13 Minutes (7 page)

‘All the more reason you’d think she’d want to see him.’

‘Yeah, but this is Tasha. I’m not sure hospital-bed hellos would be her thing.’

Aiden looked quizzical.

‘No make-up. No hair straighteners. No padded bra.’

‘Oh, meow.’ Aiden laughed, pulling her up to him. ‘You can be such a bitch.’ His tone was light, though, and he had one hand in her hair as he leaned in to kiss her. She loved the way he kissed. Gentle, sweet exploration. It was even better when they were stoned – which was most of the time they were together, if she was honest. The tingle in her tongue ran through to the buzz in her veins and it was only ever a moment or two until her whole body was throbbing. She’d never get tired of Aiden. Never. Natasha had been stupid to turn him down.

She had Natasha’s cast-off. She tried not to think about that. Aiden loved
her
,
Becca. He would never have loved Natasha, not like this. Not in this soulmate way. But it still bothered her that he’d
wanted
Tasha. That he’d thought she was beautiful. She
was
beautiful. That made it worse. But even if they had dated it wouldn’t have lasted. He would have found Rebecca eventually. Once Tasha’s gold-plated shine had worn away to show the cheap metal underneath, he’d have seen that Becca was his diamond. Of course he would.

‘What?’ he asked, pulling away from her as if he could feel the distraction in her kiss. His eyes were hazy red and his smile soft.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’ They only had half an hour or so before he’d have to drop her home and then head off to work on whatever soundtrack Mr McMahon was composing for the rest of the night. She didn’t want to spend it thinking about Natasha Howland. Natasha Howland was part of her history. She could stay there. Even if Tasha came crawling back to her – which she never would – Becca would have nothing to do with her. If it had been Becca out by the river, she wasn’t even sure she’d have pulled her ex-best friend out. So much for forever. The only thing that lasted forever was death. The thought made her insides cool a little. Death and her love for Aiden. She wrapped her arms around his neck more tightly. This was
forever
. She was sure of that.

Eleven

From the
Brackston Herald
, Wednesday 13 January

Although it is still a mystery how sixteen-year-old Natasha Howland (pictured left with her mother) came to be found in the local river on Saturday morning, the police are not currently considering foul play.

According to hospital sources, Miss Howland, a sixth form student at Brackston Community school, has made a good recovery after being pulled from the water and was released from hospital this morning. Feared dead on discovery, her resuscitation has been hailed as miraculous by both doctors and her family. She still has no memory of the events of that night. Although this story has a happy ending, it would appear the beginning is destined to remain a mystery. Both the Howland family and police are appealing for anyone who might have seen Natasha on the night of Friday, 8th January, to come forward.

Twelve

TAKEN FROM
DI CAITLIN BENNETT’S FILES: EXTRACT FROM NATASHA HOWLAND’S NOTEBOOK

My mum took me shopping. Of course she did. What she lacks in interpersonal skills, she makes up for with cash. I guess in some ways it’s a good trade, and it’s not as if my dad doesn’t earn enough to keep us in the
manner to which we have become accustomed
. I hate that phrase. My mum uses it all the time and tries to make it sound like a joke, but it isn’t, really. It’s more of a threat. A reminder of what makes her marriage tick.

She loves my dad, I’m sure of it, but only as long as he keeps providing. She stays pretty and trim for him, goes to the gym and has facials, but all of it has a price tag. Not that he minds. He likes buying her things. Even the things she never uses – her untouched-for-months MacBook Air – the same as mine,
matching gifts – how sweet
;
her iPad mini, the only thing she sometimes uses, her Kindle and the various other electronic devices he thinks will make her life easier. They gather dust around the house. Unless I use them, of course.

All my mother really wants is for him to continue paying off her credit card every month when she’s spent hundreds on shoes and lunches and ‘wine with the girls’. And of course he does. Because that’s how they show their love. But it’s their life, not mine. I’m just another accessory. If this madness makes them happy then who am I to point it out? Especially with the allowance I get every month. And the freedom. It all works in my favour.

