Текст книги "Forbidden"
Автор книги: Табита Сузума
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
‘Never claimed I was a comedian, just a realist,’ Kit retorts.
Tiffin sniffs and wipes the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘Don’t care what you say, Maya would never do that, and anyway, I’m her brother until I die.’
‘At which point you’ll go to hell and never see anyone again,’ Kit shoots back.
‘If there’s a hell, Kit, believe me, you’ll be in it.’ I can feel myself losing my cool. ‘Now would you just shut up and finish your meal without tormenting anyone else?’
Kit tosses his knife and fork onto his half-finished plate with a clatter. ‘To hell with this. I’m going out.’
‘Ten o’clock and no later!’ I shout after him.
‘In your dreams, mate,’ he calls back from halfway up the stairs.
Our mother is next to come in, reeking of perfume and struggling to light a cigarette without smudging her freshly painted nails. The complete antithesis to Maya, she is all glitter and crimson lips, her ill-fitting red dress leaving little to the imagination. Soon she disappears again, already unsteady on her high heels, screeching up at Kit for having nicked her last packet of fags.
I spend the rest of the evening watching TV with Tiffin and Willa, simply too exhausted and fed up to attempt anything more productive. When they start to bicker, I get them ready for bed. Willa cries because I get shampoo in her eyes, and Tiffin forgets to hang the shower curtain inside the bath and floods the floor. Teeth-brushing seems to take hours: the kiddie toothpaste tube is almost empty so I use mine instead, which makes Tiffin’s eyes water and Willa gag into the basin. Then Willa takes fifteen minutes to choose a story, Tiffin sneaks downstairs to play on his Gameboy and, when I object, gets unreasonably upset and claims Maya always lets him play while she reads to Willa. Once they are in bed, Willa is immediately hungry, Tiffin is thirsty by association, and by the time the clamouring finally stops it is half past nine and I am shattered.
But once they are asleep, the house feels eerily empty. I know I should go to bed myself and try to get an early night but I feel increasingly agitated and on edge. I tell myself I have to stay up to check that Kit comes home at some point, but deep down I know that it’s only an excuse. I’m watching some stupid action movie but I’ve no idea what it’s about or who is supposed to be chasing who. I can’t even focus on the special effects – all I can think of is DiMarco. It’s past ten now: they must have finished dinner, they must have left the restaurant. His father is often away on business – or so Nico claims, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. Which means he has his mansion to himself . . . Has he taken her back there? Or are they in some dodgy car park, his hands and lips all over her? I begin to feel sick. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten all evening. I want to wait up and see for myself what kind of state she’s in when she gets home. If she decides to come home. It suddenly strikes me that most sixteen-year-olds would have some kind of curfew. But I’m only thirteen months her senior, so am hardly in a position to impose one. I keep telling myself that Maya has always been so sensible, so responsible, so mature, but now I remember the flushed look on her face when she came into the kitchen to say goodbye, the sparkle in her smile, the fizz of excitement in her eyes. She is still only a teenager, I realize; she is not yet an adult, however much she may be forced to behave like one. She has a mother who thinks nothing of having sex on the floor of the front room while her children lie sleeping overhead, who brags to them about her teenage conquests, who goes out on the piss every week and staggers in at six in the morning with smudged make-up and torn clothes. What kind of role model has Maya ever had? For the first time in her life she is free. Am I so sure she won’t be tempted to make the most of it?
It’s stupid to think like that. Maya is old enough to make her own choices. Plenty of girls her age sleep with their boyfriends. If she doesn’t this time, she will the next, or the time after, or the time after that. One way or another it’s going to happen. One way or another I’m going to have to deal with it. Except I can’t. I can’t deal with it at all. The very idea makes me want to pound my head against the wall and smash things. The idea of DiMarco, or anyone, holding her, touching her, kissing her . . .
