine. Loads of people take the morning-after pill – the only annoying part is that you have to go into the chemist and ask for it. Apparently they ask you loads of questions and that kind of thing really freaks me out. I have still never, at the age of eighteen, bought a packet of tampons myself. Aunty Jo gets them for me and leaves them in the bathroom downstairs. We never talk about it – she just keeps the supply topped up and I help myself. I know I will have to do it one day, but until then I am putting it off. Flo, on the other hand, is good at this stuff.
‘They will probably ask you when you had sex, if he was your boyfriend and if you used a condom,’ I tell Flo. I know this because I overheard two girls in the toilets talking about what happened to them when they needed it last term. ‘Tell them it was yesterday morning, that you are in a long-term relationship and that the condom broke, OK?’
‘Oh Renée, do it yourself. This is crazy,’ she says. I agree, it’s crazy, but I am who I am.
‘Please, Flo. It’s the one thing I can’t do. It makes me so embarrassed, I don’t know why. Please?’ I hold out thirty quid.
‘For God’s sake,’ she hisses, and snatches the money out of my hand and storms into Boots. I wait outside and light a fag.
After a few minutes, I see Meg walking up the high street.
‘Hey, Renée,’ she says, noticing me. ‘I was just on my way to Dean’s house. Wanna come?’
My heart plummets. He didn’t call last night, and I thought he might. Does he not want to see how I am? To say he had fun?
‘He invited you over?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I don’t bother waiting for an invitation. He is chilled about me being there.’
I really want to ask her what the deal is with that and why she is always at his place, and tell her how I think it’s a bit weird that she stayed there when he was in bed with me in the other room, when Flo comes out and pushes the thirty quid quite aggressively into my shoulder.
‘Sorry, Renée. I can’t tell lies,’ she says, looking a bit upset. ‘Get your own pills.’ Then she notices Meg and goes into slow motion. As pissed off as Flo is, she obviously feels terrible for sharing my secret with someone she doesn’t even know. ‘Shit, sorry,’ she says, looking at me.
‘You need the morning-after pill?’ says Meg, twigging. ‘Don’t bother with the thirty quid. Here.’ She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pack of contraceptive pills. ‘Just take all of these. I used to do it all the time before I went on the pill. A whole month’s worth of pills is the same as the morning-after pill. You might feel a bit sick, but it works. I don’t have a baby, do I? Here, you can have these.’
‘Er … thanks,’ I say, taking the pills.
‘No problem. See you later?’
She walks off, slowly. Flo and I watch her until she is far enough away that she won’t hear us.
‘You know you can’t take those, don’t you?’ Flo says, frowning. ‘I don’t think it’s the same thing as the morning-after pill … ’
‘They’re better than nothing, though. I’d rather take these than have a kid. It will be fine, Meg said she used to do it all the time.’
‘Renée, I don’t think Meg knows what she –’
But before Flo has finished I have popped most of the pills into the palm of my hand and am preparing to swallow them.
‘I can’t watch this. You can get the bus back up to school,’ says Flo as she turns and walks towards the car park.
I don’t follow her. The last thing I want right now is a guilt trip about the way I live my life. I swallow the pills and start walking up towards school. Despite what Flo thinks, I’m sure Meg knows what she is talking about.
‘ … I think I am dying,’ I say to Aunty Jo as I am bent double in the phone box trying not to be sick.
‘Where are you?’
‘At the top of the Grange, in a phone box. I’m going to be so sick.’
‘Walk over to the medical practice. It’s just there up to the left, you know it. Go in there, ask to see someone and I will be there in ten.’
I pretty much crawl up to the doctor’s surgery. How could I have been so stupid to take all those pills? How could Meg have been so relaxed about it? Surely this happened to her too? I think all these things as I run behind a car in the surgery car park and puke up so hard I worry if my stomach is going to follow. I can see some undigested pills in my sick. By the time Aunty Jo’s car pulls up I am sitting on the step feeling a lot better. She sits down next to me. We can see Nana in the car, smiling and listening to the radio. I tell Aunty Jo what I did.
‘That was stupid,’ she tells me. But of course I already know that. ‘I think it’s probably about time you went on the pill, if you are sleeping with this guy, Dean.’
I have no idea if I am going out with Dean or not, but I think Aunty Jo is right.
‘Go in and make an appointment,’ she tells me. ‘You might get one now if you’re lucky. Nana and I can wait here for you.’
