Title: Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
Author: interpol..ice
Fandom: Skins – Second Generation
Pairing: Naomi Campbell/Emily Fitch
Rating: T (naughty naught-T! not exactly T)
Summary: Naomi Campbell and the complications of having a twin for a girlfriend. Distracting flashbacks and a lovesick mind keep her from telling the night's story straight.
In this comedy of errors, the first thing that got right was letting Naomi narrate. [Pre-Season 4]
Author's Notes: This has been way overdue, I know. There's no excuse as to why this got delayed to post. But that was the time that needed to pass to make this story as real as it could possibly be. I hope you guys understand that things like this take time.
I'm giving you lot two parts for Chapter 10 to compensate for the postponement. I'll post the last installment on Christmas Day. Because Santa put you all on the Nice List this year. God knows you deserve extra treats. ;)
Special shout-outs go to flister, who helped me get most of my ideas together. Flis, I adore you like Florentino Ariza loves Fermina Daza. And then to my twitter friends! To vangoghgurrl, who's the reason why this chapter's finally up (thank you so much for the pressure, bb) and to FrineItandehui, who told me what a DUFF was. XD
And to everyone else who's read this through thick and thin, thanks so much. Without further ado, the first part of the last installment!
EXPECT: Naomi getting FIT and FITCHED. The gang's dressing up whereas Cook's cooped up. Party at Freddie's Shed! Birthday boy's to be in a birthday suit (but it's not what you think!), getting birthday cakes from a couple in a Cold War. Any guesses on which duo that might be? Join the gang as they encounter a Sexxbomb, the art crowd, a ten-year-old's idea of fun and their most formidable opponent yet...crazy parents.
Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
by interpol..ice
Chapter 10, Part 1: We're on a Sinking Ship (We're Escaping It)
= = = ** NAOMI ** = = =
I've got this alarm clock. It's a plastic panda wearing the basic colours. Yellow shirt, blue jumper, then the tacky red bow tie. Black ears, black circles round its eyes. The clock on its tummy.
I actually got this from Panda (yes, I couldn't have guessed it either). Christmas 2009.
What's rather stupid about it is that it has no hand that ticks by the second. So primitive, that I would've been better off with a fucking pendulum. But really now. Look at it. It's adorable. Why else would it still be on my bedside table?
Emily calls it 'Mister Panda' and when you actually wake up to it every day, greeted by its cheesy open-mouthed smile, it's kind of fucking awesome.
Now, I just got up with that all familiar morning sickness you get from a night of major acetaldehyde intoxication and the first thing I do (after checking my mobile, texting Emily: good morning and Freddie: your welcome... because I stayed up 'til midnight to greet him a happy birthday) is check the time on Mister Panda.
Just stare at it. Blankly. In a way that you don't see familiar things anymore with your eyes because you actually start looking at those things with your memory. If I close my eyes Mister Panda will still be black and white. He'll still be in yellow, blue and red.
When I open them he doesn't turn purple or pink or whatever. He doesn't pull shit like getting a new hat or a tattoo or anything and it's great, you know. How you can count on some things to stay the same.
And it feels like days have passed as I lie there doing absolutely nothing, thinking a thousand thoughts per second. When I do tell the time though, I find out that only three minutes have passed.
Funny how time fucks with you like this on some occasions. As the saying goes, it flies by when you're having the time of your life. And then it can't fly fast enough when you're almost dying of torture or its less painful cousin, boredom.
Time dilation: how clocks appear to be ticking slower when you're in motion.
How Cook managed to land six punches on Liam Picton in under two seconds. Cook plays football. He got in eleven kicks before I could count to five.
Length contraction: how objects appear to be shorter the faster they move.
How it was so fucking hard to grab a hold of Cook. A shoulder was there one moment and the next, it just wasn't. The same thing went for his arm, his fists. Until Freddie and I decided (on desperation) to pull him away by his jacket.
Einstein's theories of relativity, yeah? Bending my reality that day. All applicable to the disaster two weeks ago that's now morosely called "that weekend".
What I remember most about it was how the panic made everything feel like we've been at it for hours. Keith says the brawl and the keeping the two wankers off of each other lasted five minutes tops.
It all happened so fast. I'm not joking here or anything when I say that it all felt like it happened yesterday. I've still got vivid images of Cook smashing this guy's face out of recognition. It's kind of fucking impossible to forget things like that so here I am, thinking about it, reliving it in my head ever since.
The police came in and we shouldn't have been so surprised that they were going to come but lo and behold, there they were anyway. They dragged Cook away and got him in a police car. That police car then took him to the centre.
They banged him up (not literally though, just a fancy way of saying they got him in a cell) and we haven't heard from him until three days later. And the news didn't come from Cook himself, it was Freddie and JJ who relayed everything to the rest of us.
So Cook had a legal brief. A lawyer and the works. Standard procedure for the detained.
But Cook... He was sort of unlucky. Unlucky in the sense that he got a defense attorney who had a sparkling record of a hundred percent conviction rate. Mr. Duncan Moss, at your service.
So you can pretty much say my dear boy was shitted.
There were about forty witnesses in the pub that night and about thirty swearing that Cook hammered the guy so hard that they were all willing to testify against him.
It was kind of thoughtless for Cook really. To still plead "not guilty" even though he obviously did that bloke in. He got off easy, though. The judge called for an electronic tagging order. A month of being confined in his mum's mansion of sorts.
When you compare it to prison, house arrest doesn't seem so bad.
I've never gone grocery shopping with Emily before. You know, like together.
Emily leads the way, scouring the aisles like she knows them by heart. Knows where everything is, just so wicked fast and efficient. I'm having a rough time trying to keep up with her, seeing as I'm pushing a cart whose wheels could use a little oiling.
It's eight minutes of whipping through aisles, only stopping so Emily can load the cart with various baking items. Chocolate in all sorts of forms and sweetness. A bag of flour. Cartons of buttermilk and heavy cream.
Emily leans over the metal cage, checks to see if she's missed anything. "Okay, we're almost through." And with a final sweep of her eyes she says, "C'mon, Naomi."
Emily steps forward with a hand pulling at the front of the cart. She takes us to the biscuits section and I slowly get weak. Not a sick kind of weak, more of a swelled heart in a chest about to explode and butterflies in the stomach. That kind of deal, you know. All because of this, Act 1: Emily and the Garibaldis.
It's fucking cute. She can easily reach it without standing on her tiptoes (she's tall enough, really) but there she is, doing it anyway.
I was nineteen a second ago. Now I'm twelve and falling in love all over again.
Emily turns to face me and the look I'm giving her is probably sends her into a pool of self-consciousness. "What?"
She chews on her bottom lip and she's being too sexy and cute that I can't be held responsible for melting inside.
"Nothing," I say, my grip on the cart's handlebars tightening and flicking forward and back, like I'm revving it up. "It's just that I can't believe how much we've grown."
