Then. Now. Always. Read online

  It’s the night before we depart for Mojácar, and to celebrate, Tom and I are meeting our friends Rachel and Paul in our favourite pub in Islington. Well, I say ‘friends’ plural, but really we just love Rachel. As far as I’m concerned, Paul is only permitted to socialise with us because he is her boyfriend. That is literally the sole reason.

  They’re already waiting for us at the pub when we arrive, typically late, and Rachel stands up to give us both a hug of greeting, going into loyal ecstasies over my new haircut (I was worried it made me look like a Blue Peter-era Anthea Turner; she assures me it does not) and telling Tom he looks handsome with a beard (he does not).

  ‘You’re just in time to get a round in,’ grins Paul from his seat, earning himself a giggle from his girlfriend and a tut from me.

  ‘Shut up and go to the bar, Pauly,’ she tells him sweetly, winking at me as we all shuffle our bottoms along the bench seats they’ve chosen.

  ‘So,’ she begins, lacing her slim fingers around her half-empty wine glass. ‘Are you all set for your trip?’

  ‘Hannah is completely hair-free, if that’s what you mean?’ Tom tells her, moving his foot to one side just in time to stop it being crushed under my boot.

  ‘I’m never telling you anything ever again,’ I mutter, and they both laugh at me. Paul is back with three pints of what looks distinctly like ale. I asked for lager.

  ‘And this is?’ asks Tom, raising his own glass to his nose and taking a tentative sniff.

  ‘On special offer,’ replies Paul, grinning at us as he sits back down. I resist the urge to pour the contents of my own pint over his head, although it would be very amusing to see that perfectly coiffed hair of his collapse across his face. Paul is a very good-looking man and he knows it. Presumably he has used this fact to avoid having to develop a personality beyond telling often-sexist and always very bad jokes. Rachel is far too besotted with him to notice any of this, apparently, and the fact that neither Tom nor I have pointed it out in the year since they’ve been an item is a real testament to how much we care about her as a friend. She’s even more beautiful than Paul, of course, with a tumble of red curls, pale green eyes and flawless skin, but for some inexplicable reason she feels inferior to him – another fact that I’ve become convinced he does his best not to discourage.

  ‘So, will you two be bunking up over there?’ Paul asks now, throwing Tom and me a look as if to say, ‘I know you two are at it, hammer and tongs.’

  I don’t bother to reply and bring the disgusting ale up to hide my sneer. Tom, on the other hand, mumbles something unintelligible about not wanting to cramp my style. I wish he wouldn’t be like this around Paul, so nervous and eager to impress. He’s worth about seventeen billion of that self-satisfied dingbat.

  ‘How did your housemates take the news?’ Rachel asks me now. I live in an enormous run-down Victorian pile in Acton with about nine other people, most of whom I never see and a few of whom I’m pretty sure I didn’t even meet before they moved in.

  I shrug. ‘I left a note pinned to the kitchen cork board and bought a lock for my bedroom door. I doubt any of them will even notice I’m away, to be honest.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you stay there,’ Tom says, as he always does when the subject of my chosen place of dwelling comes up in conversation. ‘You’re still living like a student.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mister “my stinking rich parents gave me a deposit”,’ I say lightly, pulling a face at him so he knows I’m not being serious. ‘We can’t all afford to live in luxury.’

  Rachel laughs at this, because she knows as well as I do that Tom’s grotty studio flat above a Chicken Stop takeaway in South Ealing is very far from anything resembling luxury. It still irks me that he’s a homeowner, though. I don’t know anyone who’s managed to buy their own place without help from a generous relative. My Acton abode might be overcrowded and ramshackle, but I only pay £450 a month – and that includes all my bills. When I accidentally (on purpose) sneaked a look at Tom’s bank statement once when he left it on the desk at work, I almost choked on my ham and tomato baguette. No wonder he’s so skinny, what with having no money left after the mortgage to afford food.

  ‘On the subject of living arrangements,’ Rachel puts in before Tom has a chance to reply, ‘we have a bit of news, don’t we, Pauly?’

