Page 42 of All the Forbidden Things

“Who’s that?” Kenzie mouths.

“Dan,” I reply.

“Jake, maybe. Jay’s happily married and not my type, Max is a dick, and Cal’s my brother.”

“That’s my dad your talking ’bout, homie, best check yourself,” Kenzie says, clearly not amused.

“What is it with everyone talking in terrible American slang today?” I ask.

Kenz looks at me in disgust and shakes her head. I’ve no idea why.

“Hey, girlfriend,” Dan responds.

I switch my phone to speaker and leave them to talk.

I head into my walk-in wardrobe and switch on the light. I have about four things looking very lonely as they hang forlornly in the vast space. A pair of ripped jeans, a Khaki green sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder and has “Stick ’em with the pointy end,” printed across the back and a sword on the front. It’s a Jon Snow quote from the first season ofGame of Thrones, a show I might be a little obsessed with. Next to the sweatshirt is a black tutu, and next to the tutu, a light blue floral maxi dress, which still has the tags attached. I purchased it online when I was here last summer for a quick visit. It didn’t arrive until after I’d left, so I asked Mel to hang it in my wardrobe. The rest of my clothes are still in the boxes that have just arrived from the States and are sitting in the garage waiting for me to unpack, something I would do once my arm was out of the cast I still had to wear.

“I came to see if you wanted help washing your hair,” Kenzie says from behind me.

“I did it in the shower last night and let it dry naturally. Could probably do with some help putting it up or something though.”

I run the fingers of my good hand through it.

“It’s got long,” Kenzie states, “and really fair from all that California sunshine. How about I plait it so it curves around your head and hangs around your shoulder?”

“Sounds good. Have you got a pair of boots I can borrow? I’m a bit limited for outfit choices so was just gonna throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, but I’ve nothing to put on my feet?” I pull the items off their hangers.

Kenzie eyes my sweatshirt. “I’ve got the perfect pair to go with that little ensemble, just bought them at work last week.”

When Kenzie’s not at school, she works at Mel’s trendy retro clothing boutique on the King’s Road. Stuff, Your Nan Loved, sells everything from pre-loved clothing and shoes to accessories, household kitsch, and vinyl records. You could spend hours rifling through their wares, searching for something unique.

“You doing okay?” Kenzie asks as I turn around and catch her staring at me.

“Yep.”

“You sure? Not, you know, nervous about leaving the house?”

“I told you, my not leaving the house has nothing to do with nerves, I just needed—”

“To process. Yeah, I know. So, have you? Processed, I mean?”

“I think so. I don’t feel as angry as I did, and I definitely don’t feel any kind of guilt or responsibility.”

“Nor should you. That fucking copper needs a dick kick for even going there and putting that idea in your head.”

“He does,” I agree.

“Mel thinks you should see a counsellor.”

“I know, but I’m honestly doing okay. I think coming home has been therapy enough.”

She gives me a quick, and very gentle squeeze.

“Well, let’s get you dressed, make you feel human, and you can put on my new boots and kick every misogynistic arsehole you come across today with them. They’re perfect for dick kicking.”

“I don’t think I can raise my leg high enough to kick anyone’s dick with the way my ribs still hurt. Besides, I thought we were going to Max’s house? He might behave like a dick sometimes, but I’m not sure I’d call him a misogynist.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d call Max. He was my very first crush. I’d had every detail of our wedding planned, designed the house we’d buy, and named the children and dogs we’d one day have by the time I was eight-years-old. Then we’d all gone away together on holiday to Ibiza. I was around ten or eleven and going through my awkward, angry stage. I’d suddenly gained weight and had a mouth full of metal. He’d bought some woman along, Heidi or Hannah, some H name or another, all fake, perfect tits, long blonde hair, and legs that were as tall as me at the time. I was reclusively hiding out on the balcony of my room one morning, reading a book, when I heard her saying to Max that it was unfortunate, after everything else I’d been through, that I’d also been beaten with the ugly stick. She went on and on in her annoying German or whatever accent, telling him how hard it would be for me growing up because not only was I fat but also ginger, with a mouth full of metal.