My Invisible Boyfriend
Page 13
Suppose you think this is hilarious. Just go ahead and tell everyone how pathetic I am then, I don’t even care anymore. Thanks for taking the piss while you’re doing it, though. It’s really cute of you to mock me to death.
H
I sit staring at my gingerbread boy, wondering exactly how someone four inches high with sugar for eyes has managed to take over my life. Then my inbox winks at me again.
to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
from: arealboy@letterbox.com
Dearest Heidi,
Did my message get mistranslated in the ether? I said I like you. I don’t recall using the word “pathetic.” Nor taking the piss, which I’m sure I’d recall. Do you talk to all your gentleman friends that way?
You consider me “cute,” however. This amuses me. Perhaps this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship after all?
Oh, and rest assured: Your secret (or should that be our secret?) is safe with me.
love & affection,
E
to: arealboy@letterbox.com
from: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
E,
OK, you’re actually freaking me out now. You want to humiliate me, fine, can’t stop you, probably deserve it. Just stop with the weird “love&affection” crap, because it’s kind of creepy.
H
to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
from: arealboy@letterbox.com
Dearest Heidi,
I perceive you’re going to play hard to get. This shall be fun.
You disappoint me, however. I thought you wanted to play detective? You must be at least a little curious. Don’t I remind you of anyone, even the merest smidgen? I’ve been endeavoring to be obvious for some time now, in fact. But perhaps you have a selection of possible suitors from whom to choose?
Until then, unrequited as it may be at this moment, I continue to write with
love & affection,
E
The jellyfish feeling doesn’t go away. But now it’s a different kind of quivery breathlessness that’s making me stare at the screen, rereading and rereading.
The dimly lit penthouse. Mycroft Christie, gentleman detective, is reclining on an armchair, apparently relaxing after a party: His undone bow tie is draped loosely around his neck, and he twirls a red rose between his fingers. His companion, Miss Heidi Ryder, looks equally elegant and does not in any way have eyeliner on her chin.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Well, this has been a dramatic evening.
HEIDI: (makes goldfish face)
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: How attractive. No wonder you’ve a new beau.
HEIDI: I haven’t got a new beau. I haven’t got an old beau! I’ve got…I don’t know what I’ve got.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Then let’s consider the matter in a professional capacity. What explanation could there be for the attentions of this Mysterious E?
HEIDI: OK. I see three possibilities. One: Someone found out about Ed being imaginary, and wants to torture me before they tell everyone and humiliate me into a puddle.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: A rather arcane technique, don’t you think?
HEIDI: Yeah, but it makes more sense than possibility number two: The gingerbread man suddenly came to life and decided to send me freaky romantic e-mails.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Hmm. While I recall being menaced by a possessed stapler in episode 3.3, “When Office Supplies Attack,” I think we can all agree that wasn’t the highlight of my televisual career. It wasn’t terribly plausible when it happened to me, and I am, alas, fictional.
HEIDI: Well, I’ve always thought so. Unless…
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Oh. Would I be possibility number three?
HEIDI: You do sound a lot like him. And there’s the “love & affection” bit: You always finish your letters like that. And…now I’ve stepped over the line from fangirl to total frothing loon.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I suspect the existence of this conversation makes that point moot. Might I propose a fourth option? That this Mysterious E, whoever he might be, is a perfectly real person who likes you? More-than-likes you? Likes you enough to find out something of your tastes in debonair television heroes and to borrow a few of their charms to woo you?
HEIDI: Dude, I’m fifteen. We don’t do “wooing.”
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: You’re blushing.
HEIDI: Am not.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Are too. A very attractive shade of rose.
HEIDI: Do you really think he likes me?
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Yes, Miss Ryder, I believe he does. And painful as it is for me accept that I’m no longer primary in your affections, I suspect you might rather like him back.
HEIDI: But I don’t even know who he is.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Indeed. Now, if only there were a talented girl detective in the vicinity to investigate…
Miss Ryder plucks the red rose from Mycroft Christie’s fingertips, tucks it behind her ear, and shrugs on her long detective coat.
Recipe for a Tragic Breakup
INGREDIENTS:
Gingerbread Ed, soulful biker poet
Heidi, his beloved
Mysterious E, the new man in her life
A selection of long-distance relationship clichés
METHOD:
• Blend all ingredients.
• Pour the mixture into the internet, making sure it spreads evenly to all corners.
• Bake till the face of Mysterious E is revealed, like those pieces of toast on eBay with Jesus on them.
