Gypsy Girl (10 page)

She meant I might go running off with an American boy. Or any boy who wasn’t a Gypsy boy. Or even one of those, if we weren’t married first.

“But what would our daddy do without Sammy-Jo?” said Savannah.

That made them all look thoughtful. Since our mother died, he’d been having bouts of deep sadness. I was the one who took control when they overwhelmed him. What with the wedding and the gym and caring for our father, I’d hardly had time to have my own life.

The truth was I would’ve loved to go over to America. Me and Kimmy talked about it all the time. She would come with me. We’d see the world. We’d see something different. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my life, but I wanted more than Sabrina, more than just a boy and a wedding and having babies.

“Is Bartley coming over for the wedding?” asked Savannah, changing the subject, thank goodness.

“Yes. Tomorrow.” Beryl raised her voice. “Did you hear that, Sabrina? Bartley’s on his way over for your wedding!”

No reply. But there were no screams, either. Granny nudged me and shoved a strainer in my hands. “Hold it above the bottle, so I don’t get any pips in the brew,” she ordered. “And pay attention, or you’ll get splashes down your best outfit.”

Even though I wasn’t in the mood, I’d got my new dress on, ready for the hen party. It was tight and strappy and very short, and in a colour that was halfway between pink and orange. The girl in the shop had told me it was called mango. It glowed against my tan and my dark hair. I’d got a pair of spiky heels to go with it, and I’d done my eyes with eyeliner, a smudgy pencil and lots of mascara, till I looked like the actress on Granny’s most favourite old film,
Cleopatra
.

“There. Finished.”

Granny put the saucepan back on the stove, took the sieve and funnel off me and put the stopper in the bottle. The blackberry wine and the history of the Smiths were done. So was Sabrina’s anguish about her dress. The bedroom door banged open.

“What about this one?” she said, coming through at last. She was wearing a tight white dress and holding a pair of sky-high heels in her hand. Her lashes were so long now they looked as though two spiders had crash-landed on her eyes.

There was a chorus of “Yes, that’s the one!” from us all. Anything to shut her up.

“I’m not sure,” she said, and we groaned. But luckily she caught sight of herself in one of Granny’s mirrors and stopped to check that everything about her outfit was perfect. She posed and twisted in front of it, and her moaning stopped.

I stayed where I was, by the little sink, staring out of the window and down through the trees to the big house again. A new thought came into my head to torture me some more. Gregory’s girlfriend – her with the perfect shiny hair and the narrow suspicious eyes – was she there with him, holding his hand?

“Sammy!” It was Beryl. “Are you even listening to me?”

I turned round and found a circle of mascara-ed eyes staring at me.

“What?”

“Sabrina’s got her dress sorted. So let’s ring for taxis for us all.”

I stared at her. I’d been looking forward to the hen party. We all had. This is what the Smiths did, we enjoyed ourselves together. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go out for the night without seeing Gregory. I had to find out how he was. He’d only been attacked because he’d come out to see if I was OK.

“You go on ahead. I’ve got to go somewhere first. I won’t be long.” I gave Beryl a bright smile and hurried to the door as fast as I could. It didn’t work.

“But we can’t leave you behind. We’re ready!” said Star. “Where you going?”

“She’s probably going to see the boy in the big house,” said Sabrina, still staring at herself in the mirror. I could’ve killed her.

“Why?” Beryl’s like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to gossip.

“I reckon he fancies her,” said Sabrina, twirling back and forth.

I froze in the doorway. “No, he doesn’t. I was wondering if he was OK, that’s all. He got attacked in town. I was the one who found him. It looks rude if I don’t go and ask if he’s OK.” I looked at Beryl. “Sabrina’s joking about him liking me. Honest.”

“I should hope she is,” said Beryl. She sniffed and smoothed her tight dress. “You’d never shame us like that.”

No. Of course I wouldn’t. I jumped down off the step and hurried away.

This is what Langton House looks like:

There’s lots of windows in two rows, and then a few more above that, poking out from under the roof. Half of the bricks are covered in ivy. And there’s a big front door with columns either side and a tiny roof, so that if it’s raining you can leave the house and step into a car without getting too wet. Stretching away from the house is a big curved gravel drive.

