about how I was feeling, the only person who would understand, and of course he was the one person I couldn’t talk to about it.
When he called me in the summer, I was tempted to speak to him, I really was. The thought of being able to chat to him again, to talk about the books I’d been reading and find out what he thought of Kill Uncle was almost irresistible. Plus, I wanted to know if he was okay. That sounds weird, I know, because after all he dumped me , but there had been all kinds of rumours about him at school, and I was actually a bit worried.
He’d been bunking off school a lot lately, more and more as the year went on. At first it was a relief: the fewer chance encounters in the halls at school the better as far as I was concerned, but after a while it just seemed strange and out of character. I knew he had a rebellious streak but I also knew that it meant a lot to him to do well in his exams because he wanted to get into a good art school. Mum, who was still close friends with Julian’s mother, told me that skipping school was just the start of it. He’d been getting into loads of trouble, she said, he’d been coming home drunk or high or not at all, he’d been in fights, he barely spoke to his parents at all. ‘Sheila’s at the end of her tether,’ Mum told me. ‘She just doesn’t know what to do about him.’
Rumours at school were rife: Julian Symonds had got into serious drugs; Julian Symonds was a Satanist; Julian Symonds had become a complete loner, a weirdo, a drop out. Deep down, I was anxious that this was somehow all my fault. Had he been shunned by the cool set as a result of his inexplicable decision to go out with a nobody from Year Eight? And there was a part of me – the uncharitable part, I suppose – that thought it served him right. He’d broken my heart; I’d ruined his life. No more than he deserved. Except I didn’t really believe that, not at all. The part of me that had been his best friend for those five glorious weeks was terribly worried about him. Still, I resisted the temptation to seek him out and tried, as best I could, to put him out of my mind.
On New Year’s Eve, however, that was never going to be possible. Particularly as I had nothing more exciting than dinner at home with Charles and Mum to distract me. They’d been seeing each other since the summer. Well, that was the official line, anyway. They’d been ‘spending time together, just as friends’ since about five minutes after Dad left. It was a bit unseemly. In the early days, particularly in the wake of my break-up with Julian, Mum and I had fought about it quite a bit. It only took a couple of drunken late-night visits from Dad to get me back on her side, though. Why wouldn’t she want to be with someone like Charles – quiet, considerate, with a surprisingly dry sense of humour (and a doctor, too) – when the alternative was my permanently pissed-off, unreasonable father?
Plus it was hard not to like Charles. He’d been really nice to me, and not in an annoying, I’m-trying-to-replace-your-father or (even worse) an I’m-trying-to-be-your-best-friend way. He was just friendly. He included me. When he and Mum were going to the cinema, he always asked if I wanted to come along too, even if the film was an 18 and I wasn’t really allowed, and even though he knew I’d say no (seriously, who goes to the cinema with their parents?), and whenever I did say no, which was always, he never pressed the point. He just said, ‘All right then. Shall we bring you some wine gums?’
And he’d lent me a ton of books. He had a much better selection than had ever been available in our house, including loads of stuff I’d never heard of, like The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis which was really shocking and explicit. I actually wasn’t all that sure I liked it very much, but it was probably the sort of challenging thing I ought to be reading.
Best of all, though, he made Mum really happy. It
When he called me in the summer, I was tempted to speak to him, I really was. The thought of being able to chat to him again, to talk about the books I’d been reading and find out what he thought of Kill Uncle was almost irresistible. Plus, I wanted to know if he was okay. That sounds weird, I know, because after all he dumped me , but there had been all kinds of rumours about him at school, and I was actually a bit worried.
He’d been bunking off school a lot lately, more and more as the year went on. At first it was a relief: the fewer chance encounters in the halls at school the better as far as I was concerned, but after a while it just seemed strange and out of character. I knew he had a rebellious streak but I also knew that it meant a lot to him to do well in his exams because he wanted to get into a good art school. Mum, who was still close friends with Julian’s mother, told me that skipping school was just the start of it. He’d been getting into loads of trouble, she said, he’d been coming home drunk or high or not at all, he’d been in fights, he barely spoke to his parents at all. ‘Sheila’s at the end of her tether,’ Mum told me. ‘She just doesn’t know what to do about him.’
Rumours at school were rife: Julian Symonds had got into serious drugs; Julian Symonds was a Satanist; Julian Symonds had become a complete loner, a weirdo, a drop out. Deep down, I was anxious that this was somehow all my fault. Had he been shunned by the cool set as a result of his inexplicable decision to go out with a nobody from Year Eight? And there was a part of me – the uncharitable part, I suppose – that thought it served him right. He’d broken my heart; I’d ruined his life. No more than he deserved. Except I didn’t really believe that, not at all. The part of me that had been his best friend for those five glorious weeks was terribly worried about him. Still, I resisted the temptation to seek him out and tried, as best I could, to put him out of my mind.
On New Year’s Eve, however, that was never going to be possible. Particularly as I had nothing more exciting than dinner at home with Charles and Mum to distract me. They’d been seeing each other since the summer. Well, that was the official line, anyway. They’d been ‘spending time together, just as friends’ since about five minutes after Dad left. It was a bit unseemly. In the early days, particularly in the wake of my break-up with Julian, Mum and I had fought about it quite a bit. It only took a couple of drunken late-night visits from Dad to get me back on her side, though. Why wouldn’t she want to be with someone like Charles – quiet, considerate, with a surprisingly dry sense of humour (and a doctor, too) – when the alternative was my permanently pissed-off, unreasonable father?
Plus it was hard not to like Charles. He’d been really nice to me, and not in an annoying, I’m-trying-to-replace-your-father or (even worse) an I’m-trying-to-be-your-best-friend way. He was just friendly. He included me. When he and Mum were going to the cinema, he always asked if I wanted to come along too, even if the film was an 18 and I wasn’t really allowed, and even though he knew I’d say no (seriously, who goes to the cinema with their parents?), and whenever I did say no, which was always, he never pressed the point. He just said, ‘All right then. Shall we bring you some wine gums?’
And he’d lent me a ton of books. He had a much better selection than had ever been available in our house, including loads of stuff I’d never heard of, like The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis which was really shocking and explicit. I actually wasn’t all that sure I liked it very much, but it was probably the sort of challenging thing I ought to be reading.
Best of all, though, he made Mum really happy. It
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