Only We Know Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  SEPTEMBER

  1: EGG ON HIS FACE

  2: LOCKED IN THE LAVATORY (PART ONE)

  3: UNWILLINGLY TO SCHOOL

  4: CATCH FORTY-SEVEN AND THREE QUARTERS

  5: THE NEW GIRL

  6: LOCKED IN THE LAVATORY (PART TWO)

  7: GRAND TOUR

  8: FRIEND REQUESTS

  9: STRANGE MEETING

  10: LONG TIME NO SEE

  11: PROFILE PICTURE

  12: HARRY’S GAME

  13: WORDS TO THE WISE

  OCTOBER

  14: FASHION

  15: ST THOMAS’S REUNITED

  16: MR REASONABLE

  17: WALK LIKE A WOMAN

  18: IT’S MY PARTY (AND I’LL PUKE IF I WANT TO)

  19: A LITTLE TOUCH OF HARRY IN THE NIGHT

  20: TEA IN A CHINA CUP

  21: HAPPY HARRY

  NOVEMBER

  22: ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL

  23: SHOW AND TELL

  24: BURNT HAIR AND BODY BUTTER

  25: PIZZA EXPRESS

  26: SWEET DREAMS (PART ONE)

  27: PRIVATE VIEW

  28: PLEASE LOOK AFTER THIS BEAR

  29: SWEET DREAMS (PART TWO)

  30: FINAL COSTUME FITTING

  31: ANGER MISMANAGEMENT

  32: LAST ORDERS

  33: SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNOW (PART ONE)

  34: LAB RATS

  35: SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNOW (PART TWO)

  36: BIG MOE

  37: SHOWTIME

  38: WHO I AM

  39: EIGHT MONTHS LATER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  By the same author

  Copyright

  For Nick and Francesca

  SEPTEMBER

  There are three dates in the school calendar that I find particularly loathsome: Valentine’s Day, for obvious reasons, April Fool’s Day (ditto) and the first morning of the Autumn term, when we must exchange the inspirational pursuits of summer for the dehumanising rituals of a new school year.

  Dido’s Lament: 1,000 Things I Hate About School

  1

  EGG ON HIS FACE

  The fridge looks all wrong in this tiny kitchen, as if a family of giants has moved in. And there’s only room for two at the breakfast bar, so Tilda has taken her Crunchy Nut cornflakes into the lounge and stretched out in front of that new TV channel that only runs repeats of game shows.

  My sister isn’t best pleased by the whole situation. It’s safe to say that moving to a rubbish house in the most boring town on earth was not on Tilda’s to-do list. Plus, the new uniform looks crap on her too. So I’m not exactly amazed that she totally blanks me when I smile at her through the serving hatch.

  ‘You need to eat something, Lauren. How about I fix you a milkshake?’ says Mum.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say, pushing a plate of burnt bacon across the fake marble. ‘I feel a bit sick actually.’

  The worry lines on Mum’s face form an intricate pattern of First World War trenches. ‘You don’t have to go today if you don’t want to, my love. We could always leave it until next week.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It’s … you know.’

  Dad’s not a great fan of ‘girlie talk’. To save him his blushes, I fix her in the eye and nod at my nether regions. ‘I still get slightly … nauseous.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Mum, obviously angry with herself for not picking up on it. ‘I’ll fetch you a glass of water.’

  Dad downs the rest of his coffee and looks up from his mobile. I know he loves me, but I sometimes think he’d have more luck finding the lost city of Atlantis than suitable subjects for conversations with his eldest daughter.

  ‘I see Arsenal are looking for a new keeper, Lauren. That Ukrainian guy is a good shot-stopper, but he can’t kick a dead ball to save his life.’

  ‘Is that right, Dad?’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s a —’

  ‘There’s your water, love,’ says Mum, flashing Dad a dirty look as she whips away the charred remains of his omelette. ‘Now, Lauren, are you sure you’re ready for this?’

