The Wild Girls Page 3

  Then I reached for my phone, and messaged Hannah.

  Yes. I’m going.

  As I say, Rosie was the catalyst. And then, there was no going back.

  Hannah

  So Grace is going on the trip. Hannah’s fingers hover over the keyboard. Part of her is desperate to go – let’s face it, an all-expenses-paid holiday is pretty amazing – but then the other part of her keeps imagining turning up there, seeing them all, them looking at her post-baby stomach, the huge grey bags underneath her eyes. The woman they used to know was child-free, thin, and in general a lot more fun. Is she afraid of what they’d think of her now? Felicity used to have this way of looking at you, a once-over, her grey eyes sweeping you up and down. Alice and Grace said they never noticed it, but Hannah did. It always felt as though she was assessing you, checking if you were fit for purpose. If you lived up to her standards.

  And after that night, it was clear none of them did. Least of all Hannah, but she has only herself to blame for that.

  Hannah’s indecision is broken by the sound of Max crying. She waits, poised – sometimes his cries snuffle themselves out quickly, but at other times, times like today, they rev up and turn into full-blown wails. Sure enough, it begins, and the sound cuts through her like a knife sliding through fruit, piercing her heart like the stone in the centre. It is impossible to ignore. Underneath her T-shirt, Hannah’s breasts ache, heavy with milk. As she gets to her feet, she feels tears prick her eyes. It’s late now – what has she achieved with the day? Chris brought her home some flowers earlier, red roses for Valentine’s Day, but they didn’t go out or anything. They didn’t have a fancy dinner – not even a sneaky glass of wine. Chris said he was knackered from work, and slumped in front of the TV, like he was fifty, not thirty-three. Hannah put her roses in a vase, pricking her fingers on one of the thorns, a tiny scarlet globule appearing on her skin. She wiped off the smear of blood on one of Max’s muslin cloths. It’s not as though he’ll notice – all he does is vomit on them. Thin, wet white strands that smell of nothing.

  ‘Max, Maxy,’ she says now, picking her son up, nestling him close against her chest even as the sound of his cries echoes through the flat, buzzing through her skull.

  ‘He all right?’ Chris mumbles from the living room, but Hannah can tell from his voice that he’s still watching TV – he’s got that disengaged, distracted tone that drives her up the wall. She can’t afford to be distracted. Max won’t let her be.

  Her son begins to quieten a bit. She can feel the quick thump of his heart against her chest, and immediately, she starts to feel guilty. She shouldn’t resent her family. She wanted this so badly, didn’t she? Her little family – sometimes she thinks they’re all she’s got. She supposes in a way, they are.

  Hannah used to have more of a life. The four of them: her, Grace, Alice and Felicity, they used to drink and laugh and stay out late into the night, their arms around each other as their high heels clattered on the pavements of West London. They used to wake up together, mouths dry, desperate for bacon sandwiches, and squeeze into one room to look at the photos from the night before, taken on someone’s blurry iPhone, or before that, on clunky digital cameras. Hannah used to be able to tell what each of them was thinking just by making eye contact. She doesn’t think she has ever felt as close to anybody as she used to be to them, not even Chris. She looks down at her son. Not even Max.

  Isn’t that kind of bond worth salvaging?

  Before she knows what she is doing, Hannah’s hand reaches for her phone again. It waits in her palm, patiently. Make a decision, Hannah. Yes or no.

  OK, she replies to Grace. I’m in.

  The second she presses send, her son begins to wail, as though he already knows what is going to happen. He knows she is going to leave him.

  ‘I’ll come back,’ Hannah whispers. ‘I’ll always come back to you, Maxy. I promise.’

  The words echo around the room, bounce back to her like a curse. She doesn’t always keep her promises, no matter how hard she tries.

  Alice

  She wouldn’t be able to go, even if she wanted to. Alice can’t take time off work – she’s not like Grace or Hannah, she doesn’t have their freedom. She teaches in a state school in inner Hackney – there aren’t exactly supply teachers queueing up to cover her shifts. Most sensible teachers avoid this place like the plague.