Message from: gingerbread_ed
so…
looks like i’m a single guy again.
h: miss you all the same, always will,
ed
It’s a risk, with HEIDI IS A BIG LIAR written in big gold letters on the Manor wall. But I need him around, and I reckon a few other people would also miss him if he suddenly vanished completely. So we’re going to have a very mature and dignified breakup, where I am only a little bit lip-quivery, and Ed is very stoic and handsome and probably writes lots of songs about our doomed romance, and I’ll be very conveniently available for Mysterious E to come along and sweep me off my feet (which, love him as I do, my little gingerbread boy has never quite pulled off).
I needn’t have worried about E. D. HARTLEY causing me any trouble, though. The Finch seems to have plenty of other relationship gossip after Flick Henshall’s party.
Message from: dai_fawr
Is there something in the water? This is like the week of breakup hell. Fili and Simon, Ludo and Eric, now you guys. Henry better not decide he’s got something to tell me…
Anyway, sorry, mate. Who dumped who? Not that I’m going to take sides, natch.
Later dude.
Message from: gingerbread_ed
wow, sounds like a lot happened after heidi left that party she told me that she’d been at. hope everyone there is ok. i guess at least she’ll have company, yeah?
mutual decision.
ed
Message from: dai_fawr
Ha, totally guessed it was her who dumped you. No offense. It’s just always the quiet ones who turn out to be man-eaters ;)
Stay in touch, mate.
Later dude.
ludovica_b: OMG
gingerbread_ed: hello to you too
ludovica_b: lol sorry
ludovica_b: am just surprised!
ludovica_b: i thought you and heidi were like forever love
gingerbread_ed: aw, thanks
ludovica_b: love sux anyway
ludovica_b: i hope you were nice when you split with her
ludovica_b: didn’t like call her an ugly in front of everyone or anything cos that is mean
gingerbread_ed: no
ludovica_b: though bet you would not do that
gingerbread_ed: not really my style
gingerbread_ed: is everything ok?
>
ludovica_b: not really
to: bloodwinetears@letterbox.com
from: gingerbread_ed@frogmail.com
dear fili,
i suppose you’ll probably hear this from someone else anyway, but heidi and i have broken up.
i wanted to let you know that i’m still here as a friend, if you want someone to talk to about anything. in case you were upset about anything, maybe.
best wishes,
ed
to: gingerbread_ed@frogmail.com
from: bloodwinetears@letterbox.com
Dear Ed,
You and Heidi are breaking up? I’m honestly surprised to hear that. But then love is complicated, isn’t it? I thought my life would be instantly perfect if only I knew someone loved me. I miss being that naive. But the garden of love is a thorny threshold. Even roses bite.
You might have guessed: I’m not having the best time of it romantically myself. But being alone is all I deserve. Please don’t feel you have to jump in and tell me I’m wrong, either: I’m not the girl you think I am. I promise you. But then who is?
Fili
to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
from: arealboy@letterbox.com
Dearest Heidi,
When I mentioned the notion of “playing hard to get,” it wasn’t intended as encouragement. Ignoring me will not change how I feel about you: It’s a familiar enough situation, after all. You pass by—I hope you’ll notice me watching—you glance my way, smile, move on.
You’re quite the tease, did you know that?
I hope you’re beginning to understand. This is not a joke, an insult, a childish prank. If I had the courage, I’d declare my more-than-liking to your face. Until circumstances allow, I shall have to be content with playing your game, with the rules you devised. Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying the dance, just a little? I know I am. Perhaps that’s why we’re so perfectly suited?
I await your reply, as always, with
love & affection,
E
Finchworld is cloaked in gray fog and misery when I head up the hill for Monday morning death-by-Chemistry with Mrs. Kretschmer. Flick Henshall’s back in the clinic, which means Timo Januscz is walking around like a human black cloud. Etienne Gracey and Scheherezade have apparently split up, possibly just to blend in with the current trend for relationship trauma. And so have I, though I’m so preoccupied with “glancing” at pretty much every boy who walks past (just in case they happen to have a huge flashing arrow with “E” written on it above their heads) that I almost forget I’m supposed to be half of one of the brokenups, too.
Agent Ryder: Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to look sad and symbolically Coatless in the manner of someone who just split up with her bloke, while also looking devastatingly attractive and available should A Certain Person happen to pass by, while also remembering to be very surprised when you learn of other people’s tragic relationship woes.
Fortunately, Dai takes on the job of rapidly filling me in on the latest developments in the break before Science, informing me that it’s Official Be Nice To Ludo Day, and then somehow managing to turn that into And Heidi Too within five minutes (plus a bonus “I always thought you could do better than that Ed guy anyway” to cheer me up, which it does, in ways he’s definitely not really planned).
I feel a little bit guilty. OK, a lot guilty. But it’s nice to feel looked after.
Ludo holds my hand very tightly all the way from Science to Geography, informing me that boys are SO horrible and stupid and we should, like, ALL be single forever, yeah?
