Sweet Damage (19 page)

‘Anyway, what do you do, Anna? Study? Work?' Lilla asks almost as soon as we sit down.

‘Oh, well.' Anna shakes her head. ‘Nothing right now.'

Lilla lifts her mug to her mouth, gazes at Anna over the rim. ‘You've just finished a course? Looking for work?'

I have no doubt that Lilla knows exactly what Anna meant by the word ‘nothing'. Now she's just being nasty.

‘No.' Anna glances at me, then stares down into her coffee. A hot blush creeps up her neck and across her face, like red wine spilled on a white tablecloth. It's painful to watch, and I wish she'd just tell Lilla that it's none of her business, or lie, make something up: create a fake job, a fake university course, anything to wipe the superior look from Lilla's face. Her voice, when she eventually speaks, is small. ‘I'm not studying or working. I'm just . . . taking some time to—'

‘Anna's had a pretty rough couple of years,' I interrupt, glaring at Lilla.

‘Oh no. That's too bad, I'm sorry to hear it,' Lilla says, ignoring my glare. Her voice is completely unsympathetic. She smiles, sighs, looks around the room. ‘But you're lucky to have all this. Lucky to be in a position to
take time.
And it is pure luck, you know. It's not as if you worked for it, or deserved it or anything. It's not as if people who are born poor deserve that either. It's all just an accident of birth. Chance. A toss of the dice. You should be more grateful, Anna – for most of us, when shit happens, we just have to get on with it.'

There's a silence before Anna responds. ‘I am lucky in some ways,' she says, looking directly at Lilla now. ‘But not so lucky in others. Just like everybody else.'

Lilla laughs. ‘Actually, I don't think you can fairly say you're just like everybody else at all. I think you'll find that the playing field is not quite that . . .
equal
. I mean, yeah, we all have shit. That's life. But we don't all have loads of money to help us deal with it, you know? Hard as it might be for you to admit, I'm quite sure money helps smooth out those rough times. In fact, I'm quite sure money means the rough times happen a lot less often.'

‘Money doesn't stop people dying,' Anna says. The blush has gone from her skin and the ice-cold strength in her voice makes me want to cheer.

But Lilla isn't fazed. She only shakes her head. ‘I hate to be a pedant, but I think you're probably wrong on that count, too. I'm sure money
does
stop people dying. Frequently. Think of all those private doctors. Think of all the extra help private patients get in hospital . . .' She pauses. ‘Though it obviously didn't help much in your mum and dad's case. Anyway, that's only the secondary stuff, when you're already sick, that's not even counting the primary stuff that stops you getting sick in the first place. The good food. The education. All the extra privilege money brings.'

I can't believe what a bitch Lilla is being. I've only seen her act in this deliberately provocative and self-righteous way a couple of times before. Both of those times it was a hilarious performance, delivered to someone who deserved it. But this feels different. Wrong. This is Lilla being a bully, not Lilla taking a bully down.

I stand up, angry, scraping my chair against the floor noisily. I put my hand on the back of Lilla's chair.

‘The next bus to the mall is leaving in five minutes,' I say. ‘You'd better get on it because there isn't another one until after lunch.'

I'm lying and I know it's obvious, but I don't care. I've had enough of Lilla and her bullshit. I want her to go.

Lilla looks as if she's about to argue the point, but I give her the filthiest glare I can. It clearly has the desired effect, because she blinks and for a moment looks gratifyingly uncertain. She glances into her mug and takes a final sip of coffee, then stands up.

‘Okay then,' she says. ‘I'd better get going. Thanks for the party, Anna. Nice meeting you.'

She strides off down the hallway towards the front door without waiting for Anna to respond.

I follow her out. We're on the front porch before I speak.

‘What's your problem? Why were you being so bloody rude?'

She hesitates for a moment, staring down at her feet before meeting my eyes. ‘I don't know,' she says. ‘I just . . . she annoys me.' She looks at me carefully, shakes her head. ‘Don't start anything with her, Tim. She's just so not right for you.'

