Face Read online

  I waited for you outside the Health Centre.

  The words fire off into public and I’m left in a dragging panic. Where did that come from? My fingers are too fast for my brain. I’m sluggish with unprocessed stuff since Dad left. Think cool breeze, think Merlot. When my phone rings, I’m prepared.

  “What do you want, Cliff?”

  It hits to me that he’s turned his phone to face the wall and I’m addressing the corner of a double stack wardrobe, and a section of aqua coloured wall. His bedroom? Basically, I’m talking to myself again.

  “I’ve got some information that might interest you.”

  His voice is magnified, steady. He’s holding his mouth too near the phone, whispering, it startles like he crept up on me. I fast conclude: freak.

  “Look, I only just found out what Seven said to you...ignore it. I do not need to see you. I’m going now.”

  “It’s about your Mum.”

  This takes a moment to process. I adjust my visual picture of old Mum, to less familiar-lips Mum.

  “How do you know my Mum?”

  “I don’t. But I know something about her that I’m pretty sure you don’t. And you deserve to be told.”

  “So tell me.”

  “It’s easier if we meet up.”

  “First tell me how you found out. This so-called big secret.”

  “Let’s just say it wasn’t very well hidden- your mum’s choice.”

  “Is this about Mum and Dad splitting up? That’s hardly a secret. It’s Pity City at school for me right now.”

  “I didn’t know. Sorry. It’s something else...”

  “Cliff, can you see why this is bothering me? Can you? Stop and think how psycho you’re being: phoning up a complete stranger, claiming to know secrets about their private life?”

  I just ranted at his wardrobe, at a blank wall. He starts to stutter, going on the defensive, tense breaths horribly magnified. I snap my phone shut with a pincer motion. Immediately I am thinking about Mum, and I need her to be downstairs. Reason being, I have this gut lump: a secret? It’s possible.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs I’ve already changed my mind. I mean, what could Cliff possibly know about my mother that I don’t? We’ve been trapped alone in this house for months. Trying to pretend nothing’s changed.

  Mum has gone to the Recycling Point of course. I’ve poked my head around the door of the living room, the kitchen, still looking for old Mum, subtle Mum. She has the face of a stranger. Not a stranger, an acquaintance. An acquaintance who is trying to start up a friendship and finds themselves met with reluctance. Her attempts at physical contact veer out of nowhere, attacks of artificial cheer applying pressure to a bond that is hanging by a thread. Look at what isn’t said Mum, there’s whole conversations. (Conversations that are no doubt concluded behind my back, with Dad.) At least she’s guaranteed to be in a certain radius of the house- she can’t get too far, in the physical sense. Being There: one parenting box ticked. Mum would be pleased.

  What I want now is to get one long look at her face in action, which I realise I have been refusing to properly register. Because Mum is not a natural secret-keeper. I hold onto the memories of her old expressions: the need to be understood, quick-fire explanations, rhetorical questions, a climax of justifications. Words grabbing like a fist. The Liz Taylor face did self-righteous more naturally than most, but perhaps that was Mum shining through. But how will a SexyFace Extreme do strained secrecy, on Mum? I curl into the sofa and can’t imagine, so I wait.

  Cliff again, this time it’s a link to a site. He’s got guts. I consider not opening it for all of three seconds. Odds are it’ll be entertaining. It’s a link to Campaign for Original Face, C.O.F. What is this exactly, an admission? Another attempt at humorous conversation? Seven is going to pay for this, for letting him think his face- his anything- matters to me.

  A woman’s face appears, a Natural. Her eyes twinkle, her gap-toothed grin promises the delivery of a punch line any second; she has the kind of old-fashioned face that you might say is made for comedy- although it wasn’t made for any such thing, of course. I laugh at her, I can’t help myself. She got my attention, with a little bit of repulsion mixed in. I’m listening.

  “Campaign for Original Face has sent you something to make you think: The One, otherwise known as The Legend of Disappearing Dave.”

