of yourself?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the matter with you lately?”
“Nothing. God, will everyone stop worrying about me? I’m fine — No, I’m better than fine. I’m happy.”
“You were drinking . . .”
Mrs. Hickman told him, then. Must have heard Ed carrying me in. “It’s just the end of term, Dad. Everyone was out.”
Dad looks at the floor, shakes his head. “I can’t do this again.” But he’s talking to himself now. About her, I guess. And I’m sick of it. Of this ghost that stalks us. Unacknowledged. Unspoken. But we both see her, feel her.
I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. “Say it, Dad,” I demand. “Say I’m like her. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? But I’m not. I wish I bloody were. But I’m not.”
The words hang there, taunting him. I watch his face, struggling. See what he wants to say bubble up inside him. But he fights it back down.
Eventually his eyes meet mine again. But his face is set now. “Just get washed. They’ll be back for lunch at half past.”
I laugh. Quick and spiteful. “You are unbelievable.” I run up the last stairs, push past him, and slam my bedroom door. Textbook.
I hear him turn the radio on in the kitchen. Radio 2 again. Sunday love songs. I flick on the stereo and press play, not even checking what’s loaded. The Rolling Stones reverberate off the walls as I flop down on the bed. Staring at the ceiling. Craving sleep that I know I can’t have. I cover my face with my hands and feel a warm wetness. My nails have dug so hard they have drawn blood.
I’m sitting at the dressing table, staring at myself in the mirror. In trousers and a T-shirt now. Last night’s dress abandoned on the floor.
People used to say we could be sisters. Me and Mum. Mum would laugh and smile and kiss me. But they were just trying to be nice to her. Just saying the words she wanted to hear. I take after him. Quiet. Plain. A nobody.
Mum was beautiful. Not just like every kid thinks their mum is beautiful. I mean she was like Marilyn and Marlene and Madonna rolled into one. That wild blond hair, eyes an obscure shade of green. Like candied angelica or lime Starburst. Unique. My shooting star, Dad called her. And she was. Lighting up the village for nine years, then burning out.
I am like a low-energy lightbulb,
I think. I laugh at the image in my head. And what is Stella? A Catherine wheel? Maybe a disco ball.
Mum and Dad met in a pub in London. She kept the matchbook in her jewelery box. I have looked at the street on maps. Googled it a hundred times. This once-in-a-lifetime meeting place. The start of it all.
He was at art school in Chelsea, his great escape from Churchtown. She was doing modeling jobs for a hundred pounds and living on her mother’s inheritance, her father three years dead. She was in a pop video once. They still show it on MTV, Mum dancing in the background behind some cheesy eighties band with striped T-shirts and blow-dried glam hair.
She said it was love at first sight. Dad would get embarrassed, but I think it was the same for him. When she got pregnant, they thought they would move to France. Live in some stone farmhouse in the South. In lavender fields. Where all artists go, following the light. Him painting, her reading me Keats, teaching me “Frère Jacques.”
But then Dad’s father died. And Dad had to come back tothe farm he’d fought so hard to leave. Gran forbade Mum to follow him. Maybe that’s why she did. To spite her. And I was born on the farm in May. A Gemini. Same as her.
Dad says she was like nothing Churchtown had ever seen. She’d walk into the village in Gaultier skirts and stilettos, with me on one hip. She’d send me to school in mismatched wellies or a party dress because she’d lost my shoes or used my skirt to mop up spilled soup. I would get sent home, mortified. But Mum just laughed and let me watch cartoons and made cupcakes.
Those were the good days. On the bad days, I’d come home and
“Yes.”
“What’s the matter with you lately?”
“Nothing. God, will everyone stop worrying about me? I’m fine — No, I’m better than fine. I’m happy.”
“You were drinking . . .”
Mrs. Hickman told him, then. Must have heard Ed carrying me in. “It’s just the end of term, Dad. Everyone was out.”
Dad looks at the floor, shakes his head. “I can’t do this again.” But he’s talking to himself now. About her, I guess. And I’m sick of it. Of this ghost that stalks us. Unacknowledged. Unspoken. But we both see her, feel her.
I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. “Say it, Dad,” I demand. “Say I’m like her. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? But I’m not. I wish I bloody were. But I’m not.”
The words hang there, taunting him. I watch his face, struggling. See what he wants to say bubble up inside him. But he fights it back down.
Eventually his eyes meet mine again. But his face is set now. “Just get washed. They’ll be back for lunch at half past.”
I laugh. Quick and spiteful. “You are unbelievable.” I run up the last stairs, push past him, and slam my bedroom door. Textbook.
I hear him turn the radio on in the kitchen. Radio 2 again. Sunday love songs. I flick on the stereo and press play, not even checking what’s loaded. The Rolling Stones reverberate off the walls as I flop down on the bed. Staring at the ceiling. Craving sleep that I know I can’t have. I cover my face with my hands and feel a warm wetness. My nails have dug so hard they have drawn blood.
I’m sitting at the dressing table, staring at myself in the mirror. In trousers and a T-shirt now. Last night’s dress abandoned on the floor.
People used to say we could be sisters. Me and Mum. Mum would laugh and smile and kiss me. But they were just trying to be nice to her. Just saying the words she wanted to hear. I take after him. Quiet. Plain. A nobody.
Mum was beautiful. Not just like every kid thinks their mum is beautiful. I mean she was like Marilyn and Marlene and Madonna rolled into one. That wild blond hair, eyes an obscure shade of green. Like candied angelica or lime Starburst. Unique. My shooting star, Dad called her. And she was. Lighting up the village for nine years, then burning out.
I am like a low-energy lightbulb,
I think. I laugh at the image in my head. And what is Stella? A Catherine wheel? Maybe a disco ball.
Mum and Dad met in a pub in London. She kept the matchbook in her jewelery box. I have looked at the street on maps. Googled it a hundred times. This once-in-a-lifetime meeting place. The start of it all.
He was at art school in Chelsea, his great escape from Churchtown. She was doing modeling jobs for a hundred pounds and living on her mother’s inheritance, her father three years dead. She was in a pop video once. They still show it on MTV, Mum dancing in the background behind some cheesy eighties band with striped T-shirts and blow-dried glam hair.
She said it was love at first sight. Dad would get embarrassed, but I think it was the same for him. When she got pregnant, they thought they would move to France. Live in some stone farmhouse in the South. In lavender fields. Where all artists go, following the light. Him painting, her reading me Keats, teaching me “Frère Jacques.”
But then Dad’s father died. And Dad had to come back tothe farm he’d fought so hard to leave. Gran forbade Mum to follow him. Maybe that’s why she did. To spite her. And I was born on the farm in May. A Gemini. Same as her.
Dad says she was like nothing Churchtown had ever seen. She’d walk into the village in Gaultier skirts and stilettos, with me on one hip. She’d send me to school in mismatched wellies or a party dress because she’d lost my shoes or used my skirt to mop up spilled soup. I would get sent home, mortified. But Mum just laughed and let me watch cartoons and made cupcakes.
Those were the good days. On the bad days, I’d come home and
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