It made me feel breathless just looking at the house. Not because I was envious. The place meant nothing to me. Maybe Rocky’s family liked living in a house, but I couldn’t do it. I liked our big mobile homes behind our gym. Houses made me feel closed in, like I was suffocating.

Today I was making an exception.

The front door had lilac round it, smelling sweet and strong in the evening sun. Below was a big stone step with a welcome mat on it, and a brass knocker on the oak door in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring through its teeth.

I stepped on the mat and knocked. The door was flung open straightaway. I think someone had seen me walking up the drive. I’m not surprised. I’d taken my time, changing my mind every other step and telling myself I was being stupid. But I’d made it in the end. And now here was Mr Langton framed in the doorway, peering at me. Gregory must’ve taken after his mama because Mr Langton was a big man, his belly hanging over his jeans. He got his fair hair from his daddy, though.

“Yes?”

That’s when I found out that the sweet lilac and the welcome mat weren’t meant for everyone, and definitely not for me, because it wasn’t a friendly greeting. But I’d never go anywhere or say anything if I always waited for people to be friendly. I flicked my hair back and gave him my best smile.

“Hello, Mr Langton.” I waved my hand back towards the trailers. “I’m from over there.”

His face went a bit more thunderous. “I know who you are. What do you want?”

He kept looking me up and down. He was probably wondering why I was all dressed up in my little mango dress with my Cleopatra eyes.

“I’ve come to see Gregory, please.”

His fingers tightened on the edge of the door. “Well, you can’t. Now go.”

“But I’m worried about him. Please.”

I was trying to look over his shoulder, trying to see if Gregory was near by. Mr Langton didn’t want me to, and kept closing the door little by little to block my view, but I was managing to stand on tiptoe and see over his shoulder. I could see the hall and, at the far side, an open door into one of the rooms. There was a TV on the wall above a fireplace, and the channels were flicking over quickly as though someone was bored and aiming a remote at the screen.

Mr Langton put an arm out to the doorpost, blocking my way. “You don’t have to worry. He’s got us and his girlfriend to do that.” He said the word “girlfriend” extra loud, like I wouldn’t hear it otherwise. “So off you go.”

He flicked a finger towards the driveway, as though I was some tiny child who could be dismissed. That got me annoyed. Politeness doesn’t cost anything. He went to shut the door, but I stepped forward so he’d have to sandwich me, my mango dress and my new shoes between the door and the frame if he carried on shutting it.

“Please. I’ll only be a minute. Honest.”

A voice shouted from the room behind him. “Dad! Is that Sammy-Jo? Let her in!”

When Mr Langton heard that, he looked ready to explode. He stood there taking deep breaths for a while, like a kettle letting off steam, but eventually he swung the door wide open and moved aside.

I walked into the hall. Nothing much had changed in two years. I swear there was the same vase standing on the same old, scratched cupboard, exactly where it had been when I’d taken the money from under it. This time, instead of creeping through the house like a burglar, I stuck my chin in the air, gave Mr Langton another smile and walked across the polished floorboards with my heels tiptapping. The room at the back was huge. It was a wonder it didn’t echo. There were three squashy sofas with covers thrown over them. A couple of coffee tables. A grand piano standing in the corner. And a fireplace with logs in a basket. The walls were full of gloomy paintings that looked like they needed a good scrub.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t think much of the furnishings around me. Star, who thinks she knows everything about everything, says that old and shabby things are fashionable with some people, but they don’t appeal to me. You should see Tyson and Rocky’s house, if you want shiny, new and expensive. It’s got marble and leather and chrome everywhere, and their TV was twice the size of this one.

But I wasn’t here to like the furnishings. I took a deep breath and actually looked at Gregory. He was lying on one of the sofas. A great shaft of evening sunlight was streaming in through one of the long windows, with little specks of dust dancing in it. It was shining right on him and lighting up his fair hair and leaving other bits in shadow, like one of the old paintings on the wall. It wiped the image of him curled up and bleeding from my mind at last, and a little wave of happiness stole through me. He gave me a smile like he was really pleased to see me, but as I walked over to him it faded away and he did a double take at my dress. I think the sun had caught it, and the colour was glowing. Judging by his expression, he seemed to like my mango dress better than his father did.

