Amanda Jennings - The Cliff House

This thought bought a little clarity with it. My mind seemed to de-mist. Whoever she was, whatever reason she had to be here, the most important thing was to convince her not to tell the Davenports. If Mum lost her job she’d have to do more hours at the bloody chip shop or, worse still, sign on, something I knew full well she’d rather die than do.

The girl walked back out of the door. She held two bottles in her hand and an opener in the other.

‘I like your dress,’ she said as she neared me.

I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her correctly so didn’t say anything in return.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘My dress?’

She made a face like I was stupid. ‘Er, yeah, your dress .’

‘It’s my mum’s. From the Sixties. She wore it to a Rolling Stones concert.’

‘Retro?’ Her eyes blinked slowly. ‘ Tr ès fashionable.’

I let my breath go with a nervous laugh. I was struck again by how pretty she was. Not pretty like Alice Daley or Imogen Norris – who were universally acknowledged to be the prettiest girls in school, all pushed-up boobs and bum-skimming skirts. No, this girl was graceful and poised and pretty like Princess Di, if Princess Di wore black make-up, a hundred bangles and had a silver stud in her nose.

‘ Tr ès… cool,’ she said.

I managed to nod.

‘You’re very lucky to have a cool mother. Mine,’ she said deliberately, ‘is very, very , un cool.’

I thought of the photograph of my parents, the one that had his writing on the back:

Angie and Me. Odeon Theatre, Guildford, March 1965 .

In the picture my mum wore the rainbow dress. She was seventeen, not long engaged, delirious with love. Her hair was held back by a thick red scarf, feline eyes outlined with liner, her lips and skin pale as was the fashion. My dad wore a white shirt and a thin black tie. His hair was slicked back and he held a cigarette loosely in his fingers. I closed my eyes for a second, caught a flash of him singing me to sleep, smelt the cigarettes stuck to his skin.

‘Would you like a drink?’ She gestured to the bottles in her hand. Coca-Cola – the real thing, in curvaceous glass bottles like the ones I’d seen shiny, happy Americans with white-toothed smiles selling on the television.

‘Who are you?’

She gave no indication of having heard me. Maybe I’d spoken too quietly. She walked over to the table and put the bottles down, then using the opener she flicked the caps off each in turn, the cola fizzing loudly as she threw them onto the table. One bounced across the iron fretwork and fell with a tinny clink against the paving stones.

‘I think I should go.’

‘If you leave, I’ll tell my mother you broke into our house and I found you rifling through her jewellery box.’

Horror mushroomed inside me so violently I thought I might be sick.

‘Your mother?’ I didn’t understand. They didn’t have a daughter. Mum had never mentioned one. There was nothing in the house that indicated they had children − no photos, no clothes, no posters in any bedrooms. Was she lying?

‘Yes. My mother. More’s the pity.’ She sat on one of the chairs and lifted her bare feet onto the table and crossed them at the ankle. I’d never seen toenails painted purple before and never heard of people wearing rings on their toes, but she wore three and her nails were the colour of autumn plums.

‘Are they here?’ My voice quivered. Why had I been so careless? How stupid could I be?

‘My mother’s shopping while my father gets something fixed on the Jag. A tyre or, God, I don’t know, something dull. My mother will already be in a filthy mood because she won’t have found anything worth buying and will be moaning about Cornwall being stuck in the Dark Ages and wondering why anybody ever leaves Chelsea.’

‘My mum can’t lose her job,’ I whispered.

She stared at me for a moment or two, her expression flat, but then her body seemed to soften.

‘Relax.’ Her voice had lost its sharpness. ‘You don’t need to worry. I’m not going to tell them. I don’t give a shit about you swimming in the pool. I mean, why wouldn’t you? It’s hot as hell today.’

I could have cried with relief.

‘Go on. Stay for a bit. I’m literally dying of boredom. You can leave before they get back.’ She pushed one of the bottles towards me. ‘Have a Coke.’

‘I’ve never had a real Coke, only the one they do at Wimpy.’ And even then I’d only tried it once, though I didn’t tell her that.

She furrowed her brow and a bemused smile flashed across her face as she reached for the bottle nearest her and tipped it up to her lips. I inhaled sharply, shocked by how much she resembled Mrs Davenport in that split second. As I stared at her I noticed other similarities between her and her parents. Her face was the same shape as his. The sweeping curve of her neck was identical to hers. How stupid not to see these things immediately. Stupid not to have guessed who she was. Their daughter. Her house. A surge of irrational jealousy shuddered through me like an electric charge.

The girl looked up at me whilst shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘For God’s sake sit down.’ She kicked the empty chair and it scraped against the paving.

The movement jolted me into action and I walked towards her. I hesitated as I reached the table, wondering if it might be a trap and when I sat down she’d laugh and say, ‘Ha! Idiot! As if someone like you could actually sit with someone like me ?’

But she didn’t. She smiled.

From nowhere a waft of her perfume swept over me. I had a vivid recollection of Truro. The shopping centre. My mother rummaging through the bottles and sprays in The Body Shop. Taking lids off. Pumping scent onto her wrists. Then mine. Ignoring the hard stares of the lady behind the counter.

‘White Musk.’

‘Sorry?’

Had I said that aloud? ‘Your perfume,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s White Musk.’

‘You’re quite unusual, aren’t you? Not that it’s a bad thing. I like unusual.’ She blew upwards over her forehead. ‘Christ, it’s hot.’ She took hold of her top and flapped it.

We were silent. She didn’t seem to mind but it made me itch. When the awkwardness became unbearable I turned my head to look out over the sea. The wind had painted dashes of white across its surface and a small boat sat out near the horizon. So far away. Little more than a dot. I thought of the day my dad died. How quickly the squall had rolled in, turning sunshine and blue skies to driving rain and treacherous waves within moments. A crack of thunder echoed in my ears as I recalled snatching hopelessly at his legs to stop him leaving the safety of our house.

‘My name’s Edie, by the way.’

She waited expectantly but when I didn’t reply I saw her expression fade to boredom.

For God’s sake speak .

‘I like it.’

‘What?’

‘Your name. I like it.’

She stared at me for a moment then burst into laughter which sounded like sleigh bells. She tipped her head back. Exposed her throat. Pale and delicate. It struck me how vulnerable that part of her was and I hurriedly banished the thought of my hands encircling it and squeezing until her white skin bruised.

I thought she might let me in on the joke but she didn’t. ‘My mother chose it,’ she said. ‘It’s short for Edith. Piaf. Eleanor thinks it’s glamorous. Anything – and everything – à la France est tr ès glamoureux, cherie according to Maman .’

The accent she used on some of her words reminded me of my French teacher, Madame Thomas, who came from Widemouth Bay but turned puce with rage if we failed to pronounce her surname ‘Toh- maah ’. Thinking of ridiculous Madame Toh- maah made me braver and I ventured a smile in return.