Something Only We Know (10 page)

I hung my head. There was no response I could make to Rosa, because if I started to argue I knew I’d never be able to stop until every shade of abuse had spilled out of my mouth and I had
no internship any more.

Luckily for me, she seemed about finished. Across the office Alan was calling her name and holding up his phone, miming a kind of flapping action which clearly meant something important because
she only bothered shooting me one last withering look before hurrying across to take the mobile and coo into it, smiley smiley.

After a minute, I restarted my PC and tried to bring the day’s schedule back into focus. Rosa’s words were still loud in my head, and little hot flares of temper and humiliation kept
leaping up under my breastbone. I imagined waiting till the end of the day, then challenging her, without the pressure of an audience
. I know what your problem is
, I would say.
It’s because the bookshop people are different, isn’t it? Different from the so-called smart set you hang out with. It’s because the crowd at Revolution have creative hair and
FairTrade clothes and because Keisha and Vikki are lesbians. So they don’t quite measure up to your ultra-bland standards. Too common and outrageous to waste newsprint on.
And I pictured
Owen saying,
I told you when you started working for that paper they were a bunch of capitalist gits
. And I thought of having to take myself round to the shop to explain that, despite what
I’d promised, we wouldn’t be turning up with a notepad and camera after all. Damn Rosa. Damn her to hell and right round again. In my whole life I’d never met anyone as
objectionable. As I sat now at my desk, hatred for her was pumping round my veins and filling up the chambers of my heart.

Just as I was about to expire through my own poison, Gerry cruised past on his way back from the water cooler. Without pausing, he bent his head in my direction and muttered, ‘You know
what the problem is there, don’t you? Nasty case of thrush.’

I let out a yelp of angry laughter. At once Rosa’s head whipped round, but I stared her out and she returned to her call.

These tiny rebellions are what keep you going.

After work I wanted to go straight to Owen’s, but I felt I had no choice other than to make my way over to the bookshop and explain myself. I’d done nothing but
stew all afternoon, trying to work out whether there was any way I could slip a mention of Revolution into print
somewhere
, just to spite Rosa. But I knew it was impossible. In practical
terms she had editorial control, and had to approve the entire submitted text before it went to central press. So she’d weed out any reference she didn’t like, and roast me into the
bargain.

By the time I reached the shop I was flustered with guilt and resentment. Keisha’s grin as she let me over the threshold only made me feel worse.

‘Spot any changes?’ she said, nodding towards the far end of the room.

‘Bloody hell. I’ll say.’

Since I’d last visited, the place had been transformed. The customer space used to be labyrinthine with ranks of free-standing black wood shelves, the walls covered in a jumble of cheaply
produced flyers, the ceiling clad in orange pine. They’d taken down a partition and removed a massive cupboard, repainted the ceiling so it was cream, and pushed the shelving to the edges of
the room. More books were displayed on tables and on white wire racks. In the rear half, which I could see still wasn’t finished, one stretch had been left bare and primed; I guessed that was
for notices. Keisha followed my gaze.

‘Vik’s got a friend who’s an artist and he’s going to paint us a tree on that section. Then we can stick posters and cards on the branches and trunk. Give it more of a
visual impact than an ordinary notice board.’

‘Cool. Where have you put all your books?’

‘They’re still here. Just better displayed. I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it?’

I took a breath. ‘And your café’s going at the back?’

‘That’s right. Saleem’s sourced us six old school desks that were being thrown out. Covered in graffiti and ink stains, very cool. Plus one of those long wooden counter tops
from a science lab. The cakes can sit on that. And then in the evenings, we can push the tables aside and make a performance space. People can come and do readings and make speeches and have
discussions.’

She looked so happy. I felt like the biggest heel in the world for what I was about to say.

Keisha frowned. ‘Don’t you like it, Jen?’

‘Yes, I do. I really do. It’s tons better. Who’s going to be making your cakes?’

‘Viks. She’s not done a lot of baking before, but she has been reading up.’

As if on cue, the shop door jangled open and there was Vikki, carrying a basket of poorly looking fruit.

‘From the market,’ she said. ‘They were more or less giving it away, just ’cause it’s got a few bruises and lumps. But we like imperfect round here. Hey, Jen, what
do you think of our makeover? Good, isn’t it? We’re on track with budget and schedule, too, it’s coming together. I can’t wait to see the photos in your paper.’

I said, ‘You’d better sit down for a minute. I’ve something to tell you.’