  A short film begins: Dave is standing in a bar full of women, clearly psyching himself up. He has a face from an Inspiration range- I can’t put a name to it straight off. He grabs a flower from a vase on a table- a single red rose. “Tonight, Dave is looking for The One,” says the voiceover, mock-scientific, with bottled excitement. The bar is packed with raucous women in tight groupings, all with their backs to him. A glossy mane of hair here, a backless gown there. Which way shall he try his luck? The women turn en masse, every face a Marilyn Monroe. Blank faces that come to life upon seeing Dave- or do they? Their gazes settle over his shoulder. Behind Dave, another man enters with Dave’s face- Brad Pitt Inspiration, that was the range- and another, and another, until there are two crowds on opposite sides of the bar. The soundtrack is female voices rising in anticipation, blending with masculine tones, as the identical men weave into the identical women. The rose is crushed underfoot. The C.O.F logo appears over the top, the three letters stamped over that gap-toothed grin, belonging to the female face of C.O.F.

  “Oh, Hi.” Mum does a kind of double-take. Comical, like she’s been caught red-handed. “You never sit down here anymore.”

  “I’m all recovered. How are you?”

  I watch the SexyFace do fleeting suspicion. She answers like it’s a job interview, upbeat but guarded.

  “Fine, really fine. A bit tired.”

  She is standing in the centre of the room, a vast arena of personal space encasing the two of them, mother and child. She feels closer than she is. Mum turns a slow circle and I’m struck by how normal she looks from behind. Then it’s all bump and double-bump lips in profile. She opts for the same sofa right as me, drops into it with a huff.

  “How’s baby?”

  “Couple of elbows to the internal organs, busy as ever.”

  There is a stillness about her, she’s sizing me up. Is that a sign of guilt?

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better, that’s one less thing to worry about.”

  “Mum, are you having an affair?”

  Mum makes a sound like laughter retracting.

  “Oh God, no! Who’d have me like this?”

  I believe her straight away- but the next bit just pops out.

  “So you’re sure Dad’s the father?”

  Mum cups the bump. The bump will need to know the truth.

  “Absolutely no doubt about it.”

  Mum turns her head to the window, her eyes fill with their reflection.

  “It was our last frozen embryo, you know that.”

  “The SexyFace... I thought it might be for somebody else, somebody new.”

  “My Update was for me alone, an attempt at glamour. Pregnancy takes that away from you, and nine months is a long time.” Mum puts her fingertips to her lips like they might bite. “To be honest, I’m not sure I like this face on me.”

  “You look fine, Mum.”

  My smile blocks, Mum looks down.

  “I look pregnant.”

  “Was it to get back at Dad?”

  Mum considers this.

  “I don’t know. I miss him. It doesn’t help that he messages me all the time. Wanting updates on us, on the baby.”

  “So ignore him.”

  “Perhaps I should.”

  “What have you told him about me?”

  “That you’re still cross with both of us. That it makes me feel bad.”

  I can’t get side-tracked by all this break-up baggage; it packs the room if you let it.

  “Have you told him about my new face yet?”

  “Yeah...it seemed important...”<
br />
  Mum’s voice trails off with a lilt of sadness.

  “Good. I’m glad he knows.”

  “He likes to hear the everyday stuff, the details,” Mum continues, “if the baby kicked and kept me awake; if you came out of your room today. All the time I question, should I be telling him this? Is it just delaying the inevitable bit where he moves on in his head as well as in his feet?”

  “Ask him to come and clear out his stuff. Tell him we need the storage space for all our new clothes.”

  Mum gives a weak smile of recognition. The thought of Dad turning up at the door churns me up to infinity.

  “I’m not sure I can handle any more conflict right now. I’m too tired.” she says.

  “Stupid suggestion, forget it.”

  Mum touches my forearm, an unfamiliar gesture to match her face.

  “Mum, there’s something I still don’t understand: there was a consent form. Did you fake his signature or something?”

  Mum slowly shakes her head.

  “Why would Dad sign it if he didn’t want a baby?”

