over the six-week break, there would come a day when Catherine could find a few hours for herself and Alison, whose weekend job at the supermarket gave her plenty of free time.
If it rained they’d sit in Alison’s bedroom listening to her Take That CD over and over again, while Alison told elaborate stories of how one day the two of them would meet the band and be whisked off on a romantic world tour with them. Alison always got Robbie, Catherine could have her pick of the rest. But on a sunny day, like the day Catherine had met Marc James, they would go to the park so that Alison could work on her tan while she peeredover the top of her sunglasses at any passing boys. Sometimes they’d see other girls from school who’d sit with them a while and gossip about who fancied whom, but that was only if Alison was there. If Catherine was alone the other girls would wave at her and shout hi, but they would never sit down. Catherine just didn’t have that knack for friendship that Alison had, the easy ability to make people want to spend time with her. The older they got the more it puzzled Catherine that Alison wanted to invest so much time in her, maintaining their friendship when it would have been so much easier for her not to. But now that they had known each other so long it seemed foolish to ask. The two of them together, that was just the way it was. Catherine trusted in that.
One day Catherine had been waiting in the park for Alison to make an entrance into her life. When the two girls had reached the age of seventeen, it seemed Alison no longer arrived anywhere on time because she had learned that most people, especially boys, would wait for her almost indefinitely. And that summer, even though Alison had been nursing her own secret crush, she’d started to accumulate boyfriends. Not the kind she used to have—some fleeting romance that would begin at registration and be over by the afternoon break—but dates with real boys to the cinema, McDonald’s, and sometimes even the pub, where Alison would sip a Cinzano Bianco and lemonade.
Catherine had laughed and listened, wide-eyed, to her friend’s detailed descriptions of her first kiss, the first time a boy had put his hand up her top, and how it had taken David Jenkins ages to undo the hook of her bra because his hands had been shaking so much in excitement. It was a change in her friend’s life that was as alien as it was fascinating to Catherine. Her imagination simply could not conceive what it would be like to touch a boy, kiss one, or even hold his hand, so limited was her experience of the opposite sex. All she knew was that ever since Alison had started goingout with boys, her lateness increased and once or twice she hadn’t shown at all.
The trouble was, Catherine remembered thinking on that day as she sat, her back against a tree, feeling its rough bark imprinting into her skin through the thin cotton of her dress, she often felt a little bit as if her life wasn’t actually real when Alison wasn’t in it. It was like that riddle about the falling tree in an empty forest and whether it made any sound as it crashed to the ground if no one was there to hear it. When Alison wasn’t there to see her, Catherine felt entirely invisible.
She had closed her eyes briefly and pushed her sunglasses up her nose, tapping her feet as she hummed quietly to herself. And then the sunlight had dimmed behind her eyelids and the skin on her legs cooled as a shadow fell over them.
“Well, it’s about time,” she said easily, pushing her sunglasses into her hair, opening her eyes and expecting to find Alison, her vision momentarily dazzled by the bright light. The shape that loomed over her in the instant it took her to focus was male, it was a boy—no, not a boy. It was a young man.
Catherine judged that he was shorter than her, stocky with muscular arms and a bare chest, dark-haired, and olive-skinned. He was barefoot, holding his T-shirt in one hand and
If it rained they’d sit in Alison’s bedroom listening to her Take That CD over and over again, while Alison told elaborate stories of how one day the two of them would meet the band and be whisked off on a romantic world tour with them. Alison always got Robbie, Catherine could have her pick of the rest. But on a sunny day, like the day Catherine had met Marc James, they would go to the park so that Alison could work on her tan while she peeredover the top of her sunglasses at any passing boys. Sometimes they’d see other girls from school who’d sit with them a while and gossip about who fancied whom, but that was only if Alison was there. If Catherine was alone the other girls would wave at her and shout hi, but they would never sit down. Catherine just didn’t have that knack for friendship that Alison had, the easy ability to make people want to spend time with her. The older they got the more it puzzled Catherine that Alison wanted to invest so much time in her, maintaining their friendship when it would have been so much easier for her not to. But now that they had known each other so long it seemed foolish to ask. The two of them together, that was just the way it was. Catherine trusted in that.
One day Catherine had been waiting in the park for Alison to make an entrance into her life. When the two girls had reached the age of seventeen, it seemed Alison no longer arrived anywhere on time because she had learned that most people, especially boys, would wait for her almost indefinitely. And that summer, even though Alison had been nursing her own secret crush, she’d started to accumulate boyfriends. Not the kind she used to have—some fleeting romance that would begin at registration and be over by the afternoon break—but dates with real boys to the cinema, McDonald’s, and sometimes even the pub, where Alison would sip a Cinzano Bianco and lemonade.
Catherine had laughed and listened, wide-eyed, to her friend’s detailed descriptions of her first kiss, the first time a boy had put his hand up her top, and how it had taken David Jenkins ages to undo the hook of her bra because his hands had been shaking so much in excitement. It was a change in her friend’s life that was as alien as it was fascinating to Catherine. Her imagination simply could not conceive what it would be like to touch a boy, kiss one, or even hold his hand, so limited was her experience of the opposite sex. All she knew was that ever since Alison had started goingout with boys, her lateness increased and once or twice she hadn’t shown at all.
The trouble was, Catherine remembered thinking on that day as she sat, her back against a tree, feeling its rough bark imprinting into her skin through the thin cotton of her dress, she often felt a little bit as if her life wasn’t actually real when Alison wasn’t in it. It was like that riddle about the falling tree in an empty forest and whether it made any sound as it crashed to the ground if no one was there to hear it. When Alison wasn’t there to see her, Catherine felt entirely invisible.
She had closed her eyes briefly and pushed her sunglasses up her nose, tapping her feet as she hummed quietly to herself. And then the sunlight had dimmed behind her eyelids and the skin on her legs cooled as a shadow fell over them.
“Well, it’s about time,” she said easily, pushing her sunglasses into her hair, opening her eyes and expecting to find Alison, her vision momentarily dazzled by the bright light. The shape that loomed over her in the instant it took her to focus was male, it was a boy—no, not a boy. It was a young man.
Catherine judged that he was shorter than her, stocky with muscular arms and a bare chest, dark-haired, and olive-skinned. He was barefoot, holding his T-shirt in one hand and
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