Me Before You
Page 43
I walked back into the house without looking back. I sat in the living room, staring at the television while my parents followed me in, exchanged glances and pretended not to be watching me.
It was almost eleven minutes before I finally heard Mrs Traynor’s car start up and drive away.
My sister confronted me within five minutes of arriving home, thundering up the stairs and throwing open the door of my room.
‘Yes, do come in,’ I said. I was lying on the bed, my legs stretched up the wall, staring at the ceiling. I was wearing tights and blue sequinned shorts, which now looped unattractively around the tops of my legs.
Katrina stood in the doorway. ‘Is it true?’
‘That Dympna Grisham has finally thrown out her cheating no-good philandering husband and –’
‘Don’t be smart. About your job.’
I traced the pattern of the wallpaper with my big toe. ‘Yes, I handed in my notice. Yes, I know Mum and Dad are not too happy about it. Yes, yes, yes to whatever it is you’re going to throw at me.’
She closed the door carefully behind her, then sat down heavily on the end of my bed and swore lustily. ‘I don’t bloody believe you.’
She shoved my legs so that I slid down the wall, ending up almost lying on the bed. I pushed myself upright. ‘Ow.’
Her face was puce. ‘I don’t believe you. Mum’s in bits downstairs. Dad’s pretending not to be, but he is too. What are they supposed to do about money? You know Dad’s already panicking about work. Why the hell would you throw away a perfectly good job?’
‘Don’t lecture me, Treen.’
‘Well, someone’s got to! You’re never going to get anything like that money anywhere else. And how’s it going to look on your CV?’
‘Oh, don’t pretend this is about anything other than you and what you want.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t care what I do, as long as you can still go and resurrect your high-flying career. You just need me there propping up the family funds and providing the bloody childcare. Sod everyone else.’ I knew I sounded mean and nasty but I couldn’t help myself. It was my sister’s plight that had got us into this mess, after all. Years of resentment began to ooze out of me. ‘We’ve all got to stick at jobs we hate just so that little Katrina can fulfil her bloody ambitions.’
‘It is not about me.’
‘No?’
‘No, it’s about you not being able to stick at the one decent job you’ve been offered in months.’
‘You know nothing about my job, okay?’
‘I know it paid well above the minimum wage. Which is all I need to know about it.’
‘Not everything in life is about the money, you know.’
‘Yes? You go downstairs and tell Mum and Dad that.’
‘Don’t you dare bloody lecture me about money when you haven’t paid a sodding thing towards this house for years.’
‘You know I can’t afford much because of Thomas.’
I began to shove my sister out of the door. I can’t remember the last time I actually laid a hand on her, but right then I wanted to punch someone quite badly and I was afraid of what I would do if she stayed there in front of me. ‘Just piss off, Treen. Okay? Just piss off and leave me alone.’
I slammed the door in my sister’s face. And when I finally heard her walking slowly back down the stairs, I chose not to think about what she would say to my parents, about the way they would all treat this as further evidence of my catastrophic inability to do anything of any worth. I chose not to think about Syed at the Job Centre and how I would explain my reasons for leaving this most well paid of menial jobs. I chose not to think about the chicken factory and how somewhere, deep within its bowels, there was probably a set of plastic overalls, and a hygiene cap with my name still on it.
I lay back and I thought about Will. I thought about his anger and his sadness. I thought about what his mother had said – that I was one of the only people able to get through to him. I thought about him trying not to laugh at the ‘Molahonkey Song’ on a night when the snow drifted gold past the window. I thought about the warm skin and soft hair and hands of someone living, someone who was far cleverer and funnier than I would ever be and who still couldn’t see a better future than to obliterate himself. And finally, my head pressed into the pillow, I cried, because my life suddenly seemed so much darker and more complicated than I could ever have imagined, and I wished I could go back, back to when my biggest worry was whether Frank and I had ordered in enough Chelsea buns.
There was a knock on the door.
I blew my nose. ‘Piss off, Katrina.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I stared at the door.
Her voice was muffled, as if her lips were close up to the keyhole. ‘I’ve got wine. Look, let me in for God’s sake, or Mum will hear me. I’ve got two Bob the Builder mugs stuck up my jumper, and you know how she gets about us drinking upstairs.’
I climbed off the bed and opened the door.
She glanced up at my tear-stained face, and swiftly closed the bedroom door behind her. ‘Okay,’ she said, wrenching off the screw top and pouring me a mug of wine, ‘what really happened?’
I looked at my sister hard. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. Not Dad. Especially not Mum.’
Then I told her.
I had to tell someone
There were many ways in which I disliked my sister. A few years ago I could have shown you whole scribbled lists I had written on that very topic. I hated her for the fact that she got thick, straight hair, while mine breaks off if it grows beyond my shoulders. I hated her for the fact that you can never tell her anything that she doesn’t already know. I hated the fact that for my whole school career teachers insisted on telling me in hushed tones how bright she was, as if her brilliance wouldn’t mean that by default I lived in a permanent shadow. I hated her for the fact that at the age of twenty-six I lived in a box room in a semi-detached house just so she could have her illegitimate son in with her in the bigger bedroom. But every now and then I was very glad indeed that she was my sister.
