by Chloe Rayban
I stared at myself in the mirror. Suddenly it was me who was the dweeby one. Cedric had somehow metamorphosed into something so ultra-cool I hadn’t even recognised it.
The equation had slipped the other way. If Cedric was cool dweeby, Clare was going to have to redouble her efforts. Currently, Cedric was cool dweeby, a DJ and into jungle. While Clare was still in her double brace and tracksuit bottoms and devoted to Victoria Beckham. Or, to put it scientifically:
Ce + (cd + DJ + j) > Cl + (db + tb + dVB)
Or to simplify:
Cedric > Clare
How was I ever going to turn that into Cedric Clare?
I caught up with Clare in the games changing room. She was currently doing double rounds of circuit training twice a week.
‘Did you know Cedric was a DJ?’
‘Oh, he did mention it. He does this session at a club on Wednesdays.’ (I don’t think Clare recognised the seriousness of the situation.)
‘But don’t you see what this means? He must think he’s the coolest thing on two legs.’
‘I know.’
‘Has he been in touch?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Have you rung him?’
‘No, but …’
‘But what?’
‘I did text him.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, nothing really.’
‘Come on.’
‘Just that I was hoping to hear from him.’
‘Oh Clare, honestly. What did we agree?’
‘But he hasn’t and time’s running out.’
‘Look, from now on, you don’t call him, you don’t text him. You don’t even answer his messages.’
‘Not answer his messages? Won’t he think that kind of odd?’
‘No. You’ve got to bring out a male’s competitive instinct. The higher you value yourself, the more he’ll want you.’
‘Oh, I see … ‘ said Clare doubtfully.
I went home that night with more homework than ever. Just when I thought I’d caught up, Mr Williams had given me a whole chapter to write. A whole chapter. That would take for ever. I let myself into the flat, ready to have a good moan and get a nice hot meal and a sympathy session from Mum.
The flat was dark, empty and silent. Mum wasn’t there. There was a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet.
Crisis on play
Emergency rehearsal
Fish fingers and peas in freezer
Back whenever
X Mum
Fish fingers and peas and no sympathy. And it was all Mr Williams’s fault. What an ego-tripper. Anyone would think he was running the Royal Shakespeare Company the way he carried on. I grumpily defrosted the fish fingers and put them in the frying pan. Bag came and wound himself round my legs, mewing.
‘We’ve been abandoned, Bag. Nobody cares.’ How anyone could be expected to write a chapter of a book on a meal of fish fingers. A whole chapter! I bet Thomas Hardy hadn’t. I bet he’d had one of those vast Victorian feasts – like pheasant and grouse and port jelly and suckling pig before he wrote his.
This was so unfair. Mr Williams didn’t take it out on other people like he did on me. I was going to show him this time. I opened my file and selected a pristine sheet of paper and started writing:
In the gloaming, Angel climbed the rustic stairs to his lonely room for the very last time. All around, in the dark fields, the cows were breathing their sweet breath into the night air. All was quiet, save for the doves cooing gently under the eaves …
The silence was broken as he stumbled on the mat uttering a muted curse … (No, not Angel, not a curse … Errm…) ‘Bother,’ he exclaimed, rearranging the mat.
Oh, but what could this be? A letter addressed in Tess’s simple childish hand. He tore it open.
Dearest Angel,
There is something I must confess to you afore I can be yours …
At this point there was a ring on our doorbell. I went to the door and opened it.
‘Hi!’ It was Cedric. The last person I wanted to see. I still hadn’t figured out what to say about that text message.
‘Hi.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘Homework. It’s a really important assignment actually.’
‘Oh right. I won’t stop then. I just had to talk to someone … It’s about Clare.’
Clare! He wanted to confide in someone. (Sweet! At last, I was getting somewhere.)
‘The assignment can wait. Come in,’ I said.
‘You’re her best friend. Has she said anything to you?’
‘Errm…’
‘I’m really worried about her,’ he continued. ‘I don’t know what the matter is. She’s acting so weird.’
