by Chloe Rayban
It wasn’t until double maths (not my best subject) that the answer to the whole thing came to me. I was studying this problem and the words literally leaped off the neatly squared page. ‘Solve the inequality’, it said.
Solve the inequality. That was it. Love is like a vast cosmic equation. The moment you meet someone of the opposite sex, your brain does this massive piece of mental algebra: i.e. his blue eyes and perfect teeth = my glossy hair and long legs.
be + pt = gh + ll Good Match!
Then on a second glance you start to see negatives: i.e. his dodgy trainers and sticky-out ears.
be + pt – dt + soe < gh + ll Mismatch
Errm. Maybe there should be some brackets in there somewhere. (Algebra was not my strongest subject.)
(be + pt) – (dt + soe) < (gh + ll) Better?
But then you may have negatives yourself, i.e. my bitten nails and snagged tights.
(be + pt) – (dt + soe) = (gh + ll) – (bn + st) Match!
Then, of course, the more you get to know someone, the more enters into the equation. Like ambition, for instance. He might want to be a brain surgeon, whereas I might just settle for being, say, a parking warden. So the equation would become unbalanced.
bs + (be + pt) – (dt + soe) > (gh + ll) – (bn + st) – pw Mismatch
But it could be balanced back again if I was, say … about to become a rock star (just being a parking warden while I was building up my brilliant career). And then there were things like taste: whether you liked crap films and nerdy music. And whether you were knock-kneed or athletic. And loads of minor details to take into account, like whether you were incredibly miserly or disastrously spendthrift or rancidly untidy or pathologically orderly or could cook well or dance brilliantly or were tone deaf or …
‘Jessica. Are you with us dear?’ Ms Manson, the maths teacher, was sitting at her desk beckoning to me. ‘I asked you to come up so that we could go through last week’s homework together.’
So I had to put my theory on hold till after school.
It was on the way home that the thought struck me. In fact, it actually stopped me in my tracks as I was going down the street towards Rosemount. If I was right about my theory, my scientific theory of love, then perhaps there were some things that could be substituted, on one side or the other, to balance the equation between Mum and Dad.
Like Dad minus pot-belly and dodgy taste in films, for instance, but plus a good book. Or by making Mum more glamorous: i.e. minus saggy cardie and frown lines and maybe plus make-up.
Dad − (pb + dtf) + gb = Mum − (sc + fl) + mu
Would that make them match up again?
I continued walking very slowly up our steps as I considered this carefully. Maybe if they could get them back into balance they could get back together again. They weren’t divorced after all, only separated. There was still time.
I ran up the last few steps.
Bag was out on the balcony basking in the low afternoon sun and casting an assessing eye on the alley cats in the street below. I picked him up and he purred delightedly. Poor Bag, he’d spent all day alone. Maybe even he was searching for the perfect mate. Some low-life feral female who would ignore his saggy belly and cat-food-breath and appreciate him for his finer points.
B – (sb + cfb) = ?
I made myself tea, spooned out cat food into Bag’s bowl and then wandered into Mum’s room to check out her wardrobe. She must have some more flattering clothes stashed away in there somewhere.
Rows of nondescript khaki and grey clothing met my eye. Several pairs of worn trainers, an odd sock and a jumper I hated had amazingly survived the move undisturbed, and were still lying, fluffy with lint, at the bottom of her wardrobe. On her dressing table there was a comb, a bottle of mass-market moisturiser and a tube of lipsalve. The job of turning Mum into a love goddess was going to be an uphill task.
Bag, having finished his meal, had followed me into the room and was winding himself round my legs. ‘What do you think, Bag?’ He made no comment but climbed into the wardrobe, settled on the jumper and started to knead it with his paws, purring with ecstasy as if to say he liked Mum the way she was.
‘You’ve no judgement whatsoever.’
