Drama Queen

by Chloe Rayban

  I wanted to shout at him. To tell him to get back to his senses. It wasn’t too late. They weren’t divorced yet. But I just said, ‘It all seems so crazy.’

  ‘It’s not really living here that’s the problem.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You get lonely living alone. It would be the same anywhere.’

  ‘Well, exactly. That’s what I’ve been trying to say.’

  ‘Well. I’ll have to do something about it. Won’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I might surprise you one of these days.’ Dad gave a secret smile and rubbed his hands together.

  I wasn’t having any of that. ‘Come on, you can’t start a topic like that then simply drop it.’

  ‘Nah, don’t pester. You’ll know all about it, sooner or later.’

  Sooner or later! If Mum and Dad were thinking about getting back together I should be the first to know. I pressed harder. But Dad wouldn’t be pressurised. He just insisted that it was too early to say anything. But he was working on it.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said, giving me a hug. ‘Come on, let’s forget that I ever said anything.’ He took the carriers of food into the kitchen to sort out the meal.

  I went on a little tour of investigation round the flat. The tiny bedroom that had been planned for me, now housed his darkroom. I peeped inside. The smell of the chemicals brought on a great wave of nostalgia. I remembered how Dad and I used to develop films together in the old days. He’d let me take the tongs and dip the prints into the trays of developer. I loved the way a shadowy face would form, appearing as if by magic through the liquid, getting more and more contrast until, sharp and glossy, the print was ready to hang up to dry. Dad seemed to have lost interest in photography recently. But today he had some black and white prints hanging on their little pegs.

  ‘Hey, you’re doing your own developing again,’ I called to him, trying to make them out in the gloom. There was one of me with Mum and Dad on a holiday we’d had long long ago. Someone must’ve taken it for us. I looked about six, standing in front, grinning with a front tooth missing. Mum and Dad were behind. Dad had his arm round Mum. They looked really happy.

  Dad came to the door and looked in.

  ‘It was good, that holiday, wasn’t it?’ I prompted.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, it was.’ Then he abruptly changed the subject. ‘How about lunch then? Hungry? I’m famished.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, following him into the kitchen. ‘So what have you got?’

  ‘Health food,’ he said. ‘I’m on a diet.’

  ‘You? On a diet?’

  With a flourish he emptied out the carriers on to the kitchen table. There was a plastic bag of prewashed salad, a jar of beetroot, a bunch of celery, a bag of carrots and some apples.

  ‘Health food! You’re turning into a rabbit.’

  We spent the next half hour scraping and chopping until we’d made a huge mixed salad. Dad poured some oil and vinegar dressing over it. We ate it with hot nut bread. It was yummy.

  ‘How are you and your Mum managing?’ asked Dad as we finished our meal. ‘For money I mean?’

  It was good to hear he cared. ‘We’re OK. Of course the car’s on its last legs.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Your mum still out a lot?’

  ‘Only at her rehearsals. She seems to really enjoy it. I guess it gets her out to meet people.’

  ‘What, like other blokes?’ he asked.

  I paused. From what Mum had said, it sounded as if most of the other actors were women, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. A little competition never did any harm.

  ‘I haven’t actually met any of the other actors yet,’ I said. ‘But they sound like Mum’s kind of people. Into books and stuff, you know.’

  ‘Uh-huh. So, what have you been up to then?’ asked Dad as he put the kettle on to make coffee.

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Getting to know the neighbours.’

  ‘Anyone your age?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Your mum said there’s a boy on the third floor.’

  (They had been communicating, then.) ‘Oh, that’s Cedric.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s not my type, that’s all. I’ve set him up with Clare as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Is he Clare’s type?’

  ‘Umm, I reckon with a bit of fine tuning, he could be.’

  ‘Fine tuning?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  He gave me a sideways look. ‘What about you? Don’t you need a boyfriend?’