  “It’s complicated, his feelings changed. I wish you’d talk to him about this. There are other factors...”

  “What factors?”

  “Well, initially he had to contend with my strong desire to complete our family-”

  “So you bullied him into it? Dad never could stand up to you.”

  “I certainly let my feelings be known, but no, I didn’t bully. Your father is more than capable of standing his ground. We had always talked about having two children, that’s what the frozen embryos were for. It was his suggestion to store them, to keep the option open. He was adamant that you have the both of us to yourself for as long as possible. But now I’m fifty-three, so this is the edge of possible.”

  “So you gave him an ultimatum? It’s me or the baby?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. Look, True. I know you’re angry at us both right now. You’ve got every right to feel that way. But there is no baddie here. Dad would say the same.”

  “Signing the consent form and then walking out? That’s classic Bad Dad. Dad’s a walking stereotype.”

  “I’m not going to attempt to justify what he did. But before you condemn him forever, at least listen to his side of things. You might feel differently afterwards.” There’s a whole host of stuff behind Mum’s olive eyes, but none of it is guilt. “The situation, our situation, is not as straight-forward as it appears. Dad is desperate to talk.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dollar is talking out of my tummy but I’m not in the mood for melting so I’m letting him flirt at the wall.

  “...but you know me, I can’t keep secrets. I’m about to take the hugest risk of my career and I sure could do with someone to confide in...I know I can rely on you, True. So when the time comes, you’ll be the first to know. Don’t go away...”

  His loaded words are come at me like a dead weight; I mute him. Sorry darling, I haven’t got the headspace for your brand intimacy right now. I wish you could listen to me for a change: I just lied to Mum. I’m not talking to him, ever. They’re collaborating. No doubt she’s messaging him right now: it’s a “maybe” from True. They don’t talk either, it’s just writing. Let him wait.

  I need a creative distraction; there’s a more pressing mystery to solve here. I grab a pencil and paper and with a swooping scrape an oval shape appears: it’s a blank face and it’s going to become Cliff. Cliff exposed. Because portraits are one of my talents: I capture people by drawing them. (Then I smile at them and they run. That part is new.)

  I rest the pencil at the level where the eyes should be. How to conjure up a Natural? I mean, where do you start? I’ve seen so many old photos, and the range of features back then is mind-boggling. They had no template for what looked right, so you might see an elegant nose and nothing to emphasise it- say, no visible cheekbones at all. I could stare at Natural faces for hours.

  I sketch a couple of eyes fast, standard size. Shade their centres to bring them alive with depth and contrast. I’ll allow him normal eyes. His gaze is off to the side and shifty. Thin lips to match the tight voice, a wonky grin because he thinks he’s funny. He’s bald, so I add in some of Dollar’s curls- because Dollar is still in the room, performing on mute. The curls are a nod to the avatar Cliff hides behind. The nose- there’s got to be something specific to hide. I’ll come back to that. I alter the mouth, sadder. Because his old-fashioned face is a kind of tragedy. I make the nose bulbous and hooked, dominating his face. Scribble a jagged pair of eyebrows to angry him up a bit. Because I’d be angry, looking like this! It’s an honest portrait, it’s based on the feeling he gives me. I write the title underneath: ‘Repulsive Cliff.’ True: meet your stalker. I laugh out loud.

  When Merlot pops up to join us in my bedroom we become quite a crowd, with the faces of the four of us. Dollar continues to work the wall in silence with his intimate gaze and slow-moving lips, a professional to the end. I allow myself to be distracted by Merlot’s Ultiface, her save-me smile. She seems quietly disappointed in the face of my stalker. I turn Repulsive Cliff face down and stuff him under some papers on my desk- there’s no use pretending Merlot doesn’t get to me. Merlot and I look each other in the eye; I’m calmer after my drawing, but I’m still not tempted by this look at all, the whole princess thing- the waiting to be saved. I quit over-smiling for a reason. Suddenly, I know what I can do about the Dad ‘chat’ problem.

