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  “Even if it kills me,” I replied, placing my hand over my heart.

  It was red velvet and vanilla-scented darkness inside the cinema. I didn’t care what we watched. I couldn’t tell you what we watched. It wasn’t the actors on the big screen who interested me. We sank down into a plush double sofa and shut out the world. Angie Anderson underestimated me. I didn’t need to talk. I just needed to be close to her.

  The red-velvet darkness carried through into my dreams that night. For the first time in a long time I managed to sleep right through. It was so unexpected and unfamiliar that I woke up in the morning gasping for air. Like I’d been holding my breath all night long. The night at the Electric had been a success in more ways than one. It was as though Angie Anderson had disconnected the trouble inside my mind; a bomb-disposal expert who knew which wires to cut without taking me out in the process. I had woken up to die another day. No flashbacks. No guns. No screams.

  It was the same high I got from surfing. Nothing could touch me; I was safe out at sea. Was I safe with Angie?

  I bounced down to breakfast and everyone stared at me. Katie and Carrie even managed to stop mid-conversation. My mother got up from the table and put her arms around me.

  “Lennox,” she said. “You’re back.”

  We all knew what she meant. I had activated the re-entry system and had come down to land – free from dark matter for the first time in a long time. We were all in the same room again.

  “Settling in, son?” asked my father.

  “Yeah, good.”

  “Great. That’s just great.” He looked so relieved I experienced a rush of guilt. It made me realise that we could go back to San Francisco tomorrow. Me, Carrie, Katie – if we were seriously struggling to adapt, adjust, relocate then we wouldn’t be made to do it. Our parents just wanted us to be happy.

  “Lennox has a new girlfriend,” said Carrie and Katie in unison.

  How did they do that? Sync conversation.

  I just grinned.

  “A girlfriend?” questioned my mother, with a playful smile. “Tell us more.”

  “Her name is Angie Anderson…” said Carrie, “and she is beautiful,” added Katie, finishing the sentence.

  Angie was beautiful. I just realised I hadn’t acknowledged that until now. It wasn’t that I hadn’t noticed, it was more because it didn’t matter. She was everything I wanted even with my eyes closed.

  “Bring her over,” insisted my mother. “We want to meet her.”

  “Ava,” cautioned Dad.

  “What?” she replied, innocent expression.

  “Let Lennox work it out.”

  “I’m just saying that Lennox is welcome to bring his Angie Anderson over to the house. It is important for the children to have their friends over.”

  We all laughed at this.

  “Mom, we’re not eight years old,” protested the girls.

  Mom tutted. “You know what I mean.”

  I nodded, still hearing a silvery ting from the words “his Angie Anderson.” The words filled the room.

  Breakfast over, I headed to school earlier than usual. I knew Angie probably wouldn’t be there but I wanted to arrive before she did. I had 47 seconds to make up. I had to make every second count.

  After the high, however, the comedown can be brutal. I was about to learn that a good night’s sleep is not worth it. It is better to hold onto your flashbacks and your screams because when you let them go – even for a moment, they come back stronger, louder.

  5

  Angie: electric

  He suggested a night at the Electric Cinema, which happened to be a favourite place of mine.

  I asked Viv, “Did you tell Lennox about the Electric?”

  “Nope. I had to throw him a bone though, darling, because he’s dying to know more about you.”

  “What size of bone?”

  “Death metal music.”

  “That should scare him off.”

  “I seriously doubt it. He’s drowning in you.”

  I shrugged. “He’s too much, no?”

  “Gotta let down your guard at some point, babe. We all do.”

  “I might go to the cinema with him.”

  Viv winked. “Lights, camera, action.”

  I had been about to call it quits before he even got there because he was late, again. Then, too late to make my escape, he turned up, jumping about all over the place, outside the cinema. He was like a natural source of untapped energy, a plasma field that could light up Oxford Street on Christmas Eve. The night, potentially, had disaster written all over it. I asked him if he was going to manage to sit still and not talk for two hours – no point pretending I hadn’t noticed he was wired, hot-wire live connection. Shit, shock hazard if ever I saw one.

