Lila mackay is very misu.., p.19
Lila Mackay is Very Misunderstood, page 19
‘I need to talk to Nicky!’ I wailed. ‘I can’t stop, I have to catch him!’
Mum was having none of it though, and was adamant that I wasn’t going running around the streets in my pyjamas disturbing the neighbours. Whatever it was could wait till the morning. And even though I begged and said I really, really needed to talk to Nicky tonight because it was, like, life or death, Mum refused to countenance that there could be anything so vital that I had to rouse half the neighbourhood in the middle of the night (I felt that this was something of an exaggeration on her part).
There was nothing I could say to convince her. ‘I need to ask Nicky about homework’ wouldn’t cut it, because it would just trigger a lengthy lecture about managing my time better, being more organised and taking my A levels seriously. And after my many diatribes against ‘Weird Nicky’, I didn’t think Mum would even believe me if I said, ‘Well, the thing is, I’ve sort of fallen in love with him and I have to go round there and tell him before it’s too late.’ Even if she did believe me, she would still have said that it could wait till the morning. I fear my mother does not have a romantic soul.
If I lived in some sort of proper teenage world like in an American film, I could shin down a tree outside my bedroom window and sneak out and find Nicky who would have done the same and would be sitting under the apple tree in his garden, and he would look up and see me, standing there in a shaft of moonlight (the Care Bear jammies having morphed into something super cool and demurely sexy) and say, ‘Oh, Lila!’ and everything would be OK, and we would kiss and that would be The End.
But, of course, we did not live in that world, so I was sent to bed, to lie seething under my cartoon 101 Dalmatians duvet cover that I had told Mum I was too old for, and she had said was perfectly serviceable while reminding me that I had promised if she spent all that money on it that I would keep using it until it wore out. But that was when I was ten! How was I to know duvet covers lasted so long? And that I would grow up to experience such emotional turmoil and that Pongo and Perdita would not be conducive to my woe?
Monday 11th November 1996
The results of the photography competition were announced today. To absolutely no one’s surprise except possibly his, Nicky won both his categories, and the overall prize for the competition.
He walked up on to the stage to collect his awards looking so surprised and happy and overwhelmed that my heart nearly burst for him. Then, as he attempted to leave, Mr Lorrimer stopped him and said, ‘One moment, Nicky. There’s more.’ Mr Lorrimer announced that the judges had found Nicky’s photos so extraordinary, ‘especially his portrait work’ – his portraits of me – that they had recommended he enter for the UK’s most prestigious photography competition, the Talbot Prize.
Everyone clapped and cheered, and Nicky turned so red that all his freckles vanished and merged into one. He hurried off stage as soon as Mr Lorrimer gave him the nod, and was soon surrounded by crowds of people congratulating him. Even Rachel was hovering, suggesting he might like to take some photos of her, smiling sexily and saying, ‘After all, if you can make her look that good, just imagine what you could do with a proper subject, you’d stand far more chance of winning the Talbot Prize like that.’
I felt quite cross. Nicky was mine. How dare Rachel try and muscle in? And it was the photos of me everyone had loved. Why should she assume that Nicky would do even better with photos of her, just because she was bloody Rachel?
I hadn’t managed to see Nicky before college, and I couldn’t even get near him to try and talk to him after the prizegiving, until the buzzer went for classes to start, and everyone dispersed and Nicky was left on his own at the side of the lecture theatre, looking quite relieved. I should have gone too, I was going to be late for French, but I had to talk to him, even if it was just for a minute.
He was gazing at his certificates and the silver plaque he had won as I walked down from my seat and put my hand on his arm and he jumped and spun round. All the light and animation went out of his face as he realised who it was. He looked at me with no expression at all.
I congratulated him and waved at his armful of prizes, then I tried to say I was sorry, about the other night, that I was so confused by everything, that I said all the wrong things, and I didn’t mean them. It all came out in a gabbled rush, as Nicky was still staring at me with that blank look. He raised his eyebrows very slightly.
