One Minute to Midnight Page 2

  Mum could never do anything right. That’s what she always used to say, anyway. ‘No matter what I do, it’s never right, is it? I never do anything right.’ When I was younger this struck me as odd, because Mum did do everything right. She was a brilliant storyteller. When she was reading to me at night she’d have me in stitches, giving Peter Rabbit a broad Glaswegian accent or reading the whole of The Cat in The Hat in a Jamaican patois. She was incredibly patient: she was the one who taught me to ride a bike, to swim, to bake brownies, to play pool – Dad didn’t teach me anything, except perhaps how to fish. And how to swear. So why, I wondered, did she think she never did anything right?

  There may have been a time when my parents were happily married, but if there was, I don’t remember it. I do remember, when I was much younger, that things were better. Dad and I used to be friends. That was a long time ago, though. For years now, there had been tension in the air whenever Dad was around. Mum and I were quieter when he was in the house; we made ourselves small. We walked on eggshells; we tried not to get in the way. Things had been bad for a while now, and they were getting steadily worse. The screaming matches that had made me cry when I was little were now much more regular. And they weren’t just screaming matches any more either; these days they always seemed to end with something – a chair, a plate, a window, my first, greatly treasured, Sony Discman – getting broken.

  The Discman incident had taken place a couple of weeks before Christmas. The Discman itself had no bearing on the row; it had nothing to do with the row. It was an innocent bystander. The row concerned a shirt. An unironed shirt. The thing was, Mum, who was a nurse in A&E, had worked a double shift because one of the other nurses had phoned in reporting ‘a family emergency’ (read: hangover) and they hadn’t been able to find any other cover at the last minute. So my mother, who was the senior nurse on the ward and a highly conscientious person, agreed to work an extra eight hours. Instead of coming home at six-thirty in the evening, she’d arrived back just after two in the morning and had gone straight to bed, without ironing the shirt my father had intended to wear to work the following day. This, it turned out, was a disaster.

  In the morning, getting ready for school, I heard him shouting. ‘I have a meeting today, Elizabeth! Jesus Christ! Can you never do anything I ask? Blue shirt, grey suit, I told you this. Why is it so bloody difficult to listen? You just never listen, do you?’ Standing in the hallway, their bedroom door slightly ajar, I watched him shake her awake.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I heard her say as she was groping on the bedside table for her glasses, ‘I’ll do it now.’

  ‘It’s too late, it’s too bloody late now, isn’t it? Or do you want to make me late? Is that it? Do you want me to look a fool at work?’ He pushed past me and crashed down the stairs, taking two at a time, Mum followed at a run, shooting me an apologetic glance as she hurried by. Like she was the one who had to apologise.

  I hovered on the landing at the top of the stairs, not wanting to listen to the row continuing downstairs, but unable to walk away.

  ‘It’s important for me, Elizabeth!’ he was shouting again. ‘This meeting is important. Jesus Christ, if you paid half as much mind to me, to this household, as you did to your patients, everything would be fine.’ I could hear the sound of the ironing board being dragged from its resting place next to the washing machine, the clank of metal as it was brought to stand.

  ‘I told you! I have to leave now, you’re too late!’ Miscellaneous banging and crashing. ‘But could you please do me one favour? Just one thing?’

  ‘What is it, Jack?’ her voice was clear and even, the voice she used when she didn’t want to provoke him, but she was prepared to show that she wasn’t afraid, either. She used that voice a lot.

  ‘Will you tidy this bloody place up?’ Crash. Something smashed. As I discovered later, it was my Discman hitting the kitchen wall. ‘It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in weeks.’

  That had been the last big confrontation. Since then, over Christmas and in the run-up to New Year’s Eve, peace had descended on the Blake household. Dad had been off work, which always put him in a good mood, and – better yet – we’d had my uncle Chris staying with us. Chris, Dad’s older brother, seemed to have a calming effect on Dad, who was an altogether more reasonable person when Chris was around. In the face of considerable provocation – Mum working long hours, the interminable pissing rain, even England’s ‘total bloody capitulation’ in the second Ashes test – Dad didn’t throw a single tantrum.