  After we had exchanged a few words he seemed to chill out, to relax, to become human. Then, when we were in the cinema he was as good as gold. In fact, I kept sneaking a peek to check he hadn’t gone to sleep. He hadn’t. He just sat there staring straight ahead, intense, almost like he was looking through the cinema screen. We shared a double sofa but he didn’t push his luck. He’s smart. He knew better. He was getting to know me – how I didn’t want to be pushed. I might fall hard.

  People are under the impression that you get to know someone by talking – endless conversations on first dates that cover life stories, good and bad experiences, loves and hates, songs, colours, tastes. Personally, I think there’s a lot to be said for sitting next to someone in cinematic flickering darkness for two hours with no questions asked whatsoever. You can just be who you want to be, not the person who you think you should be.

  He was a different person when we left the cinema. The look-at-me Lennox was back in his box while a calmer, more likeable Lennox had stepped up. I relaxed because I sensed he wasn’t going to insist on a kiss or an awkward squeeze. He did, however, want to walk me home. I hesitated briefly but didn’t say no as it was en route to his house. We were almost neighbours.

  It was weird going from a dark cinema to a world that was still eye-blink bright. I took a second to shake off Hollywood. It didn’t take long to realise that London was in a sing-song mood, loud birds determined to be heard over the traffic. It was a gorgeous night. Spring had hopped, skipped and settled into summer while we were watching the movie.

  Our goodbye on the street was short and sweet. He walked off without looking over his shoulder. I watched him go. I couldn’t work him out. Who is this person? Who is this person. My subconscious would not back off, it whispered, it rumbled, it questioned. “Who is this person?”

  Lennox Jones was still an unknown to me but I had a feeling he was supposed to be here, meant to be, an admission that caught me by surprise.

  He caught up with me one afternoon as I was walking home from school – it was later than usual because I’d watched Viv at singing group practice. Whoa, the girl can sing. She had lungs stronger than drums and a voice that belonged in another era – golden years away from her auto-tuned popbot peers.

  He was wearing running gear; pimped trainers, pumped arms. I glanced over at him and had to admit he had an interesting profile; slightly broken but almost beautiful, in an unfiltered way.

  “I’m curious. What happened to your nose?” I asked.

  “I met a rock I didn’t like,” he said, a great big grin making light of the damage. “It goes with the surf.”

  “It packed a punch.”

  “You must have come off a board too?” he questioned, eyebrows raised.

  “Everyone does.”

  “No broken wrists, anything?”

  “I don’t break easily, Lennox,” I replied.

  “Call me Jones, everyone else does,” he said. “It’s the new me.”

  “Lennox,” I repeated. “It’s the same me.”

  “Yeah, I forgot. You don’t follow the crowd.”

  “What’s the point?” I shrugged. “I know exactly where I’m going.”

  He stopped walking, dropped hi
s holdall, flung open his arms and tipped his face up towards the sunlight. “Ah, London. She warms up at last. I can feel the love. Can you feel the love?”

  I looked down at my scuffed shoes. What a performance, I thought. I looked up. Cherry trees dressed in pink-blush blossoms lined the pavement. It was a beautifully perfumed street, home to beautifully perfumed people.

  “Do you miss San Francisco? The ocean?” I asked, hoping he was done with worshipping the sun. “The surf, the sunshine, even the rocks?”

  Lennox grinned and opened his eyes, staring at me, I swear, as though I was a famous icon, like Buckingham Palace.

  “I did,” he said, grinning, “until I discovered that London has some pretty awesome attractions.”

  I had to laugh. He was so bad, he was good.

  “Wanna meet the Joneses?” he asked.

  Alarm bells. I much preferred the playboy Lennox who didn’t suggest meeting the parents.

  “Um, I gotta go,” I said. I took a step backwards.

  He stopped. I should have turned, at that moment, and kept on walking. Keep moving. I missed the moment.

