Now and Then Friends (13 page)

“Right, of course.” Miss Taylor rifled through some papers before drawing out Lily's exercise book.

“Lily does excellent work, as you know,” she said, and Rachel nodded, her hands knotted in her lap. “She is a very intelligent young woman, very capable. I rang you yesterday because, unfortunately, she hasn't handed in her last three assignments.”

“Lily hasn't?” Rachel clarified stupidly. As if the teacher would be talking about some other kid.

“No, Lily hasn't. And she's offered no reason when I've asked her for them.”

“But . . .” Rachel shook her head slowly. Lily had been a straight-A student since reception, had received ten A stars on her GCSEs, had never missed or forgotten anything. All right, maybe she'd been a little quiet lately, a little morose even, but forgetting assignments in Upper Sixth, when you'd been accepted to Durham University? “I don't understand.”

Miss Taylor folded her hands on top of her desk and gave Rachel a look that felt too compassionate. “The truth is, Miss . . .”

“Rachel.”

“Rachel, I don't think Lily actually likes biology.”

“But she's so good at it.” The protest came instinctively. “And she's never
said
she doesn't like it.”

“I think the missing assignments might speak for themselves.”

“Maybe she just forgot.”

“She didn't say she forgot,” the teacher said gently. “And she didn't take up my offer to hand them in late. She just said sorry and pushed past me.”

“That doesn't sound like Lily.”

“I know.”

Rachel shook her head again, flummoxed. Lily was ruining her chances by doing this. Sabotaging them, and for what? “I'll talk to her. I'll see what's going on. Are the assignments important? Will they affect her grades?”

“They don't count towards her final mark, but it's important I see that she understands the concepts. Her final lab work for her fifth paper is next week. That's important.”

“Right.” Rachel knew Lily was doing her final research paper on soil content and the effect of sand dune erosion on its properties. Or something like that. She'd taken a bunch of samples near the beach and brought them in to school to analyze. Rachel had talked to her about it a little bit, had tried to reclaim some of the scientific knowledge from the crowded fog of her mind. She'd even felt a tiny spark of intellectual curiosity; it had almost felt painful, when she considered how much she'd once known, how interested in everything she'd once been.

Maybe that had been why she hadn't asked Lily more about her research project, been more involved. Because it had hurt. “I'll talk to her about it,” she said, and then realizing she was already five minutes late for her next client, she said a hasty goodbye and hurried out of the school.

Back in the car she saw a text from Lucy confirming the pub quiz for that night, and impatiently Rachel texted back, canceling. As much as she loved her one evening out, she knew she wasn't up for it then. Not when everything in her life felt poised to explode.

When Rachel arrived back home a little after six, Meghan was asleep on the sofa while Nathan sat on the floor, picking his nose and watching
Teletubbies
. Lily was nowhere in sight.

Rachel popped her head around the doorway to check on her mother; she was sitting propped up in bed, looking a bit more cheerful, although her breathing was labored.

“You all right, Mum?”

“Good day today,” Janice half panted. “A little short of breath, but I got up and watched telly in the living room. Even went out in the garden to sit in the sun for a bit. The tulips are coming out.”

“Are they?” Rachel smiled distractedly as she checked the bottle of OxyContin she'd bought last night. “You've had your pills today?”

“All two of them.” Janice smiled up at her and reached out to put one hand over Rachel's. “Don't worry about me, love,” she said, and took the bottle from her.

“I'm not worried,” Rachel lied. “Just checking, that's all.” The truth was, ten years of bed rest hadn't done Janice Campbell any favors. She'd never been a thin woman, and now she was verging on morbidly obese. Her shortness of breath came no doubt from being overweight as well as from thirty years of smoking. “Can I get you anything?”

Janice shook her head. “I'm fine, love, fine.”

Rachel was coming out of her mother's bedroom when the front door opened and Lily slipped inside, clearly trying not to be noticed. She gave Rachel a quick, guilty smile and then hurried up the stairs before Rachel could say a word.

