Christmas zipped past in a haze of work, family arguments, more work, and me continuously dodging Harry’s invitations to come back to his flat. Sex, and the somewhat inevitability of it, loomed over me and I was tortured with flashbacks of what happened with Milo. Kissing Harry was good. Kissing Harry was amazing, even. But I dodged many opportunities to be alone with him in scenarios where more-than-kissing could happen. And he wasn’t pushing it. In fact, he didn’t bring it up. Just shrugged whenever I said, “Oh I can’t come round tonight, I need to be with Mum.” Once, he opened his mouth to say something but I just sort of flung myself onto his mouth and kissed him until he forgot whatever he was going to say.
Dougie returned for the holidays, dragging two guitars behind him, and quickly told me everything I was doing wrong with Mum.
“You can’t keep leaving her,” he said, after finding all the empty wine bottles in our recycling.
“I’m working, Dougie, and she’s not alone, she’s with Sandra a lot of the time.”
He pulled a face. “That pathetic alky? Audrey, you’ve got to look after her better.”
Dougie’s idea of looking after her better involved spending many evenings listening to her whinge on about the legal process and nodding whenever she laid into Dad. He even refused to go visit Dad and the twins on Christmas Day – acting like I was the universe’s biggest traitor for popping round in the afternoon to give the twins their presents. They clawed and pawed at me, while Dad kept asking why Dougie hadn’t come, his mouth a thin straight line, and when I babbled about the house, Jessie’s mouth got even thinner than his. She sniffed in deeply, gave Dad a “look” and said, “Audrey, I don’t understand. She always knew she would have to sell the house. This was part of the divorce settlement. You’re almost eighteen… God, that woman!” And I’d stood up and said, “What do you mean by that?” And Dad had to come between us, shouting, “Hey, hey, hey!” and I’d picked up the kids, kissed them each on the forehead, decanted my presents and stormed back home. Where Dougie and Mum were curled up in a duvet, sipping brandy and watching Love Actually. They ignored me, even though I’d fought her corner. I sat mutely on the carpet, messaging Harry and trying not to roll my eyes as the little kid chased that girl through the airport.
“Just imagine how that would’ve turned out if the kid wasn’t white,” Leroy always says about the airport scene in Love Actually. “It would be renamed Shoot-Dead-First-Ask-Questions-About-Romantic-Intent-Afterwards Actually.”
Harry came over in the evening. “Aww, Audrey, Christmas is always bollocks,” he’d said, kissing my shoulder, moving his way up to my neck. While I half relaxed into it, half freaked out that he would try and slide a hand into my knickers. “I’ve had to go to church TWICE in the past twenty-four hours. Midnight Mass and then morning mass. And then Mum and Dad spent lunch asking me disapproving questions about my promotion to shift manager. I mean, only they could think a promotion is a bad thing. They still want me to be an accountant or something boring and sensible, rather than a director. Anyway, do you want a present? I heard somewhere that the birth of Baby Jesus means I have to get my girlfriend a gift, one that will be judged on adequacy by everyone who asks her what her boyfriend got her.”
The fact he’d just referred to me as his girlfriend was present enough. And a total shock. But I didn’t say anything about it.
“Well, if Baby Jesus says so.”
In true Harry style, he’d got me a giant square marshmallow, with his face printed onto it. “So you can literally eat my brains, my zombie bride.”
I’d also given him a zombie-themed gift. Tickets to do this local zombie fun run – “I’ve asked LouLou if we can get the same day off.” Harry had been so happy he’d put his hand up my skirt, and I’d been so happy with his present – both the intentional and unintentional ones – that I hadn’t freaked out about it. In fact, I’d actually even enjoyed it until Dougie smacked on the door, asking if we wanted to watch The Muppet Christmas Carol. Then he’d grilled Harry all the way through about his “intentions” while Mum laughed and I felt frustrated that Harry’s hand was no longer up my skirt.
I really didn’t understand sex sometimes.
Christmas faded into New Year (where Harry got so stoned he vomited all over Tad’s car), and New Year melted into Oscar season. Work was nuts – I was pulling back-to-back shifts like they were normal, hardly able to keep up with college work. LouLou had a crazy expression wherever she went. Ma kept dropping back in to “see how things are going”, pulling a grim face when she saw how long the queue was for snacks, even though she hadn’t approved the budget for us to hire an extra person.
