Don't Ask (9 page)

‘Don’t worry, my dad will lend you some, won’t you, Dad?’

Alex’s dad smiled at me. He was also tall and slim, with a full head of silver-grey hair, and the same toothy grin as his daughter. ‘That’s fine,’ he said, taking a
twenty-pound note out of his wallet and passing it to me. ‘No need to pay me back.’

‘No, no, I can’t take your money,’ I said, waving his hand away. I meant it. I felt bad enough about deceiving Alex, but her dad, who seemed really sweet, was totally innocent
in all this. Taking his money was like extortion; I could probably get arrested for it.
Con Woman Arrested at Football Match
the headline would read.
A teenage con woman stole the life
savings from a kindly old man . . .

‘I insist,’ he said, pressing the note into my hand and closing my fist around it. ‘It’s nice to finally meet a friend of Alex’s who shares her passion for
football.’

‘Thank you,’ I muttered. I couldn’t look him in the eye.

Alex took me into the shop, while her dad waited outside. There were about five different scarf designs, which I could barely tell apart. ‘You should get this one,’ Alex said,
pointing to a red and white striped scarf identical to hers. ‘It’s the latest one for this season.’

‘Cool,’ I said. ‘It’s great.’ I paid for the scarf and then wound it around my shoulders, tying it at my neck. It felt scratchy and I could sense red, itchy welts
forming on my skin underneath. In a strange way, I liked the discomfort; it would serve as a reminder that I couldn’t let my guard down, that I must not relax and slip out of character.

‘That’s more like it,’ said Alex’s dad, with a warm smile, when he saw me. He wouldn’t take the change. ‘Buy me a cup of tea at half time.’

The stadium was enormous, with countless bars and restaurants surrounding a giant, perfectly manicured football pitch. It was strange to be in a place where there were so many more men than
women. The background noise was a low rumble of deep voices and there was an overwhelming smell of clashing aftershaves mixed with beer. I was struck by the fact that there was no queue at all for
the ladies’ toilet, while the queue for the gents’ snaked around the corner. It felt like a little victory. Hah! I thought. Finally they understand what it’s like to be a
girl.

As we walked outside to our seats – posh seats, because Alex’s dad had got the tickets through work – I’ll admit that even I was excited by the charged atmosphere, by the
raucous singing and the sense of anticipation. All around me was a red and white sea of thousands of supporters wearing Arsenal strips and scarves. In one corner, the sea was broken up by a little
puddle of black and white, the loyal away supporters who were doing their best to be heard over the din, trading insults with the home fans surrounding them. I zipped my jacket right up to my neck,
so nobody could think I might be one them.

‘When the camera comes round, smile and wave,’ said Alex, as we sat down.

I tried not to show my panic. Camera, what camera? Jack was sure to be watching the match. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being seen on film, sitting right next to Alex. Talk about
being caught red (or should that be red and white) handed. Even I wouldn’t have been able to explain my way out of that one.
‘What? Someone who looks like me was sitting next to
your ex-girlfriend? At a football match, while I was out shopping with Katie? What are the chances of that?’

‘I don’t want to be on telly,’ I said, shuffling uncomfortably, even though my red plastic seat wasn’t as hard as I’d expected.

‘You’re not shy, are you Laura?’ She smiled at me. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just for the fans in the stadium. The camera pans round and the pictures show up on
those big screens.’ She pointed to the corners of the ground, where there were giant screens showing the crowd. ‘Of course there are TV cameras here too, but they usually focus on the
super fans, the people with painted faces or big banners.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being filmed. It wasn’t worth the risk. What if one of Jack’s friends was there? Or someone I knew, who
might tell my parents they’d seen me?

Too late . . . ‘Here we go . . . Wave!’ said Alex, as the image on the screen showed the people directly to our left. I had a split second to think and so I did the only thing I
could do – I kicked over the can of Coke that I’d placed at my feet, sending a stream of fizzy brown liquid over our shoes and bags.

‘Whoops!’ I cried, as I bent down to pick up the can, ensuring that the only image that might have appeared on screen was of the back of my head. As far as I know, the back of my
head isn’t particularly distinctive.

‘Are you all right, Laura?’

