Mabel rolled her eyes, as she always did when I said something that would have scared off anybody with a semi-functional instinct for self-preservation. ‘I’ve never been good at following pseudo-dramatic orders. Thought you’d have figured that out by now.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me. Whatever happens to me, I deserve it.’
Mabel came closer. ‘That’s bullshit. There are a lot of things in life that aren’t up to us. But we can still decide where we go next. Whatever family or cult you belong to, it doesn’t justify your passivity. And whatever you’ve done, it’s no excuse for what you do now. You get up every day and decide what kind of person you want to be. Responsibilities don’t just go away because you’ve ignored them in the past.’
The words were spoken so forcefully that somebody on the other side of the shelves hissed ashh, but Mabel seemed not to notice. Her whole focus was on me. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks glowing. All I could think was how beautiful she was. Not just visually, but simply for what she was. She was so…real. Every word she said reflected her inner self–Mabel’s mirror, through and through.
She was right, of course. But what she didn’t know was that the decisions weren’t mine to make: I wasn’t a bird, free to fly, I was a goldfish in a bowl. The minute I thought I’d broken out, another one came down over my head. The parallel was almost ludicrous: Mabel was afraid of not being in control. She’d be scared to death if she had to spend a day in my life.
‘You’re an old soul, Mabel,’ I said, hoping my voice sounded only half as heavy with affection as I felt at that moment.
She blew a few strands of her fringe aside. ‘Thanks a lot.’
My phone vibrated in my coat pocket, and I pressed my hand over it. I knew without looking who it was. Patience wasn’t Ashton’s strong suit. ‘I have to go.’
‘Okay, but… are you coming to the memorial service they’re doing for June tomorrow?’ Her tone hovered somewhere between provocation, uncertainty and embarrassment. I wished I couldn’t read her so well. She wanted me to be there, for two reasons: to see how I’d behave, and to see… me. I wasn’t sure if that last part made me want to go or made me want to give it an even wider berth, but in any case, I didn’t have a choice.
‘No, I can’t. I’m going home, to a gala. I promised my sister.’
‘You have a sister?’
‘Her name is Aspen. She’s fifteen.’
Mabel’s lips twisted sympathetically. ‘Terrible age.’
‘I think she’s getting on all right. She’s very stubborn, and very much herself.’ A note of pride drew the corners of my tense mouth upwards, although it wasn’t mine to feel. ‘Which I guess is why I can never say no when she demands to see her brother.’
‘Hmm.’ Mabel regarded me thoughtfully. She wrinkled her nose, making her freckles dance and my heart skip. I almost never mentioned Aspen in front of other people because I always felt bad. Like I was using her to seem more genuine.
‘It takes a truly strong person to ask for help,’ Mabel said in a mock-supportive voice.
‘Who said that?’
‘I did. Think it over.’ She grinned pointedly. ‘And… have fun, I guess.’
‘Unlikely. Visiting the family usually feels more like a business meeting.’In the most literal sense, I thought bitterly. I tried to put the thought at the back of my mind, and it must have taken my common sense with it, because I slowly raised my hand to touch her throat. Just to feel her pulse. Just to make sure no one else had done it. Just to rest it there two seconds too long. To feel her, her skin, her warmth, her presence–before I took back my fingers, loathing the heat that welled up inside me, even though I hadn’t done anything. ‘Be careful, Pica.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve been reading all about bird flu.’ She gave a taunting smile, but again I saw the telltale flush along her cheekbones.
Truly, she wasso beautiful. So beautiful that I turned away without a word. I’d always had a weakness for bodies that were an unfiltered mirror of emotion.
As I reached the end of the shelving, her voice held me back. ‘Heathcliff?’
I turned, waiting. The contours of her silhouette were vague in the light of the window, but still, I felt I could drink in every single detail of her.
‘If you text me’—she was still smiling, more genuinely now, more softly, yet more beautifully—‘I’ll answer.’
* * *
Ashton was waiting for me on the bridge. He was sitting on the balustrade, his legs dangling above the November-grey water of the Cam. His coat was draped over one of the stone spheres, his curls tousled by the wind. He swore repeatedly as he tried to light the cigarette in his mouth.
I leant my back against the stone, not bothering to greet him, and eyed the spot a few yards down where I had stood two days earlier. If it hadn’t been for Mabel, there’d be flowers there now, underneath a grainy photo of Paulina. I didn’t need one to picture her face, and I wasn’t sure what it made me feel. Guilt, regret, jitters, tension? Perhaps all four.
Ashton and the others knew only that someone had dragged Paulina out of the river, but not that Mabel was involved. Or me. And I was going to make sure it stayed that way.
Ashton had successfully lit his cigarette, and he took a long drag before he looked at me. ‘Calmed down yet?’
I didn’t respond. It had been a long time since Ashton and I had fought like that. For ages now I’d deliberately kept out of things, trying to avoid these situations. You couldn’t have a difference of opinion with someone who didn’thaveopinions. I could tell he was equal parts confused, relieved and annoyed that I had chosen this particular moment to stick my oar in.