A deafening bang, a blinding crack, pain shooting up my arm before I realize I’ve punched the wall with all my might: pieces of paint and plaster are flaking away from the imprint of my knuckles above the couch. Bent over double, I clutch my right hand with my left, clenching my teeth to stop myself from making a sound. For a moment everything darkens and I think I’m going to pass out, but then the pain hits me repeatedly in shocking, terrifying waves. I actually don’t know what hurts more, my hand or my head. The thing I have feared and railed against these past few weeks – the total loss of control over my mind – has set in, and I have no way to fight it any more. I close my eyes and feel the coil of madness climb up my spine and creep into my brain. I watch it explode like the sun. So this is it, this is what it feels like after a long hard struggle – to lose the battle and finally go crazy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Maya
He’s lovely. I don’t know why I ever thought he was some arrogant tosser. Just goes to show how flawed one’s perception of others can be. He’s considerate, he’s courteous, he’s polite; he actually seems genuinely interested in me. He tells me I look beautiful and then gives me a bashful smile. Once we are seated in the restaurant, he translates every single item on the menu for me and doesn’t laugh or even look surprised when I tell him I’ve never tried artichokes before. He asks me lots of questions, but when I explain that my family situation is complicated, he appears to take the hint and backs off. He agrees that Belmont is a shithole and admits he can’t wait to get out. He asks about Lochan and says he wishes he could get to know him better. He confides that his father is more interested in his business than in his only son and buys him ridiculous presents like a car to assuage his guilt for being abroad half the year. Yes, he is rich and he is spoiled, yet he is as neglected as we are. A completely different set of circumstances; the same sad outcome.
We talk for a long time. As he drives me home, I find myself wondering if he is going to kiss me. At one point, as we both reach out to turn down the radio, our hands touch and his lingers on mine for a moment. It feels strange, his fingers unfamiliar.
‘Shall I walk you to your door or would that be . . . awkward?’ He looks at me hesitantly and smiles when I do. I envision small faces peering from upstairs windows and agree that it’s probably best if I get out alone. Fortunately, in the darkness, he has overshot the front door by two houses so no one from home can see us.
‘Thank you for dinner. I had a really good time,’ I say, surprised to find myself meaning it.
He smiles. ‘Me too. D’you think maybe we could do it again sometime?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
His smile broadens. He leans towards me. ‘Goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight.’ I hesitate, my fingers on the door handle.
‘Goodnight,’ he says again with a smile, but this time he cups my chin in his hand. His face approaches mine and suddenly the realization hits me. I like Nico. I actually think he’s a pretty decent person. He’s good-looking and I’m attracted to him. But I don’t want to kiss him. Not now. Not ever . . . I turn my head away just as his face meets mine and his kiss lands on my cheek instead.
As I draw back, he looks surprised. ‘OK, well, till next time.’
I take a deep breath, groping for my bag at my feet, grateful for the darkness that hides the blush spreading across my face. ‘I really like you as a friend, Nico,’ I say in a rush. ‘But, I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go out with you again.’
‘Oh.’ He sounds surprised and a little hurt now. ‘Well, look, just think about it, OK?’
‘OK. See you Monday.’ I get out of the car and slam the door behind me. I wave, and he is still wearing that look of perplexed amusement as he drives off, as if he thinks I am playing games.
I lean against a thick tree-trunk, staring up through the drizzle at a moonless sky. I have never felt so embarrassed in all my life. Why did I spend the whole evening leading him on? Acting fascinated by his stories, confiding in him? Why did I agree to see him again ten seconds before telling him we could only be friends? Why did I turn down a guy who, as well as being hot, actually turned out to be nice? Because you’re crazy, Maya. Because you are crazy and stupid and you want to spend the rest of your life as a social outcast. Because you so wanted this to work, you so desperately wanted this to work, you actually kidded yourself into believing things were going really well. Until you realized that the idea of kissing Nico, or any guy you could think of, was not what you wanted at all.
What does this mean, then – I’m afraid? Scared of physical intimacy? No. I crave it, I dream about it. But for me there’s no one. No one. Any guy, even imaginary, would just feel like second best. Second best to what? I don’t even have an image of the perfect boyfriend. I just know he must exist. Because I have all these feelings – of love, longing, wanting to be touched, dreaming of being kissed – yet no one to focus them on. It makes me want to scream in frustration. It makes me feel like a freak. But worse than that, I feel so desperately disappointed. Because all evening I believed Nico was the one. And then, when he tried to kiss me in the car, I realized with total, earth-shattering certainty that it would never feel right.
I trail back up to the house. This stupid dress is so short and skimpy, I’m beginning to freeze. I feel so empty, so let down. Yet I have only let myself down. Why couldn’t I have acted normal for a change? Why couldn’t I have forced myself to kiss him? Maybe it wouldn’t have been so terrible. Maybe I could have borne it . . . The lights in the front room are still on. I check my watch: quarter to eleven. Oh please, not another argument between Kit and Lochan. I unlock the door and it sticks. I kick it with the stupid high heels I doubt I’ll ever wear again. The house, like a giant tomb, makes no sound. I slide off my shoes and pad in stockinged feet down the hallway to switch off the light in the front room. All I want to do is go to bed and forget about this whole lousy, self-deluded evening.