We came back from the hospital as a family, but as soon as we were through the front door and it was clear I wasn’t an invalid, Dad didn’t know what to do with himself. He headed off to work in his study so we could have some
mother-daughter time
. I don’t know how my mother felt about it, but it made me groan inside. I just wanted to chill out in my room. Do what I needed to do. Think about things. Maybe read the play before the audition. Prepare to go back to school. Go shopping on my own. I checked my various social media accounts on my phone as she made tea and cut us slices of chocolate cake – a sliver for her, a wedge for me – but the well-wishing was getting boring. Since it became clear I wasn’t going to follow through on my half-promise of death, a lot of the outpouring of love had dropped off. The drama was over. We’ll see about that when I get back to school. I have to laugh at myself a bit for that – the vanity of it all.

Once we’d drunk our tea and eaten the pieces of too-sweet cake, Mum declared that she’d have to skip dinner to make up for it, even though she’s as thin as a twig. It made me think I should skip dinner, too, as I’d eaten the Crunchies as well, and that irritated me. I don’t need to lose weight. I know my figure is good. So is hers. I was half-tempted to tell her that the skinny look doesn’t necessarily work on an ageing woman, but why spoil the moment?

I wonder if she was lean and toned like me when she was younger. Her skin is different from mine. It almost hangs from her in places. Mine is firm, welded to the flesh and bone underneath, one smooth, strong machine. Her body is starting to show its different parts. The droop of her breasts. The sagging skin at her elbows. I’ve never noticed them before, those whispers of physical mortality. I think I’ve become slightly obsessed by death over the past two days. I guess that’s to be expected.

My bedroom looks a little odd to me now. In it for the first time, once I’d fled the calorie conversation, I stared at the window – firmly shut – and out at the tree and rope ladder beyond. There was a lot of snow. I wouldn’t have wanted to scramble down there in this weather, strong body or not.

I sat on my bed, idly flicking through
The Crucible
, and wondered how long it would take. (She’s nothing if not predictable, my mother. But then, most people are.) As it turned out, about twenty minutes. I had my bag ready and my shoes on when she knocked on the door to suggest we go shopping. ‘I could treat you to something nice?’ she said, like that would sort out my near-death. ‘A new coat, maybe, for this terrible weather?’

I’m not short of coats as my walk-in wardrobe will attest, but you can never have too many clothes. I smiled at her. I could have a worse mother in many ways, that’s for sure.

*

I wore a hat with my hair tucked in, just in case anyone recognised me – it’s not like I’m a celebrity or something, but there were reporters and photographers outside the hospital this morning and I bet I look shit in their pictures. They want me to do a photo and piece with Jamie McMahon. Maybe I will. I can’t decide if I want to speak to him or not. I turned him away at the hospital, but perhaps it could be interesting. I feel like I know him already. Maybe I should see him. I’ll think about it later. It’s not urgent.

We cruised around the shops, which were quiet in the foul midweek weather, and after an hour or so – however long it took to buy three tops, a skirt, a coat and a pair of skinny jeans – I mentioned that I’d like to get Hayley and Jennifer presents of friendship bracelets or something, so they’d know how much it mattered to me that they were there. I looked down at my snowy boots and tried not to blush. I didn’t want to sound needy or too grateful they were at my bedside. ‘It was strange being in hospital,’ I explained. ‘It made me realise how fragile everything is.’ It’s true. The idea that I was nearly dead –
for-good dead
, not just thirteen-minutes dead – still makes me tremble.

‘Then let’s do that,’ my mother said, smiling. ‘But make it a celebration of your friendships rather than a fear of loss.’

Sometimes she’s overly sentimental, but maybe she had a point. I smiled, too. I had to, really. I needed her credit card to pay for everything.

‘What about Rebecca?’ she asked, almost tentatively, after we’d picked out the delicate charm bracelets, each with a silver heart attached that read
Forever Friends
. Maybe they’re a bit childish – okay, a lot childish – but they’re certainly not tacky. Not at the price tag they came with.