“Lily . . .” she called, and hurried after her. The bedroom door was already closed, music pounding. Rachel stood there for a moment, trying to summon the energy to have a confrontation with Lily. But maybe it wouldn't be an argument; maybe there was a reason why Lily hadn't done her course work. “Lily,” she called again, and opened the door.

Lily was just taking off her school blouse and she let out a yelp as Rachel came in. “Can't you
knock
?”

“Sorry,” Rachel said even though she was pretty sure Lily had heard her call. “Can we talk?”

“Fine.” Lily yanked her blouse closed, glaring, and Rachel folded her arms. So this was going to be a confrontation.

“Miss Taylor told me you haven't handed in some of your course work.” She waited, but Lily didn't say anything. “
Lily.
Is this true?”

“I doubt Miss Taylor would lie about it.”

Rachel forced herself to ignore her sister's snarky tone. “But why haven't you handed them in? You know how important it is—”

“I know. I
know.”
Lily let out a huffy sigh. “You tell me often enough. I was busy, okay? It won't happen again.”

“Busy?” Rachel stared at her sister, at her fringe falling into her face, her eyes wide and dark with too much black eyeliner, her shoulders almost as bony as they'd been when she'd been little, in her too-big secondhand uniform, her little hand in Rachel's as they'd walked up the school lane. “How can you be too busy to do course work?” Rachel asked, striving to keep her voice level. “All you have to do is study. That's
it.
And you can't hand in your course work?”

“I know, Rachel. You're a saint,” Lily said, her voice tired now. “I'm sorry I'm not up there with the angels with you.”

“I don't mean it like that. But what have you been doing with your time, if not studying?” Lily shrugged. “Lily, come on. Tell me what is going on, please.” Still nothing.
“Lily.”

Rachel looked around the bedroom for clues, but all she saw was the typical detritus of an eighteen-year-old girl's room: laddered tights kicked onto the floor, half a dozen pairs of shoes in an untidy jumble, makeup spilled across the desk meant for her books, sheets of paper flung all over the floor. Then she noticed that the papers had intricate drawings all over them. “What is this?” Rachel muttered, and picked up a sheet that was lying on the desk, covering Lily's dusty biology textbook.

“Don't . . .” Lily began, but she sounded halfhearted.

Rachel stared down at the drawing in confusion. It was a cartoon done in black ink, of a girl with crazy hair and big glasses, wearing a lab coat. Rachel saw the title in Harry Potter–like script at the top:
Adventures of the Mad Scientist Girl.
“Did you do this?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lily answered, and Rachel didn't miss the note of shy pride in her voice. It made her angrier.

“So let me see if I have this right. Instead of actually
doing
your biology course work, you're drawing doodles about it instead?”

Her sister didn't say anything, just folded her arms and hunched her shoulders. Rachel wasn't an idiot; she understood this was important to Lily, that her sister had wanted her to be impressed and admiring of her creativity. But a
cartoon.
And assignments left incomplete. “Lily, look.” She took a deep breath, forcing the fury down. “I get that you like this stuff. It's fun, and you can do it, but not at the expense of your schoolwork.” She tried to keep her voice reasonable, but she could tell the damage had already been done. “You can't make a career out of this,” she said, waving the paper. “It won't get you into university. You can't
live
off it—”

“Maybe I could,” Lily said in a low voice. “If you'd let me.”

“I'm trying to give you the best chance in life—”

“Maybe I should decide what the best chance
is
.”

“What are you saying?” Rachel demanded. “That you don't want to go to university? You want to live at home and draw cartoons for the rest of your life, maybe take a few shifts at the pub, like Meghan?”

Lily's face crumpled, and with a rush of remorse Rachel realized what a child she still was. Children had dreams, and she didn't want to crush Lily's, but it killed her that her sister could have so much if she just tried for it. She could have everything Rachel had wanted but been denied. Lily might not think she wanted it now, but in a couple of years, when all that was on offer was lousy shift work? Rachel knew better than Lily. It was only that Lily didn't realize it.

“It doesn't have to be like that,” Lily muttered.