“I’ve actually had to order in tissues to give to customers,” LouLou said one evening, her eyes darting all over the place, like Ma could jump out at any second. She hadn’t had time to re-dye her hair, and it was now an offish sludgy colour. “I swear the production company for The End of Childhood should provide them.”
Just as she said it, another customer emerged from the darkness, her eyes red, nose dripping. “Do you have any tissues?” she asked.
I handed a packet over.
She took one gratefully, blew her nose and said, “I’m not sure I can go back in there.”
LouLou and I shared a look. We’d started betting each session how many customers would need to come out to have a breather. I had bet a pound on more than five. Here this lady was, and we hadn’t even got midway.
The lady blew her nose again. “Okay, well, I better go back in. Thank you.” She handed me back her snot-filled tissue and I pulled a face as she pushed through the double doors.
“LouLou, someone literally just handed me a snotty rag.”
She laughed for the first time that day. “At least people don’t make out in sad movies. I don’t even want to identify the wet stain I found in the duo seat last week.”
When I’d suitably shuddered, we got back into the kitchen, preparing for the next huge influx of people. We were showing The End of Childhood, an Oscar-contender weepy, on both screens and had tweaked our timings to squeeze in an extra showing. But we still didn’t have enough tickets, enough showings, enough staff. I delved into the fridge, retrieving a giant collection of avocados, while LouLou mixed up yet more posh dust.
“So, you coming to filming tonight? After closing?” LouLou asked. She turned her face away to sneeze.
“I can’t. I’ve got to fill out my UCAS form when I get home. It’s due in two days.” And I hadn’t even started it. “And my mum…well…she needs some time. I guess I’ll end up watching yet another crappy romance film.”
Mum had got even more obsessed with them since Christmas. We’d gone through all the decent ones, and were now dredging the inner-sanctums of Netflix for anything with a whiff of a happy ending. After Dougie’s telling-off, I’d dutifully sat through Ski Trip Girl, Complicated Love and It’s Only Love When You Kiss on the Lips.
“Why is your mum so obsessed with romance when her own love life is a freakin’ mess?”
“God knows,” I sighed. “You’d think she would want to watch slasher flicks, or zombie movies, but no. What scene you guys filming tonight anyway?”
LouLou grinned. “Like you don’t know! Rosie’s death scene. That’s why I thought you’d wanna be there. You know, to watch it? Imagine it’s real?”
I bumped my butt with hers. “I don’t want Rosie to die. I just want her to be nice to me, like, once. And to stop looking at Harry like she wants to eat him.”
“Well, he gets to eat her tonight.”
I bit my lip. “I know…”
I was pretending I didn’t care about the scene because I didn’t want to come across as pathetic. Tonight they were heading back into the woods to film Harry’s turning scene, and Rosie was his first victim. Even though we’d been dating for almost two months, Rosie still made me feel uneasy. She kept undermining our relationship, making “Aww, how cute” comments whenever Harry and I held hands or something, but in a way that made me feel embarrassed. I was trying REALLY hard not to hate her, but it was tough. Especially since Harry had revealed that, yes, they had once had “A Thing” as he called it. Which I knew meant they’d slept together. Which didn’t make me feel any better, especially with my very apparent lack of sleeping with Harry.
LouLou finished making the dust, and started fiddling with the ancient computer, making sure all the seats were sorted. We heard the gasp of the audience. Another lady came out, red-eyed. LouLou silently handed her a tissue and the woman nodded, took it and ran into the toilets.
“So, you decided on Media Studies then?” she asked, in reference to my UCAS form.
I nodded with non-existent excitement. “Yep. It’s the only subject I’m not totally failing.”
“Sorry, that’s my fault. I’m working you like a Trojan.”
“It’s fine. My subjects are so boring I’d be failing anyway.” I missed Drama so much by now it was an almost constant ache. It highlighted how much I hated my other subjects, but I couldn’t go back in time and shake myself out of making such a stupid decision.
I’d hardly looked at which universities did Media or which were good for it. Uni unearthed so many conflicting emotions in me. One, I wasn’t doing Drama. Two, leaving meant Mum would be turfed out the house. Three, it would mean being away from Harry, which was, yes, I know, a totally terrible reason not to want to go to uni.
