‘Yeah, I’m sorry, I forgot to mention it yesterday, and then I had to get off the bus a stop early so I could go to the chemist and get some things,’ I say, looking meaningfully at Rory who has just joined us in the hall.
Finally Mum seems to have swallowed all these amazing lies that keep popping out of my mouth. ‘Well, you should have rung. I rang you and texted you, I was just starting to get worried.’ I follow her into the kitchen.
‘What do you mean you texted me?’ Then I spot a mobile phone on the table.
‘I got Gwen at work to teach me.’ Mum looks a bit sheepish. ‘The thing is, love, I bought this phone for you.’ She picks up the mobile. ‘I was going to give it to you for your birthday but then Dad gave you one, and well . . . I thought I might as well keep it and then we can stay in touch when I’m not here . . .’
Oh, great. My worst nightmare. She might as well have sewn the umbilical cord back on.
‘How did you get my number?’ I know I sound grumpy but I can’t help it.
‘I called your dad and he gave it to me. Like I say, I was worried.’
I look at the mobile in Mum’s hand and suddenly realise why she got so upset when Dad gave me a phone. It wasn’t because she didn’t want me to have one and it wasn’t even about the money. It was because she was planning on giving me one for my birthday. She must have saved up for it for ages, even though it looks like quite a poxy one. I know I’m being horrid. This always happens when I feel bad. It’s like, by being angry, I can cover up the fact that really I feel sad. I think about Mum looking forward to giving me the phone on my birthday and I feel like crying. Instead I shout, ‘Well, don’t think you can ring me every minute of the day.’
Mum looks hurt, which makes me even more angry, so I shout even louder as I leave the room, ‘And don’t expect me to look after Rory on Saturday, because I’m going to Imogen’s for the night.’
When I’ve shut myself in my room I lie on my bed, exhausted. I’ve got a tight knot of anger in my chest, but at the same time I feel ecstatic because of Seth. I decide to concentrate on the ecstatic bit for the moment and drift off into a wild and wonderful daydream that encompasses all my former daydreams.
I’m living at Dad’s, in the new house, with my super-cool bedroom, and Trish and Dad have gone away on their honeymoon leaving me on my own for a whole week. Of course Seth comes to stay to keep me company. We go out for long romantic walks in the park and by the canal, holding hands, and when we stop to look at the ducklings, he stands behind me and wraps his arms around me and I lean back into his hard, broad chest. Then it’s snowing and we’re in the park larking around, throwing snow at each other and eventually we end up rolling around laughing and making snow angels and then he’s kissing me . . . mmm . . . and then we’re at home and we’re snuggled up on the sofa in front of the fire, watching a romantic film together and sharing pizza and popcorn and then we’re kissing again and I realise that soon it will be time for bed . . .
There’s a banging on my bedroom door. Bloody Rory. ‘Mum says dinner’s ready.’ He’s rattling the door handle but I’ve wedged a chair under it so he can’t get in. I roll off the bed.
‘Go away. Tell her I don’t want any.’
He thuds down the stairs with the message. He loves carrying messages to and from Mum and me, which is just as well because that way I don’t actually have to talk to her. The trouble is, I’m starving and I really do want my dinner, but I don’t want to leave my room and have to face reality. Not after such an awesome daydream. I wonder where it would have gone if Rory hadn’t interrupted it. I’ve never really kissed a boy before, let alone anything else. I don’t really want to think about the ‘anything else.’ The kissing is good enough for now. The only trouble is, will it be good enough for Seth? I think back to the joke he made in the café about being fed up with single sex. Was he trying to tell me something?
I can hear Mum calling me and suddenly I don’t want to be on my own any more with all these thoughts, so I go downstairs.
I manage to get through the meal without being interrogated by pulling a mega-sulk. I leave as soon as possible, mumbling something about heaps of homework, and hurry back to my room. I get my phone out and put Seth’s number into it, then carefully place the napkin that he wrote it on in my treasure box. I lock it then hide the key in the wardrobe, in the pocket of an old jacket that I never wear any more. You can never be too careful with a brother like Rory around.