They’re so sweet, those two. They sat and listened politely, Keisha pressing her lips together in a rueful way, and Vikki pulling a sympathetic face when I described Rosa’s
outburst.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

Vikki sighed and poked at her fruit. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s the system: you have to be inside it for it to work. But, bugger. It is a set-back. I suppose we could always
arrange for a nice dramatic news story to happen, get coverage that way. I could chain myself to something. The drainpipe outside.’

‘It would have to be a popular landmark to get maximum attention. The Eastgate Clock.’

‘The Town Crier.’

‘You mean the pub?’

‘No, I mean that geezer who walks around the precinct in highwayman gear. I could stalk him, wrestle him to the ground, then shackle both of us to The Cross. That’d have him ringing
his bell.’

‘Honestly, Vikki, between now and opening day you could rescue a dozen orphans from a burning building and Rosa would boycott the story on principle.’ I plucked a withered grape out
of the basket and held it aloft. ‘See that? That’s the size of my boss’s humanity. That’s exactly how large it is.’

Keisha nodded. ‘We’re done, then. Who’d like a brew? Shall I get the kettle on?’

‘I can hand out leaflets for you, though, if you want.’

‘We might take you up on that, Jen.’

They made me a peppermint tea, and I took my mug and sat in the window, watching passers-by and nursing my shame. There I let my thoughts wander back over the day, beyond my boss’s rant to
my various other failings, and finally to the conversation with Ned and what he’d said about Chelle. An annoying limpet, he’d dismissed her as. Nothing to fret about, ‘easily
dislodged’. Was he right? Part of the trouble was, she never left Owen and me alone. Even if we closed the bedroom door she’d be bumping about outside, playing the radio and singing
along in a penetrating nasal voice. And it felt as if no conversation could run for more than two minutes without her butting in, diverting the subject onto yet another anecdote about her activist
experiences. The time she’d hijacked a crop sprayer, the time she’d sent a singing nun-o-gram to the environment minister, the charity gigs and student protests and shop sit-ins
she’d organised. Owen lapped it up, treated her like a guru. ‘You know, Jen,’ he said to me one night as we lay in bed together, ‘I sometimes listen to Chelle’s ideas
and think she’s been
sent
to us.’
Ooh, like an angel,
I nearly said, but I managed to bite back the sarcasm. His admiration was naked and intense. If he’d told
me she could speak to dolphins I wouldn’t have been surprised.
Don’t you find it irritating the way she finds everything ‘awesome’?
I wanted to say to him.
Have
you seen how she’s left wet towels on the floor? Did you realise I had to go out and buy more coffee because she finished off the jar without telling anyone?
And more than that, I wanted
to ask,
Do you like her better than me? Do you find her attractive? Are you ever a little bit tempted?
But I knew how intolerant that would sound, and if there’s one thing Owen
can’t abide, it’s intolerance.

Keisha came over to flip the sign on the door. ‘’Cause we don’t want to be besieged by crowds of customers all night,’ she said drily. I heard myself say, ‘What do
you think of Chelle?’ She blinked. ‘Hmm, Chelle. She’s very interesting. She’s led an interesting life, hasn’t she? Packed a lot in.’

‘But do you like
her
, as a person?’

‘I don’t know her.’

‘From what you’ve seen?’

‘Well—’

‘We think she’s a free-loader and an attention-seeker,’ called Vikki from across the shop. ‘Does that make you feel better, Jen?’

I blushed. ‘Oh, God. Am I that transparent?’

‘It’s all right, your secret’s safe with us.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Keisha shuffling with embarrassment. She obviously didn’t think such bluntness was appropriate or wise.

I said, ‘I didn’t mind her visiting for a bit. She’s Owen’s mate and it’s his flat at the end of the day; he’s had other people stay over when they’ve
needed somewhere to crash for a day or two. Only, Chelle’s not showing any sign of moving on. If I had a specific date when she was leaving, it wouldn’t be so bad. When I ask her she
just shrugs. And I don’t feel I can put up much of a protest in case I come over as jealous or petty. You know what Owen’s like. He’s allergic to pettiness.’

Vikki laughed. ‘Owen needs to wake up. Chelle’s a sponger – she’s got him paying for everything: food, travel, drinks, the lot. He bought her a new rucksack last week
because her old one had split. A pretty good one, too. Top of the range.’

‘Did he?’ That was news to me.

The women exchanged glances.

Keisha rubbed at the face of her wrist watch. ‘He said to me it’s because she couldn’t manage without one, and she hasn’t any other resources right now. You know what
Owen’s like when he thinks someone’s genuinely in need. He can’t help himself.’