I nodded sympathetically.
‘She won’t answer my text messages. She ignores my calls. I don’t know what I did but for some reason she doesn’t seem to want to speak to me.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘And she keeps getting these really creepy texts from some pervert.’
‘Pervert?’
‘Yeah. What kind of creep is going to send a message like this?’ He looked really embarrassed when he told me what it was. (Maybe I’d gone a bit far with that one.)
‘It’s no wonder she’s going anorexic.’
‘Anorexic?’
‘Yes. Haven’t you noticed?’
‘Well, I knew she was on a diet, but …’
‘She’s gone all kind of pale and limp and weak-looking.’ (This wasn’t at all what I had in mind.)
‘You think?’
‘Yes, I think she needs help.’
‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘You’d better. It could get serious.’
‘Don’t worry. I know Clare. I can deal with it.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ He turned to leave. ‘Oh, and by the way. I just wondered … if you’re not doing anything on Saturday 2nd June.’
‘Saturday 2nd. No idea, why?’
‘It’s this dance thing at school.’ (O-M-G. No! Not the Cranshaw Memorial Ball!) ‘ I wondered if you were free that night … ‘
I couldn’t be hearing this. Things had gone terribly wrong. He’d obviously taken my text message for real encouragement. ‘Me?’ I said stupidly.
‘Well, yeah. It’s no big deal. My mum bought the tickets. She kind of insisted. It’s black tie and a bit cheesy, but … ‘
(Me! A horrible vision of Clare’s face hearing me saying I had been invited instead of her rose before my eyes.)
‘Errm. The 2nd. I’m not sure.’ (I was thinking hard. If I said I wouldn’t go with him now, he had time to invite someone else. No. The best policy was to stall him until it was too late.) ‘I’ll have to look in my Filofax. Can I let you know?’
‘Sure thing. No worries. So you’ll suss out Clare. Find out what’s wrong?’
‘Leave it with me.’
I let him out, feeling despondent. I returned to my essay but I didn’t start writing. I just sat there desperately trying to think of a way to twist Cedric’s invitation round to substitute Clare for me.
I lay in bed that night totting up my successes and failures. Whichever way I totted, the failures seemed to win. Nothing seemed to be going right. With Dad away I wasn’t making any headway on the Dad = Mum front. Clare and Cedric were a disaster. And I wasn’t getting anywhere with Jane and Henry.
But maybe there was a glimmer of hope. There was still Henry in Forest Vale. He might ring me, or text me. I felt hot and cold all over at the thought of it. He was so-oo gorgeous.
Chapter Sixteen
I really couldn’t face Clare. I took the early bus again to avoid spending the journey with her. I managed to keep out of her way till lunchtime.
She was in the canteen ahead of me. On seeing me she waved violently, indicating that she’d kept a seat free for me at her table. Feeling like a traitor, I slid into the seat opposite her. She was pushing salad around with her fork. She’d only taken lettuce and tom
ato, no potato and not even a shred of grated cheese. O-m-G. What if Cedric was right?
‘You’ll fade away if you don’t eat something soon,’ I started.
‘I don’t care, as long as I get into that dress.’
‘But you’ve got to eat.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ll get all pale and limp and weak-looking if you don’t.’
‘No I won’t.’
‘You will. And then no one will want to go out with you.’
Clare stared at me, her eyes brimming. ‘That’s what you really think?’
‘Yes. I mean no. I mean, honestly Clare, you were fine how you were.’
‘And now I’m pale and limp and weak-looking and no one wants to go out with me. Is that it?’
‘No!’
She was getting me really worried now. I’d heard about girls becoming anorexic. It started like this, with a diet that somehow becomes an obsession – and then they won’t eat anything. Frightening! And I was responsible because I was the one who had set her off. What should I do now? Apparently, the last thing you do is try to make them eat. So I tried another tack. I did a big reassurance job, ending with, ‘And I’m sure Cedric is going to invite you to the ball.’ (I was damn well going to see to it that he did.)