We take a taxi back to theirs. It's cosy in the back seat with a paper bag propped against me on one side and Emily on the other. I circle her with an arm, keeping her head snug on my shoulder. The sun fights through the window tint, making things warmer than they already are.
Emily and I stay like that, hypnotised by the way our fingers are restless against each other's, our fingerprints kissing, locked in a sensual haze. Like waves building up from opposite seas, weaving into each other for the very first time.
And we almost forget that the taxi's pulled in to their street and I groan playfully as she draws away from me to straighten herself out.
"Yeah, right there. Number 11," Emily tells the driver and he a second after he's stopping in front of her house. Emily turns to me with this look that says she knows that it's up to here for me.
Before getting out, she kisses my cheek goodbye.
Emily's already on the pavement, turning around to hold her arms out for the bag. I've got it on my lap and it's heavier than it looks and realise that I have an opportunity here. I don't want to pass up this chance to be gallant and shit.
I hurriedly lurch forward to tell the driver to wait here a bit and I clamber out awkwardly to join a surprised-looking Emily.
"Tell you what, I'll walk you to your door," I declare proudly. And if I weren't hugging this bag to my chest I would've taken her hand ages ago.
Emily's eyes flutter and she bites her lip again, her pink cheeks betraying her already. It still gets me every time she goes all shy like that. And when she cocks her head to the side with a slight smile that's all 'Shall we, then?' it feels like I've won something.
She starts walking and I pad along with her all the way to their door, fuelled up on courage inside of me I never even knew I had.
"Wow. You've made it to our doormat. Does this mean you're ready to have dinner with my parents now?" she teases.
My narrowed eyes tell her all she needs to know.
Emily grins anyway. And all of a sudden she's taller than I remembered. And then it's her on her tiptoes. A second after, it's her lips on mine.
I can hear the paper bag between us crinkling as we kiss.
"Pick me up later, yeah? Don't be late," she says with the breath she gets after releasing my lips.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I say, still drunk on her magic.
"Go on," she says taking the groceries from my arms. The metre's running," Then she does this cute thing where she points to the taxi with puckered lips.
I step back a little, get a proper look at her. She's wearing a 'barely there' skirt above lavender tights. Hair topped off by a plaid bow that matches her plaid blouse. So fucking gorgeous.
"Bye, hot stuff," I say, fixing her fringe a little.
Her eyes close at my touch. "Arse-licker," she says and she's smiling that smile that makes the rest of her glow. She looks so happy right now. And I could die at this exact moment because I know I can get her like this.
I feel a bit ridiculous when I come back to the Fitches earlier than expected. And I've spent quite a while standing there, in an outfit that I've deliberated on a good three hours: a TopShop fuchsia pink tea dress underneath my trusty vintage beaded cashmere cardi. I've put on the right amount of make-up and I even did my hair and everything. My attempts at dressing to the nines.
Not wanting to be a complete cissy princess, I chose to wear punk boots tonight. And thank fuck my 8-hole Doc Marten 1460's make me feel an appropriate amount of tough.
Mum wouldn't stop saying shit about how pretty I was and it was embarrassing because Keiran was there and we both had to endure Mum's comments about my 'apparent womanhood' or fucking whatever that I had to get out there as soon as fucking possible.
Now I realise that it was only right for her to have given me praise.
I mean...
I did make a proper effort for this, if I may say so myself. I wanted to look extra nice for this party because... well, I'm pretty sure it's going to be the last one I'm going to have with my mates from college.
And there's just something about it that gives me the feeling that it's going to be a good night.
Right fucking eventful, yeah?
"Why, hello!"
Might as well scare my own fucking ghost out of my body. It's that distinct Liverpool accent and if you could give any bloke's voice a testosterone injection he'd end up sounding like Rob Fitch. I fucking swear. I was too lost in my thoughts to notice their garage door opening. I turn to my side and there he is, in a tracksuit and trainers.
I'm still a good deal apart from him so I let out a deep sigh while I still have the chance. I like Rob... it's just that I've tried avoiding him ever since Emily told me that he always gave Katie's boyfriends something to 'look forward to' if they ever crossed the line.
So since I apparently lack ninja skills and there's no way of escaping him now, I'm pretty sure that tonight's going to be the night that Rob Fitch gives me that death sentence.
"Don't just stand there, dear. Come in, come in," he beckons before walking back into the garage.
Is that supposed to be an invitation or something? Seriously now?
"Kid, you know it's chilly out there. In you go," he calls from inside.
Okay. So he is serious.
With sheer will and determination I manage to drag my lead-heavy self into the garage. Rob's wiping his hands with a towel when I stand before him. He's so huge in person and I thank God that he didn't pass his genes of massive-osity to the twins.
My paranoia grows when he swings the towel around his neck. This means his hands are free and he can now ball them into fists to hit me with. I know it's kind of ridiculous for me to be thinking this but Rob Fitch is more than a little intimidating. Emily's father might as well be Mike Tyson for fuck's sake.
He scans me from head to toe and he's back to my head again, looking at me with scarily bright eyes and I'm feeling sorry for myself because all my neurotransmitters are having a fucking panic attack or something.
"Emily's still getting ready," Rob says with that permanent Cheshire smile of his that gives one the impression that the nitrous oxide administered to him one dentist appointment long ago has done him irrevocable damage.
This is what's weird about Rob. You can't really tell if he likes you or not because he smiles like that at everyone and for all I know he really fucking hates my guts even though Emily assures me occasionally that "he doesn't and if you must know, he actually thinks you're sweet."
It sounds more than I could ever bargain for so I'm not totally buying that yet. No, not when Rob is wearing his too-happy psycho poker face that I just have to get used to because I need to get on with her family.
To my relief he rests his hands on his hips. There I hope they'll stay. But it really hasn't helped because he's increased his authoritative vibe and now I'm back to freaking out again.
"She said you'd come around by six," he says with a "why are you early?" undertone.
"Oh, well. You know me," I say trying my fucking hardest to not be so high-pitched. I'm fucking fake-fanning myself, giggling nervously going, "I can get awfully excited about... your daughter."
Rob's eyes widen and I immediately deduce that I've just said the wrong thing.
What the fuck? What was that shit you just came up with, Campbell? Excited about your daughter? Great... You're just great at making a horny twat of yourself in front of her dad now, aren't you?
Oh, fuck this. I was never good with dads. It could've helped me if mine stayed with me but no. He just fancied fucking off and now that bastard's still out there, probably fathering more lesbians.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. I mean, I couldn't wait to see her, sir."
In fact, at this very moment I'm willing so hard for her to materialise already and save me from this torture.
Rob's face softens. "Sure, you can't," he says in what I like to believe is a humourous tone.
"My Emsy," he goes, affectionately. "She's my special little soldier, that one. Lovely, lovely girl."
The way he says it. It's priceless. Emily's always said she liked her dad better. Now I know why.