‘Oh, I think you meant them,’ he said. ‘I think you’ve only “realised” you said the wrong things because suddenly everyone’s interested in me. Am I good enough for you to go out with now, is that what you’re trying to tell me? Am I supposed to fall at your feet, and declare my undying love and gratitude? Well, if you’ll excuse me, I did that once before, and your response was shame and mortification and, I believe your exact words were, “What will people think?” If you didn’t want me then, when I was just Weird Nicky, when I would have done anything, anything for you, then I don’t want you now, when you only want me because everyone else does.’
And he turned round once more and walked away from me.
Why does this keep happening to me?
The worst part was that throughout his whole speech, he didn’t seem angry, or bitter, or upset. He just seemed to feel nothing at all.
I hurried after him, trying to tell him that this was nothing to do with his prize, that I had wanted to say all this to him yesterday.
For the first time, a hint of emotion crossed Nicky’s face, but it was an expression of weariness. ‘I’m going to be late for class now.’ And he banged out through the doors of the theatre and left me standing alone once again.
I went to the toilets and cried a great deal. I was going to be in trouble for missing French, but I didn’t care. Eventually, I dried my face, and went to reception and told them I wasn’t feeling well and needed to go home. When Mrs Fitzsimmons, the dragon-lady keeper of the college reception desk demanded to know what exactly was wrong, I said, ‘Women’s Troubles.’
It was not a lie after all. My Troubles may have been of the heart and not the uterus, despite what I had implied to Mrs Fitzsimmons, but they were definitely Women’s Troubles. It is one of the few advantages of being female, that the flip side of vile males assuming any emotion you show must be ‘hormonal’ or ‘the time of the month’ is when you need an unquestionable, get-out-of-jail-free card, you can claim Women’s Troubles, and no one can do or say anything about it.
Mrs Fitzsimmons did look sceptical as she rang Mum’s surgery to inform her of this malady and she glared at me as she said, ‘Your mother has given permission for you to go home yourself as she can’t come and collect you. Sign yourself out. I assume we won’t be making a habit of this, Miss MacKay?’
I went home and lay in the bath, sobbing quietly to myself for a while, and then crawled into bed. I thought about writing a poem about how sad and distressed I was. I got as far as ‘There once was a boy called Weird Nicky, whose habits sometimes made me feel icky,’ when I realised that I was writing a limerick and not a poem. No one can take you seriously with a heartbreak limerick. I finished it anyway.
There once was a boy called Weird Nicky,
Whose habits sometimes made me feel icky,
But he turned out to be good,
I’d kiss him if I could,
I’d even give him my very last biccy.
I think it’s the name. Nicky, while very useful for things to rhyme with, just isn’t a romantic name, suggesting lovelorn yearnings. It’s a jolly sort of good everyday name. If only he could be called something heartbreakingly tender like … oh, I don’t know. Tristan? No, Tristan is a bit of a pretentious name. Though then I could be called Isolde, which is a terribly romantic name. Why must I be called the very prosaic Elizabeth, with all its dull shortened versions, instead of something passionate and glorious like Isolde? I feel like my life would be very different if I was called Isolde. But I would have to face a lifetime of spelling it to people on the telephone. I suppose at least people know how to spell Elizabeth.
I tried another poem, using Nicholas this time, but the only thing I could find to rhyme with it was ‘arse’. I think I must face the fact that love poetry may not be my milieu as a writer. I wish I knew what was. Is it not enough that I am facing a future of lonely spinsterhood, unkissed, unlovable and unwanted? And now I don’t even get to be a tortured writer on the subject? I don’t have so much as a windswept moor to wander across with my broken heart.
I thought about going to the park to be broken-hearted, but it’s really not the same. You can’t be properly brokenhearted in a park. Imagine if Emily Brontë and her wretched imagery had tried to set Wuthering Heights in a park. What perilous passion could have taken place between Cathy and Heathcliff as they tried to navigate the tarmac path between the ice-cream van and the bandstand?