  Merlot observes in her usual state of detachment as I navigate to the folder, unnamed: Dad’s forty-nine surviving messages. A handful deleted by title alone, like: ‘Happy Birthday.’ Doing the maths always cheers me up; he’s falling short of ten per month. One or two a week, like a failed diary keeper. What are these sad little conversations he’s been having with himself? I open the most recent one first.

  True,

  I acted like an idiot in the supermarket. (“Can I carry your bags?”) It threw me, bumping into your mum. Shopping day used to be Wednesday- that’s why. It was Friday, we startled each other. There’s so much I thought of to say after she’d gone. Things like: you look amazing even while hating me. Would you tell her I said that? That baby is sure coming soon! I don’t remember her getting so big with you, but it has been sixteen years. There are loads of photos of Mum pregnant with you. Check and see! Mum hopes you won’t be cross with the baby, I do too. I’m not angry anymore, just sad.

  Thinking of you always,

  Adios,

  Dad x

  No mention of the Marilyn Mum saw him with, how convenient.

  True,

  Can you believe I just ate some raspberry instant pasta? I miss cooking for you and Mum. Cooking for Travis is just time filling, food is just fuel for my brother. Anyway, you were right and I was wrong. The pasta was delicious! (If you turn a blind eye to the colour of it.) Mum tells me she is eating well, I hope it isn’t just instant meals?

  Keep talking to Mum and Bump,

  I’m off to the Health Centre now to rebalance my metabolism, my trousers are pinching!

  Adios,

  Dad x

  True,

  I miss your face....

  ..my leaving...only option....

  Cut the self-pity. Delete.

  True,

  Mum says she hasn’t seen you all day! Get downstairs and be nice to each other!!

  I only hide upstairs you monstrous rampaging hypocrite! Delete. Should have blasted through these ages ago, I’m winning.

  True,

  As you know last night was my shift at the NanoAssembler plant.

  Oh please, spare me the life story! Listen to me flourish in my new life, every dull detail, takes as long to read it as it took to experience it. Did you forget I’m a teenager? Listening to you was always Mum’s job.

  Quietest night I’ve ever had, every Manufacturer ticking over, not a single molecule out of place. Where’s a bit of chaos when you need it?

&nb
sp; I wonder if there’s chaos at home? A teenager and a heavily pregnant woman, barely speaking. If you read this, you know Mum won’t ask for help but please offer, even if it’s just a quick tidy up. I know you’ve got your own life to lead.

  Cover for your absence, you mean? Nice one, ‘Dad.’ Parental nagging from a remote location. I laugh, just the once.

  ...How is Seven by the way? Don’t let her boss you around too much. That’s Seven, not Mum. Mum can boss all she likes!

  I’m trying to think of a big batch of something, maybe a stew, to cook up and give to Mum to freeze- if she’ll let me. But I’m not feeling very inspired. Any ideas?

  Keep talking to Mum,

  Adios sweetheart,

  Dad x

  Here is one from this morning:

  True,

  Mum tells me you have become a Maverick, and that you look really scary with your new Smile Blocker!?! I asked her to take a photo of you and send it over, but she refused. More morals than I, that woman.

  Sixteen and growing up fast. Have you found your face? Are there any boys I, or Mum, should know about? I know you can look after yourself.

  Adios,

  Dad x

  Maybe I should send Cliff around to meet him. He should feel guilty that I’m vulnerable to stalkers and freaks.

  A slightly older message from last week:

  True,

  Today it is six months since I left, to the day. There is something I need to tell you, and I’d much rather do it face-to-face. If you won’t meet me, please at least let me give you a ring?

  Mum was supposed to tell you by now, but she says the moment is never right. I find that hard to believe. Now she’s started saying it’s only me with the problem, so it’s my responsibility to explain. But she’s wrong because it will affect all of us. I didn’t want to tell you in anger, when I left. The baby deserves a better introduction.

  I’m going to try calling you now. Please let’s talk before the birth!

  Adios,

  Dad x