Six

 

June 1987

 

Laurel sat on the desk in her bedroom, peering out of the window. Across the quiet cul-de-sac, an unfamiliar silver car and a blue van was parked up outside number twelve Alfred Close.

‘What’s going on, Peeping Tom?’

Laurel turned just in time to see her brother, George, flop down onto her bed. ‘I’m not peeping. And don’t you know how to knock?’

‘It’s not like you’d be up to anything naughty in here, is it?’ he replied, arching an eyebrow.

She sighed and turned back to look out of the window. It was best to ignore him, especially when he was right.

‘So, what’s happening?’

‘New neighbours. Number twelve have just moved in.’

Laurel picked up her camera and nudged the curtain to one side. There was something about taking photographs that made life just that bit more interesting. Right now, there was nothing fascinating happening at all. Boxes and bin liners were being unloaded from the van and the sky outside was a dull, listless grey. But once the photographs were developed, they would take on another life of their own. The grey tones from the tarmac and cloudy sky would add drama, and the anonymous people in the shot could become whoever she wanted them to be.

‘What are they like?’ George asked.

‘Why don’t you come and look for yourself?’

‘You’re the one by the window, with a camera.’

At nineteen, George was only two years older than she was, but he seemed to live in another universe altogether - one that she herself could never reach. Laurel briefly took the camera away from her face and looked at him.

For starters, he had style. He was sprawled across her bed, lying on his side with legs that were so long, his feet hung over the edge, encased in stripy socks. He could’ve been in Duran Duran, with his perfect hair and uniform of black turtleneck and black trousers. He worked at a busy salon in town where MTV played all day long on the portable TV and people came in by the truckload to get their hair done for Friday and Saturday nights out. Laurel had loved every minute of her appointment, sitting in the swivel chair while George had hacked away at her hair, cutting it into a jaw length bob before dyeing it with peroxide. She’d loved the process of transformation, going in one way and coming out completely different. It was just like photography, really.

‘So?’ George prompted, and Laurel looked through the window again.

‘Middle-aged.’ She looked at a man and woman, presumably husband and wife, as they unloaded boxes. Their hair was dark and both were olive-skinned. ‘Mediterranean, maybe. They don’t look English.’

‘Ooh, foreigners. That’ll mix this place up a bit.’

Laurel chuckled at her brother’s sarcastic drawl, but it was the truth. Bristol was only twenty minutes away but it might as well be on a different planet. Their cul-de-sac was quiet and as racially diverse as a sack of potatoes. It was a safe place for kids to play, but nothing interesting ever really happened. Apart from the time that couple a few doors down had had an enormous argument. Laurel and George had battled with the fern plants on the windowsill to get a better look as a stream of clothes had been thrown out of the window like a multi-coloured waterfall. The whole street had heard about the couple’s problems - their non-existent sex life, her coldness and his infidelity. It was like watching a drama on TV and their mum had told them not to be so nosy, but she’d watched too. The couple divorced and sold the house not long afterwards.

Laurel picked up her camera again, just in time to see her mum, Alice, crossing the road and making her way to their new neighbours’ house. It was something she always did, welcoming newcomers and giving them the rundown. No doubt she’d be telling them which day the bins were collected and that, if they needed to, they should nip down to Allied Carpets in town where her husband, Laurel and George’s dad, was the shop manager. Alice would probably mention that they should ignore the grumpy ramblings of Mr Pratt at number six who was perfectly harmless but couldn’t resist trapping people in conversation, but that they shouldn’t ignore Mrs Oates from number four if they ever saw her wandering around alone because she was ancient and losing her marbles. And of course she’d mention number twenty, where two men lived in the same house. Together. Alone. This little piece of information would be said in a friendly enough way, not daring to offend, but with a definite underlying tone of disapproval.

‘God, I’m bored,’ George said with a sigh.

‘You’re always bored,’ Laurel replied, still looking through her viewfinder.

‘That’s because life is boring, and Sundays are even worse.’

She chose not to reply, mostly because she had no idea what he could possibly have to be bored about. He had a job, and he had a car. It was ten years old and had more rust on it than metal, but it was still a car. And, George had a love life. If he spent a day in her shoes, he’d know what boredom really was. She puffed out a small sigh and kept her camera pointed across the road. She loved him, but he could be so dramatic sometimes.

A man emerged from the house and Laurel blinked, dropping the camera from her face. She hadn’t seen him before. She moved closer to the window as if it could give her a better look than the zoom on her lens. She watched as he ran a hand through his hair, staring at him, unblinking, her heart inexplicably racing. It was only when she blinked again that the world around her seemed to set itself back into motion and he stepped down from the doorstep to pick up a box from the ground.

‘What is it?’ George asked as the man from across the street disappeared inside. She picked up her camera again, poised for when he came back out. ‘Lorie?’

‘Someone else was there. Their son, maybe, or a removal guy.’

When he came back out, she quickly took a snap. He was also olive-skinned and dark-haired, and she decided he must be part of the family.

