Honest Page 5

  I let the tears roll off the tip of my nose, my hair straggled about my neck, all pretence of looking pretty completely wasted now.

  I was sure I noticed David glancing, just quickly, at my breasts behind my sodden dress, and I knew my suspicions were right. Girlfriend or no girlfriend, I’d show David Peirce what he was dealing with.

  ‘Did you know you’re getting mud all down the front of your—’

  ‘Yes,’ I hissed. I wiped my nose, getting mud on my face now too. What a poor excuse for staring.

  52% of men...

  As we scraped away the weeds and dead grass, we gradually revealed Peter’s picture. It was a photo I took of him when he was fifteen, wearing a Jimi Hendrix T–shirt. Seeing it, I cried harder and harder still. David gave me odd glances, but we kept pulling until we unearthed every last weed.

  ‘Why do people ruin lovely things?’ I said, wiping my nose again.

  Chapter Six

  When we came back to Mevagissey the summer I turned thirteen, I remembered being alarmed by how much Peter had changed in a year. He was taller, and his legs and armpits were hairy, and he even had a little tuft of hair under his plump bottom lip.

  David was different too, I guessed, but back then I didn’t waste my time with him. He didn’t understand me, or care for me the way Peter had. He never gave me much attention, and so I paid none to him.

  This was the first summer that we spent all our time together, ditching David whenever we could to go roaming around on the cliffs in the wind and spittle, just us. Once, he brought his acoustic guitar with him and showed me what he’d learned. He’d been practicing Jimi Hendrix’s version of All Along the Watchtower to impress his dad.

  We’d climbed up so high up the cliff that our legs were splattered with mud by the time we could see the ocean. We sat down on the grass, the wind howling in our ears, while Peter strummed the chords and grinned from under his frizz of hair whenever he hit a good note.

  ‘Your fingertips look all leathery,’ I said, raising my voice so he could hear me over the wind, though I could hear his strumming just fine.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, waggling them in front of my face. ‘That’s from practicing. Dad’s got fingers like it and you know how well he plays.’

  ‘I’ve only seen him play once,’ I said. It had been on my third or fourth visit to his house, a few streets away from my cottage up the hill, and his dad had been practicing with his band in the garage.

  They’d beckoned us down to sit on the doorstep and watch them play cover after cover of bands I’d never heard of. It had been really cool, actually, but only because I’d loved watching Peter nod his head and mimic the motions of the guitar with his long fingers. It was also the first time I’d ever felt comfortable, and accepted, like I was really a part of something. Like part of the music, even if I only sat and watched.

  ‘Once is all you need,’ said Peter, winking. His green eyes glistened in the afternoon light as he looked at me, making every inch of my body throb and come alive. No man or boy alive had ever made my body writhe inside like Peter Denton had.

  ‘True enough. I think you’re a better guitarist than Dennis anyway,’ I said. I’d tried to phrase it in a way that didn’t make me sound completely besotted, but I was failing, and my blushing cheeks gave me away.

  ‘Better than Dad? Leave it out,’ he said, laughing with his big perfect teeth. He tore up a chunk of grass and tossed it at me, covering my jeans in little green flecks. ‘You’ve gone red.’

  ‘No I haven’t,’ I said, ducking my head. I busied myself with tearing up some grass to throw back at him, but Peter wasn’t letting up that easy.

  ‘Why have you gone red, El’? Eh? Is it because I’m amazing you with my guitar skills?’ he waggled his fingers, balancing the battered acoustic on his lap.

  ‘Shut up,’ I urged, but only because my face was getting even hotter.

  ‘Eh, you don’t tell Jimi Hendrix to shut up. I’m the Voodoo child according to you.’

  I scoffed. ‘I never said that. I regret saying anything now. You only like Jimi what’s–his–face because your dad does anyway.’