“You're right. It doesn't. You can do your work, go to a fantastic university, get a degree and a job, and
then
you can do your damned doodles.” She thrust the paper back at Lily, who clutched it to her chest. Rachel felt as if she'd hit her. She was being mean, and to
Lily
, whom she'd cuddled and burped and treated like her own daughter.

Which was why she was so angry now.

“I'm going to make tea,” she said, and went downstairs. Meghan was just waking up on the sofa, and her mother had started calling for something again, her voice a faint, pathetic entreaty.

Gritting her teeth, Rachel grabbed a pan and thwacked it on the stove as hard as she could. The loud clatter was a satisfying sound, but it didn't actually make her feel any better.

“So what's your problem?” Meghan asked as she strolled, yawning, into the kitchen. She still had the traces of last night's makeup on her face, and her hair was flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. “Hmm?” she asked, and stretched. “Bad day, or are you just in your usual pissy mood?”

Rachel took a deep breath and didn't answer.

Claire had been working at the village shop for a week—four days a week, anyway—and she was starting to feel as if she'd gotten the hang of it. She could manage the till, and Dan had even taught her the trick about Lottery cards and cigarettes and how to add the tax. She'd survived the rush of schoolchildren every afternoon, and Eleanor Carwell's beady precision every morning. She didn't particularly enjoy stacking newspapers or milk, but after a while she could appreciate the steady rhythm, and at the end of the week, when Dan paid her, she felt satisfied if surprised at the small amount.

“I did tell you it was minimum wage,” he said, and Claire realized she must have looked disappointed.

“Yes, of course you did.” She tucked the check into her bag. “Thank you.”

“That will buy a pair of shoes, I suppose?” Dan said without looking at her. Claire couldn't tell if he was being serious or not.

“Maybe one shoe,” she answered flippantly as she went back to dusting the tins on the shelves. In London and Portugal she'd spent hundreds of pounds on a single pair of shoes at a time. Her parents had been giving her a clothing allowance since she was thirteen. It hadn't stopped when she'd graduated from university or gotten a job; she hadn't thought about it either way. She had just expected the money to be there, and
it had been. The realization made her feel uncomfortably guilty now. Maybe she really was the spoiled princess Dan and Rachel and who knew who else seemed to think she was.

“So one shoe,” Dan answered. “Maybe you can buy the other one next week.”

So maybe he could joke, after all. Claire took a deep breath. “You really do have me pegged as some spoiled rich girl, don't you?”

“Can you deny it?”

“No, I don't suppose I can. No one can help what they were. But I'm trying to be independent now. To change.” She'd been dusting the tins, taking her time with each one. “Do you know this tin of lamb stew with minty peas has been here since I started?”

“You mean one week?”

“How long have you been running this shop?”

“Three years.”

“And in all that time,” Claire asked, hefting the tin aloft, “has anyone bought a tin of lamb stew with minty peas?”

Dan stared at her, his arms folded. “How am I supposed to remember something like that?”

“I'd remember.” Claire put the tin back on the shelf. “I can't imagine wanting to eat an entire meal that comes out of a single tin.”

“It's convenient.”

Appalled realization rushed through her. “
Oh.
Is that what you . . . ?”

“I can cook,” Dan answered shortly. “But don't judge it. A lot of the old folks find these tins helpful. They can't manage to cook for themselves anymore.”

“Oh.” She stared at him in surprise. He'd almost sounded sensitive. “Right. I suppose I didn't think of that.” But since she'd started in the shop, no one had bought any of it. Not the lamb stew or treacle pudding or the Fray Bentos “Boozy” steak-and-ale pie, which came in a pie-shaped tin with a lid you peeled back. She decided not to point that out to Dan.

She'd been in a surprisingly good mood these last few days, almost
buoyant. Andrew had left for Manchester several days ago, and it wasn't until his Lexus had disappeared down the lane that she'd realized how oppressive she'd found his well-meant concern.

Her mother had called only once yesterday, and Claire had actually listened to the voice mail. She hadn't flinched when she'd heard her mother's needling tone, demanding she ring her back, saying that Andrew had told her she'd found “a little job.” Maybe she'd actually phone her mother back today. She almost felt strong enough.