  I wish she wouldn’t call him that.

  For the first time since I’ve met him, Paul looks a little bit uncomfortable. It’s only a passing sense of awkwardness, but I spot it. And he sees me spot it, too.

  ‘I’m moving in with Rach,’ he declares, coughing slightly as she reaches across to take his hand.

  Rachel is another one with a generous relative. Well, a granny who was generous enough to save every penny she ever had and hand it over to her own daughter’s children after she died. Rachel lives in a two-bedroom actual house in Willesden, which is about five thousand miles away from anywhere, so we hardly ever visit. Now that Paul and his amazing hair are moving in, I doubt I will ever go there again.

  ‘That’s great news,’ I manage to say through gritted teeth. ‘How lovely for you both.’

  Is it lovely, though? I can’t imagine living that closely with any man, let alone an oaf like Paul. Rachel is a lot braver than I am. And what’s the big rush, anyway? She’s only just turned twenty-eight, like Tom and me. It all feels a bit overly serious and grown-up.

  True to generous form, Tom is now shaking Paul’s hand across the table. I don’t think he should be congratulated. Rachel is a goddess; too good to shine his boots, which I’m sure she’ll actually start doing now, along with ironing creases into his underpants and leaving chocolate hearts on his pillow. I’m not sure if it’s the cheap ale or the sense of impending doom for one of my best friends brewing in the depths of my gut, but I suddenly feel very sick indeed.

  Rachel, as if sensing this, swiftly changes the subject. ‘I can’t believe you’re going back to Mojácar!’ She beams at me. ‘I wish I could come with you. I’d love to see the place again.’

  As she says it, she looks down at her own tiny tattoo on the inside of her left wrist. We had them done at the same time, each paying for the other one to ensure the symbol was given as a gift. The legend goes that if the Indalo Man is bestowed by its recipient then it will not act as a talisman. Back when we were teenagers, Rachel and I believed this wholeheartedly, hence the complicated payment method. It worked out well for me, though, because mine is about four times the size of hers, and so cost about four times as much. Poor Rachel.

  I trace my own tattoo now with my little finger, going over the clean lines of my inky friend’s body and around the crest of the semi-circle joining one arm to the other over his head. According to the history books, this half-hoop represents a rainbow, but I chose to have mine done in plain black. I’ve read so much about this symbol and done so much research into the legend surrounding him over the past month, that at the moment this tattoo feels more important and significant than it ever has before. I just hope all the things I’ve read about him are true – even those that sound suspiciously like a load of old gobbledygook.

  I visited Mojácar for the first time when I was fifteen, and I can still remember how excited I was. It was the first time I’d ever been away from my mum for more than a few days, and there were lots of tears when she waved me off in Rachel’s dad’s car. It was very generous of her parents to let me tag along on their family holiday – especially because at the time Rachel and I used to enjoy communicating with each other in a weird language that we’d made up ourselves, which consisted of grunting noises and exaggerated hand movements. We thought we were so clever; in reality, we must have looked like a pair of deranged gibbons.

  That first year, we weren’t allowed out in the evenings alone, but by the second summer, when we had both turned sixteen, Rachel and I were permitted to have dinner out on our own and to head down to the beach bars unsupervised during the daytime. Rachel’s parents were fond of excur
sions and her mum loved to set up her foldable easel in remote locations so she could paint. The two of us, on the other hand, were only interested in giggling at the Spanish waiters, reading copies of Just Seventeen while we sunbathed and talking about all the boys we fancied from school.

  The third year was when we began sneaking into the bars and kissing some of the local lads. It was all very innocent, but at the time it felt like we were so grown-up. Everyone in Mojácar was so laid-back, and the way of life so relaxed compared to how it was back in dreary old England. I came out of my shell in Mojácar, worried less about things, and relished the distance it provided from the stuff I was struggling with back at home. I loved having a place that was mine, somewhere that my mum and dad had never been to, and what I loved even more was having a version of myself that they never saw, either. Only Rachel really got to see both sides of me, but it had been a very long time since even she had been in the company of Mojácar Hannah. We had been planning to go back the year we turned eighteen – in fact, for months it was all we talked about – but then they found Rachel’s dad’s tumour and my poor friend’s world fell apart overnight. I guess, ever since then, life has just got in the way of us ever making a return trip, but now that I’m sitting here talking to her about it, I can’t believe we’ve never done it.