When Seth said ‘ring me’, did he mean tonight? Would that seem a bit desperate if I rang him now? Then again, when he said could we meet up on Saturday did he mean during the day or in the evening? If he meant the day then I won’t have to worry because I can still go to Imogen’s later. But if he meant the evening, then what am I going to do about Imogen? I could just ring her and say I can’t make it. But then she’ll want to know why and I can’t tell her about Seth because if she thinks I’m cancelling on her because of a boy she’ll never speak to me again. It’s no good – I’ve got to find out from Seth when I’m going to see him. Maybe I’ll just text him.
I go into messages and realise that this will be the first text I’ve ever sent. I key in Hi and sit for ages wondering what else to put. Wot time Sat would be a good idea but in the end I just leave it as it is and send Hi all on its own. I’m just sitting there thinking that he won’t know who it’s from because I’m not in his phone index and maybe I should send a proper message, when my phone rings, nearly giving me a heart attack. Seth comes up on the screen and I think I must get a photo of him and then that will come up as well.
‘Hi,’ I say into the phone.
Seth’s voice comes back. ‘I thought it was you. Either that, or someone going for the world record in shortest text ever.’
I decide to get straight to the point. ‘I was just wondering what time you wanted to meet up on Saturday.’
‘Well, I’ve got a Saturday job and that finishes at five so I thought about sevenish if that’s OK with you? Shall I pick you up at your place?’
Hell, no. That won’t do. I need a plan. Thinking quickly I say, ‘I’ll get back to you on that. I’m not sure where I’m going to be.’ Well, that’s the truth. We talk for a bit longer then he says, ‘God, I can hear my step-sister coming. I’ll have to go, see you on Saturday,’ and he’s gone.
Later, in bed, I try to get back into my daydream – the one that had been so rudely interrupted earlier – but it’s no good. I need to put my mind to how I’m going to see Imogen and Seth on Saturday night. Why couldn’t I have just told Seth that I had plans and that we’d have to leave it till another time? Partly because I want to see him – desperately – and partly because I don’t want him to think I’m not interested.
As it turns out, I have the whole night to hatch a plan because, thanks to that Turkish coffee, I don’t get a wink of sleep. And on the whole it’s not a bad plan. It could be better, but I think it will work.
Chapter Seven
I don’t see Seth at all during the week. I spend every day in a state of nervous anticipation and don’t even notice Sasha’s snide remarks when I get on the bus every morning. I’m too busy scanning the back rows for a sight of him. By Friday, I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined the whole thing.
I spend the morning break hoping that he’ll come and find me and fearful in case he does and I have to explain him to Imogen. I would have gone through the same agonies at lunch time, no doubt, only I hear someone saying that most of the Sixth Formers are away on a trip or something. I’m hugely relieved because now I can stop worrying about bumping into him and also because I’ve finally heard someone talking about something other than Sasha’s birthday party. It’s certainly all Sasha’s been talking about all week, raising her voice on the subject whenever Imogen and I are in the vicinity. It’s driving me insane. What’s more, next week we’ll have to endure her going on about how awesome it was, who she spent the night snogging, how many cool Sixth Formers turned up, etc, etc, ad in
finitum. Aaaargh!
Imogen and I decide to meet up in town on Saturday morning, do some shopping and then go back to her house. She wanted to meet up in the afternoon but I persuade her to make it earlier because I don’t want to be stuck at home all morning with Mum and Rory. Saturday mornings are when Mum ‘tries to catch up on the housework’ and attempts to rope me in, totally disregarding the fact that Saturday mornings are when I like to catch up on a bit of sleep.
The first time I met Imogen’s mum she told me to call her Claire. ‘Mrs Crawford sounds so stuffy, don’t you think?’ she said to me, like I was a grown up and not a little girl of seven, which I was at the time.
