Sarah Salway - Tell Me Everything

The room Mr Roberts offered me was bare and uncarpeted. There was already a mattress up there, and Mr Roberts came in the next day with a sleeping bag he said I could have. Although it still had the price tag on, he told me it was an old one he didn’t want any more. There was some relief in his pretence that he was doing nothing for me really. It meant I could slip into my new life quietly, without too much obligation to anyone.

I made myself a dressing table out of a few of the boxes of old stationery stored in the room, and piled the others against one wall so they acted as a makeshift shelf. I covered them with a piece of old blue curtain material I’d found in a skip in one of the roads being gentrified behind the High Street.

The same skip yielded a broken coat stand that I painted with paint returned from a stationery order that had apparently gone wrong. It wasn’t surprising an office didn’t want it, because it was bright pink. ‘Nice for a girl though,’ Mr Roberts said when he handed it over. Again, I wondered if he’d bought it especially for me.

A couple of rubber bands and a ball of string stopped the coat stand falling apart, and I used it instead of a wardrobe to hang up the few clothes I had. When I saw how successful this was, I painted the woodwork around the window pink, and then the door, the pretty fireplace that was left over from better times, and I even drew crooked pink stripes down one wall. The room felt a bit like a drunken beach-hut, but I liked it.

One of the first things Miranda did was to give me a cracked full-length mirror from the salon which I hung on the wall, hiding it behind a curtain of the same blue material as my dressing table so I didn’t have to look at myself the whole time. She also offered me some old hair and celebrity magazines, and I spent several evenings cutting out photographs of women I admired from them. I was careful to follow the lines of their hairstyles exactly as I knew this would matter to Miranda but the bodies I often sliced through, making them all even slimmer and more stick-like than they really were. These I plastered up on the wall, one on top of the other so when I lay in the mattress on the floor that acted as my bed, it felt as if they were all tumbling down on me.

In the middle of these perfect women, I slotted the one photograph of my mother that I’d brought with me. She stood out only slightly, and more because of the shininess of the photographic paper than a lack of beauty on her part. I felt proud of her up there with the beautiful people. There was something about the way she seemed to belong there that made me hope she got a second chance to do what she wanted now I wasn’t messing up her life any more. I hugged myself tightly whenever I had this thought because it always made me cry. I’d lie on my back and let my fingers rest on the outline of her hair sometimes, stroking it in the way I would have liked Miranda to do with mine but could never come out and ask for straight. In the photo, Mum had her arms out slightly as if she was calling for someone. It could have been anyone haring towards her, but I knew it was me she was beckoning.

I tacked the rest of the material up above the mattress so it hung down like a canopy keeping the world out.

No one came into the room but me, but I spent a lot of time there. I ate and slept and read and thought there. Washing took place in the hand-basin in the little loo downstairs that we used for the shop, so four times already I’d walked up to the local leisure centre and had a proper shower. By the time I met Tim, I hadn’t had a bath for nearly two weeks but I kept telling myself firmly that what you don’t have, you don’t miss. When I was younger, I used to spend so long in the bath my father always said my skin would crinkle up and fall off.

‘And then where would you be?’ he yelled once from the other side of the bathroom door.

‘Here,’ I shouted back. I was furious. Would he never leave me alone? ‘I’ll still be here.’

‘No one would want you,’ he said then. ‘Not without your covering. You’d be a mess of bloody insides. That’s all. Nothing to hold you all together. You certainly wouldn’t be my Molly.’

‘And what if that’s exactly what I don’t want to be?’ I’d asked then, from behind the safety of a locked door.

But he couldn’t have heard me. There was no reply.

Chapter Six Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Acknowledgements About the Author Also by Sarah Salway Copyright About the Publisher Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

There were three boxes on the top shelf in the backroom of the stationery shop. On the second day I was there, Mr Roberts put up the ‘Closed’ sign and asked me to look for things that weren’t in these boxes while he held the ladder tight. And if, while I was up there, I wanted to tell him all the naughty things I’d been up to – a great big girl like you – then Mr Roberts wouldn’t mind.

No sir-ree, he wouldn’t mind at all.

So these were the conditions he’d mentioned. It took me some time to get the hang of this exchange of ‘information’. The first time, after he made it as clear as Mr Roberts ever would what he wanted me to do, I had to think hard of what I could tell him. It would be safer to stick to stuff about the girls at school, I decided, and the funny thing was I knew straight away what my first one should be. This was a story that shocked me so much it had felt like a physical blow when I first heard it. Telling Mr Roberts seemed like a good way to get it finally out of my mind.

So, standing on top of the ladder, I was almost eager as I recited word for word the story of how pretty, clever, popular Sylvia Collins got drunk on cider at a year eleven disco and four boys from the rugby team took her into the changing rooms and made her give them blow jobs, one by one, while the others looked on. And how after they’d finished with her, they took all her clothes and left her there, crying on the floor of the shower, while they went back to the disco to dance with the nice girls who were waiting for them.

‘Did they dance with you?’ Mr Roberts asked me.

‘I didn’t go to the disco. My dad never let me go to dances,’ I said, but I’d realised something else I hadn’t thought about before. That, even with all her potential, Sylvia was never seen back at school after the disco. I wondered if it was the nice girls who had made sure of that.