"I couldn't agree more, Sir."
"Please don't call me Sir," he answers promptly.
"Mr. Fitch?" I try.
And then he starts laughing at me.
"Really, Naomi, love," he says, shaking his head and laying an oddly comforting hand on my shoulder. "If you want to win me over you better start calling me Rob."
"Okay, then... Rob," I say, giving it a go.
His face then shines of approval and I feel like I'm actually scoring some points here. And Campbell's back in the game!
Rob lets go of my shoulder and resumes back to packing some things into boxes. Their garage is full of all sorts of shit and this tiny, cramped space is a china shop and I feel like a fucking bull.
"Just clearing some stuff out," he says while wrapping some old teacups with newspaper and then stacking the carefully wrapped china into a box labelled 'Fragile'. Then he steps over to the shelves to get a rackety old toaster. "Probably hand this in to Oxfam or something."
Usually, I'd have so much more to say about Oxfam. Enough to be able to go on a long-winded discussion about it, mind you. I'm all about fighting poverty and injustice and Oxfam fits the bill. Get me pissed on a good night then I'll talk.
But as of now, the only thing I can come up with is this:
"Yeah, Oxfam sounds... great."
And then Rob looks at me like I caught a bug or something and I decide from then on that I'll have to excruciatingly go over my answers in my head before I actually voice them out.
I maintain my silence a good two minutes, just nodding my head politely at everything he says, thinking, "thank fuck he won't shut up."
That is, until he asks...
"So... You're taking my little champion to Mexico, eh?"
The question makes my ears ring. "She told you that?" I croak awkwardly before clearing my throat.
Rob stops fidgeting with a broken coffeemaker to give me his full attention as he nods. "She's right excited about it too. Nothing has put that smile off her face in days."
I try my best to not look so smug about it so I manage to tame my big, goofy grin into a more polite smile. "Yeah, I am," I say softly, looking him in the eye. I think he can hear the pride in my voice.
We stare at each other for a bit. And I don't know what to fucking do or say. Does he want to know more? I don't want him to know that I plan on making love to his daughter every time a Mexican tries to cross the border. Because that's a lot of times, you know what I'm saying?
"Right," Rob goes, getting back to his work and for a second there I thought I was off the hook. But then, of course, he's a fucking father so he drops the coffeemaker back onto the shelf hastily and turns to me with a fucking purpose.
He takes in a deep breath, like he doesn't want to be doing this to me. I feel sorry for him a little. This is the obligatory 'father-must-scare-daughter's-boyfriend-(in this case, girlfriend)-into-a-very-nice-state-of-shitless' and God knows how hard that must be on any bloke.
"Okay, Naomi," he starts strictly. "Don't think you've got it easy because you're a lady and all that, but if anything happens to my girl... You get the drill, kid?"
I gulp audibly. "You'll hunt me down like a dog?" I say, trying for humour but my quavering voice just makes me sound like a terrified mouse.
Rob presses his lips together, and for a second there, I can almost see Emily in him. And he nods sympathetically.
Then he stares me down with frenzied eyes, completing his mission.
"That all, Mr. Fi—umm... Rob?" I ask quietly.
It's almost kind of amazing, you know. How his face transforms from being ultra-cross to being warm again.
"I've gotta say, you look beautiful tonight, Naomi. I like what you did with your hair," he says in earnest. He's making wavy motions around his head and now I'm liking Rob more than I thought was possible and oh, fuck he's making me blush.
I look away shyly and mutter my thanks. Rob's actually kind of lovely, you know.
"All right then," he says, clapping his hands together energetically. "Sorry to have kept you. Emily's probably in the kitchen. You know her, she makes a right fuss about her cakes."
I break into a snigger. "Tell me about it. She wouldn't even let me help her bake it. Scared I'll add too much flour or something."
"I did that once. She didn't talk to me for three days," Rob says, pensive.
And then we share a little laugh. And I never imagined that I would ever have this kind of fun with any of Emily's parents.
The chuckling dies down and then I finally manage to say, "I should get going," with a regret that surprises even myself.
"Yeah, you should... Oh, and Naomi?"
I turn around and give him my utmost concentration.
"You bring her back home in one piece, all right?"
There's something about the way he says it that makes me think that he doesn't only mean tonight. That makes me think he means Mexico even more.
I come across Katie as she's speeding down the stairs.
She hits the bottom step and she stays there. It gives her a little height boost so now we're more or less level (seeing as I'm not a munchkin), putting her in a favourable position to inspect me.
"You look...nice," she notes, like she feels as if admitting it makes her a lesser person. That's Katie for you. And that's what makes me appreciate the comment even more.
"Thanks. You look 'nice' as well," I say with a smirk that Katie just obligingly rolls her eyes at. "Just had a chat with your dad," I add, following Katie into their living room where she checks herself out in the big mirror across the TV.
She's got her hair in a tamed bun and she looks more mature than I've ever seen her. Like you can mistake her for someone's mum or something. And Katie still has her eyes on her reflection as she says to me, "Did he say he'd hunt you down like a dog?"
I laugh. Katie seems to be very experienced with this, you know, on account of her never not having a boyfriend since she was seven. I reckon that's ten years of Rob giving the same speech over and over again.
"He did. But he was actually pretty nice about it," I say with a smug smile that Katie catches in the mirror.
"Alright," she says, turning around to face me with her hands on her hips. "He'll go golden retriever on your arse, then. Consider yourself extremely lucky."
Katie looks me up and down but the way she does it is just the right amount of concern and critical that I'm not offended by it at all. She comes closer and picks a piece of lint on my off my cardigan.
We stare at that bit of lint floating between us for a while. Down, down, down it goes. Until it hits the carpet. Then I lift my eyes back up to Katie. I find her with a ghost of a grin on her lips.
"Don't look so fucking worried, Campbell," she says, slapping me playfully on the arm. "We'll work on getting Mum around."
Am I hearing right? Did Katie just offer me her assistance? No way...
"You're shitting me, right?"
Katie shakes her head in this sad, mock-sympathy kind of way. "Afraid not, babe."
Wow. She's not joking. Fucking hell.
"So does this mean you like me now?" I say suggestively. I bat my eyes for effect.
"I guess..." she says. Then she thinks about it a little more and finally figures out what context I meant and now she's got that oh expression of clarity on her face.
"Not in a lezza way though!" she says hotly. "So don't get any fucking ideas."
"That's quite a heavenly-looking cake," I say into her red hair after I came up from behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist.
Her hands still and she sighs happily. She places a lid over the cake box in one delicate motion before tilting her head back into me. I nuzzle myself into the column of her sweet-scented neck.
"So you're going to carry that if you want me to add your name on the gift card," she says, going over the plan again. I love how she likes getting trivial things like this absolutely perfect.
"Is this how couples do gifts?" I mumble into her jaw and she hums at the feeling.