I had to think for a moment. Becca. Of course. Not a bracelet, though. That would be ridiculous, given everything, but I did have another idea.

*

When we got home, there was a phone call from the drably serious police inspector, Bennett, checking that everything was all right and I was home safely. She told my parents that they weren’t taking the investigation any further at the moment but to call her immediately should I remember anything. She said it all to my father, as if I was from some far-off distant land and didn’t speak English – or, worse than that, as if I was five years old.

I mean, what if my dad was the one who pushed me in the river? What if
that
, Mrs Clever Police Inspector? I can hardly ask him for your number so I can call and say,
Hey, guess what I remembered?
It’s bad enough not remembering without people thinking that it’s suddenly made me stupid.

When the call was done, my dad asked if I wanted take-away for dinner. We rarely have take-away. Mum’s proud of her homemaking skills, even though she’s so embarrassed about being a housewife that we have a cleaner who comes twice a week and does the ironing. Amongst her friends, choosing not to work is a status symbol, but I sometimes think that so much wine at lunchtime doesn’t indicate a fulfilled life. She had a job a long time ago, before I was born. It’s how she met dad. Anyway, the long and short of it is that mum is an excellent cook and takes pride in serving up a healthy but tasty meal every evening. It’s the one thing I
try
to be here for, because it makes life easier if I am. My parents don’t seem to know where I am from one minute to the next but they do like us to sit down as a family once a day, even if my mum’s just nibbling on a salad pretending to eat. I usually manage about fifteen minutes with them, and they usually find that acceptable.

Appearances. It’s all appearances. I thought about the cake at lunchtime. I thought about all the extra calories. Fuck it, I concluded. I nearly died. ‘Chinese would be nice,’ I said.

‘Chinese it is,’ My dad said. ‘Whatever my princess wants.’ He took his coffee and headed back to the study.

It was gone two o’clock by then. I needed to get going. I had things to do. ‘I want to drop these presents off,’ I said. ‘Make it a surprise when they come home from school.’

Mum made some feeble effort to say she’d drive me but I cut her off.

‘I’ll be fine. I promise.’ I was firm. Like my skin. And I knew she wouldn’t argue with me. She never really does. And to be fair, apart from this one near-death incident, considering I’ve been able to do pretty much whatever I want since I was about six, we’ve had a clear run. No issues or terrifying accidents. Except for the thing with the class hamster in year one, and what happened with Becca’s stupid party dress when we were six, but those were forgotten fast enough. People forgive children. They were good lessons, well learned.

I promised I’d be back in an hour or so.
I won’t stay out. I’m still quite tired.
That last was a lie. I wasn’t tired. If anything, I felt invigorated.

My mother agreed. I put on my new coat, though, to please her. In the main I’m a good daughter. At least, I try to be. And it’s a great coat – red. It goes well with my blonde hair and will work with my dark hair when I change it back. Even though I like that we all look the same now, I miss being a brunette. I miss being
the
brunette.

I hurried, the air cold with the threat of impending snow, striding along the street, confident over the icy slush. It’s the best way. Those who are too careful are always the ones who slip. You have to be bold. Working from my furthest friend back, I started at Jenny’s.

I had to suffer Jenny’s mum’s suffocating embrace on the doorstep and then asked if I could leave a gift for Jenny on her bed. Liz’s eyes were watering and her make-up was so heavy her tears were black. She was crying cheap mascara.

‘Oh, sweetheart, that’s so lovely. They’ve been really worried about you, both of them. You know, I don’t think she’s slept at all since we heard. She doesn’t know I know. I understand how you girls need your space, but I’ve heard her on the phone in the middle of the night. Heard her get up for a drink. It must have showed at school because one of her teachers even called to check on her. And of course whenever she could be, she was at the hospital with you and Hayley.’ She stroked my hair. ‘Like sisters you three, aren’t you? Twins.’

I wanted to point out her mathematical failings but instead murmured a
yes
and fled up the stairs, already unzipping my handbag. My mum was probably starting her first glass of the day, but Liz must have been nearly through a bottle already. I don’t know how Jenny copes.