‘TV.’
‘Oh God, and wouldn’t you? They’d put a 100–200s category into X-Factor. Each episode would last four hours.’
I laugh again.
‘No school today?’
‘Easter holidays.’
‘Ah. Easter. Eggs.’
‘My parents are away in Russia. I’m alone.’
‘Alone,’ she says. ‘Then it’s good we’ve both got these strong young men to look after us.’ She nods at the dogs. I look down at Mushroom. He’s licking my knee. We sit, not saying anything, until the rain gets quieter and more slow. Mabel tells me that she walks Mushroom at the same time every day so maybe we’ll see each other tomorrow. I say that I would like that. The dogs shake themselves off and we climb out of the bushes.
*
I’m sitting at the kitchen table. Amundsen’s lying on my feet. I can feel his heartbeat through my toes. He’s asleep and making sounds like a big man shivering. I’m drinking Nesquik tea and eating microwave lasagne and watching a video of a man putting a kitten into a wire cage then setting it on fire. I don’t know why. It’s boring.
I click on Alice Calloway. I open her photo albums.
Berlin 09: Alice wearing the red dress with miniature horses on it. Alice holding a coffee mug the size of a baby. Alice outside the Reichstag, pretending that an inflatable hammer is her dick.
Snow day 10: Me sat on Alice’s chest in a field of snow. Alice with a snowball in her mouth. Aslam punching Sam. Sam punching Aslam. Alice bagging Aslam.
I should stop doing this. It isn’t fun and isn’t helping.
Geography trip Lulworth: Alice straddling an orange rock. Alice hugging Emma. Alice building sandcastles. Georgie drawing a dick in the sand.
I don’t want to do this any more.
Sarah’s 18th: Alice and Sarah and Emma and Paige stood by a row of black shots lined up on a bar. Alice with both of her arms in the air. Alice and a topless man through a fisheye lens. Emma vomiting at a bus stop.
I don’t understand why I’m doing this. I feel sick.
Georgie’s: Alice on a horse, holding a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Emma giving Alice a lovebite. Georgie’s mum downing shots. Alice hugging Georgie’s mum. A closeup of Alice’s face, grinning wildly through smudged orange lipstick.
I slam the computer shut and punch it. I’m crying. If I was the subject of a documentary then this would be the part where I smash the camera and hit the cameraman. I would shout ‘get that fucking camera out of my face, it’s over’.
My phone flashes.
Hattie to me: u okay? Aslam told me.
Me to Hattie: I’m just going to hide a while. I’m okay.
Hattie comes over sometimes and we touch each other because we’re bored and because what else. I don’t know what now. I should stop looking at Alice. I rub my eyes with my t-shirt and open a bottle of Mum’s Merlot and fill a pint glass with it. I add Macy on gchat. She’s online. She says hi.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Work over?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you?’
‘UK. You?’
‘Same.’
I blink. She’s closer than I expected. I always think of people in computers as existing in a quiet, distinct place that almost never overlaps with real life. ‘Where?’ An unpronounceable, politically stable country with national service and bidets.
‘Inverness.’
I search Inverness. It’s in Scotland. There are pictures of green hills and thick clouds and wide, metallic bodies of water. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘The prosperous hub of the Highlands.’ That sounded too formal. ‘Old Invy.’ Good one. She’s going to disappear.
‘Haha.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘Look after my kids. Housework. Nothing exciting.’ ‘Great,’ I say. That’s a stupid thing to say. ‘I mean it must be nice to have free time.’
‘I guess,’ she says. ‘But it can get lonely around the house.’
‘You don’t have a husband?’
‘Would I be in chatrooms if I did?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Not many men are interested in a woman with two kids. And there’s only so much you can do on your own.’ ‘Like what.’
‘Haha you know like what.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘You’re funny. What do you do, hon?’
I think of a job and search it.
‘I’m a mortgage broker,’ I say. ‘I act as an intermediary who brokers mortgage loans on behalf of individuals or businesses.’ I think, is that convincing? I think, maybe not. Still too formal. She’s a woman, not a boardroom. I decide to add a personal touch to make it convincing. ‘Mainly for individuals,’ I say. ‘Mainly for women.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘High-powered.’
Nothing happens. I fill up the kettle and put it on. I try to fit my fist inside of my mouth.
‘I haven’t seen you around the rooms before,’ she says. ‘It was my first time.’
‘It’s hard to find anyone sane.’
‘The people seemed weird. That man who kept typing about sex with animals.’
‘It’s mostly people like that. Every now and again you meet someone worth talking to. Is Herman your real name, hon?’
I have no idea what ‘hon’ is.
Is anyone’s real name Herman?
‘No. It’s Tom Swanson.’ I have given myself a composite name made out of my two favourite Parks and Recreation characters.
‘Mine’s Macy.’
‘Hi Macy.’
‘Hi.’
‘What do you normally do in rooms?’
‘Not much. I have a few friends that I like to mess about with. Like Corinne. Just meet people really. Chat. Anything. Sometimes other stuff.’
‘What other stuff?’
‘Haha. Like cyber and stuff.’
‘Oh.’
‘You ever cyber?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Loads.’
Literally never.
‘I prefer real life . . . but sometimes it’s not possible.’ ‘What do you look like?’
‘Pic for pic?’
‘Okay. Wait. I’ll take one.’
I go upstairs and open Dad’s wardrobe. There are shirts of various colours on hangers with ties threaded through them. A black one looks small. I put it on without a tie and button it up to the top. I unbutton four buttons. I button up two buttons. I push my hair back. It looks like Bugsy Malone.
On the computer screen my face looks tiny and new. If I turn my head slightly to one side and tip it back then my jaw looks more like the jaw of a mortgage broker. I need to make her want me. I need