I went back into my room to start my homework. The building was quiet at that time of day, waiting for darkness to fall before it came to life. I hauled files, set books and my pencil case out of my backpack and was arranging them on my table when I heard the resounding slam of the entrance door below. Someone had let themselves in.
I couldn’t resist. I slipped out through our front door, tore down the stairs and peered down the stairwell. Six flights below me, swinging a knapsack of books in a way that suggested he belonged here, was a boy. I stood on tiptoe to get a better look. He was perhaps a little older than me. Not in uniform, so probably a sixth-former, but not from our school. Hmm, interesting. He was waiting for the lift. He got in and I heard its familiar wheeze and whirr as it started up. There was a hiss and then a jolt followed by the sound of the grille being opened and slammed shut again. I estimated he must have got out on around the third or fourth floor.
It hadn’t really been possible to assess his potential from six floors up but I texted Clare straightaway.
stop press!
rosemount news!
talent spotted
love j
I started on my homework with a good feeling inside. I had an essay to do on Romeo and Juliet. Halfway through the first page, however, I started to run out of steam. I raided the biscuit barrel three times and ate two packets of crisps but I still felt positively hollow from hunger.
Where was Mum? She usually had some good tips on English essays. She was doing this Open University course. That had been one of the problems with her and Dad. She’d get all excited about some essay that she was doing and totally forget to cook dinner. It had driven Dad mad. And it drove her crazy that it drove him mad because she thought her OU course was really important. More important than the dinner or the loo paper that she’d forgotten to buy or all the other things that went by the board.
Hang on a minute. It was Friday. I’d forgotten she had a rehearsal. Why had I ever had that totally irrational idea that ‘amateur dramatics’ would cheer her up? When I’d given her that: ‘Why don’t you get out and meet people’ pep talk I hadn’t realised that it would entail a stupidly late dinner twice a week. I stomped into the kitchen and opened the deep freeze compartment. A small pack of fish fingers and a bag of frozen peas met my gaze.
The over-microwaved fish fingers weren’t too bad swamped in ketchup. Bag rejected the really tomatoey bits. I thought, grudgingly, of how all around me in the building, people were sitting down to meals together. ‘ Pass the roast potatoes, darling … Could you manage just one more slice of chicken breast? More gravy?’ (Gravy! Sigh … When did we last have gravy?) ‘What’s for pudding, Mum? Oh, homemade apple pie and cream! Yumm. How was your day? …’
This reverie was interrupted by the sound of the lift arriving with a clunk just below. Mum let herself in carrying a jumbo size take-away pizza.
‘Oh, you haven’t eaten, have you?’ she asked, spotting my knife, fork and plate lying in the washing-up bowl.
‘I was starving.’
‘Sorry, traffic was a nightmare. Stop-start all the way. Friday night.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll have some pizza anyway. How was the rehearsal?’
‘Total disaster. First run-through without scripts. Nobody’d learned their lines. George went ballistic. We’ve all got to be word-perfect by Tuesday. You wouldn’t have time to test me, would you?’
‘I’ve still got loads of homework to do.’
‘Thirty pages to memorise. Goodness knows how I’m going to do it in time.’
‘Honestly, it’s only an amateur performance.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I reckon he’s a control freak. You’re grown people, he treats you all like he does us at school.’
George, i.e. Mr Williams, was my English teacher. That’s how Mum had come to join The Lansdowne Players. He’d put up a notice on the Arts Activities noticeboard announcing the auditions. When I caught sight of it I’d suddenly thought of Mum. She used to boast about all the acting she’d done at college. I gave the Players a big build-up to sell her the idea.
‘If you’re so keen, why don’t you audition?’ was her first reaction.
‘I don’t think I’ve got time. You know, coursework and everything. I’ve got so much homework this year.’
‘You could manage it.’
I didn’t dare admit the real reason. Frankly, I didn’t think I could endure the collective scorn of Year 11. You know, being in Mr Williams’s amateur dramatics – just so-oo uncool.