  According to my sister, slag bags and rucksacks are in. But from what I’ve read of the online prospectus, St Thomas’s Community College isn’t exactly the fashion capital of Europe, so I’ve chucked the least flattering PE kit in history and a couple of ballpoints into my Beatles messenger bag and hoped for the best. ‘Yes, Mum. Ready as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘I’ll get the car started,’ says Dad. ‘Come on, Tilda, turn that rubbish off and get a move on.’

  ‘What? No,’ I say, the image of turning up for my first day in Year Eleven with an overanxious parent in tow already scarring my imaginary future. ‘Thanks, Dad, but I think we’re going to walk.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? Wouldn’t it be better if I ran you up there at the last minute?’

  ‘No. I’d rather take my time if that’s okay. And anyway, shouldn’t you have left, like, hours ago?’

  ‘I thought I’d go in late this morning. I wanted to make sure you got there okay.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Dad, promise. And the walk will do us good.’

  ‘Is that right?’ says Tilda, who has a talent for creeping into rooms without anyone noticing. ‘How do you know I don’t want a lift?’

  ‘I just thought —’ Surely turning up with Daddy for your first day in Year Ten isn’t the greatest look either. ‘Well, you don’t mind walking, do you, Tilds?’

  My sister thinks for a moment. A relieved smile flits briefly across her face. ‘Yeah, all right. It might be for the best actually.’

  ‘I suppose I should get off to work then,’ says Dad, wincing as he frees himself from the breakfast bar and pecks Mum on the cheek. ‘Bye, Nikki. I’ll call you at about four, just to see how —’

  ‘Right,’ says Mum. I’ll text you if anything …’

  Dad nods. It’s a one-hundred-and-fifty-mile round trip to the office these days, and his dodgy back is suffering already. I can see the pain in his eyes as he turns towards me. ‘So, this is it then.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘I’d just like you to know that …’

  There’s egg on his face. The question is, do I tell him? ‘Dad, I think you might have some —’

  But he obviously wants to make a speech. ‘I’d just like you to know that, well, we’re all really proud of you, Lauren.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘I know things have been … difficult,’ he says, plunging his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘But … with any luck, the worst part is over now. Let’s concentrate on the future, shall we?’

  Mum is tearing up. ‘Your father’s right. You’ve got to get out there and go for it.’

  Dad winces again, but this time it’s probably down to Mum’s weakness for ‘inspirational’ advertising slogans and not his back. ‘Now as far as I’m concerned, you’ve got nothing to apologise for.’ He takes out his Statue of Liberty key ring and starts passing it from one hand to the other. ‘But we talked about keeping a low profile, didn’t we? Maybe that’s the way to go for now. Just promise you won’t do anything silly.’

  ‘Yes, Dad, I promise.’

  He hasn’t kissed me since I was, like, ten years old, so I should probably point out what a big deal it is when he bends down and plants his lips on the top of my head. ‘I’ll see you later then, Lauren. I hope it all goes … Have a great day. You too, Tilda … and look after your sister.’

  Well, that was awkward. He tries so hard to say all the right things – and I love him for it. The trouble is, after Dad’s little pep talk I’m even more terrified than I was before.

  ‘Right, let’s get going then, shall we?’ says Tilda. ‘I want to hav
e a snoop around before lessons start.’

  ‘Wait,’ says Mum, handing me a plastic container and a carton of juice. ‘I made you some sandwiches, Lauren. I’ve put some money on your ParentPay account so you can have lunch in the canteen if you feel up to it. But if you don’t want to eat with everyone else, I’m sure you’ll be able to find a quiet corner somewhere.’

  ‘What about me?’ says Tilda.

  ‘You’ll want to eat in the canteen, won’t you?’ says Mum. ‘It’ll give you a chance to make new friends.’

  ‘I quite liked the old ones,’ murmurs Tilda.

  Mum pretends not to hear. ‘Well, I must say, you both look … lovely.’

  ‘We look like complete dicks,’ says Tilda.

  ‘Tilds’s right,’ I say. ‘It’s about the worst colour ever. And this polyester skirt is … urghh.’