  When she gets home from school, Tom surprises her by thrusting a bunch of red roses into her face.

  ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry I forgot this morning.’

  When Alice looks at him, he seems younger somehow, as though she can see the boy he used to be shining through his features. She feels a rush of affection towards him as he leans towards her, kisses her on the lips. He tastes of coffee, but she doesn’t mind. He’s one of those people who can drink coffee at all hours of the day and still sleep like a log every night – not a privilege Alice has. Guilty conscience, she thinks, before pushing the thought away and taking the flowers from him, raising them to her face. They don’t really smell of much – they’re probably cheap – but she pretends they do because it will please him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, meaning it, and puts the roses in a nice, tall vase retrieved from under the sink, stands them in the middle of the kitchen table.

  They have dinner together – nothing fancy, pasta and sauce out of a jar, but Tom’s bought a nice bottle of red and Alice drinks two big glasses more quickly than she’d planned. She loves the weight of a wine glass in her hand; it relaxes her, softens her edges, even if the glass is from a pack of six that they’d got from Ikea. It’s always been Alice’s weak spot, wine, your Achilles heel, Felicity used to say. She was the first person to give Alice alcohol, actually – smuggled from her parents’ drinks cabinet; they sipped it up in her attic. Every week, a little bit more, Felicity’s eyes watching her friends carefully to make sure they drank. It became a game – who could handle it, who could drain a glass without vomiting. Felicity’s father never stopped them; in fact, Alice can remember him laughing as she stumbled down the stairs, can recall his breath on her face as he leaned in to smell the alcohol. Her own parents would have gone spare, but Michael never did. It was almost as though he liked seeing Felicity drunk, as though it was one big joke.

  Alice can remember the unease in her stomach, the pressure of Felicity’s gaze on her as she raised the bottle to her lips, inhaled the sweet, sticky scent of it. Some mornings, she’d black out, be unable to remember the evening in the attic before. Other nights, her memories were fragmented, incomplete, but always, there was the sound of Felicity’s laughter, wild and unsettling. But familiar.

  ‘How was school?’ Tom asks, and Alice shrugs, tells him about little Sabah in Year Six who never has a proper packed lunch. Alice has started stockpiling bananas to give to her, keeping them in her desk drawer then giving them to the ten-year-old at breaktimes, or first thing in a morning, when the sight of the hunger on her face is more obvious. Tom thinks she should speak to social services.

  ‘It’s always such a fine line,’ Alice says, ‘and it’s not as easy as that. There are rules we have to follow. Procedures. Getting the authorities involved isn’t always the right thing to do.’

  Tom laughs, swallows a mouthful of wine. The corners of his mouth are stained mauve. There isn’t much left in the bottle now.

  ‘You and your rules.’ He rolls his eyes, and it stings. ‘D’you know what I like about you, Allie? You’re so… predictable.’

  Her cheeks burn. Their little kitchen is hot. The red roses seem to glow a little bit brighter, their thorns sharpening under her gaze. She knows he is saying it deliberately. To hurt her, in that funny, subtle way that he sometimes does. That funny, subtle way that nobody else would even notice and that she tries so hard not to think about. Almost subconsciously, Alice’s fingers go to her upper arm and she rubs it, remembering the night that his actions weren’t so subtle after all.

  ‘Actual
ly, Tom,’ she says, making a split-second decision, ‘I’m going away soon. I’m going on holiday.’

  He blinks, taken aback. ‘You, a holiday? But it’s not Easter. Not your six-week summer jolly yet, either.’

  ‘I’m going to Botswana,’ she says, relishing the look on his face. He looks absolutely stunned, and it strikes her how long it has been since anything she did surprised him, since she didn’t act in exactly the way she is supposed to, exactly the way he wants her to act. Good little Alice. Perfect girlfriend, teacher, home-owner. Living in a flat that she wishes they hadn’t bought, with a man who is sometimes, just sometimes, a little bit cruel to her.

  He doesn’t know about the night she broke the rules.

