A Kiss in the Dark (17 page)

I was kidding myself. Well, I was
trying
to kid myself but doing a very poor job of it. Kate would have to deal with this by herself. At around four thirty in the morning my brain came up with this crazy idea that maybe I could dye my hair, change the way I looked so completely that I’d be able to befriend her and be there to listen to her talk about the boy who broke her heart. It was madness, of course. But I could never stop my brain when it went off on one like that. It would be
something
at least – to be her friend. Being close to her would be better than never seeing her again. And maybe one day she would look over at me and I’d see that look in her eyes and I’d know that she’d fallen in love with me all over again. And
she wouldn’t care that she was a girl and I was a girl, because what did it matter? Love was love.

Love
was
love. I truly believed that. And I had blown my one shot at it.

I woke up on the last day of the year with the beanie clutched between my fingers, the wool tickling my lips. I’d fallen asleep after all. Against my better judgement I grabbed my phone from the bedside table. There were no more messages from Kate, which surprised me a little. I felt a tiny stab of disappointment, quickly followed by shame. It was a good thing, that she hadn’t called or texted again. Maybe it meant that she was starting to come to terms with it. It would be best for her if she started hating me right away.

Jamie was heading back to Aberdeen straight after breakfast, so Dad had planned to make bacon and pancakes. I had to get out of bed and try to remember how to smile and laugh and talk like a normal person. It was easy enough to fool Mum and Dad, but I knew it hadn’t worked with Jamie when he volunteered us
to do the dishes. I washed, he dried. He asked if I was OK. I nodded.

‘OK, you’re clearly not, but that’s alright. It’ll take a bit of time, but you will be fine, Alex. I promise.’

I wanted to ask him how he could possibly promise such a thing. He’d never been in this situation. As far as I knew he’d never even been in love. He had no idea what I was going through. He didn’t know Kate and he had no idea what
she
was going through. And he could never understand that I could never feel OK again as long as I knew she was hurting.

I concentrated on scrubbing every last bit of bacon grease from the plates. I wanted this conversation to be over and I wanted Jamie to be gone. He was making me feel worse.

He asked if I wanted him to stick around, go back to Aberdeen in a couple of days. He said he’d be happy to do that if I needed him, but the tone in his voice made it quite clear that he was hoping I wouldn’t. I didn’t blame him. He had his life to be getting back to. He didn’t need to be dealing with his crazy little sister. I summoned up a smile (just a little one) and told him I’d be fine and I was feeling a bit better already. For good measure I thanked him and said I knew it was for the best. There was no hint of the lie on my face, no matter how hard Jamie looked for it.

‘I’m proud of you, sis. It’s what being an adult is all about – owning up to your mistakes.’

I forced out a laugh and flicked soapy water in his face. ‘Since when do you have the slightest idea about being an adult? Unless I’m wrong and you’ve finally binned your lucky SpongeBob pants?’

Jamie retaliated by chucking the soggy tea towel over my head.

Mum came in, took one look at us and rolled her eyes. ‘Will you two
ever
grow up?’

I looked at Jamie and Jamie looked at me and we burst out laughing. The laughter was real this time. I wondered how it was possible to laugh when I felt so numb inside.

*

Jamie left at around ten thirty, after telling me to call him if I ever needed anything and inviting me to visit him for a weekend soon. He must have known I had absolutely nothing to look forward to now.

Mum and Dad were busy getting ready for their party. Mum went to the supermarket to buy more Cava than the guests could ever drink even if they stayed until the end of January. Dad got started on the pheasant casserole. I stayed in my room, mostly. I didn’t watch anything or read or listen to music. I didn’t do anything other than think about Kate,
wondering what she was doing now, and how long it would take her to get over me, and why hadn’t she texted again?

At about four I headed into the kitchen to tell my parents there had been a change of plans and I wasn’t going out after all. Dad was pleased – it meant he had me to act as sous chef for the whole evening. Mum looked at me carefully. ‘Oh, that’s a shame, love. I’m sorry.’

