‘No.’
‘You should go.’
When the anger came, it came like lightning. Despite all she had been thinking in the shower, at that moment she wanted to destroy him. ‘Don’t fucking tell me what I should do.’
‘I’m sorry… I…’
‘Don’t, OK?’
A pause. His eyes retreated into his face.
‘Tash?’
She could sense her heart pounding and feared she would hurt him. ‘What now?’
‘Do you think you should go and see someone?’
‘What someone?’ she snapped.
‘You know… a therapist.’
‘Fucking get off my back, Luke. Fucking leave me alone.’
She walked out of the kitchen into the sitting room and onto the little balcony that faced out across the car park to the trains. The city was ablaze with lights. Planes descended, their wing tips twinkling; overground trains flashed by towards Peckham and Canada Water. Their movement soothed her. Briefly she wished he was elsewhere. His concern was a burden she needed to shed. She couldn’t let him squash her.
She wasn’t about to visit Ed. She’d broken off from her adoptive family years ago. She’d been an outsider when she was with them so why go back now? All those early teenage years when she’d struggled to deal with her diabetes, tried to fit in with the people who’d taken her in. She’d been a good girl. No drink. No booze. Still they had picked on her. For her long silences, her refusal to join their stupid games. Her brothers Olly and Jamie called her ‘Sticko’ because she was skinny, until she was fourteen when they started making rude comments about her tits and bum. Her sister Eleanor called her ‘Little Swot’ because she was clever. They all laughed at her accent. Her parents hadn’t a clue what she had to put up with. She’d tried telling them, but it was always Natasha’s fault.
‘You’ve lied to us so many times, how can we believe you?’
At sixteen, after getting her nine GCSEs, she’d left home, moved to London, found a room in a shared house, worked in shops, pubs and clubs, eventually for an escort agency. The escort work saw her through college and university and the first year of part time Bar School. It came to an abrupt stop when a client had tried to yank off her pump as soon as she removed her clothes. She’d sunk her teeth into his arm and run off.
Soon after that, she’d found Luke, and everything changed. She never asked herself what was happening or why. It wasn’t about love. Though the sex was good. It worked for her and it was what she needed now. He had offered her a place to stay rent-free and she’d given up the escort work to concentrate on her studies. She tried to be nice to him. But she needed freedom.
Breathing steadily, she looked out towards the tracks. No, visiting Ed was not on. There was too much happening at work. She was making her mark and couldn’t afford to relax.
‘Supper’s ready, Tash,’ called Luke, as if nothing had happened.
‘Thanks. Coming.’
Chapter Six
Mel
Apart from the occasional soft tread from the floor above and the low buzz from the light bulb in the hall, the flat was quiet. Mel put her head round Jacob’s door. He was seated with his back to her, draped in a towel, hunched over a computer, headset locked around his ears. Coloured lights flashed across the screen. The curtains were closed. He was six feet from her, but he seemed very far away.
‘Hello, darling.’ No answer. She tried again, louder. ‘Jacob?’ Still no answer. She walked forward and wedged her body between his and the screen.
‘Mum!’ There were a hundred ways of saying ‘Mum’. This was the two-syllabled reproach.
‘How long you been wasting your time with this?’
‘Hand-eye co-ordination.’ he said, watching a running figure as a hawk eyes a mouse in the grass.
‘Homework?’
‘Waiting for you.’
‘That’s rich. Why aren’t you dressed?’
‘What is this? Fucking cross-examination?’
‘Please don’t swear. Sorry, I’m a bit late. Conference went on.’
‘S’all right.’
‘Plus, I’ve got to go out again.’
‘What’s for supper?’
‘I’ll make some pasta.’
She retreated to her room. She had managed to straighten the old flowered duvet before rushing off that morning, but the space that should be comforting looked sad and unloved. She should get a cleaner. It would give her someone to tidy up for. She kicked off her too-pointed shoes, tore off the dark jacket and shirt and stepped out of her pencil skirt. Everything felt tight. Her body had swelled in her uniform. It protected her like armour, but she was never quite herself inside. She yanked off her tights and threw on jeans and an old shirt, feeling sweaty but too lazy to shower.
The interior of the fridge was not promising: a few scraps of cheese, a Tesco pizza, numerous half-full jars of sauce and a third of a bottle of Chilean Sauvignon. She scouted further in the salad drawer and discovered an onion, a tad slimy on the outside but perfectly edible within, a fingernail clove of garlic. At least there’d be some good olive oil. She would chop and slice in silence, mend her frazzled brain.
Once, on Alisha’s recommendation, she’d tried a Mindfulness Meditation course. The course leader had been a tired-looking middle-aged woman, with delicate features, wispy blonde hair and big earrings. Something in her small grey eyes spoke of suffering. She’d advised Mel to imagine each thought as a leaf, floating down a river. Mel’s river soon became blocked. At least this way you had something to eat.
‘What time are you starting tomorrow?’ she asked. Jacob had stirred himself and was now dressed in artfully torn jeans and a T-shirt bearing the logo, I TRIED TO BE NORMAL ONCE.
‘Dunno. Late. There’s Art.’
‘So, you’ll be back around five?’
‘I guess. You’re doing it again.’
‘Just checking. I like to know where you are. I’m your mum.’
‘Thanks. I’d forgotten.’
‘Saturday I’m going to see Granny. Want to come?’
‘Gotta work.’
Jacob and Isabel used to be the best of pals. Mel had a file of photos, Jacob on the slide, Isabel beaming at the base; Cornish holidays; Monopoly on rainy days; Isabel in her sixties leaping about the beach with a Frisbee, playing with the boy as she never had with Mel. Then Jacob hit twelve and the games stopped.
‘We could do something Saturday night? Maybe a film?’
‘I’m going to a party. You know, Nikita. Don’t look like that.’
‘I’m not sure about Nikita.’
‘Just ’cos his dad’s an arms dealer.’
She remembered Nikita’s mother, Yelena, with her purple claws, hair like candy floss, eyes a-glitter with a palette of pink and turquoise.
‘It’s not Nikita personally. Of course not, he’s just a kid.’
‘Just a kid.’
‘It’s… I’m sure they’re nice people but I came to pick you up once when you were only thirteen and the parents had gone away some place and the house smelt of dope.’
‘So?’