Watching Edie: The most unsettling psychological thriller you’ll read this year. Camilla Way
‘You look after your mum now. We’ll have her up and about in no time.’ Her gaze lingers on Edie, hot and slippery.
‘Right you are,’ Edie says. ‘See you next time.’ And together we hurry through into the hallway, Edie laughing into her hand as soon as she closes the door. ‘Yuk,’ she says, and though I roll my eyes and nod, unease shifts inside me, an unpleasant memory of playground taunts, an ugly word to describe shameful, unnatural things. I force myself to rid the woman from my mind as I follow Edie down the hall.
The living room is small and cluttered and I drink it all in eagerly, not wanting to miss even the smallest detail. ‘It’s basically mostly my nan’s old stuff,’ Edie tells me carelessly, but I think it’s lovely. Little china ornaments on every surface, flowery wallpaper and a thick, swirly brown carpet and a green sofa with a matching foot stool. A vase of plastic flowers on the brown-tiled mantelpiece. It’s untidy and stuffy and smells of burnt dust and cats, but I know instantly I’d rather live here than my house any day.
Edie throws her keys on the coffee table. ‘Mum,’ she calls, ‘I’m back.’
A woman walks slowly in on crutches and I remember how Edie had told me her mum had been in a car accident. Even in her nightclothes she looks beautiful, so glamorous and young, with make-up and long hair and a pink silky dressing gown very different from the one my mum’s usually buttoned up in. She glances at me and smiles briefly but before I can say anything she looks past me and says to Edie accusingly, ‘Where have you been? I had to wait for that bloody woman to turn up just to have a cup of tea.’
Edie rolls her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ll make one now, shall I?’
Her mum takes a pack of cigarettes from her dressing-gown pocket and lights one. ‘Don’t put yourself out.’ With difficulty, she lowers herself on to the couch and, picking up the remote, turns on the TV, staring sulkily at the screen.
‘Fine,’ Edie mutters. ‘Come on, Heather.’
I murmur a quick goodbye before hurrying after her.
Her bedroom is tiny, barely large enough for the single bed that she’s lying face down on. Half-unpacked cardboard boxes cover almost every inch of the worn pink carpet and I gingerly step over them until I’m standing by her feet. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
Her voice is muffled by her pillow. ‘She does my head in. I wish my dad was still around.’
‘Where is he?’ I ask, sitting down.
‘God knows. Buggered off years ago. They were only young when they had me. She drove him away, always on at him about something. Nag nag nag, the way she does with me. Tells me I wouldn’t understand, like I’m a bloody kid. But I know it’s her fault he left, that’s for sure.’ There’s a pause before she adds, ‘And I’ve not seen him since. Not even a phone call.’ She sits up and gnaws at her fingernails, her eyes dark and brooding. Tentatively I move closer to her and, after a few seconds’ hesitation, put my arm around her. She sinks against me, resting her head upon my shoulder as though she were a little girl and my heart thumps loudly as I stroke her hair. After a silence she murmurs, ‘God, it’s shit not having any brothers or sisters, isn’t it? Someone else to deal with all their crap. Don’t you ever wish you weren’t an only, Heather?’ When I don’t reply she glances up at me and her face falls. ‘Christ, what’s the matter? What have I said?’
And so I tell her about Lydia. Not everything, of course, but still, it’s more than I’ve ever spoken about her to anyone else before.
‘Oh, Heather, that’s awful,’ she says when I’ve finished. ‘I’m so sorry.’
We sit in silence for a while and I wipe my eyes, listening to the sound of some kids playing outside in the street. In the quiet I notice a drawing pinned to the wall above her bed. ‘Did you do that?’ I ask, nodding at it.
‘Yeah,’ she says, and jumping up, stands on her bed to take it down. ‘It’s a bit crap really.’
She passes it to me and I stare at it. It’s a self-portrait, a close-up of her face, pouting and narrow-eyed like a model on the cover of a magazine. It’s amazing. ‘Wow,’ I say, ‘it’s great.’
‘Nah,’ she ducks her head. ‘Do you honestly think so? You can have it if you want.’ She goes and pulls out a folder from underneath her wardrobe, takes out a pile of drawings and puts them on my lap, watching my face as I look through them.
My tears, Lydia, Edie’s dad, everything is forgotten as I examine them one by one. A child holding a balloon, a couple kissing, a handsome boy holding some flowers, moonlight shining on water. I think they’re wonderful, romantic, a version of life where everyone’s happy and in love and beautiful. ‘Oh, Edie,’ I say, ‘they’re fantastic. You’re so talented, you really are!’ I look at her in amazement.
She shakes her head, ‘Oh leave off, they’re pretty rubbish.’ But she jumps up and pulls out a sketchpad, waiting eagerly for my reaction as I turn the pages. And as I heap praise on her I watch as her sadness begins to lift, receding with every compliment I pay her. She’s smiling, I’ve made her happy again.
Suddenly she says, ‘You’re different from other girls our age, aren’t you?’
My heart sinks. ‘What do you mean?’ My classmates’ voices come hissing back to me: Weirdo, fucking freak.
She yawns and stretches like a cat, her top riding up to reveal her midriff. ‘Don’t know. You don’t go on about clothes and who felt you up last night, and what a bitch so-and-so is. It’s good.’ She hesitates, glancing away before adding very softly, ‘Even with my friends back in Manchester, I used to feel lonely sometimes. None of them seemed to have the same crap going on at home that I did. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘I do.’ And we smile at each other in the silence.
‘He’s asked me to meet him on Saturday,’ she tells me a few moments later.
‘Who?’
She grins. ‘Connor, of course! Will you come with me? In case he doesn’t show.’
‘Oh, I don’t—’
‘Please,’ she says. ‘Oh go on, be a pal.’
I hesitate, and she makes a daft face, fluttering her eyelashes until I laugh, and say OK.
It’s Saturday lunchtime and we’re sitting on the bench by the statue in the town square. Edie can’t sit still, tugging at her dress, reapplying lip gloss and spraying herself with the White Musk her Uncle Geoff sent her last Christmas. A couple of girls from school walk past us and look Edie up and down before turning to each other and sniggering. ‘Skank,’ they whisper, but I don’t think Edie hears.
‘Where is he? We’ve been here half an hour now.’
‘I’m sure he’s on his way,’ I tell her, secretly hoping that he’s not. I think about how I’ll comfort her when he doesn’t show, how maybe we can go to the café instead. Perhaps I’ll buy her a milkshake and listen sympathetically as she confides in me about how disappointed she is. I’ll tell her it’s probably for the best after all, that he wasn’t worth it and she can do a whole lot better – all the things I’ve heard you’re supposed to say in this situation. But when I next look up, there he is.
The market’s on today and the square is full of people, huddled beneath umbrellas or caught unawares by the first rainy day we’ve had in weeks, but Connor cuts through the crowds as though there’s no one there at all and I see him through Edie’s eyes: his handsome face, his confident swagger, something bold and focused against the smudgy grey blur of the square.
He stops in front of us. ‘All right,’ he says. I’m surprised by how nice his smile is and I find myself momentarily dazzled by it.
‘Hiya!’ Edie jumps up as if he’d pulled her by a string.
He looks