Wonderland by Joanna Nadin Read Free Book Online Page B

emptiness.
    I hated Rachel, and said so. Dad never saw anyone after that. Said we weren’t ready. He wasn’t ready. So now he just works. And has his nightly drink.
    I hear his voice rise above the music. It’s nothing. Nobody. And I feel the grip around my throat and chest again. This suffocating house. Town. Life. And I know that I won’t tell him. Not now. In case he spoils it. This perfect day.
    I pull the door shut, fold the letter, stuff it into the pocket of my jeans, and go back to the Spaghetti Hoops and the papers and the endless clutching monotony of his world.

“ BLOODY HELL, Jude. Come on!” Stella is leaning on the gate, one hand on her hip, the other tight around the neck of a half liter of vodka. £4.99. Second shelf down, next to the cherry brandy.
    I’m struggling up the path in a pair of three-inch Mary Janes and the black dress. Not really outdoor wear. But Stella just says, “Lily Allen wore a wedding dress to Glastonbury.” So I don’t argue.
    Told Dad I was going to see Ed. Just not where. Or who else would be there. Only half a lie, then.
    I trip on a clump of grass and twist my ankle. “Ow . . . oh, shit . . . I told you I should have worn boots.”
    “Take them off, then.” Stella unscrews the cap and swigs back a mouthful. “You can go barefoot. Like the hippies.” She twirls around, her tulle skirt sticking out like a ballerina’s. Or a fairy. She is Tinkerbell. On crack. Which makes me who? Wendy?
    I unstrap the shoes and put them in my bag on top of the cans of lager and the jumper I brought (on the grounds that there is nothing decadent or sexy in dying from hypothermia). The path is dusty underfoot. My ankle hurts, and I know I’ll tread on glass or mud or something worse on the way home. But right now, I just want to get there. I reach the gate and we climb over, and onto the Point.
    It is wide and long. Covered in grass, its rocky tips stretching out like fingers, stroking the sea. It seems friendly, benign. And during the day it is. Bathed in sunshine, its skin alive with walkers in candy-colored rain ponchos. But that’s not where we’re going. Beyond the fence that keeps the tourists in are the ledges. Three platforms going down the cliffs. Salt-spattered. Worn flat by the tides. And by surfers and smokers and daredevils, watching the waves, drinking until dawn.
    “Ciggy?” Stella holds out the packet she took earlier.
    I hesitate for a second. I see him in the stockroom on the phone, among the boxes of cornflakes and tins of soup. Then I see her, Mum, in that photo. Pink heels, cigarette trailing in her hand. And I know which one I want to be. So this time I say yes.
    Stella lights it. I take a drag, carefully, trying not to betray my amateur status. It tastes familiar. Of biscuits and bonfires. It hurts my throat, but I don’t cough. I have passed.
    “Whose cars are those?” Stella nods down the hill.
    I look. A Land Rover, a VW Camper, and a cluster of hatchbacks are parked randomly on the grass.
    “Um. The Land Rover’s Ed’s. Camper van is Matt’s. Not sure about the others.” Then I see the Mini Cooper. Red convertible. Still shining new. My stomach lurches. Because if he’s here, so is she. Then I feel the cigarette between my fingers. The dry grass beneath my bare feet. And I remember who I am. Tonight, at least.
I can do this,
I think. And, anyway, she’s the least of my worries. It’s Ed I should be afraid of. Of what he’ll say when he sees Stella.
    “Blair Henderson. The Mini, I mean. It’s Blair’s.”
    “Who’s Blair Henderson?”
    “Yachtie. Goes to County Boys’. Daddy owns a marina.” I look at Stella. “He’s going out with Emily Applegate, before you start getting any ideas.”
    “Moi?”
Stella mouths. “As if. Anyway, why’s he hanging out with Ed? Or, why’s Ed hanging out with him?”
    “He’s not. They both know Matt. He’s in Ed’s band and Blair gets dope off him. . . . Plus there’s no one else to hang out with