“Hey,” I said.

His poor cut lip curled into a smile. He put his head on one side and surveyed me again. “Do you always visit sick people dressed like that? You’ll give them a heart attack.”

I looked down at myself. “This old thing? This is what I do the cleaning in.”

His face creased up and his eyes crinkled and he laughed silently and gently, his hand going to his ribs. He’d got a clean shirt on, and it was hanging undone. The skin of his chest still looked as tender as a baby’s, but it was spoiled by the bruises at the sides, which had begun to turn yellow, green and purple now, like the colours of petrol in a dirty puddle.

The wound on his head, which went from his temple, straight across his eyebrow, had been stitched. His hair was brushed back away from it and still sticky with dried blood. He tried to sit up, so I’d have room on the sofa, pushing himself with his grazed hands. But he didn’t get far before he winced.

“Stay still,” I said.

There was a little footstool by the fireplace, so I went and fetched it and put it next to him. It wasn’t a good move because when I sat down on it, I found myself so close to him that a terrible thought came into my head. I couldn’t stop looking at the cut on his head and thinking how painful it must be, and I found myself wanting to lean over and kiss the corner of the wound, where it was jagged and sore. So I blinked and glanced away from his eyebrow and the stitches, but then I found myself looking at his mouth. His cut lip was healing well. I found myself wanting to kiss that too.

My brain wouldn’t stop.

“How are you feeling?” I managed to say.

“I was lucky,” he said. “My ribs weren’t broken, just kicked and stomped.”

“Oh. Good.”

A silence fell and stretched out. I could hear the old grandfather clock in the corner ticking away and the birds having their evening squawk in the garden beyond the windows. I suppose for all its oldness and scruffiness, this was a peaceful room to be in. Or maybe Gregory was a peaceful person to sit with. He was so different to Rocky.

“What’s up?” he asked, eventually.

“Nothing. Why?”

“You’re staring.”

I blinked. “So are you. You’re always staring at things.”

That got me another smile. “I know. I’m curious about the world. I like solving mysteries.” He tried to sit up again, and managed by holding onto his side and moving gently. “You’re a mystery. One minute you’re here, and then you’re gone. And now you’re here again.”

I thought of Granny Kate’s story about our family tree. “We’re the secret people. No one knows us.”

He grinned. “I do. I can see Gypsy’s Acre from my bedroom.”

“The window on the end?”

“Yes.”

So that was his bedroom. I could see it from my trailer window. For some reason that gave me a shiver of delight.

“After I met you in the hall that first time, I used to wake up in the mornings and check whether you’d come back,” he said.

I could see a picture so clear in my head, of him looking out of his window to our little camp. Our eyes met, and he smiled. All this smiling had made his lip bleed a little again. I had to clasp my hands together to stop myself getting a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabbing it for him.

I tried to make myself think of something else, something far away from Gregory. Like my other life, the one where I fought in backstreet gyms, where I was Gypsy Girl, and where the crowd watched me through the bars of the cage, and gambled on me winning or getting hurt – either seemed to please them. It was a million miles from this comfy room with its squashy sofas and the long shadows of evening settling over it.

I was an imposter. And it was my fault he was in pain.

His phone beeped, disturbing the silence. He looked down at it. “More texts. And they’re all about you.”

“Is that good?” My heart gave a thump. Being talked about usually spelled trouble for me.

He held up his phone and showed me. “They’ve been coming in ever since I got out of the hospital. Everyone’s texting about you.”

“Saying what?” I knew it wasn’t going to be good.

I got a blast of his amber eyes. “That you’re this dangerous fighter girl.”

He waited for me to answer. I wasn’t going to lie to him.

“It’s true I’m a fighter,” I said. “It’s my life. But I don’t jump on people in the street. I fight in the gym.”

He nodded. “Yes. But the texts say you had a fight with a girl in your town, and she’s in hospital in a coma. That’s why you came here, to get away from the police. And that’s why you won’t go back home.”