"Yeah, it works like that. I make the cake. You make sure Cook doesn't eat it."
On a normal day this would've been funny. But Cook isn't going to be at Freddie's later. Emily realizes this a little too late and the immediate drop of her mood indicates her guilt.
She parts from my relenting hold and grabs the roll of blue ribbon off the counter.
Emily has a conscience. It's one of the things I admire about her. How she honestly cares for other people. How she hates hurting anyone. But she didn't mean it like that and it was only a joke. So it's my job to make her feel better.
I move forward and stand by her side in front of their kitchen marble. I watch as she pulls out a lengthy strip of sapphire. My hand is already around a pair of scissors before her fingers can even stretch for it.
I snap the scissors open, blades at the ready and Emily, taking advantage of my assistance, holds up the ribbon with two hands in between the area I'm supposed to cut.
Snip.
Now, that wasn't so hard.
"Oh, the perils I have to go through to get my name on the gift card," I say dramatically, brandishing my lethal pair of scissors like a bevvied medieval bastard.
Emily catches fire slowly. It takes a while but she laughs in spite of herself, shaking her head at me as she hands over the cake.
I take it but put it back onto the counter. She's confused at first but then I take her hands and slowly turn her until we're full-frontal. It's the first time she's really looked at me tonight.
Oh, Christ... She's looking at me in this way I think I can't possibly ever deserve.
"Naomi, you're..." she starts, voice so awe-struck.
I cut her off with a kiss.
"As are you, babe," I say breathlessly, after I pull away.
I step back to take the sight of her in. Oh, fuck. She's gorgeous in this silky, pink party dress she's wearing over her favourite black tee. The dress covers most of the shirt's design but I know that it's the one that has letters encased in hearts that spell:
W E
W I L L
L A S T
Her hair smells of her coconut shampoo (the one she uses for special occasions) and here it is before me, looking so soft, lustrous and touchable.
"Jinx," I call, moving my head from side to side, showing off my waves.
She doesn't laugh, really concentrated on pulling me over to her with smouldering eyes. I go closer, ever so closer, until I can feel her exhaled air landing wonderfully warm on my skin. And just like that, we're kissing again.
I'm too caught up in Emily to give a fuck about anything else. A moment ago you could still call us 'decent'. Now we're pretty much ruining each other's lipstick. But before we try anything more daring we hear the sound of a throat being cleared.
My head whips to the source and just as my dread predicts there, at the doorway stands Jenna Fitch. This is all my worst nightmares rolled into one. I need not say more.
Emily and I break apart and pretend that we weren't just snogging in the kitchen. And you can pretty much figure out that this plan of nonchalance is rather fucking useless at this point.
"Why, if it isn't Naomi," Jenna says in that God-awful Scottish accent of hers that I sometimes hear when I'm about to go to sleep at night.
"Mum," Emily says as a warning. She hates it when Jenna sticks her nose in our business.
"Hello, Mrs. Fitch," I say, willing myself to keep my shit together.
Jenna gives me a predatory top-to-bottom sweep of her eyes. Emily hurries as she wraps the blue ribbon around the cake box. She shares my sentiments, wanting to get out of here as soon as possible.
Shit. This is just fucking great now, isn't it?
Jenna crosses her arms. "The girls tell me you got 3 A's."
"Excuse me?" I say. I heard what she said, but I just don't understand why Jenna's bringing this up in the first place.
"Katie also says you've got a place at Oxford," she continues, so fucking malicious about everything. "On a scholarship."
It's true, I do. Keiran pushed me to apply for that new Margaret Thatcher scholarship at Somerville. I figured, 'fuck it, what the hell' so I wrote some essays, sat some interviews, got myself some decent grades. But I never counted on being one of the ten grantees so I didn't find it worth mentioning. Not even to Emily.
I don't know how Katie came upon this information though. I haven't told anyone that I got it.
Anyone except...
Effy. I've only told Effy.
Then Emily turns to me with this 'fucking explain yourself' expression, eyes shaded with a quiet rage.
And Jenna, she's got this plastic smile on that's so awful I'd be so happy if I shot myself to be rid of it. I don't know what Jenna's playing at but if it's her intention to get Emily mad at me then she's doing fucking swell.
"You must be terribly excited. Oxford in the fall, hmmm?" Jenna asks me and just... FUCK HER, you know? She has no business prying into my life like this.
"Mum," Emily says angrily, banging a fist to the counter. "I told you, we're going travelling this year."
Jenna turns to her daughter. Looks at Emily as if she's sorry for her. This whole exchange makes my fucking blood simmer.
"Emily, Are you even sure that's what Naomi wants?"
It's kind of alarming. The question catches Emily completely off-guard. Her posture's recoiled. Eyes wide. Jaw clenched.
Something in me snaps, seeing her like this.
Then both of them turn to me expectantly. Here I am again. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Fucked either way.
I hate how Jenna of all fucking people has to be the one who spotted this loophole, this chink in my armour.
Fucking bollocks.
I can't lie... and I don't exactly have a truth to tell.
Sorry for being anti-climactic but I don't have any answers to that at the moment.
I can't face Emily. I know that I've just broken her heart in some way. I know her enough to know I've hurt her just now.
She won't show it to Jenna though. Jenna who's looking more satisfied by the second for successfully driving me into a very tight corner.
Emily won't give her mother the satisfaction. "We're leaving," Emily says, picking the box up off the counter with this finality. She storms out without another word leaving me all alone with Jenna.
Jenna and her twisted lips.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Fitch," I say, aiming for polite but missing it by a fucking mile. I suddenly feel sick. Like my stomach spliced open and now I had all my guts pouring out.
I get out of there, chasing after Emily's wake.
Emily and I don't speak all the way to Freddie's. I don't feel like I look. I don't feel good.
So it's Katie's endless chatter, filling up the taxi for most of the part. Now I know she hates CSI (because she finds it very hard to understand, apparently) and that she took forever to adjust her bra straps just right ("else my tits would've looked uneven. Imagine lopsided tits… fucking awful, that").
When we get there, entering Freddie's almighty shed of skater memorabilia, party décor all around, the mood lightens up considerably. JJ, Freddie and his older sister, Karen are gathered around a little cargo crate playing Ace of Truth. I take a second longer while looking at Karen. Apart from that Johnny White party at the Thekla,I've never bumped into Freddie's sister ever again. And I'm sort of embarrassed to say that I almost forgot what she looks like.
As she's sitting there with the boys, she's got a pink feather boa that's draped around her neck. It would've been ridiculously out of place if it weren't for her white and pink dress combination. Besides her overly feminine and showy style, she's actually very gorgeous.
Just like Freddie. He's as fit as they come but we don't tell him that. Because, really. That would be weird.
Pandora and Effy are settled on the couch, taking turns poking each other's face with noisy, unrolled party blowers stuck to their mouths. Thomas is at one corner, working with some sound equipment that he probably got to borrow from the club he works at.