‘He looks like Tom Cruise,’ she muttered.

‘Risky Business or Top Gun?’

‘Top Gun.’

‘Let me see.’

George leapt up, and she shuffled to make room on her desk as he rested his hands on the Formica top, leaning forward to get a good look. She looked at the man again, now caught in conversation with their mum. Please, she thought to herself, don’t let her say anything stupid. There was something about this guy that held her attention, and she hadn’t even seen him close up yet.

‘Well, hello,’ George drawled. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

A flash of irrational jealousy flung itself across her body and all Laurel could do was nod, because he was. Even from across the street, two storeys below.

‘And totally gay.’ George moved and flopped back down onto her bed again with an indulgent sigh. ‘Lucky me.’

Was he? How could you tell if someone was gay just by looking? George was, but Laurel only knew that because he’d chosen to tell her. Even their parents had no idea, and he was their son. It was just as well too because their mum would have to swallow her words about them at number twenty at the very least. Laurel never let herself think about the worst-case scenario when it came to what might happen if or when they ever did find out. Their parents were quietly vocal about their views on ‘gays’, especially since those terrifying adverts about AIDS had started being shown on TV at every available opportunity. Laurel looked out at the man again. She hoped George was wrong.

It wasn’t only that her stomach was swirling and her heart racing or that her palms were sweaty. She’d felt those things before. This was something different. There was something about him that she couldn’t pull her attention away from. He was magnetic, and she watched him, completely transfixed, until she saw her mum point back towards their house. As soon as he turned his head to follow the trail of Alice’s arm, Laurel jolted away, letting the net curtain fall back into place. He couldn’t see her. Not properly, at least not from where he was and not through the nets their mum hung at every window to keep out prying eyes. Laurel’s breath trembled as she blinked and turned around, putting her camera on the table.

‘Oh, Lorie,’ George said. ‘You’re blushing.’

‘What?’ She scowled and hopped down from the desk. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘You are. Looks like you’ve found yourself a crush.’ He grinned and got up from her bed before stretching his long body with his arms over his head. ‘Fancy listening to the Top 40 with me later?’

She nodded, not even pretending that she might have better things to do. It was one of the highlights of her week.

Laurel sighed and flopped onto her bed when George left to go back to his own room. Her heart was still hammering in her chest. She was being silly. There was no way that guy across the road could’ve seen her, but she almost wished he had. Everything around her felt stagnant. Nothing ever changed.

She cast her eyes around her room, with its floral wallpaper and peach border. The floor was covered in a thick carpet like every other inch of floor in their house - bathroom included - thanks to her dad’s job. A visible trail had worn into it, like a well-trodden path leading from her door to her bed. Her bookshelf was stacked with books she’d read and reread a hundred times, and well-thumbed copies of Just Seventeen magazine. She even still had her Pierrot the Clown doll from her eleventh birthday sitting on her desk. It was as if she were stuck in a snow globe, waiting for someone to come along and shake it and let some excitement rain down.

George had been right about there being no need to knock on her door, and it wasn’t the only thing he’d guessed correctly. Her cheeks had burned when she’d looked at the man across the road. She had the feeling that the arrival of this family might just be the start of something. Maybe George had been right about that, too. Maybe they would shake things up.

 

‘His name’s Nico,’ George said, as he slid into the opposite chair at the kitchen table the next morning.

‘Who?’ Laurel asked, taking her strawberry Pop Tart from the toaster.

He raised an eyebrow and peeled the foil lid off from a bottle of milk. ‘Really? Do I need to remind you about the enormous blush on your face yesterday?’

Laurel sighed. How did he even manage to get his eyebrow up that far, anyway? She couldn’t, and she’d spent endless hours practicing in front of the mirror. Like everything else about him, it was apparently effortless.

‘So, his name’s Nico,’ George continued, pouring the milk onto his Frosties. ‘Last name’s Papoulis. They’re Greek and from London. The oldies are his parents.’

She rolled the unfamiliar, foreign name around in her head. She liked it. And he was Greek - that would explain the jet-black hair and olive skin.

‘He’s twenty-five, though. Too old for you.’ George’s lips turned up into a smile. ‘But not for me.’

Laurel rolled her eyes, refusing to take the bait he was dangling in front of her.

‘Apparently the mum’s an Avon lady and the dad’s a chef. He’s opening a new restaurant in town,’ George concluded. ‘I reckon Mum’s hoping for discounted make-up and dinners out.’

‘That’d be good.’ Laurel grinned.

‘What would be good?’ Alice asked as she walked into the kitchen, clipping on a purple plastic earring.

Laurel nibbled on her Pop Tart. ‘The new neighbour being a chef in town.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Alice replied, sitting at the table. ‘We should go when it opens, try some Greek food.’

‘I’m in. Anything that gets me out of having to wash up must be ace.’ George grinned.

‘There’s always plenty more chores to do. I’m not the only one with a pair of hands in this house.’