  ‘You should have worn trousers like me then, shouldn’t you?’ says Tilda.

  Mum reaches ominously for her phone. ‘Well, I think you look really nice,’ she says. ‘So how about a quick snap of my two gorgeous girls?’

  Enthusiasm levels in the Wilson household reach an all-time low.

  ‘Come on, Lauren, go and stand next to your sister.’

  I inch reluctantly towards Tilda. We face the firing squad without a smile between us.

  Mum points and shoots anyway. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Well, that’s that then,’ I say, taking a polite glance at our grim faces on the photo Mum flashes at me. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

  ‘About time too,’ says Tilda.

  Mum just about holds it together until we reach the front door, where she choreographs the three of us into a tearful group hug. ‘Look after each other, won’t you, girls?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Now don’t forget, Lauren. You’ve got a meeting first thing with the Student Welfare guy. Mr … Catchpole, is it? He’s actually very … professional.’

  ‘I won’t forget, Mum.’

  ‘And if anyone asks you any difficult questions, just keep calm and —’

  ‘Carry on?’ suggests Tilda sarcastically.

  ‘Something like that,’ says Mum, reaching for the front door.

  A warm shaft of light floods the dingy hallway. Why is the first day of the school year always so much sunnier than the summer holidays? Not that I’ve been out much: just a couple of shopping trips and ten minutes with that doctor who kept calling me Laura.

  ‘Goodbye then, girls,’ says Mum.

  Old habits die hard. I scan the other side of the road for potential persecutors. Two blue-uniformed girls are enjoying a friendly discussion.

  ‘Give me my fags, you slag.’

  ‘Sod off, Ella, they’re mine.’

  They don’t look particularly threatening, but it’s enough to send me scuttling back inside. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can, Lauren.’

  ‘I’m not ready, I —’

  Tilda yawns. She’s heard it all before. ‘Are you coming or not?’

  ‘She’s coming, aren’t you, love?’ says Mum.

  I take a couple of deep breaths. It’s supposed to be relaxing. So why do I feel like I’m going to faint? ‘Yes, right … I just have to – I need the loo. I’ll be two seconds, okay?’

  2

  LOCKED IN THE LAVATORY (PART ONE)

  The downstairs toilet stinks of bleach. Mum scrubbed it to death when we first moved in, but you can still see where the killer mushrooms were climbing up the wall.

  ‘Are you okay in there?’

  I fumble for my mobile. ‘Yes, Mum, I’m … Two minutes, yeah?’

  There are four numbers in my new address book. Big Moe’s is top of the list. I just hope he’s not too busy form-filling or refereeing fights. All I need is to hear his voice.

  Mum’s voice is getting higher by the second. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Lauren? Why don’t you open the door so we can talk properly about this?’

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute, promise.’

  At last he picks up. ‘Hello, stranger.’

  His gravelly Scottish greeting has a miraculously calming effect on my racing heart. ‘Hi, Big Moe.’

  ‘So today’s the day then, is it?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘I thought it might be. And how’s my favourite fashion victim feeling about that?’

  I once told him I’d rather die than wear leopard-print jeans and he’s never let me forget it. ‘The uniform’s a disaster for a start.’

  ‘You poor wee thing. You’ll have me crying in a minute.’

  ‘Thanks, Big Moe. You’re all heart.’

  Actually he really is. So he can’t quite conceal his concern when he starts getting serious. ‘And what about … you know … everything else?’

  Big Moe’s the nearest thing I know to a human lie detector. It’s pointless trying to hide it from him. ‘I’m scared, Moe, really scared.’

  He seems to find that pretty funny. ‘Of course you are. It’s not rocket science, Lauren.’ (What metaphor do you think rocket scientists use? ‘It’s not GCSE food tech?’)

  ‘Who are you talking to in there?’ calls Mum.

  ‘No one, I’m just …’ I lower my voice to an anxious whisper. ‘Supposing the same thing happens again, Moe? I don’t think I could —’

  ‘It won’t,’ says Big Moe, almost like he believes it. ‘It’s different this time.’