I gave up on the poetry and just lay in bed and felt sorry for myself until it was time for Home and Away, but I couldn’t even concentrate on the problems of an Australian soap. I shuffled to my window to stare out despairingly instead. Oh, god, I am turning into Cathy Earnshaw. Perhaps I will die of my broken heart.
I was still standing there sadly when I saw Nicky coming down the road. He was very late. He’d probably stayed behind in the computer lab to find another willing sap to lure in with his Richard III theories, or maybe he’d been working on his photos for the Talbot Prize, probably with Rachel. He looked up at my window as he turned into his gate, and I dived back, lest he saw me standing there and thought I was looking for him. Which I was, of course, but I didn’t need him to know that.
Mum was less sympathetic than I had hoped when she came home. Instead of immediately recognising that I was having some sort of existential crisis and possibly a nervous breakdown, she simply said that if this sort of thing was going to keep happening, she’d have to look into having me referred to a gynaecologist. Possibly THE LEAST ROMANTIC word in the ENTIRE English language.
Really, it would serve Mum right if I ran off with an impoverished, bigamist poet who seduced me in a graveyard, just to inject a little romance into my life. But I don’t want Percy (what a dreadful name) Bysshe Shelley. I just want Nicky.
EMILYCHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blimey. Lila was a total bitch there. I know it was a shock about Weird Nicky – it was a shock to me reading it – but she did not cover herself in glory. Really, Lila, there’s wanting to fit in, just like I do, and there’s behaving like that!
It made it even harder to believe Mum had once been Lila. I just could not see her caring that much about what people thought. That was what she was always telling me anyway. (Hypocritical much, MOTHER?) I know she tried to make it up to him, but I’m not surprised he wasn’t interested. She was mean. Then again, he did spring it all on her. Maybe it wasn’t all Lila’s fault.
At least I know now why Mum is always on at me about not worrying about fitting in. She doesn’t want me to make a huge mistake like she did. Maybe Weird Nicky was the love of her life and she has spent all these years regretting what happened. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work out between her and Dad, because she was still pining for Weird Nicky. What if she resents me being born, because I am not Weird Nicky’s baby?
I was so worried about this, I asked Uncle Tom about it on the way into town. He was sufficiently disturbed by my question that he even turned off his terrible old people’s radio station (he tells me Radio 2 is not for old people, that it is where all the good music is) and said, ‘Emily, listen to me very carefully. No one else in the world knows your mother as well as I do, except possibly Jasmit and Kate, and I swear to you, and they would too, that Lila may have many regrets about life, but you – you are not one of them. She loves you more than anything. That’s why she tries to stop you making the same mistakes she made. She does understand more than you think, you know.’
‘Would she love me more if Weird Nicky was my dad?’ I said in a small voice.
‘She couldn’t love you more. Lila loves you as much as it is possible for one human being to love another. Please believe me,’ Uncle Tom said. Then he laughed. ‘I had forgotten how she used to call that poor boy Weird Nicky.’
We drove on for a while, and Uncle Tom switched the radio back on. I couldn’t even argue and ask to play my music through the Bluetooth yet, but I had grand plans for the soundtrack to our journey home once my phone was fixed. There were other things I needed to ask though, and for some reason it’s always easier talking in a car.
‘Is it strange seeing Mum like she is now, when she used to be Lila? Don’t you miss that Lila? She’s so different these days.’
Uncle Tom considered for a while. ‘Emily, sixteen-year-old Lila MacKay didn’t go to bed one day and wake up the next at the age of forty-four with a mortgage and a child and an unfulfilling job. She was seventeen-year-old Lila, and then all the ages in between, and we all grew and changed with her. So no, I don’t look at her and think, “Who are you? Where is Lila?” Because to me, she still is that same person. So am I.’
‘Yesterday, you said you weren’t that boy any more,’ I pointed out.