  ‘So? We can like the same stuff,’ said Peter, plucking out another riff. I didn’t recognise this one as anything he’d shown me before. I could tell by the crease in his brow and the determination in his fingers that he was making something up on his own, and it sounded...I don’t know, I couldn’t explain it. Even on a little acoustic, the tune he was picking out went right through me and shook up my bones. It was like the strings were being plucked inside of me.

  Dennis and Peter had music in common. I couldn’t remember ever having anything in common with anybody. Especially not my dad.

  ‘Peter,’ I said, getting an idea. He looked up from his guitar playing, still frowning, looking a little perturbed that I’d disturbed his picking.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you want to see inside my bra?’ I grasped the neck of my jumper, ready to pull it down. I couldn’t explain why I wanted to do it so much, but I just did. And it seemed like a good idea. It seemed like something Peter might’ve liked.

  This time, he was the one who looked bashful. He ducked down and started playing again. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘You’re all right.’

  ‘Peter,’ I said, my cheeks aflame. ‘You can if you want to. I don’t mind.’

  ‘What the hell?’ he said, nervously laughing beneath his bowed head of hair. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said, a lump rising in my throat. What was I doing wrong? I couldn’t understand what was happening. This was supposed to be something he would have liked, and he was saying no to me. ‘Why don’t you want me to?’

  ‘I just don’t,’ he said, looking me in the face now. Peter’s usual charm was in being so...boyish, like a big kid. But deep down he had this penetrating maturity, something I’d noticed when I first met him with the incident with the cake. He knew when something was important. I loved that about him.

  ‘Why would you want to do it?’

  I swallowed the hard lump. I looked out over the ocean, then down at the grass again. ‘I don’t know why,’ I said honestly. We shared a silence, then, after thinking about it a couple minutes, I added, ‘It’s just, you know when...I don’t know, when something just feels really natural, and—’

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. ‘That comes naturally to you?’

  ‘Urgh!’ I booted him in the thigh, knocking his guitar to one side. ‘Peter, Jesus! I’m sorry all right?’

  I got up and brushed the rest of the grass off my legs. Peter took the hint. He shook his head while he held up the acoustic and got to his feet, standing head and shoulders above me. I didn’t dare meet his gaze, but his eyes were on me; I could feel them.

  I trampled ahead, my trainers squeaking on the long grass as I stomped it down, my lips pressed tight. Crying was one of my weaknesses, but I wasn’t going to give Peter the satisfaction. He’d understood me last summer, and now he didn’t seem to understand me at all.

  We were about half a mile from the road when he changed my mind. His hand sought my shoulder and pulled me around, and when I stopped, he held it there.

  ‘What are you doing, Peter?’ I asked, tired, and weakened, and ready to go home. He squeezed my arm, sending warmth right through me. I didn’t have any choice. I met his big green eyes with their long lashes, his long wild hair crowding his face.

  ‘Just stand still all right?’ he said, his voice hushed and unsteady.

  ‘What for?’ I asked.

  He looked away from me, scuffing his shoe on the ground, his acoustic strapped to his back. He pocketed his free hand, keeping the other on my arm. Despite his apparent unease, his hand was still as a blade of grass in calm weather. When his eyes met mine again, I swear, they were ocean deep.

  ‘I’m gonna do something a bit more natural, OK?’ he said. His face came closer then, so close I could see the little black whiskers growing on his top lip. I could see the pink in the
corner of his eyes.

  I could see his mouth trembling, just slightly, before it folded over my lips and kissed me.

  The kiss seemed so infinite while we were standing there. The wind picked up and blew through the strings on Peter’s guitar, but the strumming inside me was louder, louder than anything I’d heard in my life. At that moment I knew there would never be anything louder than his lips against mine, not ever.

  When we pulled apart he took his hand away, and we walked with trembling legs back to the harbour.

  When the rapping came at my door at bed time, I hissed at it to go away and leave me alone. I must’ve sounded like I meant it, because I was left alone with my blissful thoughts for once.

  That night I fell asleep and dreamed about Peter Denton. He was taking all my clothes off, with Jimi Hendrix on the CD player, and all the while his kisses and touches made music inside me, like he was strumming through my veins.