Clare’s dimples reappeared. ‘So you’ll come with me after school?’
‘Sure. Where to?’
‘To Top Knotch. To get the dress, of course.’
I swallowed a huge mouthful of food. I could feel it going down in a lump in my throat. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit risky buying it before he’s actually asked you?’
The dimples disappeared. ‘So you don’t think he’s going to invite me?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘I better get it then. The time’s up – they won’t hold it any longer.’
I went with her in a last-ditch attempt to put her off.
The dress was still there. The assistant had kept it aside as promised.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ said Clare.
‘You’d better try it on,’ I said, stalling her.
‘I’m just about to.’ She picked up the hanger and headed for the changing rooms. I followed. Clare was already climbing out of her school uniform.
‘How are you going to afford it?’
‘I’ve saved all my birthday money. If I get a loan from Mum I can pay her back in instalments.’
‘What will you do for spending money?’
‘Look, Jessica. Can’t you see? This is really important.’ She was squeezing herself into the dress. There was no way the zip would do up.
‘Can you kind of hold it at the back? she asked. She stared at the mirror and stood on tiptoe. ‘There’s still two weeks to go. It’ll fit by then. What do you think?’ she asked.
I hadn’t the heart to be critical. ‘What are you going to do for shoes?’ I said.
‘I don’t know. Buy some. Dye some. Borrow some. I’ll think of something.’
Even my advice to put a deposit on the dress instead of buying it outright went unheeded. I raised an eyebrow as she paid for it with a cheque.
‘It’ll only mean a nasty letter from the bank,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll put the money into my account as soon as I can.’
I went home with my mind in a turmoil. This was getting worse and worse. And there was Marie’s party coming up. Cedric and Clare were going to meet up there. What would happen if Cedric let on that he’d invited me to the ball instead of her? She’d be suicidal. She’d probably never eat anything ever again. She’d get thinner and weaker and paler and nobody would be able to do anything about it. What if she starved herself to death? It would all be my fault. Oh, why had I raised her hopes like that? But I’d been so sure that they were right for each other.
I’d have to think of some way round the problem before the party.
That Saturday Dad was back from his holiday. So we were able to have our weekly afternoon together as usual.
It was a really sunny day. Hot for the time of year. He was early for once. I caught sight of him waiting by the lake. As he turned I almost did a double-take. Was it Dad? He’d had his hair cut. The way I’d been going on at him about for years. Really short. Up until now, he’d had this weird notion men get when they think they’re going bald, of growing it longer wherever it grew, to compensate – mainly at the back and sides. Which makes the balding bit on top stand out like an egg on a nest. But short like this, it made the bald bit kind of blend in. He was tanned too, from the holiday, which helped.
‘Like the haircut,’ I said.
‘Yes, well. Thought I’d give it a try. How’s my favourite girl?’ He gave me a hug.
‘Hey, you’re less cuddly too.’
‘Been off the beer,’ he said. ‘On the vino though.’
I noticed he was wearing a new blue shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes. He looked suddenly years younger. ‘Your holiday’s done you good. Got any pics?’
‘Umm …’ he said. ‘Not developed yet. Show you next week.’
‘So, what shall we do this afternoon?’
‘Want lunch?’
‘Too nice a day to sit inside.’
‘I’ve got the bike over there. Why don’t we go for a spin somewhere.’
‘Wicked.’
He took a fiver out of his pocket. ‘You go down to the kiosk. Choose us some sarnies and drinks and we’ll make a picnic of it.’
I came back from the kiosk to find him talking into his mobile. He clicked off when he saw me.
‘Who was that you were you talking to?’ I asked.
He ignored my question. ‘How would you like lunch at the Gran’ Paradiso next Saturday?’ he asked. (The Gran’ Paradiso does the most yummy spaghetti carbonara.)
‘Mmm, great. What’s the celebration?’
