Looking for Alex by Marian Dillon

before.’
    ‘Where? You mean at Bestie’s party? Like two drags?’
    ‘Beth, if you want some I’ll roll a joint later.’ Fitz comes and sits on the floor with us and I see now that his eyes are green, cat’s eyes. ‘And then afterwards you can go to bed and sleep it off. The way Pete bakes cakes there’s no way of knowing how much is in each one. It’s unpredictable.’
    ‘But it’s much more fun,’ Pete drawls, unwrapping one of the cakes. He takes a large bite, then picks another out of the tin and tosses it over to Alex. She catches it and lets it lie in her lap.
    ‘I’ll have it later,’ she says, and her attempt at compromise makes Pete smile.
    ‘Well, you’ll have some catching up to do,’ he says, stuffing the last of the cake into his mouth.
    Alex shrugs, peels the cake’s wrapper, and eats it.
    The afternoon wears on into early evening. Its rambling conversation — from how to cook Bolognaise sauce to is there any such thing as ‘free love’ since someone always ends up paying — is punctuated only by more pots of tea and the flipping of LPs on the turntable. I take little part in it, still shy, but Fitz, who does not have one of the cakes, becomes quite animated and seems to forget his earlier irritation. At some point my need for the bathroom overcomes my caution. While I’m in there I hear footsteps going up the attic stairs; if it’s Celia she obviously doesn’t want to join the party. Pete eats another cake and as he grows more stoned he drops the faintly mocking superiority and becomes kinder to Alex. They lie side by side on Fitz’s bed, hands entwined, like a medieval stone knight and his lady.
    Fitz and I seem unable to find anything to say to each other then and the growing silence between us unnerves me. We listen to the whole of
Dark Side of the Moon
without speaking at all. Fitz lies on the floor and I sit very quietly, not moving, knees drawn up to my chin and my hands clasped around them. I have no idea what’s going to happen next and feel further apart from Alex than ever.
    At about seven Alex and Pete go off to their own room. ‘Back in a bit,’ says Alex, vaguely.
    Fitz looks over at me then, his head on one side, considering. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he says.
    ‘I’m not,’ I lie as panic creeps icily through me. ‘It’s just all weird. I want to talk to Alex and I can’t get near her.’
    ‘She won’t go home, you know.’
    I ignore that and brave the question that’s bothering me. ‘Why did Alex say I was sleeping in here?’
    ‘Because I’m going to sleep downstairs.’ There’s no way of telling whether he minds.
    ‘I could go downstairs,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to give up your room.’
    ‘Don’t worry. I’m used to sleeping in odd places. You might get spooked down there on your own.’
    There’s some truth in that.
    ‘Are you hungry?’ Fitz asks, and I realise that breakfast at home is the last meal I had. My stomach growls in response and we both grin.
    ‘Starving.’
    ‘Come on, Beth. Let’s go eat.’
    I follow him down to the kitchen, hugely cheered at the thought of food — and a room to which I can later escape.
    *
    25th July 1977
    Somewhere outside music jangles:
Greensleeves
. Mr Whippy music. Is this Sunday? Turning onto my back, I stare up blearily, trying to make sense of the strange angles and shapes of the room, none of which add up to my bedroom. Then I see my bag in the corner, slung down next to a pile of LPs, and my eyes snap open. This isn’t home. I’m in London. I’m in a squat with a bunch of strangers.
    The house is eerily silent. Sunshine filters weakly through the thin cotton sheet over the window, casting pale shadows, but it could be any time of the day to me, not knowing east from west in this house. I lift one arm to peer at my watch, which tells me two things: that it’s past midday, and that my head is going to hurt like hell when I raise it properly off the pillow. Well, not pillow —