At reception, I ask if there are any appointments.
‘Do you want a male or a female doctor?’ the receptionist asks really loudly. I feel like everyone is looking at me, judging me, like they all know I had unprotected sex.
‘Female, please,’ I whisper.
‘Right. Well, Dr Burrington can see you now. We have had a cancellation.’
I go stiff.
‘Dr Burrington? Is there anyone else?’
‘Not female, I’m afraid. Take a seat, please. She won’t be long.’
I sit in the waiting area. There is an old man with warts all over his nose, a pregnant woman who looks like she is about to burst and a young girl in a Tudor Falls uniform with her mum. I would run away, but I think I’m going to puke again.
I know Dr Burrington well. She is the doctor who looked after Mum the whole way through her illness. I haven’t seen her since I was a little girl, since Mum was dying. I feel seven years old again, but here I am about to ask her to put me on the pill.
Then she calls my name. Her voice catapults me back eleven years to the time I was listening at the door as she told Mum that she would do her best to make her as comfortable as she could during the ‘last few weeks’. Her face sends a flood of emotion through me that launches me forward until I find myself hugging her. I feel the eyes of the receptionist on me, wondering what the hell I think I am doing.
‘Come through, Renée,’ says Dr Burrington. ‘It’s lovely to see you after all these years.’
It isn’t long before I am talking at 100 miles an hour, trying to fill her in on the last eleven years. She knew bits and bobs; that Pop had died, and that Nell had moved to Spain and that I am now living with Aunty Jo.
‘Word travels on a small island like this,’ she says, ‘and I always ask people I know who know your family, just to keep updated. I was terribly fond of your mother.’
‘It’s so good to see you,’ I tell her. ‘Mum really liked you, I know she did.’ I realise that I’ve got tears coming, and I try to hold them back.
‘We were friends too, that’s for sure. She was a wonderful woman. You look just like her.’
That’s my favourite thing anyone ever says to me.
Dr Burrington looks at her watch. ‘Sorry, Renée. I have been so enjoying talking to you, but I have another appointment waiting.’ She smiles. ‘So, tell me, what am I seeing you for today?’
This is where I have to be brave. I think about Mum, and how she never knew me as a woman, but how I am one now. I am a woman. I am eighteen, I have sex and periods and boyfriends. I drive a car that I bought with my own money, I help take care of Nana now, I am doing A levels and soon I will be leaving Guernsey and going off to have my new adventures. I have to stop feeling like a little girl when it comes to my body.
‘I need the morning-after pill today, and I would like to go on the pill too,’ I tell Dr Burrington. ‘I had unprotected sex yesterday morning, and a friend told me to take a whole packet of contraceptive pills because I was too nervous to buy the morning-after pill. They made me sick, and now I am worried I might be pregnant.’
She smiles again, a reassuring smile, as if she has heard all this before.
‘If I had a pound for every girl your age who thinks that works, I would be much richer than I am. No one can keep twenty-plus pills down for long. When is your next period due?’ she asks.
‘Soon, like any day.’ I am surprised how easily I feel I can offer that information.
‘Well, the chances of you getting pregnant at this point in your cycle are unlikely, but still possible. I will give you the morning-after pill just in case. I’ll also give you six months’ worth of pills. We can see how you get on with those, all right?’
‘Thank you.’
Dr Burrington talks me through when and how I should take the pills. What to do if I miss one and what to do if I don’t want to have a period once month. It sounds great.
‘I’ll be so in control of my own body,’ I say.
She laughs. ‘There is a reason the pill changed women’s lives back in the sixties. It gave us a freedom that women never thought was possible, but you still have to be careful. This doesn’t protect from STDs, so my advice is that you still use condoms until you are in a serious relationship.’
‘All right,’ I say, knowing that I probably won’t.
I take the prescription and go to leave. As I get to the door I turn back to her.
‘Dr Burrington?’
‘Yes, Renée.’
‘Thanks for trying to save my mum. I was too young to thank you at the time, but I know now that you made those last few weeks as good as they could be.’
‘It was my privilege to be there for her, Renée. Come see me any time, OK?’
‘I will.’
I leave. As promised, Aunty Jo and Nana are waiting for me in the car outside.
‘All sorted?’ asks Aunty Jo.
‘All sorted,’ I tell her.
She drives me back to school.