  “Two minutes, one Coke, zero chance of outstaying your welcome,” he insisted, pulling me into his circle of sunshine.

  I hesitated. He reached out and slid my rucksack off my shoulder, freeing my hair from the shoulder strap in the process. It was a bold but gentle move.

  “I can carry my own bag, y’know,” I said, exaggerating a frown.

  “I know,” he said.

  “Just so you know,” I said, then let him take it.

  He lived in a large white stucco-fronted villa set back from the street and overlooking a park.

  “Nice rental, right?” he said, springing up the steps two at time to the front door.

  “Not the campervan I had in mind.”

  “No surf, no need. But, yeah, you’re right. Give me four wheels and cruise control over four walls any day.”

  I paused. His villa had more than four walls going on – the place was huge. The quietness on the tree-lined street suggested that everyone else in the world had packed up and gone some place else. The Joneses were not at home? You have to live in hope. Two minutes, one Coke, zero chance of meeting the parents.

  I don’t break easily but I hurt. The moment I fall off my board and the ground rises up to meet me, I’m reminded that I’m just pieces put back together. The physical pain, the bone-jarring crash, scatters me everywhere, helplessly, hopelessly. Then I have to start all over again.

  “Meet the parents,” said Lennox, hauling me into the kitchen. “And the rest of them.”

  I pulled on the brakes, literally digging my heels in, but he was too strong. I could hear the soles of my baseball boots protesting across the polished oak floor as he steered me through the door and into the room. It was the most appropriate sound effect – torturous squeaking.

  Four faces turned to us. I recognised the sisters, who gawped at me, open mouths, as though I were a cat burglar or an urban fox.

  “Lennox, darling!” exclaimed his mother. She looked at him. I looked at her. She looked at me. I saw that she had a bit of a Dolly Parton thing going on including the dazzling rhinestones on her collar. Mrs Jones was no ordinary 9-5 though; she was strikingly tall, athletic, more river deep, mountains high underneath the tight cotton shirt and sparkle.

  “You must be Angie Anderson?” she said, smiling.

  I nodded and pulled off my baseball cap, embarrassed. I’d left my skateboard by the front door, a move I regretted. It was useful as a shield; how I carried it made me feel protected in an alien environment.

  “I’m Ava. Lennox’s mom.” She strode over to us. Hugging Lennox hard. Then she hugged me hard too. I stopped breathing, briefly. Then she released me and turned. “This is my husband, Max. You’ve met Katie and Carrie at school?”

  She stepped back. Everyone smiled and said hello but stood their ground, there would be no more spontaneous hugging. I snatched a breath.

  Max Jones gave me a moment then approached me with his arm stretched out as far it would go. It was a perceptive move; I think he sensed that I was protective of my personal space. “Pleased to meet you, Angie,” he said smiling.

  Remind me never to introduce you to Viv, I thought. He was Elvis but with a modern makeover; no sideburns or rhinestones but he still twinkled. Viv would “swoon”. That would be just the word she would use. She would have to swoon from outside the perimeter fence though because it was plain to see that the man only had eyes for Ava.

  Once the awkward moment was over, an everyday kind of normal revisited the room again: everyone starting talking at once. Drinks, cupcakes, caramel chews were circulated and dispatched and I was no longer the centre of attention.

  So comfortable had it all become that Lennox went as far as leaving me to get on with it; he wandered out into the garden with his father to stand and talk to each other in the sunshine. Californians, no doubt missing the charms of a West Coast sun. Carrie and Katie had disappeared, their bags spilled over the kitchen counter to offer me a snapshot of their life; glitter pens, Hello Kitty tissues, strawberry gloss lip balm, feathered hair clips and cute keyrings embellished with gemstones and popstars.

  Ava, his mum, turned to me and nodded her head in the direction of sofas that looked out over the garden. Floor-to-ceiling windows had been opened to allow the outdoor honeysuckle scent to drift inside.

  “Come sit with me, Angie,” she said. “Take a moment.”