Yesterday Lucy had come by and invited her into Whitehaven to go shopping over the weekend for craft supplies for the art stall at the Easter Fair.

“Easter Fair?”

“Yes, it's next week. The school puts on an Easter Fair every year, with stalls and games and all sorts. Best Decorated Egg, a fancy hat competition, you know.”

“Right.” A vague memory had surfaced in her mind like a soap bubble: decorating a hat with Rachel, both of them giggling as they tied a pink ribbon Claire had brought from home around its straw brim.

So much of her school years had been a miserable blur as she'd been caught between her mother's concern and disappointment, in and out of hospitals with procedures for her ear or illnesses as a result of it.

“Everyone says the Easter Fair is good fun,” Lucy had told her. “Although I've never actually been. I only moved here in August. But Alex said that some of the local businesses and charities come and set up stalls,” Lucy had added. “The Hangman's Noose puts on some food, a bookshop in Whitehaven brings some kiddie books to sell, and the Lifeboat Institute does their thing about water safety. They give away key rings and fridge magnets, that sort of stuff.”

Now, as Claire dusted a row of tins of hot dogs in brine—yuck—an idea came to her. “Why don't you do a stall at the Easter Fair?” she asked Dan.

“The what?” It was the end of the day, and Dan was balancing the
cash register, an intricate procedure of matching receipts to cash amounts, which Claire had not yet been invited to learn.

“The Easter Fair, up at the primary school. Lucy said a bunch of local businesses set up stalls. Why don't you?”

He didn't even look up from the receipts. “Who would run the shop while I was up at the school?”

“I could.”

Dan gave her a quick, quelling glance. “I don't think so.”

“Don't you think it's important to have a presence in the village?” Claire pressed.

“I do have a presence. My shop is on the high street.”

“But a community presence. The shop is almost like a church or a community center, a place where people meet. . . .”

Dan stared at her disbelievingly. “It's a place to buy things.”

“You could sell sweets and crisps and fizzy drinks up at the school,” Claire suggested. “The kids would love it.”

“I'm sure the head teacher will thank me for that. They've banned fizzy drinks from the school.”

“All right, no fizzy drinks, then. But sweets or biscuits or even fruit, for goodness' sake—”

“No.” Dan's voice was flat and final, even for him.

Claire took a deep breath. “Why not?”

“Because I don't want to.”

“You don't want to get to know people?”

“No.”

She fell silent, because there wasn't much she could say to that. And really, why should she argue for him to have a stall at the fair? She didn't want to get to know people, either. At least, she hadn't before. But in the two weeks since she'd been in Hartley-by-the-Sea she'd gotten to know people anyway. Lucy and Juliet and Abby, and even prickly Eleanor Carwell and the handful of schoolkids who came in. The boy who had tried
to nick the sweets on her first day now smiled at her when he came into the shop. Claire hoped he wasn't pulling a con and still stealing sweets.

When she thought of the wide array of shallow friends she'd had in Portugal—all of them really Hugh's friends, with tinkling laughs and hard eyes—she felt as if she'd actually put down some roots here. Thin, little things, perhaps, but still. Roots.

“I could do the Easter Fair.”

Dan stopped counting receipts. “You?”

“Why not?” She lifted her chin in challenge. “It might drum up a little more business.”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No.”

“But why not?” Claire pressed, and Dan's expression hardened into its familiar, implacable scowl. She hadn't seen it for a while, but it still possessed the power to make her fall instantly silent.

“Because I said no.”

She didn't try to reason with him after that.

The next day she and Lucy took the train into Whitehaven. It was early April and almost starting to feel like spring, at least when the wind let up for a moment. Claire had forgotten how green everything became in Cumbria, thanks to the rain. The grass looked almost fluorescent, and the leaves on the trees were bright against the blue sky.