Freddie bounds up to us rubbing his hands together excitedly. He opens his arms wide, inviting the twins for a hug. It's cute, really. Because he's so big and they're so small. He releases them and he motions around. "Welcome to my shed," he says, this place his pride and fucking joy.
I hand over his cake, say a quick, "Happy birthday!" and he fucking beams like it's Christmas times five.
"Emily made this," I say.
"I know," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Freddie opens the box, revealing its chocolate glory to the world, and goes, "Fucking fantastic, Ems! Thanks!"
He gives Emily a grateful look before bounding over to the table where all the food is and places the cake there.
I turn to Emily. I say to her, in a very accusatory tone, "I thought this was a couple gift?"
"It is," Emily says, casually. "You weren't supposed to say I made it."
"But you did," I say plainly.
"We made it. I thought that was the lie we agreed on? That we made this together?"
Together, Naomi. That's what you and Emily are. Please get that in your fucking head.
"Oh... Right," I say in all its hopelessness.
And it isn't enough for Emily. No, not right now.
She walks away, goes to where Katie is, by the punch bowl. And I feel like I was a second too late from stopping the world from ending.
It's a fucking surprise, really. When Thomas finishes setting up and provides us with surround sound, Freddie and Karen immediately break into a K-Pop inspired dance number. I don't know what Freddie did but he was obviously blackmailed into doing this. Knowing Freddie, he'd never jump into a tight-fitting dress suit (complete with a fucking fedora) to bust a move to some Korean boy band song he didn't understand a word of.
It would've been fucking hilarious, you know. How horrible Freddie looks as he messes up the dance steps that Karen's contrastingly executing with all the energy of Michael Jackson and the eerie precision of a drill team.
It would've been fucking hilarious if Emily wasn't fucking mad at me. We're seated next to each other on the couch, watching the McClair sibling display, and it's like there's this fucking wall between us that doesn't let her see me.
We're touching.
Our arms. Our shoulders. The fabrics of our skirts. They're all touching
I feel us touching. But it's as if Emily doesn't.
So I will myself to concentrate harder on how Freddie's failing at shaking his fucking bon-bon. I will myself to think it the funniest fucking thing to ever grace the earth.
I'm fucked, really. I can't even fake a laugh.
So I move onto Karen. And yeah, she's fit as fuck with her skin wet with perspiration, her exposed areas commanding everyone's attention, her hair whipping around like a proper whore. The tone of her arms, of her stomach...
Wish she were smaller though. Wish her face was softer.
Her skin, paler.
Her voice, lower.
Her hair, red.
I'm fucked, really. I can't even fake liking someone else.
So I go back to how idiotic Freddie is, forgetting Karen easily.
Wish I could do the same with Emily, though. Wish I could forget her. Even for a while.
Fat chance, that.
An hour later Freddie has already opened all his presents, everyone has got to taste and praise Emily's (our) cake and the party's basically peaked early.
Everyone is already in some level of 'pissed' or 'buzzed' or 'brooding' or a combination of the three. Emily and I still aren't speaking. Katie, Effy and Panda are off on one corner fooling around and making what Panda calls Le Whizzer Musique Magnifique.
I'm dead serious, you know. She really fucking said that.
It's a mystery how, but Panda's managed to bring in some of those native instruments from her Interpretative Dancing class. She's more than happy to make Katie bang on a xylophone-looking contraption and Effy shake a maraca all while she's pressing keys to this weird Japanese techy synthesizer thing.
Karen and Emily are having an animated chat about fuck knows what near the snack table and I find myself having to block out the sound of Emily's merry bursts of laughter every now and then. Karen seems to really fascinate her.
You know, all that shit I said about Karen's hot body? I'd like to take that all back now.
I've been openly staring at them a while now. I'm here with the boys at Thomas' fortress of sound. Freddie and JJ are dropping song requests in a 'top of the head' fashion and they're being such twats, unable to decide on the songs that Thomas ignores them mostly.
Being stuck with them is better than being obviously moping and alone while my girlfriend's there, being chatted up by a Sexxbomb. There! She's doing it again! Laughing at Karen's cleverness or whatever.
This is fucking torture. She won't even look at me!
"Cook likes that song," JJ says, hosing down my jealous streak by the mere mention of Cook's name.
"Right, 'Ace of Spades'. Really got him in the fucking mood," Freddie says quietly, mostly to himself.
I get back to Emily and Karen. Karen's whispering something to her and Emily gets this really cheeky look on her face and my hands instinctively ball up. I seriously consider going over there to show Karen a piece of my mind... or like, you know, a piece of my fist.
What I wasn't expecting is Freddie and JJ busting into a serious sing-along. It steals everyone else's attention because they're doing air guitars and some really ridiculous head banging. Some point along the dork dance, JJ manages to get his shoe tangled in a web of cable and one swift jerk of his foot unplugs the power and puts the music to an abrupt halt.
Then Freddie speaks up, breaking the awkward silence and ironically making it more awkward. "It's my fucking birthday. I want to see my best mate."
Wait, he's not serious, is he? It's not like we're going to actually leave this party to go visit Cook. No way in bollocks that's going to happen.
But when Effy takes out her keys, she's already single-handedly sealed all our fates.
With Freddie's directions and Effy's immaculate driving, we reach Cook's mum's house in record time. We get there and find out his mum, Ruth Byatt, has an art exhibit here at her own residence tonight and that explains the packed parking lot. Effy had to drive out again and find a parking space somewhere along the main road which makes all of us regret why we didn't just get off in front of Cook's because now we have to walk through a bit of forest to get there again.
"Remind me why we're walking," Katie goes, obviously not pleased with this because she's in sexy but painful heels.
"Because. You lot didn't have enough sense to have gotten out the car while you could. I could have just parked it myself," Effy says in this 'you're all morons' tone.
"Then why didn't you?" Katie asks, annoyed and then some.
Effy puts on a faint smile, the moon's gracious enough to let me see it. "Because if I did, you all would have been sipping on fucking daiquiris while I get stuck in these woods alone, playing Alice in fucking Wonderland. Yeah, it's not my cup of tea."
And that shuts Katie up quite effectively.
"Okay," JJ begins, putting his fists on his hips, packing up on authority. "Full steam ahead, just keep north."
"How are you even sure we we're supposed to go north?" I say, my skepticism earning a glare from Emily.
Of course JJ's got an answer. He's always got a bookish load of crap as defense. "I'm pretty certain since I've checked all the coordinates and my phone's GPS says—"
"JJ?" Freddie starts, walking way ahead of everyone, knowing these woods better than anyone else possibly.
"Yes, Freddie?"
"Shut it."
So for the next three minutes or so, we follow Freddie as he makes his way forward, dodging trees and low-hung braches. It's dark. That much I know. My eyesight becomes less keen so I put more focus on the things I'm hearing.