  Chapter Seven

  We drove in silence back to Mevagissey much sooner than I’d wanted to, but it was David’s car and I supposed that meant it was David’s rules.

  I was still soaked but David didn’t seem to care one bit about making me comfortable. He cranked down his window and re–lit another cigarette, sending a swirl of grey cloud around our heads. The cheeks of his thin face hollowed out as he sucked on it, his eyes narrowing on the road.

  David was still despicable, I could see that now. I’d always known it, and yet somehow I’d thought he’d become less... conceited? I couldn’t decide, but whatever it was, I thought there’d be less of it with age. Even still, I looked at him and knew he ought to be taught a lesson. He could mask his feelings about me all he liked, but if he had even a hint of Peter’s compassion in him, then he wouldn’t be treating me this way — like an invalid.

  He didn’t speak to me the entire way, but he did stick on the radio. I stared and stared at the knobs while the countryside swept by the car window, willing Jimi Hendrix to come on the radio. Nothing. They played some girlie song; she sounded like all the others. A bit like jazz music, except...Whinier. Annoying. It wasn’t my kind of thing at all.

  David flicked the end of his cigarette out the window. ‘Lauren loves this one,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna pop by the shop for her lunch break. I’ll drop you back home.’

  I toyed with the wet and wrinkled hem of my dress. ‘I thought I was going to meet her?’

  ‘Yeah, well. Maybe some other time, if she wants to meet you.’

  ‘You said we’d get on.’

  David’s eyes wrinkled up as he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. She’s different from you.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘She likes this music, Ellen, all right? And you can huff and fidget about all you bloody like, but I’m keeping this song on. If you don’t like it, tough.’

  My mouth dropped open. ‘I wasn’t huffing and fidgeting, I was tapping my foot to the music. I like this just fine.’

  ‘Really? Then you should tell your face.’

  I pressed my lips firmly together and stared at my shoes. After a few moments, David cleared his throat. ‘I don’t mean to be an arsehole to you, Ellen,’ he said stiffly, his voice thick with contempt.

  I could tell he didn’t mean a word of it. He probably got some power kick out of talking down to me, the cripple with her stick. Vulnerable, that’s what I was to him. I’d read about guys like him in a good few magazines. I thought of Lauren, oblivious to his control of her, trotting about after him like a silly little lamb.

  Perhaps she’d learn a thing or two from me. ‘I think I should meet her,’ I said, flashing my best smile. He looked unsure. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass her or anything. I’ll just say hi and maybe we can have a chat about jazz music.’

  David raised one eyebrow. ‘Jazz music? What, this? This isn’t Jazz, it’s—’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to label everything, you know. I can like something without knowing what it’s called.’ I smiled again, trying to reassure him that I wasn’t going to be difficult. He didn’t need to worry.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well you can pop in and say hi if you want. I’m not sure it’s a good idea anymore, but whatever.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s lovely,’ I said. ‘There’s no need to worry. She’ll be fine.’

  His frown deepened and his hands squeezed the wheel, but he didn’t say anything else. We carried on in silence until we reached the lanes, the car snaking to a top in a cramped little car park.

  By this point my dress had stiffened up like a starched apron, and my hair was a clump of moist rat’s tails over one shoulder. David didn’t bother to wait for me while I hobbled out of the seat and onto the pavement, striding ahead of me towards a little shop with crystals hanging in the window. When I got closer, I saw them through the shop door.

  He bent over the counter and kissed her. For a moment all I saw was a short–fingered hand with black nail polish grasp him by the shoulder, followed by a flash of bleached–blonde hair. I placed a hand on the door and the bell started to ring, but the pair were already coming back out towards me.

  I shuffled aside while he passed her a cigarette from his packet and they both lit up, giving me a chance to get a good look at her.

  She looked about seventeen, 5”6 tall. She wore thick eyeliner and a red plaid shirt with rolled up sleeves. It was the kind you could buy anywhere — on trend, you could say. She squinted over the plume of smoke that puffed up from her cigarette, her black–nailed fingers pinching the orange tip.

