Behaving Like Adults (28 page)

It took me a second to recover. ‘Oh! Bernard! That's very kind of you. But I don't—'

‘You'd be doing me
such
a favour, Holly.'

Put so sweetly, it was hard to refuse. But could I be bothered to go out for dinner with Bernard? Not really. His crush on me was silly, like a child's crush on a teacher. Yet – and I was more suspicious than most – he was harmless. I was sure of it. He was shy, too. He wouldn't so much as pull out a chair for me without considering my feelings first. What else did I have planned? Another fun evening scrubbing myself raw in the bath? Listening to Emily yowl and scrabble at her locked catflap? Or maybe creeping round the house with my new must-have accessory, the kitchen knife? It would do me good – I could hear Issy saying it – it would do me good to get out.

‘Bernard, I'd like that. Tell me where the French place is and I'll meet you there.'

This caused dissent but I insisted. When I parked outside the restaurant at 7.30, he was pacing in front of it. He was dressed smartly for him, a tie under his pullover. I sighed.
This man had no idea how to pull chicks. This was either safe, or very dangerous. When he saw me, he rushed to the car and hovered on the pavement. I walked towards him which prompted a bout of head-bobbing then, when I didn't lean in any particular direction, he gave up trying to decide which cheek to kiss and shook my hand instead. Perfect.

‘I reserved us a table,' he stuttered.

‘Lovely.'

A waiter who looked like Deputy Dawg led us to the centre of the room. Bernard and I had the same problem – neither of us looked menacing enough to warrant a good table. This has always bugged me. I'm so unintimidating, people
choose
to sit next to me on trains. The decor was pretty much as I'd expect of a restaurant favoured by Bernard. Not cool, not eccentric, not interesting. But the food was delicious. I realised I was starving and had to restrain myself from gobbling my steak.

Bernard cleared his throat. I took a prim sip of water. I prayed he wasn't going to ask me out officially.

‘Holly,' he began. ‘I wanted to talk to you. I'm not awfully good at, er, speaking to women, you see. And when there is someone I like, I don't really know the best way to go about letting her know I'm interested. Which is probably part of why I'm still, ah, unattached. I know I'm fairly new to Girl Meets Boy, and I have met some highly interesting women but no one who I feel drawn to like I feel, well, I don't want to speak out of turn, of course—'

‘Everything to your satisfaction, sir, madam?' enquired the hangdog waiter. I wanted to jump up and kiss him.

‘Perfect, thank you,' I replied. ‘Could you tell me the whereabouts of the um, ladies' powder room?'

‘The toilet, madam? Through the door, past the kitchen and turn left.'

I smiled crossly, snatched up my bag, and fled. Once in the safety of the ladies' powder room/ toilet, I ran the cold tap, bathed my wrists and stared in the mirror. A
hollow-eyed ghoul stared back. I wasn't up to this. I just wasn't. I felt like a straw house under attack from the big bad wolf. Why couldn't they all leave me alone? Why didn't even
one
of them have the decency to sense what
I
wanted, instead of barging in like a tank?

I ripped a paper towel out of the machine with a jerk. Then I smoothed my hair, strode into the kitchen, marched out of the back door, stomped back to my car and drove off.

I SPED HOME,
hooting the world. There was a moment of clarity, when I looked down on myself, this red-eyed woman staring at the road and not seeing, muttering and laughing to herself about the monster sitting in the French restaurant, and thought,
God, what's happened to you?
But apart from that, every thought was cheese fondue, a gluey mass that slithered from reach when I tried to grasp it.

I skidded into my road, everything the same. Faded red Ford Escort with the bashed-in passenger door, resting on the kerb outside Number 28. Ruptured paving stones round the huge oak in front of Number 44 and hedge cut in the shape of a chicken. White van parked in the drive of Number 57 next to a silver Porsche. Every light lit, every curtain shut tight, Number 63. Pink exterior and red door, Number 72. It was like Pompeii. You could almost believe that time had stopped a while back and inside their houses people were frozen still, holding their teacups halfway to their lips.