I coughed and said it was fine – I hadn’t been all that bothered anyway. She squeezed my shoulder. ‘I suppose it’s OK for me to admit that I’m secretly quite glad we get to have you for one last Hogmanay?’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Now, would you mind helping your dad while I go and have a bath?’

I didn’t mind helping out. Dad’s continuous chat helped take my mind off Kate. I chopped tomatoes for the soup – the same soup every year. I’d found the original recipe last year and discovered it was actually meant to be served cold, but Dad said cold soup made him think of vomit and he had no intention of serving up cold sick for the last meal of the year.

I got changed at about six thirty – it was the one day of the year Mum insisted we all scrubbed up properly. Dad even wore a tie. I went to put on my best black jeans but something stopped me. I pulled
out the only non-school skirt in my wardrobe – black denim and short. Mum had bought it for me a couple of years ago, before she lost hope that I would ever dress like a girl. I paired it with a fitted black shirt and boots and looked in the mirror. I didn’t look as bad as I thought I would. I looked like me, almost. Maybe it wouldn’t be too terrible to dress like this after all. I drew the line (or rather, I didn’t) at make-up though.

Mum and Dad were in the living room, sipping their customary pre-party glasses of Cava and munching on cashew nuts. Some classical music was playing softly. I recognized it straightaway – Chopin. Kate had taught me well. The ache that had lurked inside my chest since yesterday turned into something much sharper. I hurried over to change the music.

Dad said, ‘Oi! We were listening to that!’ but neither of them really minded. I caught a look between them. I knew that look. The only time Mum used it was when she was trying to signal to Dad that she really, really wanted him to shut up, like when someone invited them to go to something she didn’t want to go to and she wanted to stop him saying yes before she had a chance to think of an excuse.

Mum took a long glug of her Cava, draining the glass. ‘You look nice, Alex.’ That was all she said. I could tell it took a lot of restraint not to make a fuss
about me wearing a skirt. I appreciated the effort. I appreciated the glass of Cava she poured for me even more.

*

By half past nine I’d had three glasses of Cava and half a glass of white wine even though Mum had insisted that I was only allowed two glasses max. Mum and Dad were pretty pissed, and one of the guests – Andy, a friend of Dad’s from work – was completely wasted. His wife kept on shooting him filthy looks and one time she even tried to kick him under the table but she ended up kicking Dad instead. Our neighbours, Bill and Wendy, were there with their bratty daughter who was dressed like a Disney princess. Manjul, Mum’s friend from her uni days, had brought his new girlfriend. She was even younger than the last one, but at least she wasn’t wearing a top with her boobs spilling out. Manjul was Mum’s boyfriend for two years, but it never seemed to bother Dad that the two of them were still friends. The girlfriend kept trying to engage me in conversation, probably because I was the closest one to her age in the room. She was pretty nice, actually.

Everyone enjoyed the soup and the pheasant casserole, except the bratty kid from next door who’d decided to become a vegetarian on Christmas Day.
Wendy had brought some Tupperware filled with couscous and raw vegetables and set it in front of the kid with barely disguised annoyance.

Manjul was asking me about my career plans, which seemed to be the default question for adults when faced with a teenager. At least it was better than ‘How’s your love life?’ I was just about to say that I had no idea what I wanted to do at university, let alone for my whole life, when the doorbell went.

Mum dabbed her mouth with her napkin and looked at her watch. ‘It’s a bit early for first-footing, isn’t it?’ First-footing is this old tradition where a tall, dark-haired man has to be the first one to come into your house after midnight. For some reason he was supposed to be carrying a lump of coal, even though that seemed like a pretty crap gift to see in the new year. Manjul was always our ‘first-footer’ and he made the same joke every year about it being racist.

Dad made a move to get up from his chair but Mum gestured for him to stay seated. ‘No, no, I’ll get it. You’ve been up and down like a jack-in-the box.’

‘Up and down like a whore’s knickers, more like,’ spluttered Andy. The brat from next door was the only one to laugh at that. Andy’s wife hissed his name. If looks could kill.

Mum looked relieved to escape the table, even just
for a minute. For some reason this party wasn’t going quite how she wanted it to. The mix of people was crucial; Dad had clearly made a fatal error inviting Andy. He hadn’t known him long enough to discover that he was a disgusting pig. I felt sorry for Dad – Mum would be having words with him later.

