Vintage (4 page)

She put out her tongue, and the girl in the mirror did too. She stretched her tongue out to touch the tip of her nose, something she liked to do on her own in her room. But this tongue didn't reach. And then she realised she could see. No glasses, and she could see.

She smiled and the girl smiled. She laughed and the girl laughed, her hair flopping down in front of her right eye. She twisted her body and put her hand over her head, like the models in her mother's magazines. She could see one side of her neck in the mirror. There was a drawing on it – a drawing of a tiny butterfly. Marilyn thought it must be a transfer. She'd put them on her hand when she was about ten. She rubbed her neck. Rubbed it harder. Nothing came off.

It couldn't be a tattoo. Only sailors had tattoos.

She smiled at the mirror.

She looked good. She looked great – strange, but great.

Marilyn heard a key in the front door, and ran for her bedroom. As she shut the door, she saw there was a bolt on the inside. She slid it closed, then collapsed on the bed, her heart thudding with excitement.

There are steps on the stairs. The woman from the kitchen walks right into my room. Without knocking or anything. I could have been naked. Or asleep. I've only just recovered from the little kid.

She takes me in. And the library books all over the bed.

“I was coming up to see how you were feeling, but you're obviously well enough to read that trash.”

I'm not surprised Marilyn can't wait to move out. My mum would never talk to me like this. Wouldn't dare. I'd ring Childline. And she knows it. She practically
is
Childline. She would be so ashamed if I phoned them. That is a totally excellent threat. Must try it out.

If I ever see her again.

This mum's got her hands on her hips, and she's standing there looking at me. Frowning. With the thin eyebrows and the thin lips, it's like looking at a cartoon, all drawn with straight lines.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

Not much. Nothing. What can I say? Calculate the distance to the door. She takes a step forward. Blocks my exit.

“I've been scrubbing the kitchen floor and cooking since this morning,”

Lucky you. No job, just the house to look after. My mum has to do both. Doesn't she let me know. But I'm not saying it. Swinging my legs. Looking down at my feet.

“And you're sitting there reading your stupid romances.”

I want to say I'm researching. For a project. It works with Mum. When I'm looking at some specially gruesome website.

But the words don't come.

“Nothing to say?” She folds her arms. Chin goes back into her neck. I'm noticing that. Wondering how she does it. Noticing the apron. No shape. Covered in little flowers. Crossing over in front. Tied round the back.

“I give up. I've got better things to do than wait around here with you being so mardy. Your father will be back soon and I've got to get the tea. I was going to make hot buttered toast in front of the fire, but the way things are we'll have tinned spaghetti. And it's your turn to wash up, my lady.”

I open my mouth. To remind her we've got a dishwasher. But she turns. Leaves the room. With a spectacular slam of the door. Watch the blue dressing gown swinging on the hook. Grip the quilt on the bed.

I want to go home. I hate home. But I want to be there. Now. Badly. With my own mum. And my own stuff. There. I've said it. A hot tear's running down my right cheek.

I wipe it off with the back of my hand.

There was a little knock on the door and the handle rattled. Marilyn's mind had drifted off for a few minutes, imagining being at university and her bedsit. She almost persuaded herself that everything wasn't happening, she was back at home. The knock made her jump. Nobody would knock on her bedroom door, they just came in. She put a hand to her hair, remembering.

“Holly!”

She sat up, wondering what to do.

“It's Kyle, let me in!”

At least she knew who Kyle was, and that he was friendly enough. She got up and drew the bolt, then opened the door.

Kyle was standing there. She was beginning to know the tall figure with rounded shoulders. He looked like he'd lost something very important, and had no hope of ever finding it again.

Kyle walked into the room as if he was used to being in girls' bedrooms. No boy had ever been in Marilyn's room. Her mother would have gone mad. But Kyle seemed to be at home here.

He hesitated. “Sorry, are you doing something? They let me out at the police station, but I'm in big trouble.”

“What happened?”

“They rang my dad and everything.”

Marilyn must have looked as confused as she felt.

“Dad's climbing the walls. And Joe's found out about me borrowing his car.”

Marilyn didn't know what to say, but at least she could listen.

Kyle looked at her. “Are you okay? You still look a bit strange.”

She put a hand to her hair again.

“I – feel a bit strange. Can I tell you something?”

This was a big risk.

“Course.”

She took a deep breath. “I'm not who you think I am.”

“I know, you never are. That's why I like you, you're never the same, and you always ask impossible questions.”

“No, really. I'm not – Holly.”

“Are you thinking of changing your name again?”

Marilyn gulped. “No, not changing. My real name's Marilyn, Marilyn Bolton.”

“Okay, Marilyn Bolton.” Kyle smiled as if this was some kind of joke. “And where do you live, and how come you're in Holly's bedroom? And how come you look exactly like her?”