Listening. Listening because I might as well be blind right now. It's too fucking dark in here.
Emily's not by my side. She's with JJ up front, getting a load of his navigational shit, tuned in to him with his Vasco da Gama on. I listen to the twigs and the leaves beneath me, cracking, breaking. I listen to my heart as he puts a protective arm around her. And all three of them, the twigs, the leaves, and the drum in my chest... they all sound more or less the same right now.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Breaking.
It isn't that long until we start seeing stars in the distance, amongst the tree leaves. It's lovely. Like a night sky coming down to shake hands with the forest. It gives you this ethereal feeling. Like you went up to space yourself and took some trees with you. And here are the stars, shedding soft lights that are just really easy on the eyes, spreading warmth like little radiators.
Forgive me for going a bit whimsical but yeah, I find this… Delightful. Magical. Dreamy. You know, shit like that... that gives you goosebumps.
Because now you feel like all these impossible, magnificent things that you thought were out of reach, they're fucking close enough to touch right now. Like, right here.
But Emily. She's two, three metres away from me.
It isn't supposed to feel that fucking far.
When we draw closer we find out that they're actually red, green, and yellow star-shaped lanterns hanging from tree branches. We're nearing Ruth Byatt's estate, Freddie informs us.
"And this must be one of her installations," he reckons, looking up and rubbing his lip with his thumb in that scruffy way of his.
"It's marvellous," Emily replies, eyes to the illuminated treetops, sounding so awe-struck that it might just have turned me on a little.
I stare at her hard. Look at me, look at me, I chant silently, obsessively.
She does. But I'm only granted the most fleeting of seconds because she then looks away before I can even come up with a thought.
This indifference from her. It's just so...
BANG!
And the empty tin can I just kicked with my boot is soaring through knee-high air.
Frustrating. So fucking frustrating.
When we arrive, we find instant relief in the fact that we didn't stand out that much because everyone else is dressed like they're going to a David Bowie concert in the seventies. So this is what the latest art scene wanks off to then?
The room's smoky, a mix of dry ice and cigarettes. Everyone's holding at least one tool of substance abuse. Cigars and cigarettes creating a familiar tobacco-smelling mist that beckons me to light up as well.
The chin-strokers and the head-tilters, armed with their wineglasses greedily filled to the brim and their bite-sized cheese, look quite bored about the whole thing that's supposedly an event of great interest to them. I mean, even the Queen's guards are more expressive than this sorry lot!
Art critics. Big fakes who spend more time contemplating on their life than actually living it.
Another thing I notice is this new trend they're sporting. Apparently, neck exposure is a big no-no so they've got enough turtlenecks and metallic-threaded scarves tossed over their shoulders to keep a third world country warm.
Oh, God.
This is slowly going to drive me insane. I can feel it. I dunno about you, but seeing these pretentious art wankers in their prime makes me want to go out and blow up a truck or something wild and violent like that.
Our only consolation really, is that our bourgeois get-ups don't attract any unwanted attention. We just want to see Cook. Causing a scene during his mum's art exhibit isn't on our 'to do' list so it's a good thing that among the glamour art royalty, we're as good as invisible.
Music starts playing. Something you'd hear from a sci-fi movie trailer. The crowd quiets, turns their heads to the front of the big room where a spotlight shines on this woman. Her red hair's in a complicated up-do, topping a face forged out of pride and self satisfaction. She's got little chandeliers hanging from her ears. She's wearing shiny red Lycra all over and she's in black stiletto heels. The woman's a fucking vision, really.
That's Ruth Byatt, I guess. The woman who mothered James Cook.
And I don't know what kind of effect she was going for. As for me, all I can think of is Britney Spears in that "Oops, I Did It Again" video.
Then the track comes to an abrupt stop. She gives the audience an oddly curt nod before speaking. "My brothers and sisters, we're gathered here today to witness the majesty of my latest collection. This is art at its most raw. Art that wasn't thought of, just felt..."
Various shit has to take turns being au courant, or passé or a chef d'oeuvre in Ruth Byatt's magical world of Art. She's using too many French words for her own good. Panda and Thomas must be having a fucking field day.
And it gets pretty intense… pretty rubbish, I mean. She sounds so fake, it almost kind of hurts.
Out of nowhere, a little boy flings himself at Freddie's leg. "Freddie!" he hisses, just enough to show his excitement, just enough to not be a disturbance.
"Happy Birthday!" he says into Freddie's jeans.
"You remembered," Freddie says, clearly moved. His giant frame bends over the little kid to pat him on the head.
The boy pulls away but lets his fingers stay and grasp at Freddie's trousers. "Actually, Cook wouldn't shut up about it. That's why I remembered. He really hates that he couldn't come to your party. Stupid house arrest," the kid grumbles.
Freddie shakes his head, nor minding at all. "That's alright, Pads. He couldn't come, so the party's come to him," he says, smiling to match the boy's all-tooth grin.
"Where is he anyway?" JJ asks.
"He's behind that curtain, actually, since he's part of the exhibit. They're still going to reveal him when Mum's done with her speech so we can't come to him right now."
"What do you mean 'part of the exhibit'?" Freddie goes.
"Mum's walking conceptual installation or somethin'. Alex suggested it."
"Who's Alex?"
"Mum's wrestling partner. They like practicing their techniques at night. Quite noisy."
Oh.
So Cook's mum is an old slag, then? Thought so.
"C'mon, Freddie! We have to drop this deal. Let's do Rock Band instead!" The boy starts dragging Freddie with a strength that could've only been generated by childish eagerness.
Freddie just smiles his surrender, shrugs his shoulders and lets himself be lead by the young boy.
By this little Cook.
"That's Patrick. Do call him Paddy, though."
I nod at Freddie as he points his beer bottle in Paddy's direction. Cook's mini-me is armed with this little guitar controller, playing Rock Band with his PlayStation 3.
"Cook's little brother?"
Freddie nods, says, "bingo," before taking another lazy sip. Watching as Paddy is hitting all the notes, timing his presses to the coloured bars on screen. I look at how effortless he is at it, and then I look at the TV, how all the colours are moving fast. I'd be shit at that, I decide. And here is this ten, twelve year old kid who's giving my eye-hand coordination a run for its fucking money.
Right. Doing absolute wonders to my ego, this.
Paddy's playing quite the host, ordering a butler-esque person by the name of Manford to provide Ruth's special recreation room with food. And not the high-end shit that they're serving outside. Paddy wanted pizza, ice cream and tons of grape-flavoured pop. Twenty minutes later, dear Manford brought in the goods.
So yeah, I'm in a room full of video game music, my mates, a bite-sized version of Cook, twelve pizza cartons, six cases of soda and like... three tubs of ice cream. Paddy was even considerate enough to get us beer. He even made Manford nick some of his Mum's expensive cigars for us. Talk about top-notch.
