Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Everything was going so horribly wrong.
Mum taking me shopping was a good excuse to have some time without Lizzie at least. We took the bus to Hereford on a Saturday morning, and it had been so long since we’d done that that I couldn’t help but smile on the way. Me and my mum. Just us. And it felt safe.
“It’s a special occasion,” she insisted. “Have whichever dress you want.”
It turned out that I didn’t want many of them. They were all ruffly and flouncy and sparkly and big. Or short, short and showgirly. Or vintage and way too trendy for a little outsider like me.
I’d all about given up when we dipped into a little boutique down Church Street, and then I saw it.
A shimmering cross between mauve and silver, satin and simple and perfectly understated. Perfectly me.
I took in a breath when I saw it, and Mum did, too.
“Oh, Helen! Helen, that’s so you!”
And she was right. It fit me like I’d been born to wear it. I did a little twirl and the dress moved with me, just enough, and I felt beautiful. More beautiful than I’d ever felt.
The sales assistant gushed, and Mum had a tear in her eye, and my sad little world seemed a little bit brighter until my stomach fell through the floor at the price tag.
The sales assistant made me twirl another time, showing off the definition of my back as the fabric sloped away. It was so pretty, and so tasteful, and so expensive.
Mum pulled out her credit card and I gasped.
“No!” I said. “It’s way too much!”
She waved me aside. “This is your special night with your new boyfriend, you’ll have the dress you want!”
And I felt unbelievably guilty all of a sudden, like a fraud. A horrible fraud.
I remembered the times gone by when we’d been close, and I was just a little girl and could tell her anything. I used to tell her about Mr Roberts, too.
Now we didn’t talk about anything.
But I missed it. I really missed it.
They handed me my dress in a pretty paper bag, and it was so light, like the fabric itself was made of air.
We stopped for a bite to eat before the bus home, and Mum asked me question after question about Harry.
What’s he like? What kind of person? How does he look? Who’s his favourite artist? How much do I like him?
I answered them as best I could, but my answers were short.
Eventually she looked sad, as though she was angling for information she knew I possessed but wasn’t sharing, and I wished more than anything I could just be honest.
It’s not Harry, Mum, I’m in love with Mr Roberts. And he wanted me, for just a while he wanted me. It was the happiest time of my life, but now I’m broken again.
I’m broken and I’m lonely and life feels so uncomfortable for a little freak like me.
I tried to summon the words, or any words, but none would come. She looked hopefully as I sipped my milkshake, and I could feel how happy she’d be if I talked. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
“We’d better get the bus,” she said.
I nodded, and it was back to normality again.
***
Mark
Three weeks.
Three shitty weeks.
Three long shitty weeks when I questioned everything about everything. My cruddy life filled with paint and nothing else, my career in teaching and whether I deserved to hold onto that position anymore, the legacy of a woman I’d lost nearly ten years earlier, the ghost of a tragic life rattling its chains throughout my home, and Helen. The girl I’d loved and lost. The second girl I’d loved and lost.
The girl who tormented me every single day, with her soul and her sadness. And her youth.
Her beautiful youth.
Her eyes were still sad, but her paintings were getting better. It had been over a week since she’d even logged into her cam account, and I’d been seeing her more and more with Harry Sawbridge around school.
I tried not to look. I tried not to care at all.
But I did care.
I cared so much it made me sick to the stomach.
Jenny Monkton flittered around me like an irritating butterfly as we approached the dates of the panto. My work there was done, and yet she dragged me into every consideration, every discussion, every schedule. Between that and the ball preparations she was a noose around my neck, making plans I couldn’t escape from.
She had everything planned out. My lifts to and from the ball venue — so I could enjoy a drink, she insisted, of course I should be able to drink, she insisted — and then my participation in clearing the hall with her the morning after. The panto rehearsals, and the panto itself and the panto after party.