Tell Me Everything by Sarah Salway

made me look older, harder, the kind of girl who wouldn't be bothered what her father thought. I pulled a chair over to the window and stared at the people passing by the street, hoping they would look up at me and see this mysterious, beautiful woman. I can't have been more than about fourteen.”
    I could tell by the trembling of the ladder that Mr. Roberts was laughing below. Somehow I didn't mind.
    “Anyway I was so wrapped up in this daydream that I didn't hear my father's footsteps outside the room. He stormed in, almost pulling the door handle off he was so angry.
    “‘What the hell do you think you're doing?’ he yelled. ‘I come home tired from work, take one look up at my own house and what do I see but you sitting there half-dressed like a prostitute in Amsterdam. Clean that muck off your face straight away.’ “
    “Were you half-dressed?” Mr. Roberts asked.
    I'd been wearing my school uniform. My hair was tied up tightly in two plaits. I didn't even know at that time what a prostitute in Amsterdam looked like. I had to research it in the encyclopedia at the school library. I can still remember the shock it gave me, sitting there in the library reading about those women sitting in shop windows and realizing that's what my father thought of me.
    “Molly, were you half-dressed?” Mr. Roberts's voice jolted me back to the present.
    “Yes,” I said. “I'd stripped down to my undies. I was leaning forward so the men passing by could see all of me. Every so often I'd lift my leg and pretend to scratch it so I could stretch it out again, give them a better look. There were about five men standing outside the window watching me. I liked it. I liked them watching me. I put on a show. I promised them that I'd be there the next day too. That I'd give them a better look at everything then. I had no shame.”
    Mr. Roberts tut-tutted with delight.
    “I think I've finished up here now,” I said, shoving one of the boxes to the side with unnecessary violence. I pulled my skirt tight around my knees as I climbed down, smoothing it straight with my palms when I reached the safety of the shop floor.

Twelve
    “ T im,” I said, hours later as we sat entwined on the park bench. “Why do we never talk?”
    “Hmmm … ?” His foot stopped tapping on the grass. He lifted his chin up so he could look at me. “We're always talking,” he said.
    “We're not. I don't mind. I just wonder if we should do a bit more sometimes. Maybe we could go to the pub or something.”
    “Come with me.” He stood up and held out his hand to help me up. “Not that way!” I'd started to walk to the center of the park where the paths were brightly lit and clearly marked, but instead he took me into the bushes that edged the park, holding down branches for me to climb over, catching prickly twigs so they didn't tear my clothes. I followed him, complaining under my breath.
    “Shhhh.” He put a finger over my lips to stop me. We were standing against a house wall that backed onto the park. “Put your ear to the wall.”
    I did, but could hear nothing.
    Tim frowned. “Now come this way,” he said. I followed Tim again round to one of the cul-de-sacs running off the park. “Starein the window as you walk past. Not too obviously, but take a close look.”
    A woman was sitting on the sofa talking on the telephone. She was twisting a lock of hair round and round a finger, laughing and speaking into the receiver.
    “And now come back and listen properly,” he whispered, and I made my way back. “Did you see her?” he asked. “Put your head really tight against the wall.”
    I still couldn't hear anything but the bricks felt warmer against my cheek. I nodded at Tim, pretending it was working, and he looked pleased.
    “I listen to her a lot,” he said. “She's one of my favorites. I call her the happy woman. But they're everywhere, Molly. Think about it. You don't even have to go against the wall once you become expert. People speak