Cook's taught him well, I guess. I mean... this kid's educated.
So our little party is going in such a swing. Paddy's already beaten everyone at guitar "Score Duels" on Rock Band with the sole exception of JJ who's actually quite good at it.
Effy and Panda are at the miniature drum set, each with a stick in hand. With the strategy of 'divide and conquer' in mind, they've agreed to split the work. Effy works with the left side and Panda is on the right, taking the extra responsibility of working the bass drum pedal. They're doing quite badly but that doesn't stop them from having a gigantic laugh.
Thomas mans the mic, plays as the vocalist. The lad has pipes of an angel so his sterling performance isn't that much of a shock.
Paddy's given way so that Emily could try the toy guitar. She's doing a decent job while Katie's with Paddy at the snack table, helping him whip up a strawberry ice cream float with the grape soda.
I'm sat in between JJ and Freddie on a couch, puffing on a cigar like some really bad-ass motherfucker in mafia movies. JJ's been babbling on about how the answers to today's crossword came to him in a dream while Freddie's been staring at Effy non-stop. I would've told him he was being pathetic but I'm doing the same thing, just with Emily, and I figure I really have no right to say that to Freds.
When we see Cook for the first time in days we're all too excited and preoccupied in the moment to recall that the fact that he's not supposed to be here just yet.
So Cook walks in, and what I notice immediately is that this is the only time ever that I've seen him with a pair of sunglasses on. They are obviously his mother's and he's wearing them even though a) he's inside the house, b) it's half past nine in the evening and c) they're fucking lady shades.
Freddie sniggers. "Where's the sun, Cook?"
Cook's head snaps toward Freddie so lightning quick that you could almost hear the crack of the small motion.
"Why, there's the sun, Frederick! Fuck you!" Cook bursts out and points at the lone fluorescent fixture illuminating the room.
A silence falls over the place. They paused Rock Band, Panda shuts up, the crickets stop chirping and Manford... well, Manford was already quiet to begin with.
But then Cook takes his glasses off. His eye is bruised and he's got a nasty cut on his brow. We've heard that the coppers were pretty foul on him but the wounds don't seem to toy with his spirits. He cracks a big grin.
Cook's not really serious. So the room erupts in laughter.
"Fredster!" Cook shouts, obviously ecstatic. "Happy Birthday, my boy!" he hollers, crushing Freddie with a hug.
"Look at you," Cook says, stepping back, admiring Freddie's birthday outfit. The K-Pop getup Karen made Freddie wear has Cook's eyebrows up to his brown fringe.
Freddie looks embarrassed, also steps back to take a look at Cook himself. Counters with a, "No, mate, look at you."
Well, besides the sunglasses what you don't see Cook in everyday is a three- pieceensemble. If you didn't know Cook and you caught him walking the streets in this monkey suit, you could safely assume that he was one of those well-respected, up themselves wankers who actually pay attention to whatever shit's going down in the stock market.
And that's not even close to what he really is.
"I feel like a proper bastard in this," he says, before wriggling around in it and loosening his tie.
Emily chooses to commend him for this and says, "Looking sharp, though, Cook."
He turns to her and looks oh-so-very touched and he puts an arm around her. "Believe me, Emilio. This suit doesn't do justice to what's underneath it," he says, pointing at his willy and Emily just shakes her head at him and starts laughing.
You know what? I love Cook too much to be bothered enough to rip his off balls for hitting on my girlfriend.
No matter how much I hated this injustice.
So we all crowd over Cook and engage in a huge, cheesy hug-fest.
"Come together, right now, over me," he sings, paying homage to The Beatles.
Funny how it is. How time can also dissolve stereotypes and first impressions. Back then, to me, everyone else was just shallow and mindless. People who didn't give a real fuck about the world. No one really worth knowing. I didn't realise how sad I used to be. I've gone for so long, alone with my ideals.
Now, I can't imagine life without these people. They're my mates. They're now people with faces I won't ever forget.
Cook's eyes are watery. He pulls his arms tighter around the mass of bodies so we all fall in closer. And I think, yeah. Just yeah.
Our own Breakfast Club of fits and misfits, more than happy to be back with our own Bender.
"Whoa, Jay! When did you get so good?" Panda says, absolutely flustered.
"Practise. All there is to it," JJ answers, focus still intact. He's racking up an insane amount of combo points and it's only one fucking song.
Cook's sitting on an armchair with Paddy on his lap. He takes the cigar out of his mouth to say, "Yeah, JJ's got a ukulele. Practises every single night."
A ukulele, huh? Well, that's fucking smart.
Paddy's frowning about something and soon he's off Cook's lap and running to where JJ is. Cook turns to us with a warm smile on his face. "Paddy's a bit threatened, you see. JJ's stealing the Rock Band crown from him."
Freddie and I watch Paddy as he crosses the front of the television screen over and over again, wrecking JJ's records. Well, that's awfully mature.
Cook and Freddie are laughing at his antics. I join in because it's one of those rare moments where JJ is the one being annoyed, not the one being annoying.
When Cook stops to catch his breath I ask about his role in this rather indulgent art exhibit. "What exactly are you supposed to be in all this, Cook?"
"'Bout what?" he says, obviously feigning ignorance. He crosses his legs at the knee. I notice his ankle monitor. Reminds me he's a prisoner here.
I roll my eyes at him. "Your mum's show, you twat."
"Mum's new cockatoo wanted me put on. Thought I'd make a great installation or whatever. 'The Beast Has Been Tamed'. That's what they call my piece," he says, clasping his hands together behind his head before leaning back grandly on the easy chair.
"They're putting my life's story on the placard. Prodigal son shit, innit? Dressing me up nice to contradict my criminal capabilities. She'd kick me out if I didn't do what she said. I step out of line again..." he gives a low, ominous whistle, "...back to the slammer."
And you know what they always say when you speak of the devil...
That devil will fucking come.
So, just seconds after talking behind her back, Ruth Byatt comes charging in, looking mighty furious about something. Her eyes are wicked and fixed on Cook. Major shit is about to go down. That, I'm fucking certain of.
"What the bleeding fuck is this?" she screams. She gives the room a cursory inspection. She sees all the junk food, she sees her cigars in other people's mouths. Her eyes grow huge, like they'd pop out any second.
"You worthless sack of shit," she says, rounding on him thunderously.
Cook winces.
"I told you," Ruth starts, shaking angrily. "I fucking told you. That if you so even as scratched your arse, it'd be jail for you, Mister."
"Whose idea was it to put me on last? I've fuckin' waited three hours in the same position. You didn't even care to give me some chow. Why, thanks for the special treatment, Ruth. Might as well have left me there to die."
"So what? I feed you better in here than they would've in prison! You get your old room, a nice bed, all the food you want. And you even get to drink the milk out of the carton every fucking morning!" she enumerates, painting us all a picture of what Cook's been doing in this house for the past two weeks. "Your stay here isn't a fucking right, it's a privilege! What do you get in prison, Jimmy? Tell me, what the fuck do they give you dogs in prison?"