A figure seated on the edge of the couch makes me jump. Lochan is hunched over, his head in his hands.
‘I’m back.’
Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.
‘Is Kit still out?’ I ask with trepidation, fearing another scene.
‘He came in about twenty minutes ago.’ Lochan doesn’t even look up. Charming.
‘I had a great evening, by the way.’ My tone is caustic. But if he’s feeling sorry for himself just because he had to put the children to bed on his own for once, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that my evening was crap too.
‘You only went out for dinner?’ Abruptly he lifts his head and favours me with a penetrating gaze. Self-conscious under his sudden scrutiny, I become aware that my hair is coming down, stray strands hanging over my face, damp from standing out in the drizzle.
‘Yes,’ I answer slowly. ‘Why?’
‘You went out at seven. It’s nearly eleven.’
I can’t believe this is Lochan talking. ‘You’re telling me I have to be home by a certain time?’ My voice rises in outrage.
‘Of course not,’ he snaps irritably. ‘I’m just surprised. Four hours is a hell of a long time to spend over dinner.’
I close the front-room door behind me as I feel my blood pressure begin to rise. ‘It wasn’t four hours. By the time we’d driven halfway across town, found a place to park, waited for a table . . . We just talked – a lot. Turns out he’s a pretty interesting guy. He doesn’t exactly have it easy, either.’
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Lochan leaps up, strides over to the window, then swings back wildly. ‘I don’t give a damn about how poor little rich boy didn’t get the exact car he wanted for his eighteenth – I’ve heard all about that at Belmont. What I’m having trouble understanding is why the hell you pretend to have just been out for dinner when you’ve been gone four hours!’
This can’t be happening. Lochan has gone mad. He’s never spoken to me like this in his life. I’ve never seen him so furious with me before.
‘Are you saying I have to account for my every move?’ I challenge him, my eyes widening in disbelief. ‘You’re actually asking me for a blow-by-blow account of what happened throughout the whole evening?’ My voice continues to rise.
‘No! I just don’t want to be lied to!’ Lochan starts to shout.
‘What I do or don’t do on a date is none of your damn business!’ I yell in return.
‘But why does it have to be secret? Can’t you just be honest?’
‘I am being honest! We went out for dinner, we talked, he drove me home. End of story!’
‘Do you really think I’m that gullible?’
This is the last straw. A row with Lochan after a week of being ignored: the perfect end to an evening of bitter disappointment that, had I allowed it, could have been so great. All I wanted to do when I came in was crawl into bed and try to put this wasted opportunity out of my mind. And instead I find myself subjected to this.
I start backing away towards the door, raising my hands in surrender. ‘Lochan, I don’t know what the hell your problem is but you’re being an absolute bastard. What’s happening to you? I come in expecting you to ask me if I had a nice time, and instead you give me the third degree and then accuse me of lying! Even if something had happened on this date, what on earth makes you think I’d want to tell you?’ I turn for the door.
‘So you did sleep with him,’ he says flatly. ‘Like mother, like daughter.’
His words slice the air between us. My hand freezes around the cold metal knob. Slowly, painfully, I turn. ‘What?’ The word escapes from me in a small puff of air, barely more than a whisper.
Time seems to be suspended. He is standing there in his green T-shirt and faded jeans, squeezing the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other, his back to the giant slice of night. And I find myself facing a stranger. His face has a curious raw look, as if he’s been crying, but the fire in his eyes scorches my face. How foolish I was to kid myself I knew him so well. He is my brother and yet, for the very first time, appears before me as a stranger.
‘I can’t believe you said that.’ My voice, a quiver of disbelief, emanates from a being I barely recognize; one that is crushed, hurt beyond repair. ‘I always thought of you as the one person’ – a steadying breath – ‘the one person who would never, ever hurt me.’
He looks stricken, his face mirroring the pain and disbelief I feel inside. ‘Maya, I’m not feeling well – that was unforgiveable. I don’t know what I’m saying any more.’ His voice is shaking, as appalled as my own. Pressing his hands to his face, he swings away from me, pacing the room, gasping for breath, his eyes filled with a wild, almost manic look.
‘I just need to know – please understand – I have to know, otherwise I’m going to lose my mind!’ He shuts his eyes tight and inhales raggedly.