‘But Chelle can. If you’re not happy, Jen, you should speak up,’ said Vikki.

‘Don’t push her,’ replied Keisha. ‘It’s not really our business, is it?’

‘Yeah, because I don’t like to stand by . . .’

I barely heard them. New rucksack? New bloody rucksack? I couldn’t believe it. My heart was swelling at the unfairness. I tried to think what had Owen given me lately. A second-hand poetry
collection. And I’d been really touched because he’d gone back to the bookshop specially after I said I wished I’d bought it. ‘What’s this for?’ I’d asked
when he handed it over. ‘No reason,’ he’d said. The floppy, yellowed paperback had cost him £3.50, and at the time I didn’t even think the price mattered. Did it
matter? Was I being an ingrate or a mug? The value of a gift was the intention behind it, surely?

Whatever the arguments, Chelle was clearly taking the piss. She’d stepped over a line.

So far I’d made myself hold back on the criticism because it’s hard to point out someone isn’t very nice without sounding not very nice yourself. I knew how it would come
across. I had rehearsed a few openers, but each time I’d ended up sounding, at best, ungenerous and, at worst, a bitch, and I could picture all too clearly Owen’s appalled face.
Just tell the woman to buzz off,
I could hear Ned saying.
It’s straightforward enough.
To which I’d reply,
To you, from where you’re standing, maybe.
Easiest thing in the world to solve someone else’s problem. ‘Just insist your husband gives you more respect.’ ‘Just take your boss aside and demand a pay rise.’ We
all know the theory, but how many of us live by the manual? These set-ups always seem so clear if you’re on the outside. It’s different altogether when you’re in the middle of
them. What could I say to Owen that would make him see it my way?

‘She’ll be here in a few minutes, anyway,’ said Vikki, breaking into my thoughts.

‘How come?’

Vikki frowned. ‘We’re all off to the Oak for a strategy meeting about this new website he’s putting together. Didn’t Owen say? I thought that’s why you were here,
to meet him.’

‘Huh? No. I was just going to go round to the flat as usual—’ I made myself stop, but the damage was done. I’d already made myself look a fool in front of her. I
couldn’t bluster and pretend,
Oh, yeah, I remember. He rang me this morning.
It was too obvious that my boyfriend had planned an excursion without bothering to tell me.

And there you had it. One final V-flick from the World’s Worst Day.

‘Well, you’re here now, so that’s OK,’ said Keisha unconvincingly.

As it happened, we didn’t have to wait long for them to turn up. Within five minutes Owen and Chelle stumbled through the door laughing, his face shining and hers registering a
self-satisfied smirk.

‘Oh, that’s brilliant,’ he was saying. ‘Wait till I tell the others. That’s classic. Classic.’

‘Something’s funny?’ said Vikki.

‘It is, it is.’ Owen wiped his eye with his cuff. ‘Chelle, tell them what you told me on the way here.’

Chelle perched herself on the corner of the nearest table.

‘Well,’ she began, ‘this was a couple of years ago, in Wellington. A group of us were at this store, this supermarket, and we were doing a demo dressed as
cows—’

‘You were protesting against GM milk,’ Owen chipped in.

‘Yeah, that’s right. And we were wearing these cow heads with horns, yeah, and zip-up cow-print onesies with kind of leather hooves over the hands – they were pretty awesome.
Everyone was stopping to look at our signs and take our leaflets, we were getting loads of attention. And then I looked along the row and I counted one cow too many. There were supposed to be six
of us, but I counted seven. So I said to my mate Mitchy, Who’s the guy on the end there? And he said he thought it was a friend of Bev’s – she was our secretary then. And I said,
Who is he, though? And Mitch said he thought his name was Ryan, but Glen said he’d heard he was called Frankie or something. So I kept a watch on Mr Extra, and when he thought we
weren’t looking I could see he had his phone out and he was taking photos of us and texting. Then he dropped his phone – he was having to struggle because of the hooves, yeah? –
and I went over to help him and heard him speak. And I knew his voice. I knew who it was. It was this guy out of Sector Twenty-Twenty, which is this right-wing group we’ve had some problems
with – I’d seen him a few weeks before ranting away on YouTube and I recognised him. Basically he’d been spying, trying to get some dirt so he could discredit us. I whipped off
his cow head and I shouted to the others what was going on, he made a run for it and we started this chase round the car park, still in our costumes. It was epic. There were shoppers standing
there, gripping their carts, with their mouths open. Fantastic publicity for the cause. It made the regional TV news.’