  I spent most of that week preparing for the party. In addition to my outfit, my hair and make-up and the music, I was in charge of preparing snacks – this was the price I had to pay for my admission. I was also required to help clean the house on the day of the party, and to lug tins of beer and bottles of soda water from the back of Dad’s car to the ice-filled bathtub.

  Mum and Dad were always entertaining. Maybe it was because we weren’t the happiest of households, they liked having other people around, it eased the tension. They were always having barbecues, fancy dress parties and loud birthday bashes with karaoke machines. The planning of these events followed a regular course: Dad would suggest the party, but as the date drew near he’d decide it was a terrible idea and that they didn’t have time to organise it, he’d work himself into a furious rage about it and eventually wash his hands of the whole thing, Mum would do all the actual preparation, she would organise the drinks and make the food and invite the guests. At the party itself, Dad would inevitably get blind drunk and the following morning he’d say to her the next day, ‘That was good, wasn’t it? Good idea of mine, to have a party, wasn’t it?’ He’d say it with a half smile; I never knew whether it was his way of apologising.

  They did throw good parties, though. They had lots of friends, mostly Mum’s, most of whom were quite rowdy and enjoyed a drink. There would be lots of nurses and hospital admin staff, the occasional hospital porter and, even rarer, the odd doctor. A few of Dad’s mates from work (who weren’t so much fun) would also come, plus Uncle Chris, the next-to-next-door neighbours (Dad didn’t get on with the people immediately next door) and a few other old family friends. This New Year’s Eve we were expecting no fewer than thirty-five guests to cram themselves into our two-up, two-down semi in suburban High Wycombe. It was going to be a packed house.

  The party was due to start around seven, although Dad and Uncle Chris had opened their first beers a couple of hours earlier. Mum was on duty until six, so she barely had time to get home and shower and change before the first guests started arriving. She looked great, in fitted black trousers, a gauzy, floral print top and pink kitten heels. She’d had her hair done specially, her blond hair cropped short, it gave her this cool, elfin, impish look, a bit like Annie Lennox.

  I was in a state of feverish anticipation, my stomach was churning with nerves and too much Diet Coke. I wanted to play it cool, but somehow I just couldn’t seem to manage it. I hung around the front door, greeting my parents’ guests, taking coats, constantly watching the road outside for a glimpse of the Symonds’ red Volvo.

  When eight o’clock came and went and there was still no sign of Julian, I lost heart. None of my parents’ other friends had brought their kids, so I was stuck making polite conversation with people in their thirties. It was really boring. After a while, I gave up and, heart heavy, installed myself next to the stereo where I could at least make sure none of the old people started putting on any of their music. The mixtape I’d lovingly put together wasn’t due for a hearing until later in the evening – around ten-thirty, I thought – so I busied myself shuffling through our meagre CD and more extensive tape collections, putting things into order, a potential playlist.

  I was lost in thought, deep in the sleeve notes for Disintegration when, as if from nowhere, he appeared at my side. Julian Symonds. He was dressed in jeans and a black biker jacket, a yellow smiley face peeping out from his T-shirt underneath. Its sunny demeanour contrasted perfectly with
his.

  ‘It’s not nearly as good as The Head on the Door,’ he said, pushing his hand through his perfect, floppy dark hair. ‘Don’t you think?’

  I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I just said, ‘Oh yeah. Completely,’ and I felt the colour rising to my face and looked down, scrutinising the CD cover as though it were the most interesting thing in the entire world.

  It was a huge moment. It was the first time Julian had ever spoken to me. We’d never talked at school, obviously, because he was two years above me and we didn’t exactly hang out with the same people. We’d encountered each other before, in town, both of us standing next to our respective mums, which was of course the most embarrassing bloody thing ever, so neither of us were likely to speak then. Everything I knew about Julian, his coolness, his edginess, his brilliance, was mostly stuff I’d heard from people at school, plus some things that his mum (Sheila) had told mine.

  And now, he was here. In my house. I stole a glance at him, sitting on the sofa across the room, staring at the blank television screen, a study in boredom. He’d only been here a couple of minutes. The fantasy in which I opened the door and wowed him with my stunning looks, the one in which I’d play it so cool, in which he’d be unable to resist me, was well and truly forgotten. I got to my feet and crossed the room to stand awkwardly in front of him.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ I asked him.