  ‘I wish you could come too,’ I tell her honestly. ‘It’s going to be strange being there without you.’

  ‘Oh no, it won’t,’ she assures me, meeting my eye. ‘I’m sure you’ll find ways to pass the time.’

  Rachel is the only person who knows about my crush on Theo, so I know what she’s getting at even if the two boys have no idea.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I agree, giving her a loaded look.

  ‘If I was single, I’d definitely be up for a holiday fling,’ says Paul, rather too wistfully. There’s an awkward silence while we all wait for Rachel’s displeasure to waft down the bench and into her boyfriend’s subconscious. It takes longer than it should.

  ‘Not that I miss being single,’ he adds at last, smiling at her furious expression. ‘You know I only have eyes for you, Rachy.’

  The ale is definitely in danger of making a projectile reappearance.

  ‘From what I remember,’ Rachel says now, looking at me with amusement, ‘you never had any trouble attracting the men over in Mojácar.’

  Tom rudely guffaws into his pint.

  ‘I don’t see why it will be any different this time around,’ Rachel continues, ignoring his interruption. ‘Just channel that sexy, confident seventeen-year-old version of yourself and you’ll be golden.’

  ‘I definitely wasn’t sexy,’ I reply, picturing my flat-chested and spotty teenage self and grimacing. ‘And if I was confident, it was only because we were stealing from your mum and dad’s vodka stash every night before we went out.’

  ‘You can buy your own vodka this time – even better!’

  At the mention of alcohol, I notice everyone’s glasses are running low and head to the bar to get another round in.

  As I stand up to leave the table, Paul gives my hand a quick squeeze. ‘Get me a Peroni, will you, Han?’

  A bloody Peroni? He’s getting the cheap, nasty ale and liking it.

  Despite good intentions, it’s past eleven by the time we all stumble out on to the pavement and give each other clumsy hugs goodbye. Rachel draws Tom to one side and whispers something into his ear, but before I can barge over and find out what, Paul has blocked my path and pulled me into a rather stiff embrace.

  ‘Have a good time in Majorca, yeah,’ he slurs into my ear.

  ‘It’s Mojácar,’ I reply through gritted teeth, patting him lightly on the shoulder.

  What. A. Wally.

  Thankfully, I’m saved by the bell. Well, the ringing of my phone, which is a bit bell-like. Who the hell would be calling me at this time? For a brief, fleeting, ecstatic second, I allow myself to believe it might be Theo, ringing to tell me he can take it no longer, that he must give in to the feelings of love and abundant lust that have been coursing through his veins for months.

  It’s my mum.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, slightly cautiously, as I disentangle myself from Paul’s drunken spaghetti arms. ‘Why are you calling me so late?’

  ‘Is it late?’ comes the reply. I sense I may not be the only one who’s indulged in a few cheeky bevvies this evening.

  ‘It is for someone your age,’ I joke, smiling at the shriek I get in response.

  ‘Well, I know you’re flying out tomorrow, and I’ve got that zoga class down at the leisure centre first thing.’

  ‘Zoga?’ I ask, waving and blowing a kiss at Rachel as she and Paul head off hand in hand towards the tube station. Tom stands by the kerb waiting for me, staring at his shoes and pretending not to eavesdrop on my conversation.

  ‘It’s a new thing,’ she informs me cheerfully. ‘Like a mixture of yoga and zumba.’

  ‘Right,’ I manage, wondering how the hell such a thing could ever remotely work. Do you dance first, then yoga after? Or are you meditating to hard house? Nope, total nonsense.

  ‘Have you spoken to your dad?’ she asks now, her voice getting that slight edge that it always does when my other parent comes up in conversation.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. But he does know about this trip, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Not unless you’ve told him,’ I sigh, kicking a stone along the street so hard that it causes Tom to look up at me in alarm.

