Entangled (4 page)

Now there’s a coincidence. There I was talking about having a cuppa, and guess who walks in? Ethan: Man of Mystery, bearing a mug (white) of steaming hot tea. He set it down in front of me, carefully placing it in the corner of the table, far from the paper I’ve written on. Quite a pile now. Looks like it could turn into a pretty hefty tome. It’s already longer than any of the several false starts I’ve had at writing The Novel. Maybe this should have happened to me sooner. There are too many distractions in the real world, always some reason not to write. If only that was the case here.

The tea is good. Scalding hot, and not too strong. It’s the first cup of tea I’ve had since I’ve been here. Maybe Ethan was saving it as some kind of reward? I huddle over the mug, with my fingers wrapped around it. It feels like a crackling fire. Or a hug. I could do with a hug. Arms to wrap around me and make all the bad go away.

Finished now. And I’ve just realized that I missed the perfect opportunity to take Ethan by surprise. I should have chucked it in his face and made a run for it.

Could
I have done that?

Could I do it next time maybe?

I don’t know.

Why am I being so pathetic? Got to get out of here somehow … don’t I?

Do
I have to get out of here? Why would I want to go back to the colossal pile of crap that is my life? Nothing will have changed. I wonder how they’re feeling now. I bet they’re glad I’m gone. Probably makes it a lot easier on them. They might (pretend to) be upset for a bit, but I reckon they’ll get over it before too long.

Ooh, I wonder if I’m in the newspapers? I must be, unless they reckon I’m too old. ‘Missing seventeen-year-old’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it as a missing toddler, or even a twelve-year-old. I probably just made it into the local rag on the first day or so. I hope it was the front page, but I really really really hope they didn’t use my last school photo, cos I’d forgotten the photographer was coming that day and I’d slept in too late to wash my hair. Gross.

Mum probably had to ask Sal for a decent photo, given that we haven’t used our camera for years. We haven’t even got a digital one. Dad was the designated photographer in the family. There
are
photos of me at home. Eight albums full, in fact. All carefully dated and labelled, hidden in the cupboard behind the TV, under a battered Trivial Pursuit box. The (almost) complete childhood of Grace Carlyle. Mum’ll be wishing she’d made more of an effort to keep them up to date now.

Maybe Sal gave them the photo she took when I was asleep on the way back from a gig. The paper wouldn’t print that one though – I look like a corpse. If corpses drool, that is. But she wouldn’t do that to me, would she?

Who am I trying to kid?

Fingers crossed it’s the one from Kirsty’s party. Sal caught me by surprise, calling my name to make me turn around and then snapping away. She thought it was the funniest thing ever, cos she knows I hate having my picture taken these days. I grabbed the camera and looked at the little screen on the back, ready to DELETE DELETE DELETE. But the truth is, I looked kind of OK. My hair looked awesome (but only cos Sal had worked her magic on it earlier) and my eyes looked all twinkly and amused somehow. I looked like someone who good things were going to happen to (someone to
whom
good things were going to happen. Sorry). Plus, the top I was wearing actually made my breasts look big, which is a feat in itself.

Yes. The newspaper will have used that one. Unless they thought I looked a bit slutty. Dammit! I bet they went for the school one. Urgh. That would be enough to put anyone off their cornflakes in the morning. Let’s hope they printed it really small.

I don’t reckon I’ll be in any of the national papers. People my age go missing all the time, don’t they? Everyone probably thinks I’ve run off with some guy I met on the Internet. Maybe Mum’s done one of those appeals on local telly, begging me to come home, and saying that I won’t be in any trouble.

Nope. I bet she’s actually gone on holiday, or swanned off to London to buy even
more
clothes she’ll never wear. Seriously, how many pairs of shoes does a woman her age really need? I mean, I like shoes as much as the next girl, but there has to be something wrong with a woman who buys three pairs the same and hoards them in the back of the wardrobe.

No one is looking for me. That’s the truth.

day 12

Slept well. Ethan brought me fresh fruit for breakfast – papaya and melon and mango and pineapple. He didn’t speak to me, and I returned the favour. He came back when I’d finished eating to take away the bowl. He always seems to know when I’ve finished eating. I never have to deal with congealing leftovers, which is good, because bad smells make me gag. I’ve looked around for hidden cameras or peepholes, but there’s nothing. Although I saw this TV programme once where there was a camera hidden in the end of a ballpoint pen. So maybe he’s watching after all, but I DON’T CARE. It doesn’t make a difference. I don’t even care if he reads this. Perhaps I should let him, and then maybe he’d realize that I’m slightly unhinged and he really ought to let me go.

Back to the saga of Sal, I think.

So who on earth had Sal had sex with? It’s a big world, and Sal is gorgeous, so pretty much the entire male population could be under suspicion. But Sal is fussy, like REALLY fussy. I was always pointing out hot boys to her, and sometimes she’d half-heartedly agree, but most of the time she’d look at me sceptically. It was frustrating.