  ‘Brandy and Coke,’ he replied, not looking at me.

  I laughed nervously. ‘I’m not sure …‘ I started to say, but he silenced me with a withering gaze.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, and weaved my way through the guests towards the kitchen.

  Mum was leaning on the counter next to the fridge, a glass of wine in her hand, laughing at something the man in front of her was saying. I’d seen him before, he worked at the hospital, but I couldn’t remember his name. They were standing really close together, but the music was turned up quite loud so you had to be quite close to hear what the other person was saying.

  ‘Excuse me, I just need to get some more Coke,’ I said, squeezing past Mum’s companion to get to the fridge.

  ‘You remember Charles, don’t you, love?’ Mum said.

  ‘Hello, Nicky!’ Charles said.

  I grabbed the two-litre bottle of Coke from the fridge, resisting the urge to correct him. I hate it when people call me Nicky. Dad came barrelling into the kitchen, bouncing off the door as he did.

  ‘Everything all right in here?’ he asked, a little too loud, beaming at us.

  ‘Yes, fine, we’re fine,’ Mum said. I noticed that Charles took a step back, opening up the space between his body and my mother’s.

  Some more people came into the kitchen, Dad was offering them drinks, Mum returned to her conversation with Charles, no one was looking at me. This was my chance. I scuttled round the room to the opposite counter where several bottles of spirits were laid out for guests to help themselves. Gordon’s, The Famous Grouse, Bacardi, Rémy Martin. That was brandy, wasn’t it? I placed the Coke bottle on the counter in front of the Rémy Martin. Glancing over my shoulder to confirm no one was watching, I slipped my hand behind the Coke bottle and twisted the cap off the brandy bottle. I grabbed a plastic mug, sloshed a bit of brandy in, and then a bit more (he’d want a strong drink, wouldn’t he?), topped the cup up with Coke and sauntered out of the kitchen, giving Dad a big smile as I went.

  Julian, still wearing his leather jacket, was gazing sorrowfully out of the window; he had slumped even lower, he was disappearing among the sofa cushions. I presented him with the drink. He took it, wordlessly, took a sip and pulled a face as though he’d bitten into a lemon.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, laughing (the sight of his smile almost stopping my heart), ‘how much brandy did you put in that?’

  ‘Home measures,’ I said, smiling at him. I’d heard Mum use the expression.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, raising his mug to me. He took another sip, a smaller one this time. ‘You not having one yourself?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ I said. I planned on having a glass of wine later, but I didn’t really like the taste and I didn’t want to get sleepy too early. I sat down next to him on the sofa, a little too close. He shifted in his seat.

  ‘Enjoying the holidays?’ I asked him.

  He shrugged. ‘All right, I suppose.’

  ‘I went to see Presumed Innocent yesterday,’ I said. He looked at me blankly. ‘You know, Greta Scacchi, Harrison Ford. Have you seen it?’

  ‘Nah, not really into all that Hollywood shit,’ he replied.

  ‘No, right. It was all right,’ I said. ‘It was okay. It wasn’t that good.’

  He looked at me as though I were a complete idiot, and then he smiled. ‘I’m more into French cinema at the moment. Have you seen Betty Blue?’ I shook my head. ‘It’s amazing. It’s about madness and love and obsession. And fucking. Lots of fucking.’

  I flinched at the word, I wasn’t used to it being used in the literal sense, not conversationally.

  ‘It sounds cool,’ I said. We lapsed back into silence.

  The party was starting to heat up a bit, the music was turned up very loud, the laughter of some of the women turning shrill. I could hear my father, who was standing a few yards away from us, telling a dirty joke to one of his friends in a very loud voice. I’d heard it before. It wasn’t funny. I could see that Julian was listening and felt embarrassed. I pointed to his mug.

  ‘You want another one?’

  ‘Yeah, go on then.’

  The kitchen was heaving by this point, which was good news for me because it made it much easier for me to get to the brandy unnoticed. I stood on tiptoe and could see Mum on the other side of the kitchen, still leaning on the counter, still holding a glass of wine (though probably not the same one), still talking to Charles.