Henry gives me a hug at lunch, rests his chin on my head, and tells me not to worry.
I keep waiting for the chance to see Fili, and break through our wall of awkwardness: to have her hold my hand and say the same things to me, so I can say them to her.
But Fili doesn’t show up to any classes.
She doesn’t even make it to the auditorium after school, even though the full cast is meant to be passing through to start the costume fittings.
The buzz of electric guitars thrums through my feet before I even get through the door. Inside, Etienne and the Illyrians (the artists formerly known as The Shrooms) are standing on the stage in a mess of cables and amps and pedals, shouting at each other above the fuzz. Etienne Gracey is out front, muttering “one two, one two” into a mike. Counting: apparently not his strong suit.
“So the band will appear to hover above the stage, you see? Brilliant!” yells Venables, waving the pile of costume sketches madly at some skinny blond guy I don’t recognize. “Though of course I haven’t signed it off with health and safety yet…Heidi! Just telling your friend here about the plans for Etienne and company. So we’ll need four more costumes. Something different, just for the band. Really visual, yeah? Sure an artistic genius like you can rustle up something special. Sketches as soon as you can, need to get the Sewing Club onto it ASAP. OK? Brilliant.”
He thrusts the pile of papers into my hands, then bounds off to deal with the cast.
I seem to be nodding, as if I really can “rustle up” some fabulous new sketches in no time at all, using my fine artistic skills. But I suppose it’ll give me a good excuse to drop by the Little Leaf: scour the internet with Teddy for more quality ‘80s moments of high fashion. Etienne would look lovely in tinfoil. Or a tiny humiliating loincloth. Unless this skinny blond guy has some better ideas?
The skinny blond guy gives me an awkward half smile, blinking fluffy hair out of his eyes.
I nearly drop the sketches.
“Simon?” I say, just as Etienne Gracey and his guys start playing…something. (It’s definitely “Tainted Love” at the start, but then seems to take a sharp left into “Jingle Bells,” followed by some kind of screemo wall o’ sound that turns out to be Jules falling over the drum kit due to a mistimed scissors kick.) I’m quite grateful for the distraction, though, so I’ve time to think of something to say that isn’t “huh?”
“You look really…different.”
OK, maybe not much of an improvement on “huh?”
Simon performs a minuscule shrug, shuffling in his trainers, and ripped white jeans, and tight green T-shirt, none of which could possibly have come from Fili’s wardrobe. Lost property bin, maybe.
“Sorry about your breakup and everything,” I mumble, still kind of mesmerized by the transformation from Gothboy to Hipster Shufflemonkey.
He mini-shrugs again, eyes fixed somewhere down near my elbows.
I realize the drawing of Feste the clown is on the top of the pile: a beautiful sad Pierrot, quietly weeping. Maybe a little too appropriate. I gather the sheets together, and plonk them down on the nearest bench.
The whine of feedback comes to a sudden stop, as Henry yanks the plug from the wall to a smattering of applause from the cast. They’re rehearsing some fiddly dance step from the opening number, while Mrs. Philips from the office runs around with her tape measure. Dai’s smirking over something with Ludo (possibly Scheherezade ordering Yuliya to slouch more, so she doesn’t look so much taller). I find myself grinning just watching them. Operation Pumpkin didn’t exactly work out, but Ludo looks happy, windmilling her arms and giggling as she stumbles into the wall.
A hand nudges my arm as the band starts up again, and I turn to find Henry there, looking weirdly furtive.
“Can’t talk now, but can I catch you later?” He’s actually whispering. Which, in the presence of the Illyrians, is not actually very helpful. “Secret thing. Nice secret. Sort of urgent. No, not urgent. But sometime this week. I’ll find you.”
Then he grins and heads back to where Scheherezade is waiting, hands on hips, yelling something about the impossibility of working with amateurs as Ludo twirls around and smacks into her. I give Dai a little wave, although he doesn’t seem to notice.
The Illyrians produce another epic burst of feedback, which in turn produces more shrieking from Scheherezade, and I decide it’s time to escape.
Out
side it’s not raining, but the air feels damp and the ground’s all mushy. I skid my way across the grass by the lake, cigarette butts and broken plastic cups squashed into the mud from the party.
I’m slipping my way up the slope to cut through the Circle of Peace and find the Mothership for a lift home, when I practically fall on top of Peroxide Eric. He blends so perfectly with the gloom all around, grayish and pale and made out of yawns, just sitting on a log in his officer’s coat. I haven’t seen him all day: probably keeping a low profile. In fact, last time I saw him, he was chasing a half-naked Flick Henshall across the grass with Dad Man.
“Got your coat back, then?” I say.
He looks down, rubs away some of the dried mud that’s still on the sleeve, and shrugs.