Greenwich Park, Katherine Faulkner [ereader android .txt] 📗

school. But he shouldn’t do it. Not to this strange, pregnant girl, I think. He shouldn’t.

The more I hear about Rachel, the odder it all sounds. Apparently, she is still living here with Helen and Daniel. When I asked Helen about it, she seemed defensive. She said something about her being vulnerable. Someone hurting her, or something like that. That she needed a safe place to stay. ‘Anyway, it’s not for long. She’s promised she’s leaving, in the next couple of weeks.’ I wanted to ask more about the marks on her neck, but Helen’s expression stopped me delving further.

My wine is disappearing faster than it should be. It’s sweet and spicy; the taste of Christmas. I think Helen is pleased someone is drinking it. I wonder if she realises that some of the other people here are indulging in less wholesome substances. I am not sure Charlie has kept his promise about not inviting too many people.

As I look at Charlie and Rachel, I think about years ago, when Charlie and I broke up the first time, and he introduced us all to Maja. I’d been the one to end things between us, so I’d no right to be hurt. But he’d moved on so quickly. And then there was Maja, and everyone loved her, her wide, mischievous smile, her Swedish drinking games, her mad midsummer parties. I had to smile, pretend to go along with it. And then, after what seemed like hardly any time at all, she was pregnant – a happy accident, they’d said – and I realised too late that I’d made a mistake.

It feels like a long time ago now, all that stuff. I take another deep drink of the wine. Maybe I’m stupid, thinking we can try again now, after all this time, that things can go back to the way they were, before all that. Maybe I need to grow up, find an ordinary man, like Daniel. A house, a baby. Somehow, though, the thought makes me feel slightly depressed.

I don’t notice the two drunk girls dancing behind me until it’s too late, and they are careering into me. My remaining mulled wine is splattered across the rug on the floor. Fuck. They apologise and disappear. I blush, hoping Charlie and Rachel haven’t seen me. I’m too drunk, I think, already. I decide to leave them to it. They are only talking, for God’s sake. I need to go somewhere else. I need to pull myself together.

The bathroom upstairs is locked. I can hear someone inside. I wait, and finally the door opens. It’s Serena. So they are here. I take in her manicured nails, long, buttery, Hollywood hair, her perfect half-moon stomach. She is clutching one of those jewelled bags that looks too small to put anything in.

‘Hello, Katie.’

‘Hi,’ I slur. ‘How’s it all going?’ I motion clumsily to her belly, and she gives me a tight smile.

‘Fine thanks,’ she says. She swishes past, her long silk dress trailing behind. ‘See you later.’

I shut the door behind me. The bass is still reverberating through the floor. I can see Rachel’s gold sequinned skirt peeping out of the laundry basket, her green trainers in a pile in the corner, along with a pair of dirty checked pyjamas. On the sink is a crumbling black eyeshadow, a tube of lipstick, postbox red, a colour Helen would never wear. Three toothbrushes lean uneasily against each other in a glass.

I decide to head out to the garden, have a cigarette. Calm my nerves. I’ll watch the fireworks, I think. And keep away from Rachel.

HELEN

The rug was one of Mummy’s, which she’d brought back from her travels in Greece, rolled up on her rucksack. And now it is probably ruined. The stain is red wine, something from Daddy’s collection, no doubt. As I scrub at the stain, bits of the scourer are coming off in a dark green rash, fibres from the rug itself starting to disintegrate. I am making it worse.

Then suddenly there are other particles swimming in front of my eyes, too – little black-and-white twists in my vision, a scattering of red and yellow spots. I remember these. I have had these before, when I was taking the medication. When I wasn’t well, after the babies.

I feel hot tears at the back of my eyes. I want the rug to be like it was. I want the rug to be clean. I think of Mummy, when she was young, her hair cut short, tanned shoulders, before she met Daddy, heaving this rug onto ferries and buses, people telling her she was mad. She’d loved it. Wanted to put it in her home. There were pictures of me on it, when I was a baby. And now I’ve let someone spoil it.

When I stand, the dots and twists come again, swimming in front of my eyes like a hallucinogenic screensaver. And then they fade away, and then I see her. Rachel, standing with Charlie, whispering something in his ear. And she is wearing Mummy’s blue velvet dress. The one she had looked so beautiful in. The one she’d bought from the hippy stall in the market with me, all those years ago.

I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I stagger upstairs to the bathroom, slump down on the floor. My arms feel like dead weights. What is happening to me? I think I’m going to either cry or be sick. What is Rachel doing? Why is she wearing Mummy’s dress? What else has she stolen? A laptop? A photograph? A dress? My brother? Who is this person I’ve invited into our house?

When the nausea passes, I lie down on my side, one cheek against the cool tiled floor of the bathroom. I lie for a while, until my heart slows down. The smell of bonfire smoke, the thump of music, the noise of chatter floats in through the open window. My stomach settles into a hard knot of anger.