  I smoothed down the front of my dress, squeezing out the wrinkles with my palms. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, blowing smoke up over her head. David lit another, huddling up inside his coat.

  ‘I’m David’s friend from a long time ago,’ I said, glancing at him just in time to see him duck and roll his eyes. I understood. She’d probably be jealous about the fact that I’d technically known David a lot longer than her, so I probably knew more about him. All right, I didn’t know his favourite bands or anything like that, but we’d technically known each other for years. Women didn’t like that.

  32% of women...

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘You were mates with that boy who died.’

  I winced, my lip twitching. ‘Peter,’ I said, my voice thickening. ‘He was...He was...He played guitar.’

  She nodded her head slowly, taking another drag from the corner of her mouth, like Sandy from Grease. I’d read about this look, this act of hers, in Red and Hello! And all the others. They called it “Juvenile”. ‘That’s cool. What’s your name again?’

  #22 One of the fashion faux pars is to attempt the skater look. If you’re over thirty, don’t bother — you don’t want to look like one of Avril Lavigne’s posse at your age!

  ‘I didn’t tell you. It’s Ellen. Didn’t you tell her my name?’ I looked at David, who was staring towards the harbour, ignoring me. ‘Oh look, he can’t get his mind off work,’ I said. Lauren blew out smoke and glanced sideways at him, a smirk tweaking the corners of her lips.

  ‘So what are you doing down this way? You’ve got a bit of an accent. What is it, London?’

  I bit my lip. Oh, that. I couldn’t stand my accent, though of course I didn’t even know I had one until I came down this way and everyone had a slight Devonshire tone. ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘But I like coming here better, obviously.’

  She frowned, flicking ash onto the pavement by tapping the end with her thumb. ‘Why? There’s sod all to do here. You’re lucky living there.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I prefer the open air. I like the way the harbour smells. I’d love to go out on one of those boats.’ I said that last part loudly, trying to emphasise to David that it might be polite to take me out on one of those boats, like a gentleman.

  I supposed Lauren could come too. ‘Just a little boat, you know. Me and Peter used to go out on a little row boat and just sit there for hours.’

  David leaned against
the shop wall. ‘Yeah, Pete and me used to go out fishing. We should go sometime.’ He nudged Lauren and pinched her hip, making her squirm and grin.

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ I said. ‘When? What time?’

  They both looked at me, cigarettes poised before their faces, as if they’d just remembered I was there. David took another long drag. ‘I don’t know when I could get a boat,’ he said, looking at the ground. ‘I’ll pop by and let you know when I do.’

  ‘When?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. To be honest I meant—’ Lauren nudged him with her pointed elbow, shutting him up instantly.

  I’d read in a magazine once that guys needed training if you wanted them to behave. I wondered what Lauren was training David for.

  I forced a laugh, just a light chuckle. ‘Treat them mean,’ I said. It was one of those phrases they mentioned a lot in magazines. They were always in articles under the same kind of headlines, even though they were supposed to be different magazines. Stuff like How to Bag the Office Hottie and 50 Smiles to Wow your Guy.

  I was sure Lauren would know what I meant, but she just looked at me, her bleach blonde hair hanging over one shoulder. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Keep them keen,’ I finished. I looked her up and down. I realised she was the last person who would read those magazines, looking like that. Here I was wearing a wedding party dress and she was in skinny black jeans and a studded belt. I bet she’d never even picked up a copy of Cosmopolitan.

  So how, then, had she gotten David? I supposed I knew. On American TV shows they called it putting out.

  I knew how to do that.

  She threw her cigarette down on the pavement and folded her arms. ‘Are we going for a pint or not?’ she said to David. He tossed his in the direction of a drain, leaned down, and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Why don’t you go and I’ll meet you there, eh?’ he said, pocketing both hands in his coat.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, a sudden hostility in her voice. I kept a straight face, though I wanted badly to smirk. He wanted alone time with me.