  ‘Not till I find complete perfection. No.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  We finished the afternoon with a walk in Dad’s local park. I gave him a crash course in aerobic-walking. We were halfway round our second circuit and he was steaming on ahead when I noticed he was turning red in the face.

  ‘You shouldn’t overdo it, you know,’ I warned.

  ‘Want to get in shape for the pool,’ he gasped.

  ‘Pool? What pool?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, slowing up a little. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’m thinking of taking a bit of a break.’ (Dad had been talking of taking me away with him next holidays. Somewhere like Paris or Amsterdam. I’d been looking forward to it.)

  ‘When?’

  ‘Ten days’ time.’

  ‘But that’s not the holidays. It’s still term-time.’

  ‘I know. That’s why it’s a really good deal. The two of us could go away another time, maybe.’

  I tried not to look disappointed. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Spain.’

  ‘What, all on your own?’

  ‘Look, Jessica. I need a change.’ (He never called me Jessica, unless he was cross.)

  ‘I see. Well, I guess you’ll get a tan,’ I said, trying to sound positive.

  ‘Mmm, and get rid of some of this,’ he said, patting his belly.

  ‘That’s if you lay off the beer.’

  ‘You know, I might just do that.’

  ‘Good.’

  I left him outside his block of flats with strict instructions to use stairs in future instead of taking the lift.

  I made my way back to Rosemount with mixed feelings. Of course I was disappointed about not going with him. But maybe, just maybe, I was making headway. Joined the gym. Eating health food. And thinking of giving up beer. It wasn’t a bad start.

  On the train on the way back I got a text message from Clare.

  where are you?

  wobble

  I texted her back.

  happy cruising!

  love j

  I arrived at my station, wondering if Cedric had made it. I didn’t have to wonder for long. Another text followed fast, this time from Cedric

  so where are you?

  I texted him back:

  so sorry

  i forgot i had to meet dad!

  I walked from the tube station to Rosemount, happy in the knowledge that Clare and Cedric were now, quite definitely, an item.

  I got back to Rosemount to find Mum ironing in the kitchen. She had a huge mass of material, looked like curtains.

  ‘Have a nice lunch?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. At his place.’

  ‘Really? What did you eat?’

  ‘Salad! He made it.’

  ‘Salad?’

  ‘Mmm. At last, he’s starting to take care of himself. He’s going on holiday too. Did you know he was going to Spain?’

  ‘Oh, so he’s told you?’

  ‘You did know?’

  ‘Well, he did mention it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I was going to.’ She paused from her ironing. ‘How much did he tell you?’

  ‘Only that he was going to Marbella for a week.’

  She refilled the iron with water. ‘I thought you’d be upset he wasn’t taking you.’

  ‘I am. Why couldn’t he wait for the sum
mer holidays?’

  ‘I think he needs some time on his own. To think things over.’

  She was being very supportive of him all of a sudden. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Oh, just things,’ she said, and then she dragged the material off the ironing board. ‘Come on, can you help me with this?’

  ‘What on earth is it?’

  ‘My costume. I’m trying to alter it.’

  ‘Looks like a giant tea-cosy,’ I commented. ‘If I get into it, could you see if you could pin it in at the back?’

  I spent the next half hour struggling with the costume and trying not to pin Mum with it. It was a heavy damask material dotted with big fat false gems. It had been made for someone twice her size.

  ‘There you go,’ I said as I put the last pin in.

  We both stared at her reflection in the mirror. ‘It’ll look better with the wig,’ she said.

  ‘And maybe without your glasses?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘To think things over.’ Things? I thought as I went to my room. Mum was being very mysterious. Both of them were. They’d been talking on the phone. Dad had to go away to ‘think things over’. Like them getting back together? Mum had been looking a lot happier recently. I was getting more and more certain that my plan was working.

  Later, while I was sorting through my wardrobe for something to wear to Marie’s party, Clare rang. ‘What happened to you?’ she asked.