  ‘Of course I haven’t,’ my mum says. ‘I haven’t spoken to him in months.’

  ‘I’ll send him a text,’ I lie, feeling irritated. I’m twenty-eight, for God’s sake. I don’t have to tell my dad everything I’m doing. It’s not like he’d care anyway, even if I did.

  ‘I’m very proud of you,’ Mum says then, swiftly bursting my bubble of anger. ‘I just wanted you to know that. I know how long you’ve been waiting for this, so make sure you enjoy every single second of it.’

  I picture Mojácar, its narrow cobbled streets, the sunlight sneaking through gaps in the trailing flowers, the wide expanse of beach, the fresh and frisky Mediterranean, and I feel a grin start to lift the edges of my mouth.

  ‘I promise I will,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to make sure I do.’

  We continue chatting as Tom and I make our way to the bus stop, and he waits for my number sixty-four to turn up even though his bus arrives first. He can be very sweet sometimes. It’s easy to forget when we seem to spend a large percentage of the time winding each other up.

  ‘Your mum okay?’ he asks, when I finally hang up.

  ‘She’s taken up zoga,’ I tell him, my eyebrows raised, and he laughs with affection as I explain what it is. Sometimes I think Tom loves my mum even more than I do.

  ‘What do you think about Paul moving in with Rachel?’ he says then, even though he knows full well what I think.

  ‘I think she’s crazy,’ I say simply. ‘And I think she can do better.’

  ‘But she does seem happy …’ Tom begins, stopping mid-sentence when he sees the look on my face.

  ‘He’s just such a typical boorish lad, though,’ I argue. ‘He’s so self-involved and he has no social skills and he doesn’t appreciate her and I bet he’s cheating on her.’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ Tom holds up a dinner-plate-sized hand. ‘That’s not fair, Hannah.’

  I hate it when Tom tells me off – especially when I know that I’m right and he’s wrong.

  ‘Okay,’ I allow. ‘He might not be cheating yet, but I bet he will soon.’

  Tom just shakes his head at me. ‘You shouldn’t think like that,’ he says quietly. ‘He’s not all bad. What about the time he got those free passes to go up the Shard and took us with him? Or when he whisked Rachel off to Rome for the weekend when they’d only been dating for a few weeks? You might not like him much, and I agree he can put his foot in it sometimes, but Rachel is your oldest friend and she loves him. That has to count for something.’

>   I hate it even more when Tom tells me off and I know that he’s right and I’m wrong.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ I retort childishly, hurling my arm out to one side just in time to get the attention of the bus driver. Tom still looks a bit sad when I wave goodbye to him through the window of the bus, and as we move off around the corner and he disappears from view, I’m hit with a small but very sharp pebble of guilt.

  I am so over London. The sooner we get to sunny Spain and away from all this dreary, day-to-day real-life stuff, the better.

  3

  ‘Why do all airlines think that only midgets travel in their planes?’

  Tom is unusually grumpy. Like me, he feels a huge injustice at having been born slightly taller than the average human, and moans about it at every possible opportunity.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ he mutters, trying for the forty-eighth or so time since we took off from Gatwick airport to rearrange his ridiculously long legs into a comfortable position. It doesn’t work.

  ‘Just suck it up, boy,’ I tell him, wondering if I’ll ever get the feeling back in my own feet. ‘I think the man in front of you will actually kill you if you bang your knees against his seat one more time.’

  There’s a grunt from the bald chap in question confirming this, and Tom goes bright red.

  Claudette nabbed the aisle seat, despite being only five foot one in heels, and promptly fell asleep just after take-off. For someone so petite, French and beautiful, she can’t half snore. As we were crossing the Channel, she even snorted herself momentarily back awake. Tom and I were still laughing about it when we’d cleared France.

  Theo isn’t with us; he flew out a few days ago to make sure all our equipment arrived safely, and it’s completely pathetic, but I miss him. I’m almost as excited about seeing him as I am about setting foot in Mojácar again after all these years. I really need to get a grip.