‘Imagine it, Zoey – being terrified all the time.’
‘I can.’
But she can’t. How can she possibly, when she has her whole life left? I hide under my hat again, just for a bit, because I’m going to miss breathing. And talking. And windows. I’m going to miss cake. And fish. I like fish. I like their little mouths going, open, shut, open.
And where I’m going, you can’t take anything with you.
Zoey watches me wipe my eyes with the corner of the duvet.
‘Do it with me,’ I say.
She looks startled. ‘Do what?’
‘It’s on bits of paper everywhere. I’ll write it out properly and you can make me do it.’
‘Make you do what? The thing you wrote on the wall?’
‘Other stuff too, but the boy thing first. You’ve had sex loads of times, Zoey, and I’ve never even been kissed.’
I watch my words fall into her. They land somewhere very deep.
‘Not loads of times,’ she says eventually.
‘Please, Zoey. Even if I beg you not to, even if I’m horrible to you, you must make me do it. I’ve got a whole long list of things I want to do.’
When she says, ‘OK,’ she makes it sound easy, as if I only asked her to visit me more often.
‘You mean it?’
‘I said so, didn’t I?’
I wonder if she knows what she’s letting herself in for.
I sit up in bed and watch her fiddle about in the back of my wardrobe. I think she’s got a plan. That’s what’s good about Zoey. She’d better hurry up though, because I’m starting to think of things like carrots. And air. And ducks. And pear trees. Velvet and silk. Lakes. I’m going to miss ice. And the sofa. And the lounge. And the way Cal loves magic tricks. And white things – milk, snow, swans.
From the back of the wardrobe, Zoey pulls out the wrap-dress Dad bought me last month. It’s still got the price on.
‘I’ll wear this,’ she says. ‘You can wear mine.’ She starts to unbutton her dress.
‘Are you taking me out?’
‘It’s Saturday night, Tess. Ever heard of it?’
Of course. Of course I have.
I haven’t been vertical for hours. It makes me feel a bit strange, sort of empty and ethereal. Zoey stands in her underwear and helps me put on the red dress. It smells of her. The material is soft and clings to me.
‘Why do you want me to wear this?’
‘It’s good to feel like you’re somebody else sometimes.’
‘Someone like you?’
She considers this. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Maybe someone like me.’
When I look at myself in the mirror, it’s great how different I look – big-eyed and dangerous. It’s exciting, as if anything is possible. Even my hair looks good, dramatically shaved rather than only just growing. We look at ourselves, side by side, then she steers me away from the mirror and makes me sit down on the bed. She brings my make-up basket from the dressing table and sits next to me. I concentrate on her face as she smears foundation onto her finger and dabs at my cheeks. She’s very pale and very blonde and her acne makes her look kind of savage. I’ve never had a spot in my life. It’s the luck of the draw.
She lines my lips and fills in the space with lipstick. She finds some mascara and tells me to look right at her. I try to imagine what it might be like to be her. I often do this, but I can never really get my head round it. When she makes me stand up in front of the mirror again, I glitter. A little like her.
‘Where do you want to go?’ she says.
There are loads of places. The pub. A club. A party. I want a big dark room you can barely move in, with bodies grinding close together. I want to hear a thousand songs played incredibly loud. I want to dance so fast that my hair grows long enough to trample on. I want my voice to be thunderous above the throb of bass. I want to get so hot that I have to crunch ice in my mouth.
‘Let’s go dancing,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and find some boys to have sex with.’
‘All right.’ Zoey picks up her handbag and leads me from the bedroom.
Dad comes out of the lounge and halfway up the stairs. He pretends he was going to the loo, and acts all surprised to see us.
‘You’re up!’ he says. ‘It’s a miracle!’ And he nods grudging respect at Zoey. ‘How did you manage it?’
Zoey smiles at the floor. ‘She just needed a little incentive.’
‘Which is?’
I lean on one hip and look him right in the eye. ‘Zoey’s taking me pole dancing.’
‘Funny,’ he says.
‘No, really.’
He shakes his head, runs a hand in circles over his belly. I feel sorry for him, because he doesn’t know what to do.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘We’re going clubbing.’
He looks at his watch as if that’ll tell him something new.
‘I’ll look after her,’ Zoey says. She sounds so sweet and wholesome I almost believe her.
‘No,’ he says. ‘She needs to rest. A club will be smoky and loud.’
‘If she needs to rest, why did you phone me?’
‘I wanted you to talk to her, not take her away!’
‘Don’t worry,’ she laughs. ‘I’ll bring her back.’
I can feel all the happiness sliding out of me because I know Dad’s right. I’d have to sleep for a week if I went clubbing. If I use up too much energy, I always pay for it later.
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Zoey grabs my arm and pulls me behind her down the stairs. ‘I’ve got my mum’s car,’ she says. ‘I’ll bring her home by three.’
My dad tells her no, it’s too late; he tells her to bring me back by midnight. He says it several times as Zoey gets my coat from the closet in the hall. As we go through the front door, I call goodbye, but he doesn’t answer. Zoey shuts the door behind us.
‘Midnight’s OK,’ I tell her.
She turns to me on the step. ‘Listen, girl, if you’re going to do this properly, you’re going to have to learn to break the rules.’
‘I don’t mind being back by midnight. He’ll only worry.’
‘Let him – it doesn’t matter. There are no consequences for someone like you!’
I’ve never thought about it like that before.
Three
Of course we get into the club. There are never enough girls to go round on a Saturday night and Zoey’s got a great body. The bouncers drool over her as they wave us to the front of the queue. She does a little shimmy for them as we go through the door and their eyes follow us across the lobby to the cloakroom. ‘Have a lovely evening, ladies!’ they call. We don’t have to pay. We’re absolutely in charge.
After checking in our coats, we go to the bar and get two Cokes. Zoey adds rum to hers from the hip flask she keeps in her bag. All the students at her college do this, she says, because it makes going out cheaper. Not drinking is one prohibition I’m going to stick to, because it reminds me of radiotherapy. I once got wasted between treatments on a mixture of stuff from Dad’s drinks cabinet, and now the two are stuck together in my head. Alcohol and the taste of total body irradiation.
We lean on the bar to survey the place. It’s packed already, the dance floor hot with bodies. Lights chase