  ‘Thought you needed some time alone together.’

  ‘You are the most evil, scheming witch on this earth,’ she exclaimed.

  I took this as a compliment. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It was so-oo, so-oo brilliant!’

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  She then bent my ear for a good half hour on how funny Cedric had been and how they’d talked nonstop … She ended with, ‘And on the way back I saw this dress. It’s perfect.’

  ‘Perfect for what?’

  ‘For the Cranshaw Ball, of course.’

  ‘Has he asked you?’

  ‘No, not yet. But he kind of hinted at it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We were talking about our GCSE French trip – and I told him when it was and then he said good ‘cos it didn’t clash.’

  I lay in bed that night totting up my successes. Clare and Cedric were well on the way. Cedric was definitely getting interested. And Clare was shaping up nicely too. And then there was Mum and Dad. Little echoes of our conversation ran through my head: ‘You get lonely living alone … I’ll have to do something about it …Too early to say … ‘

  My mind drifted on to Jane and Henry. Sigh. I wasn’t getting far on that one. The purple envelope was in my drawer, taunting me. They were out there somewhere. People didn’t just dematerialise. I vowed I’d get them together, if it was the last thing I did.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Monday, at school, I made a pact with myself that I was going to bring my averages up to prove to Mum and Dad that I was truly making an effort. Particularly in English. I would show Mr Williams that he had cruelly misjudged me. Just because he could write a measly rubbish play for his amateur dramatics, didn’t mean he knew everything. So when he asked for a volunteer to read out their Romeo and Juliet essay, I was the first to put up my hand.

  We were meant to be commenting on the modern screen version starring Claire Danes and Leonardo Di Caprio, and comparing it with the original play. I’d actually spent rather more time looking at the video of the film than reading Shakespeare’s version (well, that didn’t have Leonardo in it). But I was pretty pleased with my essay all the same.

  ‘Good, Jessica,’ said Mr Williams, spotting my hand. ‘It’s nice to see you being so enthusiastic.’

  I got up and cleared my throat. ‘The original play gives us a picture of life in Shakespeare’s time. Women like Juliet had no rights. It is making a social comment,’ I said, glancing meaningfully at Mr Williams (you see, I had learned a lesson from my Pygmalion essay). He nodded encouragingly. ‘The trouble with the screen version is that it’s not true to life. What really would have happened would have been more like this:

  ‘Act Four. Scene Six. Somewhere on the road to Mantua. Leonardo Di Caprio—’

  Mr Williams interrupted. ‘By which, Jessica, I assume you mean Romeo …’

  ‘… Romeo,’ I corrected myself, ‘is on his motorbike. His mobile is ringing.

  ‘Leonardo, errm, I mean Romeo (answering it): “Fair Juliet, how fare ye?”

  ‘Juliet (voice-over all echoey): “Don’t ask! I’m in this fearful spooky tomb. Make haste my love, speed back to my side and save me.”

  ‘Romeo (swerving his bike round – aerial shot): “T’will be with you in a jiffy—”‘

  ‘Jessica …’ Mr Williams interrupted just as I was getting to the good bit. I put my essay down and turned to him with a patient expression.

  ‘You were asked, Jessica, to compare and contrast the film and the play, not rewrite it. Don’t you ever read the question?’

  ‘But Mr Williams. Juliet wasn’t stupid. If it was meant to be modern day, she’d never have dreamt of going down into that tomb without her mobile.’

  Several people in the class agreed with me at that point. And general mayhem broke out as the swots in the front row supported Mr Williams while the cool crowd, who sat at the back, leaped to my defence. When Mr Williams had regained order, he said, ‘Sit down please, Jessica.’

  I sat down and listened, rebelling inwardly, while he droned on and on about text and context and something he called ‘truth to the original’. As he moved on round the class out of my sightlines I reached for my mobile under the desk and texted Clare.

  mr w is such a ploncker!

  why doesn’t he get a life?