‘How the hell would you know?'

‘I know you.'

‘You know me?' I laugh. ‘So what? Doesn't give you the right to be rude. Doesn't mean you know who's
right
for me. Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean.'

‘Okay,' she scowls. ‘Fair enough. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. I suppose the truth is I just don't like those types of girls.'

‘
Those types of girls?
' I say, incredulous. ‘You're joking, right? You've barely spent five minutes with her. You don't even know her.'

‘I don't need to spend any more time with her. I can tell exactly what she's like. She's weak, I can see that much. Is that what you really want, Tim? Someone so spoilt they don't even know what it means to work for a living? Someone who contributes nothing to the world? Someone so
useless
?'

I've always known Lilla has a harsh side, but I'm stunned by this. How can she make such a cruel judgement of someone she's only just met? I shake my head.

‘You're fucking spiteful sometimes, Lilla. And it's not her lack of job that bothers you. That's just a convenient excuse, something easy and obvious for you to pick on. You're bloody jealous, that's all. You wish you had what she has. You wish you were more like her.'

‘Bullshit.' She looks appalled. ‘Jesus, I'd rather shoot myself.'

‘I know exactly what your problem with Anna is.' I count on my fingers as I go. ‘One, she's nice. Two, she's attractive. Three, she's rich, and four, I like her. And the truth is, she threatens you.' I step closer, letting the full depth of my anger show, fuelled by the events of the night before, our whole sad history together. I let all these months of pent-up frustration out, and I get no small amount of joy from watching her squirm.

‘And just for the record, Lilla, just so you know, Anna hasn't had the easiest time. In fact, she's had a much, much tougher life than you have, and I seriously do not know where you get off calling her spoilt. I mean, what gives you the right to judge her? To judge anyone, for that matter? And what about tolerance, huh? Lilla? And compassion? Remember those words? Your old favourites, remember? Or do those concepts only apply to people exactly like you?'

I don't realise quite how angry I am, or how vicious I must sound, until Lilla puts her hand up and takes a step back. She has tears in her eyes.

‘God, Tim. Okay. That's enough.' She puts her hand to her mouth and I can tell she's about to cry. I'm startled out of my anger – it takes a lot to make Lilla cry – and I'm about to stop, to apologise even, but she turns away and is gone before I get the chance.

When I turn around to go back inside, I see Anna waiting in the doorway. She must have heard everything.

40

W
EAK
. S
POILT
. U
SELESS
.
A
T THESE WORDS
,
ANNA FEELS AN INVIGORATING
spark of anger. ‘You don't know me,' she is tempted to shout. ‘How dare you? How DARE you?'

But watching Tim's reaction, Anna's rage quickly evaporates. The way he defends her, and the fact that he gets so angry on her behalf, soothes like ice on burnt skin. His defensive words soften the sting of Lilla's cruel ones. She watches him and listens to the passion in his voice and it occurs to her that he genuinely cares. And with that knowledge, she allows the small thread of happiness within her to grow stronger, more certain.

41

A
NNA AND
I
SPEND THE REST OF THE MORNING CLEANING
. A
NNA
works energetically, and though I watch to see if she's upset by Lilla's remarks, I see very little sign of it. We sustain ourselves on a packet of malt biscuits and frequent cups of coffee, and when we've finished it's past one and the house is clean. We've filled the recycling bin, plus three large boxes, with empty bottles, and there are three huge bags of rubbish tied up in the courtyard.

I make some pasta and divide it onto two plates. I serve it at the kitchen table because it's overcast and cool, and, unusually for a summer's day, not nice enough to eat outside.

Anna eats so slowly I wonder if she doesn't like it.

‘Is it okay?' I ask.

‘Delicious.'

When I've finished I push my plate to the side, watch Anna push her food around without actually eating any.

‘So. Last night,' I say. ‘Thanks again. I had an awesome time.'

‘Oh.' She waves my thanks away, glances at me for a second, then stares determinedly down at her plate.