“I live – here. But…”

“You know, Holly, sometimes you take it all a bit far. I'm in real trouble, and you have to have an identity crisis.”

“No, it's not that. I think – something's happened. I'm in the wrong time. What year are we in?”

“Don't be stupid. 2010. All year.”

Marilyn couldn't help looking as shocked as she felt. But Kyle didn't notice. “I wish I was in the wrong time. Then we could have walked into town and I wouldn't be in this mess.”

“But it's true!” Marilyn felt tears coming, but she fought them back.

“Come on, babe, we'll sort it out. There's no way my brother will press charges for the car. I'll have to go down there on Monday and sort it. The main thing is, they can't prove I was driving.”

“What?”

“The car. My cousin, Jamie, he's training to be a solicitor or a barrister or something, and he told me. They only saw us sitting in the car. They didn't see the dog.”

What dog?

“Ah.”

“And we'll get your head fixed, you're stressed out, that's all.”

He turned to the window. “Where's that guy?”

“What guy?” Marilyn thought of bonfire night, but that was months away.

“The one you think you're going to get. Not convinced myself, but you saw him first. He's gone. We could do some research on the internet if you want.”

“Research?”

“For your project. The 1960s, remember? No, 1962, that's it. Before everything kicked off. You have to find out about them. You did hit your head hard.”

“Of course. Maybe tomorrow – could we do, whatever you said, tomorrow? You're right, I've got a headache.” She needed more time to work out what was happening.

“You want me to go?” He was looking at her again. Head on one side.

“Yes, I need to – I need to wash my hair.”

“Again? You did that earlier.”

“You know, I need an early night.”

“Holly Newman, I never thought I'd hear you say you needed an early night.”

Marilyn looked at her hands, twisted together onher lap. “I do tonight.”

“Okay, we'll get out there tomorrow then.”

“Out where?”

“The club – you know. We're going down – everyone's going.”

“Right – you'll come over tomorrow afternoon? To do that – research thing?”

“Sure. You take care though. Text me if you need me.” He was on his way out of the door.

“Kyle?”

“What?” Kyle hesitated in the doorway.

“You know what I said – about being somebody else?”

“That old story? What about it this time?” He sounded irritated.

“Nothing. Bye.”

Kyle wasn't going to take her seriously, that was obvious. Whoever this girl Holly was, Marilyn was going to have to pretend to be her. And it was clear that Kyle, at least, wouldn't know the difference.

And maybe she could enjoy it. Maybe she could stop being frightened and expecting to be found out and really enjoy it.

Being Holly.

The little boy yells up the stairs. Tea's ready. I'm hungry. But worried. About the tinned spaghetti. Gross.

The boy yells again. Louder. I have to go downstairs. Look in the mirror again. Piece together the bits. Avoid looking at the face. Spots. Bad skin. No makeup. Eyes aren't bad, but look at those eyebrows, meeting in the middle. Okay nose. Glasses. Short hair and uniform. Tie. Shirt. Take the tie off and drop it on the floor. Undo the top button of the shirt. And then the next. A touch of bra showing. Greyish white bra, cotton. Do up the button again.

I get down to the kitchen. The table's got some kind of crumply cloth on it. Knives and forks arranged like in a restaurant. Plates and bowls made of blue plastic. Like picnic stuff. Some crap programme on the radio. A man sitting at the table. Reading a newspaper. Frowning. Glasses. Slicked back hair, short. Sad, beaten down face. Doesn't even look up. Suppose it's the dad.

The boy gets a book from the shelf. Sits down. None of them says anything. The mum is still in the kitchen banging about. I sit.

“We'll have a reading tea, with no arguments,” she calls out. “It's nearly ready.”

What the hell is a reading tea? The boy has a book. I sneak up to my room again. Fetch one of the library books. Even though they're rubbish romances. We all sit round the table. The mum brings in plates. Puts one in front of me. I look. Two thick slices of white toast with butter. Some kind of spaghetti mixed with orange goo. All over the toast. If I cooked that I'd get a lecture on healthy eating. If Mum cooked it I'd tell her that her head needed looking at.

We're totally silent. Except when someone asks for the salt or something. Get through most of the food. Even though it's foul. Full of carbs. Slimy too.

I'm sitting there and I'm leaning my elbow on the table, so I can read easier. The dad clears his throat. Puts down his paper.

“Marilyn.”

Keep forgetting it's my name here, so I keep on reading.

“Marilyn, have you forgotten your manners?”

“What?” I look up.

“Have you forgotten your manners? All joints off the table except those to be carved.” He's kind of serious, but there's a twinkle in his eye when I look at him. But I've no idea what he's on about.

“Joints. Elbows.”