  Back in the living room, I handed Julian his drink.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, beckoning for me to lean in closer to him, ‘do you want to go somewhere for a smoke?’

  ‘Umm. We could go to my room,’ I said. I couldn’t believe I was actually saying the words. I was inviting Julian Symonds to my room. ‘But not together. I’ll go up first, you follow in a minute. Otherwise my dad might … You know.’

  ‘Bit overprotective?’ Julian suggested. I nodded, not sure that overprotective was how I’d put it, but anyway.

  I slipped out of the living room and up the stairs, unnoticed again. Or at the very least not remarked upon. I tore around my bedroom, getting rid of anything that could be construed as embarrassing: my flesh-coloured 32AA bra, for example, and my well-thumbed copy of Jilly Cooper’s Riders. Then I sat back on my bed, resting against the pillows, trying to look casual, as though I invited older boys to my bedroom all the time.

  After a few minutes, there was a gentle tap on the door. Julian popped his head round and smiled at me.

  ‘All right if I come in?’

  It’s a good thing I was sitting down, because by this point I was close to passing out from nerves. Julian wandered idly around the room, picking up things and putting them down again, his face betraying neither approval nor disapproval, until he spotted the poster on the back of the wardrobe door. The Kiss, by Gustav Klimt. Julian smirked.

  ‘You don’t like Klimt?’ I asked, defensive and disappointed. He wasn’t supposed to laugh at my Klimt poster; it was the last item in the room I expected to provoke derision.

  He shrugged. ‘Bit of a cliché, isn’t it? Don’t all fourteen-year-old girls have The Kiss on their walls?’

  Fourteen? He thought I was fourteen! That almost made up for his not liking Klimt.

  ‘I think it’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘I could look at it for hours.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said, sitting down at the end of the bed and pulling a packet of ten Silk Cut from his jacket pocket. ‘You want one?’

  I didn’t really. I had smoked before but hadn’t much enjoyed it. I took one anyway and got up to close the bedroom door.


  ‘Just in case anyone comes up here.’ He opened the window above my bed to let out the smoke, lit his cigarette and handed me the lighter. I lit up too, stifling a cough as the first drag hit my lungs.

  ‘Klimt’s okay, I suppose,’ Julian said, ‘just not really my thing. I like Rothko. Rothko, Hofmann, Newman – the Colour Field painters. Do you like Rothko?’

  I didn’t know who Rothko was, I’d never heard of him, or of Hofmann, or Newman or the Colour Field painters.

  ‘I don’t think I know his work,’ I said, feeling like an idiot.

  But Julian didn’t treat me like one. ‘Oh, you should have a look at his stuff,’ he said, suddenly brighter, enthusiastic, the mask of impenetrable coolness slipping for a moment. ‘Mark Rothko was a genius, a real radical. He used colour in the most amazing way. The Seagram Murals are incredible. He killed himself by cutting his arms with a razor blade, here, at the elbow,’ he mimed the motion to underline the point. ‘He cut all the way down to the bone.’

  I wasn’t really sure how I was supposed to respond to that, so I just nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Fucking cool paintings though. He studied at the Art Students League of New York. That’s where I want to go. I’d give anything to live in New York, wouldn’t you?’

  I’d never given it much thought, although anywhere that wasn’t High Wycombe sounded great to me. ‘Anyway,’ Julian went on, ‘I’ve got a couple of books on Rothko at home. You can borrow them if you like.’

  ‘Oh thanks, Julian, I’d love to,’ I said, and I really meant it. I don’t think I’d ever meant anything so wholeheartedly in my entire life.

  Julian flicked his cigarette butt out of the window.

  ‘Jules,’ he said, ‘my friends call me Jules.’

  It was the greatest party ever. Jules and I spent the entire evening together. We couldn’t stay upstairs in my room, but we managed to split our time between the living room and my bedroom fairly evenly, wandering up and down the stairs, always individually, never together, making sure we were spotted by enough people in the living room or the kitchen. I kept him in a steady supply of brandy and Cokes, and the more he drank, the more garrulous and friendly he became.