The Girl With No Past (6 page)

She has already made us dinner and insisted on eating with us, which is fine as she’s gone to the effort of cooking, but now she joins us on the sofa and we are forced to listen to her moaning about how Imogen’s dad never does anything for her. I can’t understand her claim because she is a beautiful woman, even if she does talk too much. What chance do Imogen or I have if men don’t even appreciate the beautiful ones?

Once this thought occurs to me, it gnaws away and I want to grab Imogen and run up to her room so we can be alone to talk about all the things that are bothering me. One glance at my friend shows me that she must feel the same because she raises her eyebrows, shrugging in apology.

When we finally escape from Mrs Bannerman’s tirade, it is nearly half ten and we will be expected to go straight to sleep. We will just have to whisper, though, because I have no intention of wasting this sleepover actually sleeping. Not when I need to grill my friend about Corey and tell her some very personal things. Things I don’t want any parent hearing. Or any other person for that matter.

Imogen has set up the blow-up mattress next to her bed and is already cocooned in her duvet when I emerge from the bathroom, my mouth tasting of mint. The only light in the room comes from the small round bedside lamp, and I let it guide me to the mattress before flopping onto it and pulling the thick woollen sheet around me. I’ve stayed at Imogen’s so many times since we met and find it strange that nobody has ever thought to buy a spare duvet. But I don’t care tonight; I am just glad to be here.

‘Sorry about Mum,’ Imogen says, pulling out a bag of Haribo from under her duvet and offering me a sweet. ‘She just gets lonely cos Dad’s always working. She likes to have company.’

I pull out a fizzy cola bottle and stuff it in my mouth, but it tastes foul mixed with toothpaste. ‘It’s fine,’ I lie. ‘We can talk now, can’t we?’ One thing I have learned is that friendships need sacrifices, and I feel good that I have made one tonight. ‘I saw Corey after school. I think he was looking for you.’ I study Imogen’s face, trying to gauge her reaction. But she only sighs and continues chewing one of the many sweets she has shovelled into her mouth, so it is impossible to know what she’s thinking.

Finally she speaks. ‘Do you think he’s nice? You know, in that way?’

I sit up, almost choking on my sweet. ‘I
knew
you liked him. You do, don’t you?’

Imogen pulls the duvet over her face. ‘Shuddup! I don’t like him. Not really. As a friend of course…’ She trails off and I lean over to drag her duvet back down. I take in my friend’s features, and for the first time wonder if Imogen is scared to admit she likes Corey because she doesn’t think she is attractive. I have never dwelled on Imogen’s appearance because to me, she is just Imogen. My friend. The girl who saved me from loneliness. So how she looks or dresses doesn’t matter. Imogen has always been fairly plump but it isn’t something people immediately notice. Out of school, she usually wears jeans and t-shirts, but all the girls do so that isn’t a problem, even if Imogen’s are always slightly ill-fitting. Her hair is thick and blonde and that is bound to be a bonus. Don’t all the boys love blonde hair?

I run my fingers through my own dark hair and thank God I don’t care what boys think of me. I can’t name a single one in our school who I find attractive and not for the first time I wonder if there is something wrong with me. What if I’m not attracted to boys at all? I consider this for a moment but shake it off. There is no way I like girls, so it must be just that there is no one cute enough at school.

‘Okay, I do like him, but
please
don’t tell him,’ Imogen says.

‘I knew it! But why not? Why don’t you want him to know?’

She scrunches up her face. ‘Oh come on! Look at me! Why the hell would Corey be interested in me?’

‘Because you’re friends. And you’re great. A beautiful person.’ As soon as I blurt it out I regret it. I may as well have just said it doesn’t matter about her size because she’s got a great personality. What am I thinking?

But Imogen laughs. ‘Thanks for trying, but no. I don’t want him to know. I like things how they are. It’s nice with the three of us hanging around together, isn’t it?’