I knew she still pined over that boy Chris, so there was a potential suspect. She
definitely
would have told me though. We’d certainly talked about him often enough. I knew so much about that boy he could’ve been my specialist subject on
Mastermind
. He has his lip pierced (gross times three, but Sal obsessed over it). He defied all the usual school cliques … a little bit emo, a little bit skater boy, a little bit Mr Popular, even little bit geek (he was into physics). He wore glasses that were nerdy but cool. Sounded to me like he was suffering from some kind of identity crisis, but each to their own. Sal showed me a picture of him at a school ball. He
did
look fit, I suppose.

Sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the tea stains, I decided to rule out Chris. There was just no way on earth she wouldn’t have told me. Even if she was embarrassed about not using a condom. We’ve all been there. OK, maybe we haven’t
all
been there. But I have. It’s not exactly something I’m proud of, but at least I’d admitted it to Sal (who’d gone on to give me a ten-minute lecture, bless her).

Next, and pretty much the
only
other suspect I had, was Devon.

I’ve known Devon Scott for eight years, but before Sal came along I’d only talked to him a handful of times. He just didn’t really cross my radar. Sal sits next to him in History, and it was obvious from the first day they met that he worshipped the ground she walked on. Sal told me this, not because she was making fun of him (in fact she thought he was quite sweet), but because she thought he had potential. She always said that in a couple of years he would grow into his looks and be fighting off girls with a stick. I wasn’t so sure. He’s sort of skinny and his clothes aren’t great, but he’s got a nice, honest sort of face, I suppose.

Sal sometimes talked about him – almost like she was coming round to the idea. He never asked her out, and I can’t blame him. Girls like Sal don’t usually go out with boys like Devon. Plus, she still obsessed over Chris. She didn’t listen when I told her to get over him. Surely even with her shiny happy optimism she could see that nothing was ever going to happen there. Long-distance relationships are for idiots.

So … maybe Devon had finally worked up the courage to say something to Sal. Or maybe he just got her really drunk during a little literary get-together and made his move. She might not have told me if it was Devon. He was a sort-of-possibility.

The only other option was a complete stranger, but it just didn’t seem like a very ‘Sal’ thing to do. She believed in true love and romance and all that crap. She would NEVER have sex with a stranger.

And the thought that she might have been raped … well, that was just too much for me to deal with.

I gulped down the dregs of my tea and left the mug in the sink. The lack of dishwasher is a constant bone of contention between Mum and me. Washing dishes is
not
character-building. We had a dishwasher in the old house. We had a LOT of things in the old house.

I crept up the stairs and paused in the doorway of my room. Sal was still fast asleep – now with one arm flung above her head, bent at the wrist against the headboard, the other arm hanging off the side of my bed. She was even snoring – a tiny, snuffly, cute little snore. She was completely out of it.

I knew what I was going to do. She’d probably kill me, but it would be worth it.

I wrote a note and propped it up on the pillow next to Sal. Didn’t want her waking up and thinking I’d abandoned her. I grabbed my purse, crept out of the room, down the stairs and out of the front door. It had stopped raining, and the air was fresh.

I hardly ever go to the chemist’s down the road; the make-up selection leaves a lot to be desired and they don’t even have any decent nail-varnish colours. They definitely cater to the somewhat more mature lady. A bell rang as I opened the door, and the girl behind the counter looked up from her book.
NO NO NO NO NO!

I was expecting some kindly old dear who smelled like lavender, with glasses hanging on a gold chain around her neck.

Not Sophie Underwood.

Sophie Underwood. Seriously, it could have been almost ANYONE but her. Sophie and I go way back. We used to live on the same street – of course she still lives there, while I’m stuck in suburban terraced-house hell. We were friends in primary school, and in the first year of secondary too. Until I started to realize that maybe she wasn’t the kind of friend I wanted to be lumbered with for the rest of my school days. Harsh, I know.

She’s always been perfectly lovely and friendly and funny, but not too funny. But she’s just so
good
. Never has a bad word to say about anyone, which is fine and makes her a much better person than I am. But twelve-year-old me just ran out of things to say to her. Sophie started hanging round with a group of nice but not-so-popular girls, and somehow I edged my way towards the popular lot. And so we just drifted apart, the way lots of friends seemed to in those first couple of years. You decide who you’re going to throw your lot in with and just hope for the best.

Neither of us ever said anything about the gradual death of our friendship. We’d still say a vague ‘hi’ when we passed each other in the corridor.

It was just one of those things. One of those things that makes you feel like a horrible human being.

And now she was standing in front of me, with a look of mild surprise on her face. What the hell was she doing working
here
? She lived on the other side of town, for Christ’s sake.
Hmm … awkward
. I gave her a little wave – nice and nonchalant – and headed straight for the shampoo display. At least there I could have my back to Sophie while I figured out how to play this.

There was no way I could get away with saying nothing. No point in playing the old ‘It’s not for me, it’s for a friend’ card, because a) she probably wouldn’t believe me, and b) if she did, she would know it was for Sal because who else could it possibly be?

So I’d just have to say it was for me.
Brilliant
.

A few furtive glances around the shop confirmed my suspicions: the pregnancy tests were behind the counter. I took a deep breath and headed towards Sophie.