Not that I get much chance to call her anything, mind you, because I don’t go to Imogen’s very often, and when I do, we spend most of our time in her bedroom so that we don’t disturb Claire’s ‘artistic flow’. She seems to wander round in an artistic trance most of the time.
I wonder if Imogen knows how lucky she is to have such a laidback mum. One who isn’t always out at work and worrying about everything. Also, it must be great to have something in common. They’re both totally into art. I can’t think of one tiny thing that Mum and I have in common, except that we hate each other and I don’t think that counts.
When I meet up with Imogen on Saturday, she tells me that she has to go to the art shop because she needs to buy some felt pens.
‘Can’t you get them at W.H. Smith’s?’ I say, because the art shop is such a long walk.
‘No, they’re special ones,’ she informs me quite sharply. She’s in a mood today so I decide not to complain too much and we set off a bit too briskly for my liking. It’s all right for her. She’s not carrying a bag, but I’m lugging all my overnight things with me. Which is really annoying, because if my plan works then I won’t actually need any of them. As I hurry along beside Imogen, I go over the plan in my head to check that I’ve got it straight. When I left the house this morning, I told Mum I was going to spend the night at Imogen’s and I packed all my stuff – except I made sure I had a stunning outfit in the bag. Well, I say stunning, I don’t actually own anything stunning, unless of course Seth is stunned by how naff I look. I have a bit of a problem with clothes, to tell the truth. Everything I own is deadly boring and I can’t even raid Mum’s wardrobe because everything in there is even more boring than my stuff, if that is at all possible.
So sometime in the afternoon when I’m at Imogen’s, I’ll change for my date with Seth and then at about half past six I’ll tell Imogen that I’ve had a call from Mum asking me to go home because she has to go into work – some emergency or other – and needs me to look after Rory. I’ll then leave Imogen’s and go and meet Seth and then, depending what time the date finishes, I’ll either go back to Imogen’s and tell her the emergency is over and Mum came home, or if it’s too late I’ll have to go home and tell Mum that there was an emergency at Imogen’s – a sick aunt or something, and they all had to leave suddenly. It’s not as complicated as it seems, honestly.
It just boils down to Imogen thinking I’ve gone home and Mum thinking that I’m at Imogen’s and all the time I’m out with Seth. It’s just the last bit that’s slightly up in the air, but by that time I’ll have had a brilliant time with the most gorgeous boy in the world and I’m sure it will all fall into place.
By the time I’ve run through this plan for the hundredth time, we arrive at the art shop. Unfortunately it’s not a case of going in, finding the pens, paying for them and leaving. When we get in there, the shop owner seems to know Imogen and starts asking after her mum, saying what a good customer she is. Eventually we manage to escape and make our way down the aisles of tightly packed shelves until we get to the ‘special’ felt pens, though I don’t know what’s special about them.
Then it takes ages to work out if it would be cheaper to buy them individually or in a pack, which has twenty percent off, and are the ones in the pack the right colour, etc, etc, until I feel like screaming. Eventually she decides on a pack and a couple of loose ones. When we get to the till I nearly faint at the price but the man tells her she can have a discount, ‘on account of her mum’. Imogen looks like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her. She can’t get out of there fast enough, but when we do finally reach the pavement, she won’t tell me what the problem is.
I’m a bit miffed by now because, apart from the fact that we’ve now got to walk all the way back into town, it’s too late to do any serious shopping. I was hoping to find a new bra, you know, one of those push-up ones that make you look like you’ve got more than you really have. I certainly need all the help I can get in that department. I was also hoping to find something really great that I can wear tonight. The outfit in my bag isn’t exactly ideal for a night out with the coolest boy on the planet. I feel really on edge, sort of excited and terrified at the same time. I’ve never been on a date before and I don’t know what to expect. Most of all I don’t want to make a fool of myself or look too young or blush too often. I so wish I could talk it over with Imogen, or anyone for that matter.