‘But you loved acting. You were really good at it.’
‘Me? Rubbish. That was at least twenty years ago.’
‘So?’
‘You don’t think I’m too old?’
‘Old? No, it’s a proper adult group.’
‘Well, maybe I will.’
So Mum joined The Lansdowne Players. It was kind of weird hearing her refer to Mr Williams as ‘George’.
Anyway, that night she went to bed early with her script. It was a play Mr Williams had written himself. Something historical and all in verse – nightmare! I could hear her muttering to herself through the door as I lay next door.
When I checked my mobile I found Clare had texted me back. Honestly, I reckon she must check her messages every five minutes.
re: rosemount talent!
more please?
age? height? hair/eye colour?
potential?
love wobble
I decided to let the suspense build up. Tomorrow would be soon enough; besides, I hadn’t that much to tell. How much could one gauge from the top of a guy’s head?
I lay in bed fantasising that he would turn out to be that perfect male I’d been looking for. The ultimate mix of Brad Pitt and Leonardo Di Caprio with Matt Damon eyes. We’d meet in the lift when I was looking really good in my new black jeans – must do something about my jacket … but maybe the weather would turn fine and I could just wear my new top … Anyway, we’d meet in the lift and he’d say something like:
‘Hi. I’m Dan/Marc/Todd (Some really cool name, anyway). Haven’t you just moved in?’ And our eyes would meet …
(Mid-fantasy, I think I must’ve fallen asleep.)
Chapter Three
The next day, which was a Saturday, I got up really late. I’d ignored Mum’s absurd suggestion that I might like to go to the supermarket with her. I’d given her ‘Don’t-lie-in-too-long’ advice the grunt it deserved. ‘And don’t forget you’re meeting your father for lunch,’ was her parting shot.
When at last I surfaced, I found Clare had left three text messages. First:
urgent
ring me as soon as you’re up!
Second:
more urgent
can we meet up later?
Third:
even more urgent!
have you died in your sleep?
I called her up around midday, while I was having a noisy breakfast in front of the Saturday Show.
‘What’s going on? Where are you? Is he with you?’ she demanded.
I turned the TV down. ‘Chill. All I know about him is his hair colour.’
‘What is it?’
‘Mouse. Now leave me alone. I’m watching a very important programme.’
But she continued to pester. I placated her with a promise to meet on the high street for a browse around the Mall before I met Dad.
Hauling myself off the sofa, I got ready. I stared at myself assessingly in the mirror as I did my make-up. Maybe this guy downstairs was going to be really fit. Living in the same building like this, I never knew when I might bump into him. I added a second layer of mascara just in case.
I’d pressed the button for the lift three times but nothing had happened. I could hear footsteps below and caught a glimpse of a hairy wrist sliding down the balustrade. It was Mr Hyde sweeping down the stairs in his long black mac. He was mumbling darkly to himself. Obviously the lift doors were jammed – again. Grumpily, I started my descent. There was an odd rattling and banging sound coming from somewhere. I tracked this down to the third floor where, sure enough, the lift doors were wedged open.
Inside, was the boy I’d seen from above the day before. And his bike. He’d balanced it vertically on its back wheel, the lift being too small to take the full length of it. He now had it stuck with the handlebars caught in the grille and himself trapped behind it.
Our eyes met.
Leonardo Di Caprio NOT. Brad Pitt NOT. Not even Matt Damon’s eye brows. He had really dweeby square black glasses and his hair stuck up in a kind of tidal wave like Tin-Tin’s. Still, he was young and he was local. So I swallowed my disappointment and said in a friendly manner, ‘Wouldn’t it have been a better idea to have carried that down the stairs?’ realising, too late, that this was the last thing he wanted to hear.
He glowered at me and tugged at the handlebars. A hot red blush was spreading up from his neck.
‘I just moved in upstairs,’ I added, trying to make up for my last comment.
‘Oh?’
