Billy and Me, Page 20

  It wasn’t as if I transformed my life and turned back into the carefree, larger-than-life character I was before my dad died – I don’t think she’ll ever return – but I started to let people in a bit more. I started to feel human again.

  Obviously, as an adult, looking back I can see that I didn’t actually kill my dad, some intoxicated moron, who was too drunk to realize that he’d even knocked someone over, let alone killed them, had. I can see that I didn’t actually cause my mum to miscarry either; events like that are out of our control. However, somewhere deep inside me that eleven-year-old girl still picks away at me occasionally, causing me to doubt myself. After all, the chain of events did start with me, and my appalling behaviour …

  I stop speaking, suddenly aware that tears have been streaming down my face whilst filling Billy in on the details of those morbid years.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself down.

  ‘Baby, you don’t need to say sorry,’ says Billy softly, his forehead lined with concern.

  ‘I worry that I’m forgetting him …’ I blurt. ‘I don’t remember his face any more. Well, I do, but the image in my head is from the pictures of him I’ve had surrounding me, not of him moving around and actually living. I can’t remember his laugh, his voice …’ I admit, shaking my head.

  ‘That’s only natural, but it doesn’t mean you love him any less.’

  ‘But I never really knew him. Not in the way adults know and understand each other, you know? I knew him as a child,’ I explain. ‘I heard somewhere that when people die, those around them have a desire to turn them into some sort of saint, to put them on this unrealistic pedestal, which is far from the reality of who that person actually was. Maybe I’ve done that. Maybe he wasn’t a great man.’

  ‘And maybe he was.’

  ‘Maybe …’ I mutter, looking at the floor, trying to gather my thoughts. Surprised that I’ve allowed myself to voice this fear, which I’ve kept to myself for so long. ‘Oh, I’m so angry with Molly!’ I groan.

  ‘But she didn’t know what Sally was up to. You know that.’

  ‘No, Billy, that’s not the point. I didn’t think she’d ever share what I told her with anyone else.’

  ‘But she didn’t. Can’t you see that she didn’t share any of the details you’ve just told me? You don’t know what Sally said to get those words out of her or how she’s twisted her sentences to fit the piece. This Carla person must’ve mentioned the whole thing first; it wouldn’t have been Molly, that’s for sure.’

  I think back to the text I’d received from Carla on the night of the BAFTAs; she did say that she’d be back in Rosefont Hill to see her parents the following week, and that she’d pop into the shop while she was there, so no doubt that’s when she would have spoken to Sally. Carla probably went in declaring that she was once my best friend or some nonsense like that. She’d have loved passing on information and acting in the know, probably feeling a little bit vindictive because her message to me had gone unanswered. My guess is that, after getting wind of the story, Sally would have turned to Molly for clarification of what she’d heard or simply to fill in the blanks.

  ‘I just wish she hadn’t said anything. I know she loves a gossip, but this is …’ I shake my head, at a loss for words.

  ‘Has she tried to call you?’ Billy asks calmly.

  ‘Yes. I’ve had more than sixty calls from her,’ I say sheepishly.

  ‘Don’t you think you should call her back?’

  ‘No! Not yet … I can’t yet. I have to think about what I’d say first.’

  ‘What about your mum?’ Billy asks with a sigh.

  I hadn’t even thought about Mum. I don’t remember seeing any missed calls from her, but she’s bound to have seen the papers today in the library.

  ‘I’ll call her!’ I say, rushing to get my phone from the kitchen counter, ashamed at not having phoned her sooner.

  ‘Hello, Rosefont Hill Library. Susan speaking. How can I help?’ Susan asks in her usual bored tone.

  ‘Susan, it’s Sophie here.’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she says, perking up at the mention of my name.

  ‘Is Mum there at all?’

  ‘No, she’s taken the day off.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Although she did open up first thing. She was here when the papers arrived but then asked to leave when I got in. Said she wasn’t feeling well,’ she says dubiously, letting me know that there was more to it.

  ‘Right, I’ll try her at home, then. Thanks, Susan,’ I say before putting down the phone and dialling mum’s home number, shooting Billy a worried glance.

  ‘She left when she saw the papers,’ I say, shaking my head, listening to the continuous ringing of the phone. ‘There’s no answer.’

  I look at Billy in a panic.

  ‘Don’t worry … let’s just drive out there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, already running to the bedroom to change out of my pyjamas so that we can leave.

  ‘Of course!’ he says, following me, throwing on some clean clothes. ‘It’s not as if either of us is going to relax until we know she’s OK, are we?’

  I don’t bother knocking when we arrive home. I use my key instead and let us both in. We walk through to the living room, where we find Mum sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes. Straight away I feel sick at the thought of her obsessive cleaning again; however, before I can react I spot what’s in her hand and scattered on the floor around her: photos of Dad. Tears instantly prickle at my eyes.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, startled, clearly deeply immersed in the photo she was looking at. ‘Hello, you two. What are you doing all the way out here?’ she asks, before lifting the photograph to her face, a smile forming as she takes in the image.

  ‘I tried to call you.’

  ‘Oh, was that you? I thought it was one of those cold callers,’ she says, distractedly.

