Peter James: Love You Dead

My eyes are too big, also. When I look in the mirror they are all swollen — and it’s not just from crying. They’re too big for my face. Fact. And my lips are too fat — like someone’s punched me in the mouth and made them swell up. And my ears are too big. It’s like someone put my face together using all the wrong parts. Like they took them from the wrong box.

And my breasts are ridiculous. I’m flat. I’ve got a chest like a boy’s. Cassie’s, of course, are perfectly formed.

Earlier in the day in the English class everyone had to stand up and read aloud to the class a Shakespeare sonnet they had chosen. Trudy Byrne read out one, staring pointedly at me all the time.

And so on. So bloody on.

It’s true. My hair is like a bunch of black wires. They sprout all over my head like pubes or a scouring pad. Why don’t I have the same blonde straight hair that my bloody sister, Cassie, has?

I’ve just been dealt a really shitty hand.

Dad dotes on Cassie. She is always playing around and joking with him. But when he looks at me I can see the disappointment in his face. Like, I’m not really his daughter at all. Not the second daughter he always promised himself. Not much of a substitute for the son he was really hankering for. And if he couldn’t have a son, at least he could have had a second stunner of a daughter.

Instead he got me.

Mum and Dad are arguing again downstairs. I can hear their voices above the sound of the television. Dad’s angry because he’s worried about losing his job. They’re making a lot of redundancies in his company, although Mum assures him he’s too important, they could never let him go. Sounds like he’s been drinking again. That’s not unusual. He gets drunk most nights. He’s worried about money. About the mortgage payments on this house. The finance on the fancy cars. That at fifty he’s over the hill and might never get another job.

Jodie heard a slam. The front door? Often when her parents argued her father went out and down to the pub. She listened for the sound of his car starting, but heard nothing. Maybe he was being sensible for once and walking.

She opened her bedroom door to listen, and could hear music coming from her sister’s room. She could talk to her mother. She wanted right now to curl up on the sofa in her mother’s arms and maybe watch some television with her. Her mother was the only person who ever told her she was beautiful. Even though Jodie knew that was a lie. The television was on, loudly. An American couple shouting at each other.

She made her way downstairs, then stopped shortly before the bottom as she heard another slam. Her father coming back in?

‘That bloody cat!’ he shouted. ‘Why can’t it shit in its own garden?’ He looked up at Jodie coming down the stairs as if it was her fault.

She stared back at him as he stormed into the living room.

Her mother said something Jodie could not hear above the din of the television. It sounded like she was trying to pacify him.

‘How great is that? All I’ve got in the world is a neighbour’s sodding cat that uses our garden as a toilet, a wife who drives me to drink and one daughter who’s a total nightmare!’

The television was suddenly muted and she could hear both their voices clearly.

‘You’ve got to realize she’s going through a difficult time of life,’ her mother said. ‘Mid-teens is hard for girls.’

‘Bollocks — Cassie was never like this.’

‘Ssshhh! Keep your voice down! You dote on Cassie because she’s pretty. Jodie can’t help her looks. She’ll blossom in a couple of years.’

‘It’s not just her looks, it’s her attitude — she’s a miserable little cow.’

‘Maybe she’d be less miserable if you tried a little harder with her.’

‘I have tried. If I give her a hug she shrinks away like some slippery reptile. Which she is .’

‘Alastair! That’s no way to speak about your daughter.’

‘If she is my daughter.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘She doesn’t look like you, and she sure as hell doesn’t look like me. So who were you shagging to get pregnant with her? Someone from a travelling circus freak show?’

Jodie heard a thud, like a slap, followed by a howl of pain from her father.

‘You bitch!’ he shouted.

‘Don’t ever speak about our daughter like that. Do you hear me?’

‘She’s a freak and you know it. Hit me again and I’ll tear your bloody head off.’

‘Take it back or I will hit you again, you bastard. Jesus, what did I ever see in you to marry you?’

‘She’s an embarrassment. She’s fat, she’s ugly and she’s got an ugly mind. If she was something I’d bought in Poundland I’d take her back and demand a replacement. Too bad we can’t.’

‘Alastair, I’m warning you. She’s already got a complex, poor kid, always living in her sister’s shadow — and whose fault is that? Yes, we both know she’s got unfortunate looks. Give it a couple of years, I really do think she’ll blossom,’ she snapped.

‘See that, out of the window?’ her father said.

‘See what?’

‘That pig out there — flying across the horizon. That pig’s prettier than our daughter.’

The little squirrel monkey, astride the slender branch of a tree, stared at them through the window of the enclosure at Drusillas zoo. Its coat was a patchwork of grey, ginger and white, and it had sad, inquisitive eyes. Suddenly it began gnawing a chunk of carrot it was holding in its front paws.

Noah, who had been staring back at it, wide-eyed, as if unsure what to make of the creature, suddenly giggled.

It was a fine day, unseasonably warm. ‘Like the monkey, do you?’ Roy Grace said to his son, who was cradled in front of his chest in a baby sling. ‘Want monkeys on your wallpaper — or a monkey mobile?’

Noah beamed and dribbled. Then as the monkey continued eating, he chuckled, dribbling some more.

God, it was the most beautiful thing, to hear his son laughing, Grace thought, wiping Noah’s chin with a tissue. Then, peering down, he made monkey faces and noises at his son.

Noah giggled again.

Roy Grace grinned and put his arm round Cleo, who leaned in to him. He was taking a precious day off work to be with his loved ones, and wished he did this more often. He was able to, he knew; he had so many days of accrued leave owing to him. Yet he couldn’t help feeling a slight cloud of guilt, having already had all of January off. He remembered a quote from somewhere: ‘What man on his deathbed ever said, “Gosh, I wish I had spent more time in the office.”’

Yes, it was true, but at the same time, much as he was loving being with Cleo and his son, his thoughts kept returning to work. He was lucky, he knew. He had the best wife in the world, and the best son, who had brought him a change of perspective and priorities. And on good days, the best job in the world. After years of darkness, in the shadow of his long-missing first wife Sandy, life was really great again. He was happy. Happier than he had ever known.

And that worried him. Could any human sustain being this happy?