Cross Her Heart. Sarah Pinborough
Jodie off a bit. Must be weird to be in that big house on her own all the time, looking after it for her mum when she could be having a great time in halls.’
I don’t know Jodie’s mother. I’ve met Angela’s a few times at parents’ evenings, and I think I saw Lizzie’s once from a distance at a swimming event, but Jodie is older and her mother obviously has her own busy life. Our girls are too old for us to have become friends through them, but we all know a little about each other. I wonder what they know of me. Worrier. Doesn’t go out much. No boyfriend.
‘She didn’t even live with her till she was about eight. Not properly. How odd is that? She’s always working away. There’s some cleaning woman who comes in, and there’s always loads of easy food in the fridge and freezer, but it must get boring to live off posh pizza and microwave meals all the time.’
Ava’s nonchalant, but she doesn’t fool me. A warm tingle floods my veins. This is almost a compliment. She might not be coming right out and saying it, but maybe my daughter is realising it’s not so bad to have a mum who’s there for you. I say nothing, but tap my hands on the steering wheel along with the end of Salt-N-Pepa’s ‘Push It’ as she goes back to her texting.
The windscreen wipers cut through the rain and along with the beat of the song, the rhythm is almost comforting. Apparently there are only a few more days of this terrible weather and then we shall all be bathed in glorious summer sunshine. Perfect timing for the end of Ava’s exams. Maybe I should suggest we go away for a weekend somewhere when they’re all done. Just the two of us, like we used to. Paris, perhaps.
‘And now for a request!’ I don’t know who this DJ is but he hasn’t quite mastered the voice they all do on national radio. The ease with which they speak. ‘We haven’t done one for a while, but this one appealed to me. The caller apparently wanted to remain anonymous – obviously shy—’
‘Or married, Steve.’ The cheeky co-host. Every show has one.
‘Oh, you’re a cynic, Bob. I’m sticking with shy. Anyway, not only did the caller want to keep themselves a secret, but they also wouldn’t give up the name of who this song was for! All they’d say is that the person would know. It was their song. And two people never forget their song.’
We’re coming up to the roundabout and I flick my indicator on, peering out to my right, waiting for my turn to go.
‘Since we have no names, I’m making this everyone’s song. All of our listeners out there so, if you’re stuck in traffic in the rain, this one is for you.’
I pull forward with the traffic, and, half smiling at the cheesiness of the DJ, reach to turn the volume up.
‘It’s a classic of 1988. Frankie Vein and “Drive Away, Baby”.’
My hand freezes and I stare at the radio as the oh so familiar tune, one I haven’t listened to in years, breaks in. I feel sick.
Leave with me baby, let’s go tonight,
You and me together, stealing into the night.
Is that a deal, is that a deal? We can make it all right.
Drive away with me, drive away, baby, let’s take flight.
The words assault me.
Me. It’s meant for me. It was our song.
An anonymous caller. The bunny rabbit. The strange feeling I’ve had of something being not quite right, that someone’s watching me, and now here’s the song, our song, requested in secret, and I think my heart might explode in my chest with the fear of it all. Frankie Vein’s husky voice fills the car, and fills my head and the years vanish and each lyric is a knife in my brain.
‘Fucking hell, Mum!’
I start suddenly as Ava grips the dashboard, and from outside, a dim and distant place belonging to other people beyond my panic, comes the squealing of brakes and blast of horns. The car stalls as I stop too quickly, my feet leaving the pedals and my breath coming in gasps as I pull myself back into the present as best I can.
Beside me, Ava’s eyes are wide. ‘What are you doing?’
I’ve come to a stop halfway on to the roundabout, and in my daze, all I can see is the anger and road-rage hatred in other drivers’ contorted faces as they go by.
‘Weren’t you looking?’ Ava barks.
‘I … I didn’t … I thought it was clear.’
Frankie Vein is still singing and making my head throb. I want to turn it off but I can’t let Ava see my shaking hands.
‘I should have got the bloody bus,’ she mutters. There she is, my surly teenager. Her disdain kick-starts me into action, and I force myself to turn the key again and move on, watching each exit this time, thankful that we’re so close to the school. The song finally fades out.
‘Great song,’ Steve’s disembodied voice says. ‘Whatever happened to Frankie Vein?’ he asks. ‘Where is she now?’
I can’t turn it off quickly enough. Where is she now? The question makes my face hot and I press my back into the seat as if I can hide inside the fabric.
‘Good luck,’ I say, the words thick in my mouth, as Ava gets out. She looks back at me, and I expect some form of reproach, but instead she looks concerned.
‘Drive carefully, okay?’
I nod and give her a weak smile. My daughter is worried about me. Worried or fearful? Did I frighten her? Of course I did. I nearly crashed the car. For all my secret terrors, I could have been the one to harm her. As soon as she closes the door, I pull away, trying not to race over the speed bumps. I turn a corner and keep going until I’m away from the prying eyes of other parents and then stop at the kerb. I lean out of my door and retch violently as the rain soaks me. My vomit is hot and burns my chest as I expel my breakfast and coffee and stomach acid and I wait until I feel entirely empty before flopping back in the car.
My whole body aches and trembles. I’m purged but it’s a false emptiness. I can’t get my fear out by vomiting. My terror will never leave me. Nor the grief I keep hidden like a precious jewel, a hard diamond made from the black carbon of my burnt-up heart.
The toy rabbit.
The song.
The feeling I’ve had of something being just a little bit wrong.
How much of it can be coincidence? Random events? None of it? All of it? Am I going mad?
I stare out of the window at the ordinary world and wonder how much of my make-up has run. I have to look presentable for work. I’ve got a jacket on, so my blouse is relatively dry, and my hair doesn’t have enough life to get wayward after some rain. I can always stick it under the hand-drier at the office and put it up in a bun.
Eventually I push all thoughts of the past aside – not away though, never that – and check my reflection in the rear-view mirror. It’s not as bad as I thought. I won’t have to go home and re-do it all.
At least I’m not a crier, I think as I start the car again. I’ve never been a crier. In the silence the song lyrics echo in my head and I know they’ll stay there all day. I can’t wait to get to work. I don’t care about Julia and the money. I don’t care about Simon Manning. I only want to be somewhere I feel safe.
AVA
My bedroom is more like a bedsit really. I’ve got my double bed, my desk with a little drinks fridge under it, and there’s even a sofa up against the wall – one of those reclining ones you can slob on and watch TV. It all came as part of my bedroom revamp last year. We only got mine done, not Mum’s. She said it was