“I remember doing this in school,” Claire said as they watched the sheep-dotted fields stream by for the seven-minute journey into town. “Honestly, I don't know what we actually did in Whitehaven. Walk around in too-high heels and try on all the lipsticks at Boots, I suppose.”

“That's right. Abby said you were one of the in girls,” Lucy recalled with a rueful smile. “I have to say, I never knew how that felt.”

“I'm not sure I did, either.”

“What do you mean?”

Claire shrugged, wishing she hadn't mentioned school. “I just went with the crowd. They chose me, and so I followed.”

Lucy looked at her curiously. “But didn't it feel good to be chosen?”

“It had nothing to do with me,” Claire said bluntly. “If your parents are rich and put on parties for your class, you're pretty much guaranteed to be popular.”

“I don't know about that,” Lucy answered. “My mother was well-off and she put on a birthday party for my class when I was six. I still wasn't popular.”

Claire shook her head. “It didn't mean anything. I never felt like they were really my friends.”

“So why did you stay with them, then?”

She shrugged. “Because it was easier. Not the best reason, I know, but school was hard for me. I was ill a lot of the time as a child, and I didn't feel very . . .” She blew out a breath. “With it.”

“Ill?” Lucy frowned in sympathy. “I'm sorry.”

Claire shrugged again. “It was a long time ago.”

Lucy must have sensed that she didn't want to talk about it, because she fell silent, but as the sheep pasture gave way to neat rows of Whitehaven's terraced houses, Claire found herself remembering more than she wanted to. The push and pull of friendships she didn't really understand. The feeling that she was underwater and everything was happening on dry land. The poor reports from school, the teachers with their pitying smiles, saying in hushed voices to her parents, “Claire's not really an academic girl, is she?” Her father's compressed mouth, his hand heavy on her shoulder, her mother's fluttering movements, and over all of it the sense of always disappointing people that rested on her like a leaden mantle.

Those years in primary school with Rachel had been the one bright light amidst all that oppressive darkness. But she'd turned away from it, for no good reason. Not that Rachel had really minded. They'd both dropped their friendship as if it hadn't meant anything, and maybe it hadn't. They'd been little kids, after all.

Whitehaven with Lucy was far more enjoyable than the pointless
afternoons and evenings Claire had spent with a gaggle of Wyndham girls, standing by uncertainly while they nicked makeup and tried to get into the dance clubs with fake IDs. Lucy regaled her with a story of how she'd had to buy a bra for the head teacher's daughter, which made Claire both laugh and shake her head in amazement at Lucy's determined meddling and endless good cheer.

“But it all worked out in the end, because we're dating now,” Lucy finished.

“You're dating the head teacher?”

“Alex, yes. It's still somewhat early days, though, so . . .”

“If you've bought his daughter a bra, you have a deeper relationship than I ever did with my fiancé.”

Lucy looked at her with a cringing mixture of compassion and curiosity. “Why do you say that?” Lucy asked, her voice terribly gentle.

“Oh, it just wasn't that deep a relationship,” Claire said, trying to sound dismissive. “Which makes me sound terribly shallow, I realize. I'm sure Hugh is an interesting and dynamic person, but I never really got to know that part of him.”

She snuck a glance at Lucy, who was now looking both fascinated and appalled. “But why did you agree to marry him, then?”

“Because . . .” Claire bit her lip. There was nothing she could say that would make her come out looking good in this scenario. “Because I knew my parents wanted me to,” she finished. “And I haven't had too many real romantic relationships. We got along on the surface, and that seemed enough.”

Lucy nodded slowly. “I spent years trying to impress my mother. Trying to win her love, really. I've finally stopped, mostly, but it was hard. I think it's human instinct to want to gain our parents' approval and love, especially if they seem reluctant to give it.”

“Maybe,” Claire agreed. She'd never had her parents' approval, but she thought she'd had their love. Their overwhelming, suffocating, sacrificial love.

She and Lucy spent a happy hour in the art shop, buying supplies for the Easter crafts at the fair, and then over huge cups of coffee at the Costa on King Street Claire worked up the nerve to tell Lucy about her idea of the shop having a stall at the Easter Fair.