  As luck would have it Mr Williams happened to be passing Clare at that moment. He swooped on her mobile and put it in his pocket, saying that ‘if he was in a good mood’ she could have it back at the end of the day.

  It was towards the end of the period, when we were working in groups deciphering a sonnet, that Mr Williams moved to the front of the class.

  ‘That’ll be all for today. I hope you’ll all remember in future the school rule – all mobiles switched off while on the premises, please. And just for the record, Jessica, there is no “c” in plonker.’

  I walked down to lunch fuming, Mr W’s comment rankling in my mind. How can he be so-oo arrogant. ‘Just for the record, Jessica, there is no “c” in plonker’… Huh! Now he was going to be down on me more then ever. Loads of the class could see I had a point. It was so unfair.

  Clare was already in the lunch queue. I took a tray and slid in beside her.

  ‘So sorry he nabbed your mobile.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. I reckon he’s got an in-built mobile sensor. Why’s he so down on you, anyway?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  Clare refused all the hot meals and went for a salad. She wouldn’t even put dressing on it. She was really taking this diet thing seriously. I watched her cutting her lettuce into shreds and putting little mouse mouthfuls on her fork.

  ‘You can eat as much salad as you like,’ I commented.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You can eat as much chocolate as you like.’

  She needn’t be like that. I had actually cut out a lot of things in order to be supportive. I’d selected a single burger with salad and no fries. And I hadn’t had a Mars bar for at least two days. You’d have thought so much self-discipline on my part would have made a difference, but I suppose she’d only been on her diet for a week. I hoped it would start working soon. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out.

  Christine was at a neighbouring table with her habitual semicircle of fawning admirers. I raised an eyebrow at Clare and she made a face back. We sat with our backs to them, but as we ate we couldn’t help catching snatches of their conversation.

  ‘Matt’s going to hire a limo to take us to the ball. There’s this company that does white
Mercedes … He’s got his own dinner jacket …’

  Clare put down her fork with a sigh and pushed her plate away.

  ‘Look, I know Cedric really likes you,’ I whispered comfortingly. ‘He just hasn’t got round to asking.’

  ‘But time’s running out,’ said Clare.

  Christine got up to go and came in our direction. There was only a tiny little gap between two tables and she ostentatiously slid her incredibly lean bottom between them and wafted off.

  Clare watched her with ill-disguised envy. ‘I bet that dress will be gone by the time he invites me,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe we should try something more drastic.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I reckon he needs some competition. When you’re together, what if someone, like some other boy, kept texting you?’

  ‘Not a bad idea. But who?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a real boy, dumbo.’

  ‘Oh, I get what you mean.’

  Clare insisted I went with her after school to check the dress out. It was in Top Knotch, the young designer department of Braithwaites. A place we never usually shopped in because it was far too expensive.

  Clare hauled the dress out from the rack and held it up to her. ‘What do you think?’

  It was strapless and in pale silver shimmery satin, the kind of dress that’s guaranteed to make you look twice your normal size. I checked the tag. ‘Have you seen the price!’ I said.

  ‘Can’t you see this is really important?’

  ‘Anyway,’ I continued, running through the rack. ‘It’s the only one they’ve got and it’s a size ten.’

  Clare gave me a resentful look. ‘By the time of the ball, I’ll be a size ten,’ she said with determination. I watched in silence as she asked the assistant to put it aside for her. The assistant said she could only keep it for a limited time.

  The dress meant that Clare really put the pressure on. The invitation to the ball, or rather lack of it, literally became her only topic of conversation. I needed to put the pressure on. But in order to test out the texting tactic, I had to get Clare and Cedric together. No chance occurred until Friday when I got off early from school, and bumped into Cedric on the stairs.

  ‘What you doing later?’ he asked.

  I thought fast. ‘Going over to Clare’s place.’

  ‘All right if I come with you?’