It was too late to redeem things now but I tried anyway. ‘Can I help at all?’
‘I can manage, thank you,’ he said with dignity and started to twist the handlebars. There was a nasty grinding noise.
‘Well. If you’re sure …’
‘I’m sure.’
I decided it would be kinder to leave him to it, so I continued on my way down. At the bottom, there was a huddle of people waiting for the lift.
A short man with a white military moustache, who looked just like Colonel Mustard, was repeatedly pressing the button. ‘What’s going on up there?’ he demanded.
‘Should we call the engineers?’ asked a lady weighed down by supermarket carriers.
‘A boy’s got his bike stuck,’ I said. ‘You might need the fire brigade with cutting equipment.’
‘Cedric!’ said Colonel Mustard, and he started trudging up the stairs.
I was halfway across the common when I heard the ‘tick, tick, tick’ sound of a bike coming up behind me. I didn’t turn round. I heard the bike slow down. ‘Cedric’ came level with me.
‘Hi.’
‘So you got disentangled?’
‘Uh huh.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘Going to the high street?’ he asked.
There was nowhere else I could be going actually, but I nodded anyway.
‘Shopping?’
‘Ah huh.’
This conversation wasn’t exactly earth-shattering. In fact, as conversations go, it didn’t even creep on to the bottom of the Richter scale. I slowed down, hoping he’d overtake. But he slowed even more.
I cast him a sideways glance. There are some people who should never wear Lycra cycle shorts. He was perched on his bike like an insect on a leaf. Dressed like this, complete with his cycle helmet, he looked exactly like a praying mantis. His bike was a racing model and he had those little leather straps to keep his toes in place on the pedals. It made idling the bike a tricky business. But he seemed determined to stick with me.
‘So you’ve just moved in?’
‘Mmm.’
‘We’re in number seven.’
‘Oh.’
We’d reached the top of the high street by now and I noticed a group of Westgate girls standing on the opposite pavement. As luck would have it they’d spotted us. Oh no, it was Christine, star of Year 12, looking, as usual, at her best. Body to die for, endless legs, perfect hair. And didn’t she know it. She was going out with a sixth-form boy called Matt from the private school on the common. Her male equivalent. Perfect pecs, Brad Pitt cheekbones, head of the school football team.
C + (
btdf + el + ph) = M + (pp + BPcb + hsft) Puke-making!
Christine looked over and spotted me with Cedric. Then she turned to one of the other girls and whispered something. All the girls stared in our direction. They obviously thought we were together. I had to think of some way to get rid of him. I slowed even more. He was ahead of me but going at a snail’s pace, weaving his bike to and fro to keep balance.
‘It’s starting to rain,’ he commented over his shoulder.
‘Mmm.’
‘You haven’t got an umbrella.’
‘No.’
‘I could lend you my cycle mac.’ He was already shaking out a crumpled piece of luminous yellow plastic.
‘Thank you but no thank you.’ Was I never going to get rid of him? I stopped and bent down to re-tie a perfectly tied shoelace. He continued weaving his way forward but, suddenly realising I was no longer with him, he turned abruptly to double back. Gravity was against this manoeuvre and it was too late to retract his toes. He subsided into a sad heap on the pavement. I walked on with as much dignity as I could muster.
The Westgate girls must’ve seen it all. It was so humiliating.
Once in the high street, I spotted Clare in the Body Shop. She was browsing through the natural hair conditioners trying to decide between aloe and avocado. Clare was so heavily into saving the planet, I reckon she’d drink her own bathwater if it would help cut pollution.
Dear Wobble, she never made an effort. Wobble was her nickname from when she was a toddler – the kind of nickname most people would hate. But the great thing about Clare was she didn’t care. Typically, she was wearing her favourite shapeless grey tracksuit bottoms with the top knotted around her waist.
Her face lit up when she saw me and her dimples appeared like single quotes around her double brace. ‘So have you had another sighting?’ she asked breathlessly.