‘Yes. What a klutz I am,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry about your bag and shoes. I’m so clumsy, I’m always doing stuff like that.’ I made a mental note:
remember, Laura is clumsy, it could come in handy,

‘It’s OK,’ said Alex, wiping down her bag with a tissue she’d found in her pocket. ‘You made us miss our moment of glory, though.’

I shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

‘Forget it. Hey, we’re about to kick off. Excellent, we won the toss.’

As the match got underway, I soon realised that, in spite of my enforced football studies, I still had a lot to learn about the game and, more specifically, the individual players. Without the
benefit of a television zoom lens, or any commentary, I found it hard to tell one player from another. They were all dressed the same, after all.

‘Isn’t Walcott playing well today?’ said Alex.

‘Oh yes.’

‘Do you think he’s better off in this position?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘It suits him.’ Just agree with whatever she says, I thought.

‘Who’s your favourite player, Laura?’

‘Um . . .’ I wracked my brain. Who did Jack say he liked again? ‘Thierry Henry.’

‘Yeah, he’s everyone’s favourite. But he’s left. I mean current players.’

Try to remember, Lily. Who did Jack talk about last week? ‘I think Rosicky is playing really well,’ I said. ‘And he’s cute, too.’

‘I agree with you there, Laura. But he’s on the bench.’

Shit. ‘Really? Are you sure? I’m positive I saw him at the other end.’ I thought quickly. ‘It’s because I don’t have my glasses on. I feel like a right idiot.
I didn’t bring them because they make me really self-conscious and I was meeting up with you for the first time, and you know . . .’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Alex. ‘I wear contacts. If I didn’t have them in I wouldn’t be able to tell if I was watching football or tennis.’

I know the feeling.

The other details of the match don’t bear repeating, except to say that Arsenal won by two goals to nil and that, yes, footballers’ legs are even nicer in the flesh, especially when
you’re deliberately squinting a lot. Fearful of tripping myself up again, I said as little as I could to Alex, which was fine because she was so enthralled by the game. I clapped when she
clapped, cheered when she cheered and groaned with her too. She kept glancing over and smiling at me, in a way which said she was glad we were sharing this experience, that it was bonding us. I
smiled back, guiltily. Maybe there’s something to be said for pretending to enjoy yourself, though, because I have to admit the match really wasn’t all that bad and the hour and a half
passed very quickly. Oh, and I didn’t buy Alex’s dad a cup of tea at half time because it turned out the tea was free. When we got to the front of the queue and he saw the realisation
dawn on me, he winked.

His car was parked about a ten-minute walk from the ground. It smelled new and leathery, not like my parents’ car, which always smells of nappies and baby lotion. My brother Eric, also
known as ‘the accident’ (by my parents) and ‘the pain’ (by me), still wears them, even though he’s nearly three.

‘I’ll drop you off at the coffee place on the high street and come back for you in a couple of hours,’ said Alex’s dad.

‘Cheers,’ said Alex. ‘Are you still up for coffee, Laura?’

I nodded, vigorously. Of course I was. Sod the football, the talking part was the whole point of the day for me.

Alex’s dad parked up and got out of the car to say goodbye. He came round to my side, opened my door for me and offered his hand to help me out. ‘Thank you, Laura, for the pleasure
of your company. You’re welcome to join us again any time you want.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, reddening with guilt. Why did he have to be so sweet? ‘And thanks again for the ticket.’ I felt horrible, like I’d just trodden in something
nasty and was walking it through his home.

I bought the coffees; it was the least I could do. Alex had a skinny cappuccino and I had a mocha, with extra chocolate on top, because I don’t really like the taste of coffee but I
didn’t want to say so. I think the way you drink coffee says just as much about you as the way you eat pizza, and I’m not talking about reading coffee grounds or any of that airy-fairy
rubbish. You can tackle the froth delicately with a spoon, as if it’s a dessert (my preferred method), or you can pick up the cup and drink it straight down, risking what’s known as a
Belgian dip (when you get froth all over your nose). Alex did neither. She sipped her coffee so slowly from the side of the cup that the froth barely moved at all, and was left coating the bottom
when she’d finished. If I hadn’t already known how different we were, I knew it then.

‘So, I’ve been dying to ask you this all afternoon,’ she said. ‘Do you think I’ve changed a lot since camp? I hardly recognised you.’