Except. A green Polo with its brake lights on, a few metres up from my house. My heart giddied up, it was so easily spooked these days. Stuart had a Merc, calm down. But maybe this was a second car, for stalking women? Get it together, Holly. I slowed to a crawl, and pulled in on the opposite side of the street. There were two people in the car, heads close. I squinted. Wait a sec, that was Claudia. I breathed an immense sigh. The other person, female, familiar. I needed her to turn her head – there, oh!
Camille
. Stuart's PA. What the—

My first thought was that something had happened to my parents. I leapt out, slammed the door and raced towards them, just as Claw hopped onto the pavement and Camille sped off. She twirled round as she heard my footsteps, her face as red as her knee-high boots.

‘Holly! I was just coming to see you—'

‘What's wrong, what is it?'

The blush faded until she looked almost white. She compressed her lips and looked straight at me, a laser gaze. Then she said, ‘I know about Stuart.'

It was
my
turn to pale. My mouth fell open and I searched for words. Unless you're an accomplished liar, when someone confronts you with their awareness of the truth, the game is up. I'm hopeless. I
ooze
guilt. A quicker mind than mine might have snapped back with a clever, evasive response, but I couldn't. Telling fibs is bad enough but being tricked into telling fibs by a person who is
waiting
to see if you're dishonest or not is even worse.

‘You know about the rape?'

Claudia's reaction couldn't have been more comical if it had been depicted in a cartoon. She did a double take worthy of Scooby Doo, pity there was no ‘Za-
ikes!
' musical accompaniment.

‘What?' Her voice was a croak. ‘I was talking about stealing clients' funds.
Rape?
Holly, what are you telling me?'

I wanted to curl right into myself like an earwig. ‘What? What are you talking about, what are
you
telling me? What do you mean, stealing clients' funds?'

‘Camille told me, she suspects, well, she more than susp—fuck that,
rape? Rape?
Holly, oh God, do you, oh God, oh God, you do, don't you, all this time, how you've been, I should have—why didn't I—I had no idea, fuck, why didn't you say, ah Christ, ah Jesus, you mean he—rape?
When?
Jesus, are you alright, oh my God please no, this can't be true, my sister,
rape?
ah fucking God al—'

I gritted my teeth, shut my eyes, and shook my head.
‘Okay, stop saying the word now, stop saying it. It's not as bad as you think. I'm not even sure it
was
that so—'

Claudia gripped my arm so hard I cried out. She softened her grasp instantly. ‘Sorry, Hol. But you need to tell me what happened. Because I'm going to believe you. Do you understand that? Come on, let's go inside, shall we, yes, shall we do that? Have you got your key, sweetheart? There it—'

A giggle came from nowhere. ‘It's alright, Claw, you don't have to speak to me like that. I'm not going to break.'

She threw me a look. It said, ‘I don't believe you'. Then she hustled me indoors as if she was a minder and I was Michael Jackson. I couldn't meet her eye but I knew that she was crying. I don't think crying is infectious – sometimes you see a person cry and you retreat into yourself – but when it's someone you love
you
want to cry in sympathy. I felt tears prick my eyes.

‘Don't cry, Claw. Please don't.'

She dropped onto the sofa and started sobbing. ‘How could he, how could he, the fucking bastard, how did it happen, oh God, Hol, I don't believe this, how could it happen?'

I patted her shoulder and marched into the kitchen to make her a cup of tea. Short of slapping a person's face and wrapping them in a blanket, there's not much else you can do for someone who's had a shock. Which goes to prove we're not quite the advanced civilisation we think we are.
My
tears had dried up. I was able to boil the kettle at the crime scene without a shudder. What had she meant about Stuart embezzling clients' funds? Well. There wasn't
that
much room for interpretation, so I supposed she meant what she said.

See. You should have told Mum and Dad. I poured the hot water into the mug and jabbed at the teabag with a spoon. Then I made one for myself, more for solidarity than thirst. I wasn't surprised. Stuart was a very clever man who used his intelligence to take advantage of people. He
wanted something, he took it, even if it belonged to someone else. Sex, money, what difference?

When I walked back into the lounge, Claw was sitting upright on the sofa, wiping her eyes. She had a look on her face I wouldn't wish on anyone. She took the tea silently, and cleared her throat. ‘Do you mind telling me this?' she said. ‘You don't have to if, if it's too traumatic. But, you haven't told anyone, have you? And I think you need to.'