‘I meant I’m stronger and braver than he was,’ Uncle Tom said. ‘So is Lila. We’ve grown up. We face challenges differently now. Life changes how we react and behave. We learn and we grow, but ultimately, we’re the same people. It’s an over-used metaphor, but it’s like when steel is put in a fire and tempered and twisted and beaten. At the end, while it might look like something completely different, and it might have a completely new purpose, it’s still the same piece of steel that went into the fire. That’s your mother. And me, I hope. Sometimes we might forget what we were, but it’s still there, unchangeable. And whoever you think your mother is now, she’s still Lila MacKay. She’ll always be Lila MacKay. You’ll see that one day.’
Three hours later, a smiling, bearded man in the Apple Store handed my phone back to me. It was a joyous moment. Uncle Tom seemed to find it slightly less joyous, as it had cost him nearly £200, though the Apple man assured him it had been quite a cheap and easy fix. Uncle Tom looked unconvinced, but a promise is a promise after all. There were so many notifications flying up my screen when I turned it on, that I was slightly worried it might melt down and break again.
‘You can look at them all when you’re home,’ Uncle Tom said firmly. ‘Come on, let’s go and get some lunch. You’ve managed over a week without being surgically attached to that thing, you can wait a few more hours. NO, Emily, turn it off.’
I had some small revenge by insisting on playing Taylor Swift ALL the way home, while Uncle Tom groaned and said every song sounded the same, which is totally untrue and all the evidence anyone needs that Uncle Tom is a MASSIVE BOOMER. When I said that to him, he said he could still change the Wi-Fi password and disconnect me from the world again. I decided not to push my luck, because it felt so amazing to have my phone back, to know I could message Poppy at any moment and she could reply, and to be back in the world of my friends, instead of being alone with my own thoughts going round and round in my head, with only Lila for company.
I had asked Uncle Tom over lunch how on earth people managed in his day, and he was quite huffy about it.
‘What do you mean, “in my day”? You make me sound like some Victorian buffer. I think you’ll find, young lady, this is very much still “my day”!’
‘If you’re calling people “young lady”, I don’t think it is your day,’ I argued. ‘I heard you complaining earlier about how that policeman we passed was practically a child. I think that’s a pretty surefire sign you are officially old.’
‘Firstly, that policeman was very young,’ Uncle Tom insisted, ‘and secondly, to go back to your earlier question before you decided to be so very cheeky, we managed without phones because we knew no better. We talked to each other in person. Made phone calls. Hung around in parks.’
‘Sounds lame.’
‘Shut up and eat your carbonara. We had hobbies. And inner resources.’
‘Ugh. See? Hobbies are for old people. What even are inner resources?’
Uncle Tom admitted he wasn’t sure, but that he was always being urged to cultivate them when he was young, so he was assuming he must have some.
I thought for a minute and then asked if inner resources included things like his poetry and my drawing.
‘Yes, probably.’
‘Ha, there, you see, I do have inner resources,’ I crowed. To be honest though, I probably wouldn’t have done so much drawing recently if I’d had my phone – not that I was going to tell Uncle Tom that. In addition to the pictures of Toby and Uncle Tom, I had been drawing the view from the house, and I had even attempted to draw one of the old photos of Mum and Tom and their friends, though it wasn’t very easy as the resolution on the photo was so rubbish. I had enjoyed it, and there had been times when it was nice not to have the constant distraction of mindlessly scrolling for hours. And I was pretty sure that after all those days of sanding and sugar-soaping I now had all the skills required to start that home reno TikTok, so I had a fallback plan if becoming an artist didn’t work out.
It had been nice too, chatting in the evenings with Uncle Tom, and even reading Lila’s diary had been interesting, once I got over the ick. I was still very disappointed in Lila, both for how she had treated Nicky, and for her problematic views about Wuthering Heights and the things she had called Emily Brontë and Cathy and Heathcliff. I would have to take that up with her. I wondered what she would say if I told her that in my new-found maturity I had noticed there were some interesting parallels between Wuthering Heightsand Saltburn – but she would probably just demand to know how I had even watched Saltburn and I didn’t want to tell her about Poppy’s big brother’s dodgy Firestick that he sometimes let us use. I decided I was definitely going to be on my phone less, though. Just as soon as I had gone through all the hundreds and millions of messages waiting for me.