  She flung herself onto the cushions and sighed, the sound disappearing into the rattle of jewellery falling down her arms as she clasped her hands behind her head.

  I lined up polite-conversation cue cards in my head and started with: “This is a beautiful home.”

  She fixed her blue eyes on me and said, “I’m homesick, Angie.”

  It was a welcome surprise. We had cut to the chase. No polite chit-chat required.

  “Give it three months,” I said. “Three months is the magic marker in life, apparently. You need to ride it out, then see how you feel.”

  “I’m sad, Angie. I wanna go home.”

  “Oh, right.” I could tell that three months sounded too much to her. I got that. I used to think that 24 hours was forever – when one lonely minute seemed to last a lifetime.

  She sat up and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m just feeling down.”

  “Please don’t apologise. People get homesick.”

  “About that. I think I’ve self-diagnosed wrong.”

  I raised both eyebrows, clueless as to where this conversation was going.

  “You’re only as happy as your unhappiest child,” she explained. “I think that’s the real problem.”

  I blinked. I was trying to work out what the hell she meant. It was like those double-negative sentences that turn two negatives into a positive one: I can’t get no satisfaction.

  She came to my rescue and explained. “How can you be happy if your child is unhappy?”

  I nodded, although, obviously, I had no experience whatsoever on motherhood. How the hell would I know?

  “It’s like he’s feeling tortured,” she whispered.

  Lennox. Her unhappiest child.

  “He mentioned the headaches,” I volunteered.

  She pounced, clearly eager to know more. “He talks to you?”

  I backed off immediately. “No. No, he doesn’t. He just mentioned it the other week.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  I stared at her. Polite conversation was starting to have its appeal. Where is a safe conversation about the weather when you needed it?

  She added, “He seems more relaxed around you; it’s as though he steps off the battlefield and comes home.”

  “We hang out.” I downplayed my involvement. I wanted to defuse the situation. I didn’t want to be someone’s saviour – I was forever attempting to save me. Then I remembered Lennox saying how I was here to save him. AA to the rescue.

  To my relief, Le
nnox and his father wandered, smiling, back into the room and our conversation ended.

  “Join us for dinner, Angie,” insisted Max Jones.

  I jumped up. “I must go. I’m late.” I ended on a polite finish and said, “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

  I was spared farewell hugs because Ava and Max had their arms around each other, while Lennox mucked around ruffling up his father’s hair and pulling playful punches. He didn’t look miserable to me.

  Ava blew me a kiss and I nodded. I liked her. She wasn’t afraid. This was someone who had it all – beautiful home, handsome husband, high-IQ children. It took balls to admit that everything wasn’t enough. Ava Jones was someone who wanted more. She wanted all of her children to be happy – admittedly two out of three wasn’t bad but it wasn’t enough. No one is too rich or successful to be immune from sadness or a fractured heart. There is no emotional vaccination for that.

  Lennox followed me out onto the street.

  “Please, I want to walk home alone.” I softened the sentence with a smile. “Do you mind?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t mind. Thanks for stopping over, Angie. I mean that.”

  I knew he did. I reached out and gently traced my finger down the rock-face of his broken nose. It took immense control to stop short of touching his lips.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said.

  He just nodded, speechless.

  I turned the corner and once out of sight I stopped. Lennox might have his problems but he had parents, a whole family, who cared about him; a hugfest of a home. You’re only as happy as your unhappiest child.

  I felt such a stab of loss at that moment. Deep inside. It almost brought me to my knees. I breathed in, I swallowed, I got back on my board. Keep moving.

  6

  Angie: survivor

  Team sports tend to be considered a good socialising opportunity, according to the experts. It’s definitely a big deal at our school. The ethos behind the push is pretty much what you would expect: bond-building, buddies and working on those trust issues. It’s about the collective high of winning together and sharing the disappointment when you lose. Accentuating the up, diluting the down. In a losing situation this becomes a convenient psychology: you don’t have to beat yourself up because there is always someone else to share the failure with.