  ‘You’re going to Botswana? When? What for?’

  ‘I told you, a holiday. Next month. Yes, I’m going to Botswana, for a birthday party.’ Alice rolls the words around her mouth, enjoying the way they feel, little pearls between her lips. Pausing, she watches him, and picks up her wine glass. ‘I don’t think you’re invited.’

  Alice gets up, a few remnants of the pasta congealing stickily on her plate, and leaves the room still clutching her wine, closing the door behind her – not slamming it, she never slams doors, but shutting him out nonetheless. She goes into their bedroom, pulls out her phone and scrolls through to WhatsApp. Alice deleted their old group eventually, the one the four of them used to have, but she still has their numbers so it’s easy to create a new one.

  Group name: Felicity’s birthday.

  Members: You, Grace, Hannah, Felicity (NY number).

  You: Botswana. Party time. Who’s in?

  Grace: I am.

  Hannah: Yup.

  You: I’ve just told Tom, so no backing out now.

  Grace: Do we think Felicity still uses this same number?

  Hannah: Well, time difference, remember. She probably hasn’t seen the messages yet.

  You: It’s the only number I have for her now.

  Grace is typing…

  Hannah: It’s odd seeing all your names pop up on my phone. It’s been a while.

  You: I just thought a group would be easier. That’s all.

  Grace is typing…

  Hannah: Yup. Makes sense. Sorry, gotta go. The baby’s crying. But I’m going to book flights soon.

  You: OK. Me too.

  Grace: Me three.

  You: Night, then.

  Hannah is offline.

  Grace is offline.

  Felicity: Sorry girls, I’ve just woken up to all your messages from last night. YES! YES! YES! I’m so glad you guys can come. Don’t book flights, it’s all on me. Will email you details now. Just get yourselves to the airport on 27th March. I’m so excited. We have a lot of catching up to do. It’s party time, ladies.

  Chapter Three

  27th March

  London

  Grace

  It’s a drizzly March day when I take the tube to Heathrow airport – the day before the party. Felicity suggested a long weekend, Friday to Monday, so we ought to get back late Monday night and be ready for work on the Tuesday. Her birthday is the Sunday, but she said she wanted us there a few nights before, to make it worth our while. She said she would be heading out there a couple of days earlier, to prepare for the party. I’ve spent the last three nights scrolling through her social media, searching for clues as to whether she and Nathaniel are still together, but he doesn’t feature anywhere. She appears to have started a new account recently; none of her older posts are there at all – the first one is of her in New York, an iced latte held up against a bright blue sky. As if her old life never existed.

  Perhaps they have split, then. The thought of seeing him, even on a screen, makes my stomach churn with anxiety, but I try to push down the uncertainty. I scroll back up through her feed, double-checking to make sure he’s definitely not there, exhaling when I reach the end. Botswana will be fine; it has to be. I made the decision that I wanted my life back, so this is the price I have to pay. I’m stronger now. I know I am. If he was still a part of her life, there would be evidence online.

  It’s a long way to come! Felicity texted, And I so appreciate it!!! She always was a bit over the top, Felicity – queen of the exclamation mark. Her messages are as though nothing has ever happened, as if no time has gone by. I picture her sitting in New York, deciding to reach out to us – what prompted it? Was it the split with Nathaniel, or did that happen ages ago? I can’t let myself hope. Perhaps, I wonder, it’s of less relevance to her than it is to us – maybe she barely thinks about us, added us to the invitation list as an afterthought. Let bygones be bygones, and all that. It’s the sort of thing she might do, I suppose.

  The three of us – Hannah, Alice and I – have arranged to meet at the airport; time was when we’d all travel there together, but nobody suggested that and I’m happy going on my own. This way, we’re all on an equal footing. I spend longer than usual on my appearance – straightening my hair, which I haven’t done for ages, putting on eyeliner, which I have always been categorically terrible at. Someone once told me it makes me look like a pigeon, and I think they were probably right. I’ve been so used to hiding myself away, deliberately not attracting anyone’s attention, that daubing on lipstick and blusher feels completely unnatural now, but I force myself to do it anyway. This is all about moving forward, after all.