  ‘What if one of them’s heard about me?’

  ‘I hate to break it to you, Lauren, but you’re not exactly a celebrity, you know. And anyway, I hear you’re a blonde these days. Your own sister wouldn’t recognise you.’

  I’m not sure about that, although she sometimes looks at me like she doesn’t know me any more. ‘Yeah … I suppose.’

  ‘You’ve worked hard for this, Lauren. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.’

  ‘And can I call you if —’

  ‘Of course you can. I’m always here for you, you know that.’

  ‘Thanks, Moe.’

  ‘But you won’t need to. You’re tough, Lauren; tough as old boots.’

  ‘I don’t feel it right now.’

  Somewhere in the background a female voice starts kicking off. ‘Sorry, got to go,’ says Big Moe. ‘Now you look after yourself, Lauren. And just remember, there are some people out there who’d like to see you fail. It’s up to you to prove them wrong.’

  3

  UNWILLINGLY TO SCHOOL

  A few years back, I had quite a temper on me. Some people said I had ‘anger management issues’, but I never lost it with my sister.

  When Tilds was born, Dad thought I might be jealous of the new baby, so the first time he took me to the hospital to meet her, he bought me a toy police car to keep me quiet. He needn’t have bothered, because apparently I loved her right from the start. When she was little we spent hours playing weddings and funerals with her Polly Pockets, and on her first day at primary school I told everyone in her class that if they were mean to my little sister they’d have to fight me. And later on, when we were both getting into fashion, we’d sneak a couple of Mum’s magazines up to my bedroom and make these huge collages of our ‘winter collections’. In fact, the only thing we ever argued about was hair wax.

  All that changed, of course, although I’d kind of hoped that somewhere down the line we’d get back to the way we were. And that’s why it hurts so much, the way she looks at me sometimes – the way my name seems to stick in her throat.

  But I keep trying. Starting a new school together could be the perfect bonding opportunity.

  ‘You do realise it’s the school where that girl ran off with the drama teacher, don’t you, Tilds?’

  ‘Where do you think I’ve been for the last year? In a padded cell?’

  ‘Sorry, I just thought …’

  We walk in silence as far as the roundabout. That’s when I can’t pretend any more. Suddenly there are blue uniforms everywhere, joking and laughing and
spitting and farting, swearing and kissing and leering and hugging. And they’re all headed in one direction – towards the school gates at the top of the hill.

  The blood drains from my face as my heart picks up speed. Even the tiniest Year Sevens, with their huge rucksacks and even huger fake smiles, seem to be handling it better than me. Sweating pig-like into my sixty per cent polyester blouse, I scan the conker trees at the side of the road for potential puking spots.

  ‘Are you okay?’ says Tilda, sounding suspiciously like she actually cares.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Try not to worry. I’m sure the teachers will be looking out for you.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  Come to think of it, Tilda looks pretty scared herself.

  ‘You heard Dad,’ she says. ‘Keep your head down and you’ll be fine.’

  It’s not exactly the way I imagined it, but right now I’d do almost anything for an easy life. ‘I just wish I didn’t need to.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have needed to if you hadn’t —’

  ‘I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. It’s not fair that you’ve had to —’

  ‘No,’ says Tilda.

  I move in closer and give her a hug. ‘You’ve changed your perfume, haven’t you?’

  Tilda pulls away. ‘It’s a new start for me too, you know. I wanted something more … sophisticated.’

  ‘It’s nice, suits you.’ It may sound like small talk, but believe me this is massive. It feels like we’re kind of communicating at last. If we carry on like this, I might get my sister back.

  Tilda touches me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Look, good luck and everything. I really hope it works out for you. But do you mind if I …’

  ‘What is it, Tilds?’

  ‘Do you mind if I walk the rest of the way on my own?’

  ‘Why?’ I say, realising immediately what a stupid question it is.

  ‘You know why,’ says Tilda.

  4

  CATCH FORTY-SEVEN AND THREE QUARTERS