  ‘Mum?’ I plead, knowing that she’s seen the papers, and that she knows why we’re here.

  ‘I’m fine, love,’ she says, lowering the photo in her hand and letting out a sigh, looking up at us both.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes …’ she says slowly, looking back down at the pictures on the floor. ‘I saw that photo in the paper and had a sudden longing to see more of them. I can’t remember the last time I had a good root through all of these. I don’t think I have since …’ she breaks off sadly.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ asks Billy, gently rubbing her shoulder.

  Mum places her hand on top of his and pats it as she nods.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’

  With Billy out of the room I go over and kneel beside Mum, looking down at the scattered photos.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve even seen most of these!’ I say, as I pick up photos of Mum and Dad looking extremely young and funky.

  ‘No, you won’t have done, because you’re not in them,’ Mum says with a chuckle.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You used to have this obsession about it being the three of us … I don’t think your little mind could quite grasp back then that your mummy and daddy had a life before you were born. It was as if we were leaving you out and you’d go off and sulk. You were only interested in seeing pictures that involved you in some way.’

  ‘Such a spoilt brat,’ I mutter.

  ‘No, you weren’t … you just had some funny ways about you, that’s all. Your dad used to find your little quirks so endearing. He used to argue that it was charming and that your need for inclusion was beautiful. You were never needy, love, you were a giver. His little lovebug.’

  I can’t help the lump that forms in my throat or the tears that fall at hearing this new piece of information.

  ‘I’m so sorry …’ I say, instantly feeling guilty, wiping the tears away.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with crying, love,’ Mum says, putting her hand on my knee. ‘I used to worry about
you not letting your emotions out.’

  I just nod, biting my lip, not sure what to say.

  ‘Sometimes I just lie in bed and think about what must go through his head as he looks down at us,’ she confesses. ‘I know he’d be so proud of you, Sophie.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask meekly, not sure that I understand why he would be.

  ‘Oh yes, moving to London like that was a big decision, driven by love, he’d have liked that bit. He was such a romantic thing. Although, I don’t know what he’d have been like around Billy.’

  ‘Don’t you think he’d have liked him, then?’

  ‘Oh, he’d have loved him. But your dad was so protective of his little angel. I think he’d be keeping Billy at arms’ length, letting him know that if he were ever to cross the line and hurt you that he’d be in for it.’

  ‘I’d have won him round in no time!’ declares Billy as he comes back into the room carrying a tray with three mugs.

  ‘I don’t doubt that,’ grins Mum.

  ‘What on earth are you two wearing in this one?’ I ask, laughing, as I spot a photo of the pair of them, Mum wearing a yellow chequered dress and Dad in a flower-patterned shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a tad too much chest hair, with high-waisted orange hipsters.

  Mum takes the photo, peers closely at it and just smiles.

  ‘That was our first date at the cinema, one of his friends took it, I think.’

  I look at Mum as she absorbs the image and remembers a happier time. A bubble of love and warmth engulfing her as she enjoys the feeling reminiscing gives her, after blocking out those memories for so long.

  The doorbell rings, causing us all to look at each other. I notice Mum’s cheeks turn a bright shade of pink.

  ‘Erm … I’ll just go and get that,’ she says, before shuffling towards the front door.

  Billy looks at me questioningly. I shrug in response, not sure who it could be and what could cause Mum’s sudden change of behaviour.

  When we hear Mum’s muffled conversation at the door, it’s immediately apparent that she is trying to get rid of whoever has arrived. It’s a man. I assume it’s the male company she’s been keeping. Without thinking I jump to my feet and head towards them.

  I spot Mum hanging out of the front door talking quickly to an ashen-faced man in front of her.

  ‘Hi, I’m Sophie,’ I say, peering over Mum’s shoulder at the visitor. ‘Do you want to come in for a cuppa? The kettle’s still hot.’

  Mum turns to me, her jaw slackened in shock, not quite sure how to deal with the situation.

  ‘Erm … is that OK, Jane?’ the man asks, looking at Mum hesitantly.

  She looks at me before she answers, studying my face to see if it’s a good idea.

  ‘Yes … yes, that would be nice. Sophie, this is my friend Colin,’ she says, stepping out of the way to let Colin enter.

  ‘Hello, Sophie, a pleasure to meet you finally. I’ve heard so much about you,’ he says, reaching forward and giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  I smile back at him, taking in his rounded face and neat grey hair, his voice soft and kind. Yes, I can see why Mum would like spending time with him; so far he seems very friendly.

  ‘Shall we go into the kitchen?’ I ask, aware of the photos of Dad still on the floor in the living room and not wanting this to be even more uncomfortable than it already is.

  ‘Good idea,’ says Mum, giving my hand a quick squeeze, before leading the way.

  ‘I’ll bring in our teas,’ offers Billy loudly from the other room, letting us know he’s been listening in.

  ‘I brought this round for you, Jane,’ Colin says, pulling a 550-piece puzzle of baked beans out of the plastic bag he has been carrying. ‘It’s called an impossipuzzle, or something like that. Aaron, my son,’ he says for my benefit, ‘gave it to me last Christmas.’