  I burn my hand on the hair straighteners; my fingers are shaking.

  I pack strategically – Felicity always looks amazing, and surely two years in New York can only have strengthened the range of her wardrobe. I wince, imagining all her other friends – sophisticated, rake-thin Americans sipping champagne and eating nothing. I feel so out of my depth already. The temperature is over thirty-five degrees out in Botswana this weekend, Felicity sent us a screenshot, and the thought of exposing my body to everyone makes me feel slightly sick. Oh God, will it be a pool party? I shove a wrap-around into my case, reassure myself that nobody can stop me wearing that if I want to. I don’t want anyone looking at my body. Not anymore.

  Since we all agreed to go, Felicity has kept up a constant stream of information to us, and for just these few weeks, it’s almost felt as though I have friends again. I become accustomed to my phone pinging at all times of the day and night, as gradually, the coldness between us begins to thaw, at least via WhatsApp. None of us has actually spoken on the phone, and I’m certainly not brave enough to be the first person to do so. Felicity emails us all details of our flight: the 10.30 a.m. from Heathrow to Botswana on Friday 27th March, and she’s told us a car will pick us up from the airport.

  My stomach fizzes with excitement at the thought of it all – the humidity, the heat, a chance to escape London. And, of course, the chance to see the girls.

  In the end, I have to sit on my suitcase to force it closed because I’ve packed so much stuff; insecurity packing. I bring a swimming costume, just in case, a one-piece, and Rosie lends me a couple of long dresses which she says will keep the mozzies off my legs. I think she’s a bit jealous that I’m going; she keeps looking at me strangely, out of the corner of her eye. As though perhaps she is seeing me properly, for the very first time. It gives me a splash of confidence. At last, I am doing something, getting out of my rut – because I can admit it now, I have been in a rut. And I don’t want to be in it anymore.

  The tube rattles through West London; I count the stops on the Piccadilly line with my eyes, rubbing at the shiny red weal on my hand from the straighteners. It’s been a little while since I’ve even got the tube, and only now do I realise how very small I’ve let my world become. Everywhere feels so busy, so colourful, so loud.

  My carriage starts off packed but thins out as we leave the centre of the city, so that by the time we reach Acton there is only me and a family sitting across from me. There are two teenage boys, both on their phones, a harangued-looking father holding two large rucksacks, and a woman with what looks like a two-year-old on her lap, its eyes plump with tears. None o
f them catches my eye, and for a moment, I feel as though I really might be invisible, and the thought of it fills me with a desperate kind of panic that I have to breathe through. I picture myself growing older in the Peckham flat, Rosie moving out to be with awful Ben, and the windows getting dirtier and dirtier until nobody can see inside and I cannot see out. It would be all too easy to let what happened set the tone for the rest of my life, but by doing this, by going to Botswana and facing them all, I am conquering my fears.

  My therapist would be proud.

  Just as suddenly as the dark thoughts arrive, we rattle around a corner and the sunshine comes out through the clouds, filtering through the dirty windows of the tube, illuminating the dust motes floating above the faded blue seats. My phone pings as it regains signal, and I see that Felicity has sent a series of picture messages to our WhatsApp group.

  I actually gasp as the first of them loads – it’s a photo of a safari lodge, set against a brilliant blue sky, surrounded by gum trees and luscious green grasses. The second picture shows a great wide plain, and in the foreground is a baby elephant, beautiful and strangely endearing, her grey head bowed to the ground, leathery trunk searching for sustenance. The third photo, by contrast, is of Felicity’s hand, her long, glossy pink shellacked nails wrapped around a tall glass of champagne. She looks like she’s in a hammock; I can see the ropes of it in the background, and the yellow and red stripes underneath her tanned knees.

  Can’t wait to see you all! her message says. Safe flight!!!

  I picture Alice wincing at the overuse of exclamation marks, it jarring with her teacher’s mindset. Hannah replies straight away.