There was an awkward silence at the table while we waited for Mum to come back and smooth things over, maybe suggest a nice friendly game of charades before pudding. Dad poured everyone some more wine – everyone apart from Andy, because his wife put her hand over the top of his glass when Dad went to refill it. The brat whispered to her mum that she really needed a wee but she wanted to do it in her own bathroom. Bill yawned so wide I could see every single one of his fillings.

We all heard Mum opening the front door.

We couldn’t quite hear who it was.

We all heard Mum say, ‘Alex? Yes, of course, I’ll just get her … Actually, why don’t you come in from the cold? It’s nice to meet you, by the way.’

The wine had fogged up my brain. I had no idea who it could be. I didn’t think for one second that …

Kate.

Alex. Staring at me in disbelief.

There were other people at the table but I barely noticed them. Alex jumped up from his chair, knocking it over. That’s when I saw the skirt.

Alex was wearing a skirt.
I’ll just get her
. That was what Mrs Banks said, but I didn’t think anything of it. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet; I thought she was probably drunk. After all, it was Hogmanay and most of Edinburgh seemed to be drunk too. An Australian in a novelty Guinness hat had tried to kiss me on the way to Alex’s house.

My brain was trying to make sense of it all. It was trying to find a sensible explanation for Alex’s mum saying ‘her’ and for Alex to be standing in front of me wearing a skirt, along with an expression of pure panic.

We stood there, close enough to touch, looking at
each other. Alex didn’t look like Alex. The moment expanded to fill all of space and time and I began to wonder if we would be stuck inside it forever. I only snapped out of it when I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Alexandra seems to have forgotten her manners … Can I offer you a drink?’

Alexandra. Alexander. The words sound the same if you say them fast enough. Mrs Banks was speaking very slowly though, probably so she didn’t slur her words.

‘Kate?’ Alex’s hand was on my arm. I looked at that hand – I mean, really looked at it – and for the first time I realized how delicate it was. I mean, I’d noticed that before. I’d even commented on it a couple of times, but I’d never really given it much thought. All I knew was that my hand fit perfectly in his. It was as if all the hands in all the world had a single, perfect match and somehow I’d been lucky enough to find mine.

A man at the table said, ‘She looks like she’s seen a ghost! Someone get that girl a brandy!’

I took a step back, quickly followed by another. I noticed each and every person at the table now, and they were all looking at me as if I was insane. I backed out of the door, mumbling an apology.

Alex followed me out into the hall. ‘Kate? Kate,
please. Can we talk about this? Let me explain … please?’ Even the voice sounded different. Or maybe that was just my imagination.

My hands were shaking as I opened the front door. I opened my mouth to speak before realizing I had nothing to say.

Alex’s hand was on my arm again, with a little more pressure this time, trying to stop me from moving. I shook it off. The last thing I heard as I hurried down the steps was Alex saying, ‘Kate, I love you.’

I love you
. Twenty-four hours earlier, those had been the only words I wanted to hear. When I was heartbroken and sobbing on my bedroom floor I would have given anything to hear Alex say those words again.

My life could now be neatly divided by a single point in time:
before
or
after
I found out my boyfriend was a girl.

*

How could you not know?
How was it possible for a girl to be clueless enough to go out with a boy for months and not realize
he
was actually a
she
?

As I walked away from Alex’s house, I half-expected him (HER) to come after me. But he (SHE) didn’t. The streets were thronging with people on their way to the street party. Everyone was smiling, laughing, shouting, singing. I walked as fast as I could,
head down to hide my tears.

There are things in life that you are so absolutely sure about that you don’t have to give them any thought. The sun will rise each day. The ground is solid under your feet. Your boyfriend is a boy. And then one day you wake up and there’s perpetual darkness and the ground has turned into quicksand and your boyfriend is a girl.

Alex was a girl.

I was feeling too many feelings at once; my brain didn’t know which one to settle on. Shock. Disbelief. Confusion. Embarrassment. Grief. Anger. Back to shock again.