I have to agree. We have all become close and it means that nobody else in school matters. Maybe other people have tons of friends and flaunt their popularity as if their lives depend on it, but we don’t need anyone else because three is better than two, better than one. ‘I won’t say anything. But you should think about it because what have you got to lose?’

Imogen laughs again. ‘Um, only my dignity and my friend. No biggie.’ This is what I love about her; she knows how to laugh at herself. ‘Anyway, it’s easy for you to say, you’re gorgeous!’

Now it is my turn to chuckle. ‘Hardly. Look how flat my hair is. And it’s greasy and hangs like a curtain.’

She scrunches her face again. ‘Yeah, okay. Anyway, don’t you like anyone? What about Tommy?’

‘Hutchinson? No way! He’s disgusting.’

Imogen reels off a list of all the eligible boys we know but none of them garner anything like a positive response from me. ‘I give up!’ she says eventually. ‘You must be a lezzie.’

And with that, we both burst into uncontrollable giggles until Mrs Bannerman bangs on the wall and urges us to keep the noise down.

‘I forgot your parents’ bedroom is right next door,’ I say. ‘Do you ever hear them doing it?’

‘Uggghhh! No way! That’s sick.’ Imogen smiles as she says this. ‘Anyway, there’s no way they do it any more. My mum’s nearly forty!’

Rolling onto my stomach, I turn my head so I am facing Imogen. There are so many things I want to talk to her about, but even though we are close, I find it difficult to get the words out. There are thoughts and worries floating around my head all the time that I hardly dare think about, so to bring them up in conversation seems an impossible task. Instead, I guide the conversation back to Imogen. ‘Do you want to? With Corey I mean? Do you ever think about it?’

She giggles but then appears to register that I’m being serious. ‘I don’t know. I suppose. I do dream about him sometimes. That we’re doing it. And then when I wake up it feels like we really have done it and I swear I actually blush—’

‘There’s something wrong with me!’ I am so desperate to get the words out, I forget to whisper.

The smile drops from Imogen’s face as she tries to make sense of my abrupt interjection. ‘What? Are you ill or something? What is it?’

‘No…not…I didn’t mean like that. It’s just that everyone in school is always talking about sex or thinking about it or whatever but…’ I trail off, unsure how to put my thoughts into words that Imogen might understand. ‘Well, I never do. Never.’ I look up at my friend, who is now peering over the side of the bed, chewing another sweet.

‘Oh. Well, that doesn’t mean anything, does it? I’m older than you, remember, so maybe those feelings will come later? You’re not fifteen for ages.’

I have thought about this but it is of little comfort to me. I just want to feel normal. To feel something.
Anything.

‘And most of the boys in our school are crap, aren’t they? Except Corey, of course. And Jason isn’t bad. Or that Dwayne.’

None of this is helping. In fact, it is making me feel even more of a freak. I should at least be able to find one boy attractive if Imogen can like three. Probably more than three.

She stops chewing. ‘I know we were joking about it earlier but are you sure you’re not, you know, into
girls
? It wouldn’t matter, I wouldn’t care…’

I shake my head. ‘No. I’m not. I’m just not into anyone.’

‘Give it time, Leah,’ Imogen says, resuming her chewing.

‘You’re right, it’s probably just that there’s nobody I like at school.’ I don’t add that I’m not particularly interested in any singers or actors on TV either.

But for the next hour, at least, I am distracted from worrying when Imogen suggests we listen to music on her headphones. We select ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ and put it on repeat while Imogen mimes the words, standing on her bed and using her pencil case as a microphone. I wish we could live in this moment forever, that we didn’t have to worry about school or parents or boys or anything. Why can’t it always be like this?

Eventually Imogen gets tired and curls up in her duvet, leaving me alone in the dark to worry about what is wrong with me.

SIX

It was inevitable that things would catch up with me, but still I wasn’t ready to face up to them. My life had ticked along for years without any interference from anyone, but now it was clear someone wanted their presence felt.