How could I answer that? ‘Massively,’ I lied, although it was perfectly true to say I hadn’t recognised her, because it really was the very first time I’d seen her.
‘I mean you look so different.’ I paused and then embellished my lie with flattery. ‘You’re much prettier now.’

‘Thanks, Laura. So are you. I guess we’ve both grown up and changed a lot.’

‘Yes, it’s a long time ago. A whole world away.’

I didn’t want to dwell on this subject, it was too uncomfortable. ‘You were telling me about the holiday you’d planned for the summer,’ I said, sounding like a
hairdresser making smalltalk. ‘Tell me more . . .’

We chatted for a while about nothing in particular – music we’d bought, books we’d read, films we’d been to see. Alex laughed a lot; she seemed to find me, or Laura, very
amusing. It felt much like being with any new friend in a café, the only difference being that this one kept calling me Laura. I imagined that this was what it must be like to be in a
witness protection programme, with a new identity and a new history (if you ignore the fact that I was still in the process of committing the crime). It surprised me how quickly I was starting to
get used to my new name, how it was beginning to feel like it belonged to me, the way a new nickname does when people use it often enough. It wasn’t just the name: I was starting to inhabit
Laura too. In just one day, she had fleshed out considerably. She wasn’t just a user name on the internet any more, or the label at the top of a message; she had individual characteristics
which were distinct from mine, and most of which had been acquired by accident. She dressed differently from me, was clumsy and short-sighted and she even spoke more slowly and precisely, mainly
because I had to think so carefully about every word she said. If I lived as Laura for a few weeks or a few months, I wondered, would I actually become her? Was I being myself when I talked to
Alex, or Laura? Or was I a mix of the two? Had inventing Laura changed me?

My thoughts were interrupted by a loud bleeping from my phone. Why hadn’t I remembered to put it on silent?

‘You’ve got a text,’ said Alex, who either thought I was a bit deaf or just liked stating the obvious. I fumbled my bag and pulled out the badly behaved device, making sure
that Alex couldn’t see the screen. Horror of horrors, it was a message from Jack.

U still wth KT? Cnt w8 2 c u 2nite. xxxx

Should I ignore it? Or would that make it more obvious that I had something to hide?

‘Ah, it’s from Jared,’ I said. ‘He wants to know if I enjoyed the match. And he says hi to you.’ God, I was getting good. Or should that be evil?

‘Tell him hi back,’ she said. ‘I’d love to meet him some time.’

Over my dead body, I thought. ‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to arrange it. Do you mind if I just text him back?’

She shook her head.

I quickly texted.
Y. Me 2. Cll u l8tr xxxx
And then, pretending that I was still labouring over my message, I modified my address book so that ‘Jack’ became simply
‘J’.

J for Jack. J for Jared. And, it now strikes me, J for Judas.

‘Hey,’ said Alex, as I started to turn my phone off. ‘I’ve just twigged: we don’t have each other’s numbers. Now that we’ve met it would be nice to be
able to talk to you, as well as message each other.’

‘That’s right, we don’t,’ I said, as if I was surprised. It hadn’t been an oversight; I deliberately hadn’t asked Alex for her number or offered her mine. My
reason was simple: what if Alex rang or texted me while I was with Jack?

‘Here, take mine,’ she said.

I couldn’t say no. Thinking quickly, I opened a new entry in my address book and typed in
Jared.
That way, there would be no trace of Alex’s name on my phone. The name would
also serve as an alert: either to switch off my phone altogether, or, if I was alone, to become Laura. When, later, I told Katie what I’d done, she codenamed my mission to find out
Jack’s secrets ‘Project Jared’.

‘Ready?’ said Alex. ‘It’s 079 . . .’

I’m not going to repeat her whole number; it’s private. I don’t need anything else to feel guilty about.

‘Thanks,’ I said, and gave her mine. I’ll admit I did think, briefly, about changing one of the digits. I thought better of it: it would have been futile, no more than a
delaying tactic, and would merely have aroused her suspicions.

It was time to be brave, time to get to the point. ‘So,’ I ventured, ‘I’ve told you all about Jared, but you never really talk about your love life. I know you’re
single at the moment, but is there anyone you like?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘There’s this guy at college who’s quite buff, but he’s really just a friend. We almost snogged once, but that’s all. I
don’t really want to get into anything serious with anyone.’