Page 15 of Vying Girls
‘We’ve not talked but…I know she feels the same.’
‘And Haz?’
Now she frowns, closing her eyes to my probing gaze. ‘Why do you care? Just stop saying stuff. You’re not my mum.’ She lets out a weak giggle. ‘Not like she’d care.’
No, I bet. She hadn’t much back then either. Can’t remember a single conversation I had with the woman apart from when she was mining for shit on Dad.
She was pretty, like Tilda. All tattoos and long, black-dyed hair. It wasn’t just that Dad was interested in, it was the rest ofit. The poverty, the broken image. He always did like a project. Should have left that one well alone.
The heater’s burning me now but I’m reluctant to venture to the bed. Nowhere else to go that’s not the toilet. Can’t call it a bathroom; there’s not even a shower.
Tilda raises her head suddenly, looking around. ‘Are we staying here all night?’
‘That’s kind of the point. Next ferry isn’t until eight.’
‘Eight?!’
‘It’s a Sunday, Tilda. Keep up.’
She sighs, burying her face back in her arms. I watch her, blood boiling. I’ve not got long until she crashes. If I’m still going to do this.
But then she starts shucking her clothes, and it’s me feeling like a ghost in the room.
‘My bra’s soaked so I’m taking it off.’
I shrug and turn away. ‘You do you.’
I listen to her rustling, her muffled curse when she sways into the wall. My mind supplies me with images I’d rather not have. Maybe I can camp on this chair until morning. Away from Tilda and her rain-slicked flesh.
I chance a look when all falls quiet. She’s huddled beneath the duvet, watching me from slitted, makeup smeared eyes.
‘You really hate me that much?’
It sounds like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down. I approach the bed like I would my execution.
‘Get the light.’
She moves up and flicks it off. It takes her to the edge of the bed, facing away. I hug the other edge, closing my eyes. I feel like a cat, sleeping but not. Aware of everything. Ready to run.
My body still thrums from all the sugary shit I’ve drunk tonight, ears ringing from the loud music. I release a slow breath, valiantly trying to ignore Tilda’s violent shivering.
After five more minutes, I’ve had enough.
‘You’re pissing me off. Stop shaking the bed.’
‘Can’t warm up,’ she gasps out.
‘Fuck off and run some laps then.’
She lets out a shuddering breath, quilt pulling as she curls into herself.
God, I’m going to throw up. It’s like being on the fucking ferry.
Gritting my teeth, I flop over. I can just about see her. There’s a streetlamp outside and the curtains aren’t exactly blackout. She’s practically beneath the duvet, just her damp little head poking out.
‘Tilda.’
‘What?’ she replies irritably. ‘Shit.’