I could ignore the card, but it was impossible to forget I’d been sent that newspaper story. Impossible to see her name without shuddering, and without being right back there again. And her face. Her haunted eyes silently accusing me.

Thankfully, the library kept me busy as usual, allowing me to shove all other thoughts to the back of my mind. But I was fully aware the distraction would be temporary. And that I’d eventually be forced to confront the intrusion.

It was Maria’s day off and an influx of students from the university flocked in just before lunch. They were noisy and unruly, more like primary school children than young adults, and I glowered at them until they eventually calmed down and set about the research project they’d been given. It was only later I discovered their own library had been flooded so they’d been forced to descend on us.

At two p.m. they finally drifted out and then Sam appeared, apologising for leaving me alone. She offered to cover me for a late lunch break, but just as I grabbed my bag, wondering whether to brave the weather and sit outside to eat, I felt someone behind me.

Spinning around, I found myself face-to-face with a thin man wearing glasses. He looked about my age and didn’t seem to notice I was trying to leave the front desk. Removing his glasses, he began explaining he had several boxes of books to donate to us. ‘I wanted to check you’d take them before I hauled them in from the car,’ he said.

I looked over at Sam, but she had already walked off to help someone on the computer, so I knew I wouldn’t be eating soon.

Turning back to the man, I asked him how many boxes he had, dreading the answer he would give me.

‘Five. Is that okay? Will you take them?’

Stretching my face into a smile, I nodded and put my bag back behind the desk. Whoever this man was, he was doing a kind thing and I was grateful to him. Our funding was always being cut so we depended heavily on donations. Even if he told me he had a hundred boxes I would still help him unload.

He chatted as we walked to his van and I learned that his name was Ben. He told me he worked for the RSPCA and pointed across the car park. ‘That’s why I’ve got the van,’ he said, waving his keys in front of me. ‘Lucky, really. I’m moving house in a few weeks so needed to have a huge clear-out.’

I couldn’t understand how anyone could get rid of books – I would sooner throw out furniture – but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful by criticising him.

Ben did most of the talking, and I was in awe of how comfortable he was conversing like this with a stranger. He seemed nice enough, but I still squirmed inside, anxious for the task to be over so I could say goodbye. But he was in no hurry, chatting as if we were old friends, and by the time the boxes were neatly stacked by the counter, I had forgotten my hunger.

‘Oh,’ he said, standing back to appraise the neat stack we’d created. ‘I’ve just realised how much extra work I’ve given you.’

I told him not to worry, dipping my hand into one of the boxes and pulling out a thin hardback book. I turned it over so I could see the front cover. Whatever the book was would tell me more about Ben than anything else could. Staring at it, I was surprised to find it was
Of Mice and Men
, one of my favourite books. And the edition I held in my hand was the same version I’d read at school. I couldn’t help my outburst. ‘I
adore
this book, you can’t get rid of it! Don’t you like it?’

Ben’s eyes widened. Perhaps he was shocked that I’d spoken so effusively. Or maybe just that I’d spoken more than two words. ‘Oh, I love it, but I’ve got another copy and there’s no need for two. I read it at school and it’s haunted me ever since.’

He was echoing my thoughts and it was rare I found common ground with anyone. ‘Me too. It is the kind of novel that stays with you, isn’t it?’ As soon as I’d said this I regretted it. Feeling like an idiot, I put the book back in the box and turned away from him.

‘I would have said the same thing,’ he said, forcing me to turn back to him. And in that moment I liked this man. Not in the same way I liked Julian, nothing at all like that, but somehow Ben had put me at ease.

I thanked him and told him I had to get back to work, walking over to Sam without turning around. Behind me I could hear Ben trooping off and I felt bad that I’d ended our discussion so abruptly.

By the time I left work and began my walk home, I’d forgotten all about Ben and his donated books. Without the distraction of the library, I was once again consumed with worry over the card, photo and newspaper article. I was so used to having nothing to think about, other than what I should cook myself for dinner, or what book to read to the care home residents next, that worrying about anything else made me more uneasy than I already was.