It was almost eleven minutes before I finally heard Mrs Traynor’s car start up and drive away.
My sister confronted me within five minutes of arriving home, thundering up the stairs and throwing open the door of my room.
‘Yes, do come in,’ I said. I was lying on the bed, my legs stretched up the wall, staring at the ceiling. I was wearing tights and blue sequinned shorts, which now looped unattractively around the tops of my legs.
Katrina stood in the doorway. ‘Is it true?’
‘That Dympna Grisham has finally thrown out her cheating no-good philandering husband and –’
‘Don’t be smart. About your job.’
I traced the pattern of the wallpaper with my big toe. ‘Yes, I handed in my notice. Yes, I know Mum and Dad are not too happy about it. Yes, yes, yes to whatever it is you’re going to throw at me.’
She closed the door carefully behind her, then sat down heavily on the end of my bed and swore lustily. ‘I don’t bloody believe you.’
She shoved my legs so that I slid down the wall, ending up almost lying on the bed. I pushed myself upright. ‘Ow.’
Her face was puce. ‘I don’t believe you. Mum’s in bits downstairs. Dad’s pretending not to be, but he is too. What are they supposed to do about money? You know Dad’s already panicking about work. Why the hell would you throw away a perfectly good job?’
‘Don’t lecture me, Treen.’
‘Well, someone’s got to! You’re never going to get anything like that money anywhere else. And how’s it going to look on your CV?’
‘Oh, don’t pretend this is about anything other than you and what you want.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t care what I do, as long as you can still go and resurrect your high-flying career. You just need me there propping up the family funds and providing the bloody childcare. Sod everyone else.’ I knew I sounded mean and nasty but I couldn’t help myself. It was my sister’s plight that had got us into this mess, after all. Years of resentment began to ooze out of me. ‘We’ve all got to stick at jobs we hate just so that little Katrina can fulfil her bloody ambitions.’
‘It is not about me.’
‘No?’
‘No, it’s about you not being able to stick at the one decent job you’ve been offered in months.’
‘You know nothing about my job, okay?’
‘I know it paid well above the minimum wage. Which is all I need to know about it.’
‘Not everything in life is about the money, you know.’
‘Yes? You go downstairs and tell Mum and Dad that.’
‘Don’t you dare bloody lecture me about money when you haven’t paid a sodding thing towards this house for years.’
‘You know I can’t afford much because of Thomas.’
I began to shove my sister out of the door. I can’t remember the last time I actually laid a hand on her, but right then I wanted to punch someone quite badly and I was afraid of what I would do if she stayed there in front of me. ‘Just piss off, Treen. Okay? Just piss off and leave me alone.’
I slammed the door in my sister’s face. And when I finally heard her walking slowly back down the stairs, I chose not to think about what she would say to my parents, about the way they would all treat this as further evidence of my catastrophic inability to do anything of any worth. I chose not to think about Syed at the Job Centre and how I would explain my reasons for leaving this most well paid of menial jobs. I chose not to think about the chicken factory and how somewhere, deep within its bowels, there was probably a set of plastic overalls, and a hygiene cap with my name still on it.
I lay back and I thought about Will. I thought about his anger and his sadness. I thought about what his mother had said – that I was one of the only people able to get through to him. I thought about him trying not to laugh at the ‘Molahonkey Song’ on a night when the snow drifted gold past the window. I thought about the warm skin and soft hair and hands of someone living, someone who was far cleverer and funnier than I would ever be and who still couldn’t see a better future than to obliterate himself. And finally, my head pressed into the pillow, I cried, because my life suddenly seemed so much darker and more complicated than I could ever have imagined, and I wished I could go back, back to when my biggest worry was whether Frank and I had ordered in enough Chelsea buns.
There was a knock on the door.
I blew my nose. ‘Piss off, Katrina.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I stared at the door.
Her voice was muffled, as if her lips were close up to the keyhole. ‘I’ve got wine. Look, let me in for God’s sake, or Mum will hear me. I’ve got two Bob the Builder mugs stuck up my jumper, and you know how she gets about us drinking upstairs.’
I climbed off the bed and opened the door.
She glanced up at my tear-stained face, and swiftly closed the bedroom door behind her. ‘Okay,’ she said, wrenching off the screw top and pouring me a mug of wine, ‘what really happened?’
I looked at my sister hard. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. Not Dad. Especially not Mum.’
Then I told her.
I had to tell someone
There were many ways in which I disliked my sister. A few years ago I could have shown you whole scribbled lists I had written on that very topic. I hated her for the fact that she got thick, straight hair, while mine breaks off if it grows beyond my shoulders. I hated her for the fact that you can never tell her anything that she doesn’t already know. I hated the fact that for my whole school career teachers insisted on telling me in hushed tones how bright she was, as if her brilliance wouldn’t mean that by default I lived in a permanent shadow. I hated her for the fact that at the age of twenty-six I lived in a box room in a semi-detached house just so she could have her illegitimate son in with her in the bigger bedroom. But every now and then I was very glad indeed that she was my sister.
