Following prudent ‘hellos’, we’d venture back into the hall and seek out Annabelle. Though she rarely sat in there except to watch television in the evenings, I’d poke my head in the living room and survey the formal couches, the locked bookcase of first editions, the china cats guarding the wedding photograph on the faux-marble mantelpiece and the real feline, Juno, gazing at me from a cushion on the rocking chair in the bay window. I’d follow Matthew along the hall into the extended kitchen and wait for my eyes to adjust to the light pouring from the south-facing veranda windows. Through them I could see their long, overgrown garden, and the tips of the trees in the wood beyond.
Annabelle would be sat at the chunky table twirling a pencil above a shopping list, or standing by the counter pouring water into the teapot, or kneeling by the boarded-up fireplace painting a mural. Or the kitchen would be empty and I’d wander to ‘my seat’ and grab a pack of cards from the bookshelf, begin shuffling while Matthew filled the kettle, glanced in the fridge and stepped onto the patio to check Annabelle was safely engrossed pulling weeds. He’d kiss me and we’d giggle naughtily about ‘doppelgänger’ and ‘kitten’ as we played cribbage and Matthew let me win. After a while, Annabelle would amble slowly up the garden path and we’d shuffle our chairs apart. We’d all discuss Mrs Roberts’s new decking, Lydia’s latest DIY dream or Hannah’s new boyfriend.
After a cup of tea, Annabelle would say they needed bread for the morning and something to eat for dinner, so perhaps she’d drive down to Sainsbury’s. It’d be another half hour of desperate anticipatory glances between Matthew and me before she’d actually leave. We’d act nonchalant as she finished her list, hunted for a lost glove and telephoned her mother to see if she wanted anything picking up, but as soon as we heard the Yale click into place, we’d spring from our seats. Matthew would lead me back along the hall and up the staircase lined with laminated collages of cats and fairies. We’d sweep past the first landing, which always had two closed doors. As I always did when I passed through this floor, I’d try to imagine Annabelle’s bedroom, picturing a mass of ancient teddy bears piled on cotton sheets and books like Jane Eyre beneath a lamp. I never saw inside, though. The other door led to Annabelle’s equally mysterious office. For all that she welcomed me into their unit and was ‘kind’ to us by finding excuses to leave us alone, there was a tacit understanding that this floor was sacred; that I belonged in the attic. So I’d follow Matthew up another, steeper flight of stairs with nothing adorning the walls.
The room in the attic was sparse, an old B&B offering with an en-suite shower room and two twin beds under the eaves. One was always unmade, a chiropractic pillow resting beside striped pyjamas and thick reading glasses. The other had just a navy fleece blanket and one pillow. This one was for me. At the foot of the second bed sat a desk piled with hardbacks overflowing from the two bookcases: evidence, should anyone ask, that I belonged up here ‘sorting books’. Matthew would drape a piece of gauzy fabric from two nails either side of the window as a makeshift curtain, then unlace his shoes and remove his socks. We were usually in a hurry, I suppose, but I’d still hesitate until Matthew asked if I was being coy, then I’d remove my jeans to reveal an expensive thong he’d bought me or Primark hold-ups or nothing at all. He’d make love to me on his side, always looking for the ‘love-light’. He’d try to make me come and tell me what his friend in the ‘industry’ had said about the percentage of women who can’t reach orgasm, but we’d inevitably end with a stickiness between my thighs and his penis shrivelled contentedly back into place. He’d disappear into the bathroom and return smelling of baby powder, then I’d go to pee and clean myself. We’d lie together for a few minutes, speaking of love and poetry, but soon grow restless and pull on our clothes, anxious to be back playing cards before Annabelle returned. Sometimes we’d hear her key before our underwear was in place and he’d hurry down in his dressing gown to tell her he’d suddenly ‘felt funny’ and I’d gone home, before ushering me silently out the door while she put the shopping away downstairs.
Back on the street, I’d breathe the daylight air or skulk into the starry shadows and wonder if my cheeks were flushed. I’d miss him instantly and suddenly want to cry. Sneaking back past my mother’s house, I’d take a detour via the empty park, sit on a swing and reach in my bag for my diary. I’d scrawl about how life was unfair and the bitter irony of true beauty. Eventually, I’d return home and begin boiling pasta, chat to my dad if he was home and absently make up a lie about doing homework with Claire. He’d only half listen while watching Stargate anyway, and I’d lock myself in my room with Tori Amos and the latest book Matthew had instructed me to read.
On 20th October 2001, I walked to Matthew’s after school as usual. My dad was still at work so it was easy to sneak away and I left a note saying I’d be out for dinner. Annabelle was visiting her mother for the evening, so Matthew wrapped his arms around me as soon as the door was closed. We kissed as if we hadn’t seen each other yesterday and the day before. With hours before us, there was no hurry. Matthew was making shepherd’s pie and there was an Eccles cake waiting for me with a pot of tea ready to be poured. We played cards and talked about books until my foot beneath the table aroused enough interest for Matthew to pull me from my chair and shoo me upstairs.
In the attic, we fucked. I don’t remember how. Perhaps that was the day he bent me over the bed and I cried as his cock dug painful holes in my abdomen. Or perhaps it was the time I knelt to suck his dick and guided my hand behind his balls only to find shit on my finger when I was done. Or perhaps I enjoyed it, despite not orgasming. Either way, we finished and dressed and padded downstairs to shovel potatoes and gravy onto our tongues. Annabelle came home at some point and we divided a bottle of wine before retiring to the living room. When Friends ended, Annabelle made a show of yawning and said she was going to bed. I scurried to the other sofa and folded myself into Matthew’s arms, flicking to the music channels hoping to find the Britney Spears video that turned me on. As Matthew was slipping his hand beneath my T-shirt and fingering the fabric of my bra, knuckles rapped at the front door.
Matthew snapped his hand away and stood up in one motion, then strode into the hall, smoothing his hair.
‘John!’ I heard from the other room.
‘Um, hello Matthew. Is Natalie here?’
‘She is. Would you like to come in?’ Matthew’s voice was liquid, subtly patronising yet unquestionably friendly.
I moved into the hallway. My dad looked distracted, annoyed even.
‘Nat, I’ve been trying your phone for hours.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I muttered, realising my bag was in the kitchen and I probably hadn’t turned my profile off silent since school.
‘Your mum called. Nana’s in hospital—’
‘What?!’ I shrilled, as if shoving all the concern I should have felt in the past few hours into one short sentence.
‘She seems to have collapsed in the supermarket. Your mother says it’s possibly a stroke. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
‘I’m sorry, I left a note. My phone’s on vibrate,’ I muttered guiltily. ‘Is she going to be okay?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think it’s looking good.’ My dad looked apologetic. ‘James is at ours, will you come home?’
‘Of course.’
I darted along the hall to get my coat and bag, and then left with only the briefest of waves to Matthew, hovering helplessly in his study doorway.
As we walked back to the house, I begged my dad to drive us to the hospital immediately. I imagined my mother all alone in some waiting room as blue-suited nurses rushed in and out of an operating room, my nana lying on her back, her face as pale as her permed hair and today’s carefully selected jewellery gleaming rudely against a dishevelled hospital gown.
Trying