Laurel caught her brother’s eye and kept quiet as she finished her breakfast. Ever since their mum had got her new job as a secretary, she’d been trying to get them to do more and more around the house. It wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t have such high standards. Laurel had lost count of the number of times she’d got through her list of chores only for her mum to complain that she hadn’t done them properly.

She looked at Alice as she read the newspaper. As usual, she was dressed in a white blouse, beige skirt and matching shoulder-padded jacket with a streak of lilac lipstick across her mouth. She looked like she ought to be running the world instead of their three-bedroom semi-detached house.

‘What time’s your exam today, Lorie?’ Alice asked without looking up from the paper.

‘Ten.’

Laurel wasn’t worried about passing the last of her A level English exams, she just wasn’t sure why she was doing it. Her parents were determined for her to be the first in the family to go to university, but she couldn’t help feeling it was all such a waste of time. It wouldn’t be so bad if she were allowed to study what she really wanted to. Her passion was photography but, as far as her parents were concerned, it wasn’t a stable career choice. Apparently, she needed a degree in something ‘useful’ to secure a good job with a good salary and advance up the career ladder. University was seen as the pinnacle of everything and she wasn’t even allowed to get a Saturday job or paper round. She had to concentrate on her studies, and if she needed extra pocket money, she’d have to do more chores.

When she’d received her conditional place at Bristol, her parents had been ecstatic. They’d actually jumped up and down with tears in their eyes. Despite the fact that it wasn’t what she wanted to do, Laurel had felt proud for getting in and making her parents happier than she could ever remember seeing them before. But if she’d thought that was the end of all the pressure, she’d been wrong. If anything, it had only got worse, and now she realised that she’d have another few years of living under the pressure of actually coming out on the other side with a degree.

‘We have to start thinking about the things you’ll need for uni soon,’ Alice said. ‘You don’t want to leave it till the last minute.’

‘I know.’ Laurel drained the last of her juice.

‘There’s so much to do-’

‘Right, I’d better get going,’ George interrupted, scraping his chair back.

‘Bowl, please,’ Alice said.

He discreetly rolled his eyes in return and picked up the bowl. He gave it a cursory rinse under the tap and Laurel jumped up from her chair to stand next to him at the sink.

‘Thanks,’ she whispered, grateful for his intervention.

George shrugged it off with a smile. ‘Don’t worry about it. Fancy a lift to college?’

She nodded eagerly, happy not to have to take the bus and grabbed her rucksack from the back of the kitchen chair.

‘George is giving me a lift. See you later, Mum.’ Laurel blurted the words out quickly and rushed out before there could be any more talk about university. Thank God her dad was already at work, otherwise she’d have had it from both sides.

George followed her out before stopping at the front door. ‘Damn, I forgot something, I’ll be back in a sec.’

Laurel nodded as he bounded up the stairs. She stepped outside onto the pavement and took a deep breath of the early summer morning air, trying to shake off her irritation. All she wanted was to be left alone to do what she wanted to do, instead of what was expected. She looked at George’s rusty Mini. If only she had a car too so that she could get in it, drive away and never look back.

A cat slunk out onto the pavement from under a hedge a couple of doors down and Laurel crept across the road, making kissy noises to entice it towards her. She crouched down and softly stroked its marmalade-coloured fur, smiling as it purred and rubbed its head against her hand.

‘Hi,’ a deep voice said, making the cat dart away.

Laurel jumped up, startled and almost twisting her ankle. The sensation of falling only seemed to get more intense as she found herself staring into a pair of deep brown eyes, framed with long lashes. The simple mechanics of speaking suddenly deserted her. It was her new neighbour, Nico.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he added.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shook her head a little. ‘You didn’t.’

She quickly ran her tongue over her teeth as discreetly as she could, hoping to God that there were no stray bits of food stuck between them.

‘I’m Laurel,’ she added.

He nodded back and smiled, revealing a set of deep dimples.

‘I know,’ he replied, lifting the black bin bag in his hand and dumping it into in the wheelie bin next to him.

He was gorgeous. Even more than she’d thought yesterday, and he held her gaze for a few seconds longer than what would’ve been polite. The magnetic pull she’d felt just by looking at him from across the road yesterday was nothing in comparison to the way she was feeling right now. It was so strong she could almost see the whirling vortex of energy streaming between them like a tethering rope. Laurel blinked, taking a mental picture, noting how the morning light shone in from behind him and the way his eyes were fixed on hers. If only she could take this image from her mind, develop it and stick it up on her wall because there was something about those eyes of his that made her shiver under her clothes.

He flipped the lid of the bin down and swiped his hands down his jeans. ‘I’m Nico.’

She looked at his hands. They were big and manly, and just looking at them made her skin tingle. Since losing her virginity seven months ago, she’d told herself that she had the upper hand when it came to men. There was nothing to feel intimidated about anymore, and no more need for nerves.

She took her eyes away from his hands and grinned, injecting herself with self-taught confidence. ‘I know.’