He's After Me (13 page)

Love crept up on you like a thief in the night and Bang! Bang! Got you right through the heart.

But love left you confused.

And defenceless.

T
hings don’t work out exactly as planned. We go back to the flat and fall straight into bed. Afterwards, I lie in Jem’s arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and it strikes me how rapidly our relationship has developed and changed. Not very long ago it was easy, fun, uncomplicated. Now it’s intense, fiery, fuelled by rows and misunderstandings.

And fear.

Fear? Where did that come from? Lying there with my head on his chest, I feel my forehead crease into a frown. Am I afraid of Jem? I rise up on my elbow to look at him sleeping peacefully beside me. His face is softer in sleep somehow, like a child’s. Of course I’m not afraid of him.

I study him, drinking him in. I love the way his hair grows, thick over his brow; I love his long, dark lashes; I love his jaw, relaxed now in sleep but still firm and almost blue with its barely controlled stubble; I love his straight nose and his olive skin and the smell of him and the glimpse of white, slightly crooked teeth between his lips …

It’s his mouth I love most of all, his beautiful mouth. I love the clearly defined but asymmetric lips with the barely discernable lift at one side that hints of darker depths. I could die for that mouth …

He opens his eyes and smiles up at me, sleepily. I dip my head and press my lips to his and he pulls me back down into the haven of his arms.

I love him.

M
y phone wakes us up. It’s Mum, wanting to know if I’m coming home for dinner. I struggle up on to my elbows.

‘I’m at Zoe’s, Mum. We’re revising for our French test tomorrow.’ Jem nudges me and I add, ‘I think I might stay over.’

‘
Again
?’

Mum’s voice is suspicious.

‘We’ve got loads to do. It’s easier, working together.’

There’s silence on the other end. Then Mum says, ‘You’re not with Jem, are you?’

‘No! Of course I’m not with Jem!’ Jem grins and starts to tickle my leg. I brush his hand away impatiently.

‘Only it’s strange how we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since you’ve been at Zoe’s.’

‘He’s working, Mum. That’s why I’m taking the opportunity to catch up. You don’t want me to fall behind, do you?’

‘No, of course not.’ Mum’s voice is still uncertain. ‘So long as Zoe’s mother doesn’t mind. Can you put her on? I’d like a word with her.’

‘She’s out.’

‘Zoe, then?’

‘She’s in the shower.’

‘Anna? What are you up to?’

‘Mum! Trust me!’ I say, and end the call. Then I put my face in my hands and groan.

‘Maybe I should just get dressed and go.’

‘No! Don’t be daft! You’ve got work to do. By the time you get home, it’ll be too late to do anything. Look, I’ll make you a nice meal while you get on with it.’

‘But what about Mum? She doesn’t believe me, I can tell. She wants to speak to Zoe.’

‘Then ring her! Get her to phone your mum and tell her you’re there with her.’

‘I can’t ask her to do that!’

‘Why not? You said she was on our side.’

I sigh and call Zoe.

‘You OK?’ she asks.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I say, puzzled, then remember she’d left at the point Jem was being a brat. ‘I’m at—’ Just in time I remember to stop myself blurting out that I’m squatting in my dad’s apartment with my boyfriend. I don’t think Zoe would understand. ‘Look, Zoe, I’m going to stay at Jem’s for a night or two.’

‘I thought he shared a room with two other blokes?’

‘He does. But they’re away.’

‘Well, that’s up to you, if that’s what you want to do. What are you telling me for?’ She sounds a bit cheesed off. Nothing new there.

‘The thing is, Zo, I’ve told my mum I’m staying with you. To revise for French.’

‘So?’

‘I’m not sure she believes me. Can you ring her?’

‘You want
me
to ring
her?
What for?’

‘So she knows it’s true.’

‘It’s not true.’

Silence.

‘You want me to lie for you, tell her you’re at my house.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Please, Zoe.’

‘And what am I supposed to say if she wants to speak to you?’

‘Tell her I’m busy. Tell her I’m on the loo! Make something up! Please, Zoe. For us.’

My voice is pleading. There’s silence on the end of the line. Then finally she says, ‘For
you
.’

A message comes through from Zoe five minutes later. It’s short and to the point.
Sorted,
it says. Not even an ‘x', let alone a ‘lol’. But by that time I’m deep into my French revision, books scattered all over the bed and a glass of fizz in my hand, while Jem potters around in the kitchen getting some food together. It feels ace, like we’re a proper couple. If this is a sign of things to come, then I can’t wait to live with Jem in London. Bring it on!

That night we eat olives, sun-dried tomatoes, peppers, anchovies and little biscotti things that Jem has found in the cupboards. Very Mediterranean. And me drink champagne, of course. Afterwards he produces a box of dark chocolates, laced with brandy, which are totally delicious.

‘I’ll be pissed!’ I moan as I help myself to yet another. ‘And I’ve still got loads of work to do.’

‘No problem,’ he says, topping up my glass. ‘I’m going to disappear for a while, let you get on with it.’

‘Are you going out tagging?’ I say in surprise.

‘Nope. I’m going round to yours. Allay your mum’s suspicions. Then she’ll think you really are at Zoe’s.’

‘That is so clever!’ I say admiringly. ‘When will you be back?’

‘I won’t be long.’ He plants a kiss on the top of my head. ‘Now, get on with it! Leave the washing up. I’ll do it when I get home.’

Home. He’ll do it when he gets home. That is so sweet. I stretch out in the bed as he shuts the door behind him. I wish it was our home.

I wish I really lived here with Jem.

He lengthened his stride comfortably, feeling his heart rate increase. It was good to keep fit, to stretch out. He spent too much of his time hanging around, keeping an eye on things. He got worked up that way.