I made a face. ‘No, it's fine. I'm happy to tell you. I tried to tell Rachel but . . .'

Claudia snorted. ‘I can imagine.' She scowled. ‘I'm listening, Hol.'

I curled my legs under me. Emily bobbled into the room, saw Claudia, stopped dead. (Possibly, the screeched refrain ‘Get that thing away from me!' had, over the last two years, made her wary.) Cautiously, she made her way to me, hopped onto my lap, and started paddling with her paws, all the while staring rudely at Claudia. Claudia stared rudely back but – presumably because of the exceptional circumstances – didn't insult her.

Mostly, I didn't have a problem getting the words out. They'd been racing round my head for so long that they tumbled out, though not always in the right order.

I faltered now and then. Not because the details were horrible (though believe me, they were) but because I was embarrassed. Kissing him and expecting him
not
to get the wrong idea? Allowing him into my home late at night? Not knowing how to fight back? Not screaming? (Whoever heard of being too frightened to
scream
, for godsake?) Not being like a woman in a film who'd have stuck her hand in a half-open drawer, pulled out a knife, and bravely plunged it into her attacker's back?

I stumbled at the points I
hadn't
done any of these things because I was terrified of Claudia's internal dialogue. ‘Oh. So Holly didn't bite him, knee him in the groin, pull his hair out, that means she
let
him – and if she let him, well, that doesn't count then, does it?' I was sure there was a rule
somewhere, that ‘please, no' wasn't enough, because women say no when they mean yes (not me, or any of my friends, but anyway), that you had to at least infuriate the guy and provoke him to, say, break your nose or crack a rib for it to qualify as rape.

Claudia listened without saying much. If I looked at her to make sure she hadn't fallen asleep, she'd give me a tight nod. If I hesitated for too long, she'd say in a low voice, ‘Are you alright?' and when I nodded, she'd say, ‘And can you remember what happened then?'

At one point it felt like Stuart was on top of me and I couldn't breathe. Rape rape rape rape. The word, the deed, blocked for so long, sang and danced in my head, jangled and jingled the entire length of my body, ruling me.

‘Inhale into your cupped hands,' ordered Claw.

What with this kind of interruption, it took a while, but finally the tale was told. I felt exhausted, shaken. I wondered if she believed me. (We've all said, ‘Of course I believe you' to a friend because we don't wish to hurt their feelings, even if we
aren't
convinced that pixies live at the end of their garden.)

‘So, what do you think?' I said nervously. ‘Am I being overdramatic?' I didn't think I was, but I was so confused I barely knew any more, I was fully prepared to adjust my belief on the advice of others. ‘I mean, maybe I—'

‘He raped you, Holly.'

I assumed a sombre expression to match hers. Really? She thought that? Maybe I'd exaggerated.

‘You understand, he didn't threaten me with a, a hammer, or anything.'

Claudia screwed up her eyes like she hadn't heard me correctly. Then she said, in the softest tone, ‘Hol. You didn't consent to sex with Stuart, so he forced you. That's rape.'

‘But, you know, in the end, I, I let him. I was too scared to fight, I mean, that's not . . .'

‘Sweetheart. If someone snatches your bag, whether you
fight back or not, that's robbery. If you've got any sense, you
won't
fight back, because you don't want to be robbed
and
killed. Do you get what I'm saying?'

Suddenly, the tears were back in force. I was pretty incomprehensible, even to myself, but through the blubbering, what I was trying to say was, ‘I was scared he'd kill me, I was so scared he'd kill me.'

Claw rubbed my back and said, ‘I know, darling, I know.' She made me take a sip of cold tea. I got hiccoughs immediately. After a long while, she sighed.

‘What?' I said.

She sighed again. ‘I, I just wondered, why you didn't feel you could confide in me.'

I shrugged. ‘I was ashamed. I thought it was my fault. I didn't want to make a big issue of it.'

Claudia squeaked, ‘Didn't want to make a
big issue
of it!'

‘In a way, Stuart and I were friends. I didn't want this to mess things up.'