  ‘Oh?’ questions Mum.

  ‘It’s highly frustrating as it all looks the blooming same, but I guess that’s what makes it all the more satisfying when you finish it,’ he adds sheepishly. ‘It took me days.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ says Mum, as she takes the box and studies it.

  I’m drawn in by the innocence of the exchange, happy that Mum has someone in her life to make such simple, yet thoughtful, gestures.

  Silence falls on the room as we all stand awkwardly looking at the floor.

  ‘Oh, sorry! I’ll get you that tea!’ I blurt, turning to the kettle.

  Before we head back to London, I walk up to my old bedroom and pack some of the photo frames and pictures from my wall, deciding to hang them up in Billy’s flat instead – his idea. It feels strange to take them down from the spot where Dad hung them all those years ago, but I know I’ll benefit more from having them with me and being able to look at them every day.

  Mum walks in on me and wraps her arms around me.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

  ‘Don’t be silly. You couldn’t have left him out in the cold,’ I smile. ‘He seems nice.’

  ‘He is.’

  Mum sits on the bed and sighs heavily, letting me know she’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.

  ‘You really should call Molly, love.’

  ‘I will,’ I say with a shrug, not really wanting to talk about Molly now, happy to ignore the situation.

  ‘Petal, I spoke to her earlier and she feels awf—’

  ‘Mum!’ I moan, stopping her.

  She sighs again, clearly disappointed that I don’t want to discuss the matter – but unable to leave it there.

  ‘Just remember everything she’s done for you. This isn’t her fault.’

  ‘I know, Mum. I know. I promise I’ll call her later.’

  ‘Well, don’t make her wait too long. She’s a good lady who is distraught at having let you down. Don’t make her suffer,’ she pleads. ‘She’s really done nothing wrong.’

  I try to focus on the photos in front of me, as I pack them into a box, blocking out Mum’s words. I don’t want to speak to Molly yet. I know she’ll be feeling terrible, and I hate that Sally has used her in this way, but I’m just not ready to tell her it’s fine and that it doesn’t matter. Not yet. It’s already been such a heartrending day, I’m exhausted, and I don’t think I could cope with another big chat right now.

  Sitting in the car on the way home Billy takes my hand and kisses it.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Bizarrely, yes,’ I say, smiling back at him. ‘What a strange day.’

  ‘It’s been an emotional one for you.’

  ‘Yeah. I feel quite drained now.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘It’s good to see Mum looking happy with Colin, though.’

  ‘Did you find it strange to see?’

  ‘Not really, actually. They seem more like friends than anything else, don’t they? But even if they’re more than that, I think it’s made me realize how lonely this has been for her. I’m glad she has someone to talk to and look out for her.’

  ‘He seemed very caring.’

  ‘Yeah, I liked him.’

  ‘He’s widowed too, you know,’ Billy reveals.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘His wife passed away in her sleep two years ago.’

  ‘Oh …’ It’s tragic that they’ve both lost their significant others, but it comforts me to know Mum has someone to share that pain with now. Colin has clearly been the reason behind her new outlook and being able to look back at her life with Dad with joy, so I’m grateful to him for that.

  ‘Paul called when you were upstairs with your mum,’ continues Billy. ‘He’s been trying to get hold of me all day. I had a brief chat with him.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much, just checking that you’re OK.’

  ‘That’s nice of him.’

  ‘He’s had a few editors approach him to see if you’d like to share your side of the story. But he’s told them that seeing as they didn’t have the human decency to contact you before running th
e story, you have no desire to speak to them now. I think that was the right thing for him to say.’

  ‘Yeah! Definitely,’ I say.

  ‘He’s really fighting your corner.’

  What’s this? Paul showing some kindness towards me? He has a business mind when it comes to Billy, always striving for him to reach the dizzy heights of stardom, but maybe somewhere in there he actually does have a heart. Maybe … or perhaps he just wants Billy to think he does.

  18

  ‘Right, I just want you to read it,’ says Billy, a few days later, coming out of the bedroom with the script of The Walking Beat in his hands.

  I look at him questioningly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that you know what to expect …’ he says, biting his lip.

  ‘In what way?’

  He shrugs, guilt flickering across his face.

  ‘Is this your way of telling me there’re a few scenes I won’t be thrilled about?’

  Billy sighs, sitting down next to me on the sofa.

  ‘I just want you to read it all in context, if I tell you what’s in it without you seeing it you’ll just freak.’

  ‘Your words are so comforting right now,’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘I’m sorry. Just remember it’s an amazing script with a brilliant director, who will film it in an arty way. It’s going to look more classy and less like porn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Argh! See? I’m not good at explaining it,’ he moans, covering his eyes with his hands. ‘I just want you to think of it as more of a mechanical thing, rather than something with feelings involved. Just read it, please?’

  ‘Fine!’ I say grumpily, turning the first page, irritated as Billy continues to just sit on the sofa, staring at me as I go to read it. ‘Are you just going to watch me?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, breaking away and getting up off the sofa. ‘Actually, Paul wanted me to drop by and sign some papers. I might as well go do that quickly while you read this.’