He winked at me and clicked open his mobile again. I heard him booking a table for three – by the window. For three. My heart did a double somersault. It was all falling into place. I knew it. He was going to ask Mum.
‘So … ?’ I asked.
He grinned in a sheepish way. ‘So … what?’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me what this is all about?’
‘Wait and see!’ he said. He handed me his spare helmet and I climbed on the bike behind him.
We had the most fantastic afternoon. It was a glorious spring day – clear blue skies and sunshine. We rode out to somewhere called Banstead Beeches which looked like the kind of pictures you get in a calendar – all fresh young green leaves and dappled shade.
Dad parked the bike by a lake and we ate our sandwiches. The sun was really hot and when we’d finished we stretched out for a while basking in the warmth of it. Afterwards we found some flat stones on the lakeside and had a competition playing ducks and drakes. Which Dad won, as always.
Then we walked for a couple of hours. The paths were deep in leaf mould that gave off a sweet musky scent. Dad was in a really good mood, telling daft jokes. It was just like old times. At the end of the day, we found a tearoom – really oldy-worldy, all oak beams and lattice windows. It was warm enough to sit with the window open letting in the late afternoon sun. Dad ordered a slap-up tea with hot crumpets.
‘I’m really looking forward to next Saturday,’ I said, encouraging him to talk.
He winked at me. ‘Good,’ he said.
Then he glanced at his watch. ‘Better be making a move.’
‘It’s not going to be dark for ages. Do we have to go so soon?’
‘I’ve got to be back by seven. Meeting someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Never you mind.’
He dropped me off at Rosemount. Mum should have been back from her rehearsal but the flat was empty. I thought I’d make us dinner as a surprise. I raked through the fridge and found some onions and a red pepper. Just what was needed to make us her favourite spaghetti sauce with chilli in it.
It was eight by the time I’d finished making the sauce, and Mum st
ill wasn’t back. ‘Meeting someone,’ was what Dad had said. Could it be Mum?
I decided to have a bath and wash my hair while I waited for her. I lay in the hot water fantasising about what it would be like if they got back together. They might even have another child. A brother or sister for me. Mum had kind of hinted at it.
At nine I heard her key in the lock. I wrapped myself in my towelling robe and made my way into the kitchen. Mum was humming tunelessly to herself. But tune or no tune, I hadn’t heard her hum in ages. She looked happy. ‘Had a nice afternoon?’ she asked.
‘Brilliant. We went to Banstead Beeches.’
‘Glad you still get on with your dad,’ she said, giving me a hug.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘No reason at all. He is your father.’
‘I made us dinner. Your favourite.’
‘Dinner?’
‘Yes, I’m ravenous, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, I hadn’t thought.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Umm, sort of. I had a sandwich in the pub.’ (There you are. Mum eating in a pub. She hated pubs. It was Dad who always ate in pubs. Dad had been meeting someone at seven. And Mum was late back …)
‘Pub? I thought you were at a rehearsal,’ I prompted.
‘I was. The pub was afterwards. What’ve you made?’
‘Spaghetti arrabiatta but I haven’t cooked the spag yet. Which pub?’
Mum started distractedly filling a saucepan with water and adding salt. ‘Oh, the one near the hall where we rehearse. Why?’
‘No reason. How did it go?’
‘What?’
‘The rehearsal.’
‘Oh, that, yes. Not bad. Not bad at all. Pass me the salt,’ she said.
‘You’ve already put it in,’ I pointed out.
‘Oh, so I have,’ she said, dipping a spoon in the water and tasting it.
I looked at her curiously. She was more absentminded than ever tonight. Must have something on her mind. She strained the spaghetti but said she didn’t want any. ‘Save me some of that lovely sauce for tomorrow,’ she said and wandered off.
I poured parmesan on my spaghetti and dug in. Why didn’t she confide in me? I wondered. She’d hardly had a chance, I realised. I hadn’t spent any time with her in ages.
‘Mum?’ I called. ‘Do you want me to test you on your lines?’