Now, running alone through the streets, he felt better. Calmer. More in control.

Was this what happiness felt like?

I
’m fast asleep when Jem returns. I’d worked on my French for hours till my eyes drooped and my brain refused to cram in any more. I can’t actually remember falling asleep, but the next morning I wake up with a thumping head.

Jem is sprawled out beside me, snoring gently. I kick him grumpily and he opens his eyes.

‘What time did you come in last night?’

‘Dunno. Not that late. You were flat out so I didn’t disturb you.’ He reaches out for me but I shake my head.

‘I’ve got a splitting headache.’

He laughs and says, ‘You’re supposed to use that excuse when we’re old and married.’

‘It’s true!’

He leans across and picks up the empty bottle of champagne on my side of the bed. ‘I’m not surprised. You finished this off last night when I was out.’

‘Did I?’ I remember now. I was sipping it all the time I was revising. Champagne is weird; you don’t feel as if you’re drinking. Until the hangover kicks in.

‘I’ve got my test this morning,’ I say glumly.

‘You’ll be fine,’ says Jem and he turns over and snuggles back down under the covers. ‘Make us a cup of tea, babe, if you’re getting up.’

By the time I bring it to him, he’s gone back to sleep.

I struggle my way through the French test, hopefully doing enough to keep the teacher happy. In English I get a funny look from Mrs Hopkins when I first walk in, but I sit down and take off my sweater to reveal a top belonging to Jude and she visibly relaxes. She is so on my case, that woman!

I don’t like wearing Jude’s clothes, but beggars can’t be choosers. I can’t keep wearing the same clothes three days in a row; if Mrs Hopkins notices, you can bet everyone else does too.

Jem was snoring his head off when I left so I didn’t get a chance to ask him how he’d got on at my house last night. Today I remembered he was working at lunchtime so I’d left him a note to say I’d see him back at the flat after college.

‘How’s the honeymoon going?’ Zoe asks at lunchtime.

‘Great.’

‘You look knackered.’

I shrug and she looks away as if she’s a bit embarrassed. I’m about to say, ‘It’s only a hangover!’ but I think better of it. Instead I say, ‘Thanks for covering for me with my mum. Was she OK about it?’

She nods. ‘I told her you were staying with me for a few days. She believed me.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I don’t like lying to your mum.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I won’t ask you again.’

‘Good. When are you going home?’

‘Tomorrow.’

She finishes her sandwich and gets up from the table. I look up in surprise. ‘Where you off to?’

‘Library. Got some work to do.’

‘OK. Thanks again, Zo.’

She hesitates, like she wants to say something else. I smile up at her, waiting.

‘When’s your dad back, by the way?’ she says, finally.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Thought so,’ she says. ‘Nice top.’ Then she walks away.

I watch her go, the smile wiped clean from my face.

She knows.

I’m all over the place that afternoon. I need to speak to Zoe. I don’t know what I’m going to say but I need to speak to her.

I want her to think it’s OK to use Dad and Jude’s flat while they’re away, that they’ve given us permission to do so.

But I know she won’t believe me.

I want to convince her, like Jem’s convinced me, that it’s no big deal.

But it is.

I want her to know I’m not a bad person.

We’re in different lessons so at the end of the day I make sure I slip out of Art early and am waiting outside Psychology for her when the bell goes. But a crowd of them spill out together, laughing and talking, and she doesn’t notice me standing there to the left, as she turns right and walks away down the corridor, chatting. I follow her as she leaves the building and makes her way across the car park, smiling, waving goodbye to people, all the time talking nineteen to the dozen to some girl from Psychology. I don’t know her name. The two of them stroll off together down the road and not once does she turn around to see where her BFF is. Not once.

I make my way in the opposite direction, to Dad’s apartment. It’s two bus journeys from college and by the time I get there I feel drained. I can’t wait to see Jem.

But when I let myself into the flat it’s dark and empty. The blinds are still drawn from the night before and there’s no sign of Jem. No note. Nothing.

He must be still at work. I open the blinds. The flat looks worse in the half-light. Dirty plates, mugs, glasses and dishes from breakfast and last night litter the place. How can two people make that much mess? I heave a big sigh and pick up a bowl of half-eaten olives from the floor. Last night they were seductive. Today they are repellent.

I chuck them in the bin and walk into the bedroom. The bed is unmade and in the en-suite bathroom there are damp towels on the floor and tiny dark hairs in the sink. Jem has used my dad’s razor, the expensive one Mum bought him for Christmas the year before last – he’s left it on the side of the bath. Anger rises in my throat. He could’ve cleared up after himself, the lazy git, he could’ve cleared up the whole flat instead of leaving it for me to do. Where is he, anyway? I ring his number but his phone is turned off.

In the kitchen I switch the kettle on and start to pile things into the dishwasher. But when the kettle boils I give up and make a cup of tea, slumping down on to the sofa with it. I’ve got A levels coming up, I remind myself crossly. I’ve got work to do. Jem can do this lot when he comes home.

But Jem doesn’t come home. I try to write up my History of Art homework but I find it hard to concentrate. I try his phone again but he’s not answering. At eight o’clock I raid the fridge and make myself a bacon sandwich, but it sticks in my throat and I can’t swallow. Where could he be?

I fight down the panic that is threatening to engulf me. I need to contact someone to find him, that’s what I need to do. But when I pick up my phone I don’t know who to ring. Not for the first time I realize how little I actually know about him. Something must have happened, but I have no way of finding out what.

Mum. She’ll know what to do. But she thinks I’m with Zoe. And I can’t ring Zoe and tell her I’ve lost Jem. Stop panicking, I tell myself, he’s probably still at the hotel; maybe he was told to work on. Ring the hotel! That’s the thing!