Like he knew I was thinking about him, Harry barrelled through the front door – arms flung open, smiling before he’d even got to me.
“Who’s winning the blub-a-thon bet?” He wrapped me into his arms. The cold air lingered on his jacket and I encased myself in it. Smelled his smoky smell. Felt my knees jellify. He kissed the top of my head before releasing me. LouLou had made her opinions on inter-office groping very clear.
LouLou nodded towards me. “Audrey,” she admitted, reluctantly.
“That’s my girl.” Harry jumped over the bar, saw the state of my guacamole, sighed, “Audrey, oh Audrey, why do you never add enough lime juice?” and got to work. The second crying lady, suitably recovered, emerged from the toilets. She thanked us and went back inside. Harry, avocado all over his hands, wrinkled his nose when she shut the door. “Such hypocrites,” he said. “I hate Oscar season.”
“Here we go.” LouLou rolled her eyes.
“What’s wrong with Oscar season?” I asked. “Apart from pulling so many double shifts.”
“Don’t encourage him, he’ll—” LouLou began, but Harry interrupted.
“Do you not see it?” he asked. “Look at all the films coming out right now, that all these middle-class people pay to see so they can rah on about how brilliant the acting was at their next dinner party. There’s the Wasn’t Slavery Awful? one. And the Isn’t Rape Terrible? And the Let’s Be Trans Aware one. And, next week, there’s the Winston Churchill one.”
“So?” I shrugged as I cut a lime in half.
“So…” Harry threw his hands at the screen doors. “So, most of the women in there are clutching handbags made in factories where the staff are treated hardly better than slaves. They’ll no doubt think, Oooh, well, she had a short skirt on when they next read about a rape in a newspaper. They’re probably secretly signing online petitions to ban trans people from public toilets. And, well, what can I say about Winston Churchill?” He coughed while muffling the word “Bigot”. He dumped his finished batch of guacamole to one side, and began washing his hands under the tap. “People think watching some stupid film with decent acting in it is a way of showing how much they care about a certain issue. When all they’ve actually done is pay a tenner to sit on their arses, chucking popcorn down their faces, leaving us to clean it up, have a cathartic cry, and then come out feeling like they’re Mother freakin’ Teresa. Just for watching a movie.” He pulled down a napkin to dry his hands.
“Are you finished?” I asked.
He grinned widely and tilted his head to one side. “Maybe.”
“I didn’t know ranting was contagious. You need to stop hanging out with me so much.”
We stood smiling at each other, laughing with our eyes, feeling…feelings, until LouLou barged between us.
“Aren’t you off now, Audrey?” she asked. “Got your UCAS statement to do? Crap on the telly to watch?”
I groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
I faffed about, getting my coat, making sure they were both okay. The busy period had brought out a huge sense of camaraderie in us, none of us wanting the others to work too hard. I also didn’t want to leave Harry. I had visions of his face so close to Rosie’s – getting lost in the scene. Having the acting turn into not-acting – the performance triggering feelings. I shook my head. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt me. He’d promised.
“I’m off,” I announced, my coat on, scarf wrapped a gajillion times around my head to keep the cold out. “Let me know if I win my bet,” I said to LouLou. “And…” God it killed me to say it. “…have fun filming tonight.”
I turned and smiled at Harry, but couldn’t kiss him properly, not with LouLou watching and disapproving. I shrugged and waddled outside in my many layers. I’d just walked to the traffic lights, when I heard footsteps behind me.
“Wait up,” Harry called.
I stopped, my insides turning to goo as I waited for him. He was already shivering in his thin work shirt but the smile on his face stretched from earlobe to earlobe.
“Umm, Auds? Where’s my goodbye kiss?”
“You know LouLou will…” I didn’t have time to finish, his face was already on mine. His hands digging into my jeans pockets to keep his fingers warm.
He broke off, a giant grin everywhere. “That’s better.”
I nuzzled my head into his chest. “I hope tonight goes okay,” I said, with the least sincerity ever.
Harry pushed my chin up. “Audrey Winters, are you jealous?”
I wouldn’t look him in the eye. “No. It’s just…well you know Rosie doesn’t like me…that’s all.”
“Ahh, Rosie’s just like that with everyone,” he said. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
I wanted to say, Don’t I? But I just kissed him again – because that is cute, and not-needy, and all the other things girls are supposed to be.
“Well, have fun.”