‘Hey, Soph, how’s it going?’ She looked at me with a half-smile, one eyebrow raised, as if to say, ‘When was the last time you called me
Soph
?’

‘Hi, Grace. Exams going OK?’

‘Yeah, y’know, the usual. How ’bout yours?’

Sophie rolled her eyes. ‘Nightmare. I didn’t even finish my chemistry exam yesterday.’
Yeah, right
.

‘Er … Soph. This is really awkward, but I’m sure you get stuff like this happening all the time, working here. The thing is … I need a pregnancy test. This is really embarrassing and I don’t want anyone to know, and I know I can trust you not to say anything …’
Babble babble babble
. If anything, Sophie looked the more awkward and embarrassed of the two of us. A flush of red came to her cheeks – more on the left side than the right, I noticed.

‘Oh. Right. Of course. I would never … I would never say anything. Are you OK?’ She looked genuinely concerned. She reached across the counter as if to touch my arm, and then pulled back at the last second. Obviously remembered that we weren’t friends any more, and that touching me would be a weird thing for her to do.

I shrugged. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. I just want to get this over with. It’s probably nothing. I’m just being paranoid.’ I briefly considered giving her some sob story, but reminded myself that it’s always best to keep things simple when you’re lying.

Sophie turned her back to me and scanned the shelves. ‘We’ve got this digital one, if you want to try that. It’s a bit more expensive, but it says it’s ninety-nine per cent reliable. Or you could just go with the old kind. I think that’s good too …’

‘I suppose I’ll take the digital one. How much is it?’

Sophie picked a box from the shelf and put it on the counter. Her face was still blotchy. She told me the price and I handed over the cash. She tapped away at the till and handed me back my change, avoiding eye contact. She handed me the box and asked if I wanted a bag.

I just looked at her.

Sophie winced. ‘
Of course
you want a bag. Sorry. This is just, well, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Listen, if there’s anything … well, you know …’ She trailed off into silence while she fumbled to find a bag under the counter.

The bell on the shop door rang again, and we both jumped. It was just a little old man, stooped and shuffling. I knew a chance to escape when I saw one. I took the bag, said a quick but sincere thanks to Sophie, and scarpered.

I hurried back up the road feeling weird and wistful and sad. Pushed all that to the back of my mind to focus on the task ahead.

I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. Sal was standing right in front of me, eyes bleary, hair all over the place.

‘And where do you think you’re going …?’

‘I …’ she faltered. Sheepish, big-time.

‘You think I’m just going to let you do a runner? Wearing my jeans too – the cheek of it!’ I grinned at her, grabbed her shoulders, turned her round and marched her back upstairs. Once we were back in my room, I sat Sal down on the bed and launched into my spiel:

‘Right. Here’s the deal. You
think
you’re pregnant. You don’t
know
. You can’t possibly know till you’ve done a test. Sooooo, I got you one.’ I could see Sal was about to interrupt, so I carried on speaking as quickly as possible. ‘Now I know you’re scared, but you know as well as I do that you have to be sure. Let’s just find out one way or the other and then we can get on with things. I’m here now. You don’t have to go through this by yourself. We can deal with whatever happens – I promise you.’

The seconds seemed to stretch forever while I willed her to give in. I started drumming my fingers on the dressing table, partly because I was anxious, but mostly because I knew it was the one thing that drove Sal mental. She HATED it.

‘That’s not going to work, you know.’

‘What’s not going to work?’ I asked, the picture of innocence.

‘You’re not going to irritate me into doing what you want.’

‘It’s hardly what I
want
, now, is it? You know you’ve got to do this. C’mon, Sal, you’re the sensible one, remember? That’s how it works: I do something stupid, and you tell me how to put it right. If you carry on like this, it’s going to upset the delicate balance of our friendship. The repercussions could be serious!’

That managed to raise a teeny-tiny smile from Sal, which seemed like progress. So I took the box out of the bag and opened it. A quick scan of the instructions was enough to tell me what I already knew. I handed Sal the stick/wand/thingummyjig. She stared at it like it was going to explode, or at the very least bite off her hand.

‘Now, off you go. You know what to do. There’s none of that blue line malarkey to try and decipher. It’ll tell us in words and everything – the marvels of technology, eh?’

Sal got up and took a deep breath. I hugged her hard, and whispered, ‘It’s going to be OK. We can do this.’ She left the room, and I heard the bathroom door shutting. I flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The wait was hellish.

I heard the toilet flush and before I knew it Sal was back in the room. I bolted upright, making my head spin.

‘I can’t look, Grace. Will you …?’ She handed me the test. Her thumb was over the little screen. I took it from her without looking.

‘OK, so it says you could get a result within a minute, but let’s just wait a little bit to be sure.’

We sat facing each other on the bed, my hand wrapped tightly around the test. So this was it. In a few seconds we were either going to be going crazy with relief (in which case we were going to get seriously wasted – exams or no exams), or …

I grabbed Sal’s hand and squeezed it, as much to reassure myself as to reassure her. Then, when there was really nothing else to say or do, I looked down at the screen.