‘Anna,' I say. ‘Look. Last night. When we were dancing, I think maybe . . .' I hesitate. Everything about her is telling me to stop. She's hunched over the table. Her hands are shaking. She won't meet my eyes.

‘Anna?' I reach out to take her hand but she snatches it away from me so violently I'm stunned.

And then she gets up and does what she always does. She runs away.

42

T
HE WAY SHE FEELS WHEN SHE
'
S WITH
T
IM SCARES HER
.

Tim is solicitous and kind all morning, making her coffee, bringing her biscuits. And cleaning the house together is somehow fun, not at all the boring chore it would usually be. But things are only easy between them while they're busy and preoccupied, while they have something to do. As soon as she sits opposite him at the table she feels her throat grow tight with anxiety. She tells herself to calm down, tries to make her mind blank and empty, but when Tim starts talking about the night before, she knows she can't manage any kind of conversation with him. Her fingers begin to tremble violently, her heart starts to beat too fast. She wants to disappear before he notices the panic. Before he realises how gutless she is.

Friendship. Love. Romance. Whatever this might potentially become, it's clearly not a possibility for Anna. Love is no longer an option. She can't even bring herself to look at him, let alone talk sensibly to him.

Tim reaches out and touches her hand, and without thinking or understanding why – she's a pure ball of nervous reaction – she snatches it away. And when she looks up, to explain, to apologise, she sees scorn in his eyes. Scorn and pity. She can feel the red-hot flush of shame on her face and neck and she has to turn away. Tim thinks she's a freak. She
is
a freak.

And so she flees. Back up to the attic where she can breathe properly, where she can keep her already damaged heart protected and hidden. Safely locked away.

43

W
HEN
A
NNA RUNS OFF
I
LET HER GO
. I'
M TOO TIRED AND HUNGOVER
to chase after her. Trying to get close to Anna is impossible, not to mention humiliating.

I go up to my room and crash for a few hours. I wake up in the late afternoon to the sounds of thunder and pouring rain – a full-on storm. I go down to the living room and lie on the sofa, switch between crap TV shows. When I get hungry I ring for pizza. I save a few pieces for Anna in case she appears, but she doesn't, and by eleven I'm ready for bed.

Before I go upstairs I check the windows and doors in every room, making sure everything is secure. I freak myself out a bit as I walk around, jumping at my own reflection, startling at every noise. I wish that I lived in some kind of unit. Somewhere simple and small and cosy. A place with one living area, one bedroom, one bathroom. A place with nowhere to hide. This house has far too many dark shadows, and it creaks and groans as if it's alive. It's impossible to feel secure, to be sure you're not being watched. And as I walk up the stairs to my room I remember the dream I had the night before, the terror and agony of it, and am filled with a renewed sense of trepidation.

I leave the hall light on, my bedroom door open. And despite the nerves that make me strain to hear every noise, I eventually fall asleep.

44

B
Y THE TIME SHE
'
S REACHED THE ATTIC, ANXIETY HAS OVERCOME HER AND
she has to crouch on the floor and breathe her way through a full-blown panic attack. There's nothing she can do once it's started, no way to stop it except bide her time and wait for the overwhelming sense of dread to pass
.

When it's over she feels emotionally drained and physically exhausted, as if she's run a marathon. The fear is gone but she's left with a horrible sense of emptiness, an overwhelming loneliness. Nothing will ever change. She has proven it today. Anxiety rules her life – and it won't let her be happy. She's destined to live alone, a madwoman in a mansion, hiding out in an attic, getting more neurotic with each passing year.

The sadness feels like a hole in her belly, an aching void that needs to be filled. She takes a valium, washes it down with vodka straight from the bottle. She takes the rest of the vodka to her armchair and curls up, pulls a blanket over her legs. She swigs from the bottle, lets her tears fall.

It's probably better like this, she decides eventually. If she knows anything, it's that love is a stupid, risky endeavour. Letting yourself love someone is like ripping your heart from your chest, holding it up in your hands, all bloody and exposed and vulnerable, and hoping nothing or nobody comes along to slap it to the floor and stomp all over it.