Cook's jaw tenses. Doesn't say anything. Maintains his defiant glare.
"That's right, Jimmy. You don't get shit there at all. And those are my Cuban cigars."
He crushes his out with the ashtray on the side table next to his chair.
"Now, fix your slimy self up and get back in there," she orders menacingly, pointing a commanding finger to the door.
It's like it doesn't make enough sense for him. Cook could be so dense sometimes. I almost wanted to carry him out there myself. Just as long as Ruth doesn't get any angrier than she already is. "But I've got company," he reasons anyway.
"Yes. And you and your band of no-good hooligans just cost me 90,000 quid. I put diamond-studded furniture in your fucking installation! You could've at least stayed put until I had you revealed! I've got an audience from twenty art magazines! There are three writers out there about to make a book about my work. Don't make any more of a fool of me, boy."
"Not my problem, Ruth. You blow off all your cash on diamonds, that's your deal. And have you heard of cubic zirconium? That shit would've been cheaper."
"Don't play smart with me, Jimmy. Now get back in there."
"I'm not leaving them," Cook says, stubbornly.
"And why the fuck not?"
"They're my friends." Cook says, undoubtedly loaded amidst the simplicity in the manner with which it was said.
Ruth flashes her teeth. They're gritted together venomously. She bounds up to Cook and then has his ear ferociously clamped in between her thumb and forefinger. As if she's going to rip it off if she pulls any harder. With Ruth's iron grip, Cook's up in a beat, face scrunched up in pain.
"It was a mistake bringing you back here. You're an infection! Because of you, everything's gone to shit!" She starts hitting him on the head, on the face, on the neck. Everywhere with an open palm.
You could hear the hard smack-thud every time she hit her mark. We're all on our feet now. Up in shock, not really knowing what to do to put an end to this.
Ruth keeps at it with every whack. "You fucking moron! You fucking bastard! This is why you have no business being alive!"
Cook is crouched over a bit, taking it all in like a man. Like he's used to this. Like it's something that used to happen all the time.
It has to stop. It has to fucking stop right now.
And what no one counted on was Katie coming out of nowhere and shoving Ruth off with all the might of a lioness. "Child abuse in front of ten witnesses isn't that wise, Mrs. Byatt. You can't do that to him. He's your son," she says with this rage.
"And who the fuck are you?" Ruth says, scrambling back up.
"I'm more of a mother to him than you'll ever be," Katie says, meaning it.
Ruth's face twitches ever so slightly and for a second you'd think she'd stay calm and handle Katie like any sensible adult would. But that doesn't seem to be the case. The maniacal look in her eyes shows just how close she is to losing her shit.
She makes a move for Katie, the click click click of her stilettos gathering speed and a collective sense of dread in the room, telling us, "Ruth Byatt is a bomb. She's about to go off in any second."
The way Ruth raises her arm is just too fucking alarming and I don't know how it happens but the next moment I'm the Berlin Wall in the flesh, keeping Katie and Ruth apart.
I regret it immediately though. I caught Ruth's wrist in mid-swing seconds before and now I'm struggling to keep it still to prevent any more damage. And I'm there, shaking and rather fucking terrified because for anyone's mother, she's bizarrely strong.
I should have remembered that people have two hands. Two, fucking hands, Naomi. And what's really shite is that I only thought of it after Ruth blindsided me with a slap to the face using that ever-present yet uncontained other hand.
My head whips to the side and at the same time, I hear the sharp crack of her palm colliding with my cheek. My eyes snap shut and it's black for a moment. And when I finally make sense of what I'm supposed to feel... that's when I see red.
Thoughts are exploding in my head before I can properly think them and it all builds up to this whole Vesuvius of fucking anger and equal measures of hot and sinister. And what's really sad is that I just stand there, clutching my face the way you'd suck on a papercut, deluding yourself into believing that you had magical healing powers or something. That the sting and burn will go away soon.
But it still burns. Still stings. And I wonder if this is what it'd be like if someone tried knocking you out with a hot frying pan.
It's fucking unbelievable. My own mother doesn't even hit me.
I close my eyes tighter. I will them not to fucking water. I don't want to fucking cry here. It's only then when I recognise the emotional pain and humiliation.
When I straighten up, I look around and everyone is just as mindfucked as I am. I catch Emily looking at me. The concern is so evident in her eyes. Amidst all the shit that's happening I'm actually a bit cheered up that she's momentarily forgotten about our Cold War.
I want her to come to me.
But she doesn't though. Instead, he turns and makes for Ruth, like an angry flare. Emily rushes toward her and says, almost insanely, "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Ruth takes the sight of Emily in. She's confused. She looks at Katie. And then back at Emily. And her jaw drops. Her mouth quivers, like she's about to say something but before she can get anything out, we all hear a mobile ring. It rings another time before a flash of recognition sets in her features. She's got enough manners to take out her phone and answer it.
"Hello?" A pause, for the introduction at the other end and then, "Oh, Mr. Pratt! How thoughtful of you to check up on me. Oh, the exhibit's doing swell! It's really..."
Emily sucks in a breath, insulted. "Right, you're just so respectful, aren't you, Ruth?"
Ruth looks the other way and just holds her index finger up to Emily in a dismissive, "I'll be with you in a minute" fashion, talking to Mr. Pratt the whole while.
Oh, no fucking way. She can't do that to my girl. Fuck her.
Then there's this waiter who walks into the room and he doesn't know shit about what's going on so he's clueless enough to ask Ruth if she cares for an hors d'oeuvre.
And when Ruth starts reaching out for one, Emily lets out a gasp of disbelief. Apparently, she won't stand for this shit anymore so with a "hey! I'm fucking talking to you!" at Ruth, Emily flings the tray of hors-fucking- d'oeuvres out of the waiter's hand, making it rain pieces of bruschetta.
And this is what starts the fall of an empire. This is what starts the food fight.
A/N: Wow, you're done! I know reading this takes up a lot of time so I'm really5x thankful that you chose to stick with it despite the colossal lengths. But anyway, we've made it up to here and we're approaching the last leg! Soon enough story's going to have to come to a conclusion. Pumped, excited? You should be! So you better be there on Christmas Day!
I'd like to thank vangoghgurrl and FrineItandehui again because they were just absolute dears answering my questions about dogs. I mentioned it here so as to not spoil that part of the story for the others. XD
So, I ask you all, would you like to leave milk and cookies for me? Even though I should be on the Naughty List for making you all wait for this for too long? In the meantime, it'd be wonderful for you to tell me how you found part 1. Thoughts please. Give love (reviews) this Christmas Day. :)
Love you all, Happy Holidays!
NEXT: Madness! All sorts of madness! It's THE FINAL COUNTDOWN. You dare not miss it.