‘Nothing happened!’ I shout, my anger abruptly replaced by fear. ‘Nothing happened. Why won’t you believe me?’ I grab him by the shoulders. ‘Nothing happened, Lochie! Nothing happened – nothing, nothing, nothing!’ I am practically screaming but I don’t care. I don’t understand what is happening to him. What is happening to me.
‘But he kissed you.’ His voice is hollow, devoid of all emotion. Pulling away from me, he crouches down on his heels. ‘He kissed you, Maya, he kissed you.’ His eyes are half closed, his face expressionless now, as if he is so depleted he no longer has the strength to react.
‘He didn’t kiss me!’ I yell, grabbing his arms and trying to shake him back to life. ‘He tried to, OK, but I didn’t let him! D’you know why? D’you want to know why? D’you really, really want to know why?’ Still gripping him with both hands, I lean forward, gasping, as tears, hot and heavy, fall down my cheeks. ‘This is why . . .’ Crying, I kiss Lochan’s cheek. ‘This is why . . .’ With a muffled sob, I kiss the corner of Lochan’s lips. ‘This is why . . . !’ Closing my eyes, I kiss Lochan’s mouth.
I’m falling, but I know I’m OK, because it’s with him, it’s with Lochie. My hands are on his burning cheeks, my hands are in his damp hair, my hands are against his warm neck. He is kissing me back now, with strange little sounds that suggest he might be crying too, kissing me so hard that he is shuddering, gripping the tops of my arms tight and pulling me towards him. I taste his lips, his tongue, the sharp edges of his front teeth, the soft warmth inside his mouth. I slide up astride his lap, wanting to get even closer, wanting to disappear into him, blend my body with his. We come up briefly for air and I catch sight of his face. His eyes brim with unfallen tears. He emits a ragged sound; we kiss some more, soft and tender, then fierce and hard again, his hands grasping at the straps of my dress, twisting them, clenching the material in his fists as if fighting back pain. And I know how he feels – it’s so good it hurts. I think I’m going to die from happiness. I think I’m going to die from pain. Time has stopped; time is racing. Lochie’s lips are rough yet smooth, hard yet gentle. His fingers are strong: I feel them in my hair and on my neck and down my arms and against my back. And I never want him to let me go.
A sound explodes like a thunderclap above us; our bodies jolt in unison and suddenly we are not kissing any more, although I cling to the collar of his T-shirt, his arms strong and tight around me. There is the sound of the toilet flushing, then the familiar creak of Kit’s ladder. Neither of us seems able to move, even though the ensuing silence makes it clear Kit has gone back to bed. My head against Lochan’s chest, I hear the magnified sounds of his heart – very loud, very fast, very strong. I can hear his breathing too: sharp jagged spikes piercing the frozen air.
He is the first to break the silence. ‘Maya, what the hell are we doing?’ Although his voice is barely more than a whisper, he sounds close to tears. ‘I don’t understand: why – why the hell is this happening to us?’
I close my eyes and press against him, stroking his bare arm with my fingertips. ‘All I know right now is that I love you,’ I say in quiet desperation, the words spilling out of their own accord. ‘I love you far more than just as a brother. I . . . I love you in – in every kind of way.’
‘I feel like that too . . .’ His voice is shocked and raw. ‘It’s – it’s a feeling so big I sometimes think it’s going to swallow me. It’s so strong I feel it could kill me. It keeps growing and I can’t – I don’t know what to do to stop it. But – but we’re not supposed to do this – to love each other like this!’ His voice cracks.
‘I know that, OK? I’m not stupid!’ I’m angry suddenly because I don’t want to hear it. I close my eyes because I just can’t think about that now. I can’t let myself think about what it means. I won’t think about what it’s called. I refuse to let labels from the outside world spoil the happiest day of my life. The day I kissed the boy I had always held in my dreams but never allowed myself to see. The day I finally ceased lying to myself, ceased pretending it was just one kind of love I felt for him when in reality it was every kind of love possible. The day we finally broke free of our restraints and gave way to the feelings we had so long denied just because we happened to be brother and sister.
‘We’ve – oh God – we’ve done a terrible thing.’ Lochan’s voice is shaking, hoarse and breathless with horror. ‘I – I’ve done a terrible thing to you!’
I wipe my cheeks and turn my head to look up at him. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong! How can love like this be called terrible when we’re not hurting anyone?’
He gazes down at me, his eyes glistening in the weak light. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispers. ‘How can something so wrong feel so right?’