I remember my gran used to cook things in a pressure cooker. It was a huge great saucepan with a tightly sealed lid and all this steam built up inside it until eventually it came hissing out the top. I was terrified of the thing and refused to go in the kitchen when she was using it because I was convinced it was going to blow up and cover everyone and everything with hot stew. Well, that’s what I feel like: a pressure cooker. Actually, that thought has made me really miss my gran. If she was still alive, I could talk to her about everything. I can feel tears welling up behind my eyes. Why does life have to be so complicated? If I wasn’t seeing Seth tonight I would be more relaxed and could be having fun with Imogen. Mind you, she’s marching along with a face sullen enough to scare the spots off a Dalmatian. I don’t know what’s up with her. Perhaps I should ask her.
‘What’s up?’ I say, trying to keep up. You’d think she was embarrassed by me the way she’s walking three steps ahead all the time. She stops suddenly so I bump into her and glares at me, like it’s my fault.
‘What do you mean, “What’s up”?’
Whoa, tread carefully. What I don’t need right now is an argument. ‘Well, you know . . . I just thought you looked a bit —’
‘What?’ she snaps back. ‘A bit what?’
‘Oh, you know . . .’ I flounder. ‘Maybe a tad . . . distracted,’ I finish, madly trying to avoid the words sulky, sullen, surly, miserable, morose, moody and downright dismal.
‘Yeah, well . . . you know . . . it’s just that . . . the thing is . . .’
It’s so unlike Imogen to falter where words are concerned. That’s usually my job.
‘Look . . . when we get back to my place . . .’
I nod in what I hope is an encouraging way.
‘Just try and avoid my mum as much as possible.’
God! Is that all! I can relate to that one. Maybe falling out with her mum is a new one for Imogen. I, on the other hand, am experienced beyond my years in such matters. I’m mightily relieved that I can help her with this.
‘No problem,’ I tell her. ‘I’m well qualified in Mum Avoidance.’
‘It’s just that my dad had to go away for a couple of days on business and Mum gets a bit . . . she just gets . . . she misses him . . . gets a bit stressed.’
I bite my tongue. Gone away for two days? You want to try seven years, I think, and then see how stressed things will get!
‘Thank God he’s coming back tonight.’ Imogen suddenly looks more cheerful. We’re back in town now and she manages a smile and asks me what I want to do.
‘OK,’ I say, looking down at my trainers, jeans and totally nondescript top. ‘What I want is to look less like a little girl and more . . . well, you know . . . more . . . just older.’
I think Imogen is going to laugh at me, but she doesn’t. Instead she looks me up and down, stands back a bit and scrutinises me with her head on one side and says, ‘Hmm, I see wha
t you mean.’ I’m not at all offended, just relieved. ‘How much money have you got?’ she asks, all business-like. If there’s one thing Imogen loves, it’s organising people.
‘Not much,’ I tell her. I emptied out my piggy bank this morning and I’ve got about thirty pounds on me, but I might need some tonight so I can’t spend it all.
‘Right,’ she says, looking at her watch, ‘let’s hit the charity shops.’
‘Are you mad?’ I squawk. ‘When I said I wanted to look older, I meant about seventeen, not seventy!’
‘Don’t panic,’ she says. ‘When did you last go in a charity shop? It’s not all baggy skirts and camel-hair coats, you know. You can pick up some really decent stuff if you look carefully. Some charity shops only take designer labels now. Come on!’ she says, literally dragging me into the Oxfam shop. ‘Just think of it as recycling,’ she adds rifling through the racks. At first I’m deadly embarrassed, but after a while I begin to wonder why. The shop is full of all sorts of people, young and old, trendy and square. We have a laugh at some of the stuff on the rails, things that even my mum wouldn’t be seen dead in. But she’s right, there are some OK things and I find a really nice pair of low-waisted black jeans which look miles better than the blue ones I’ve got on, and in Cancer Research I find a dead cool Joe Bloggs tie-dyed top. I can’t believe it. And I haven’t had so much fun in ages. Even Imogen seems to be enjoying herself and we spend ages in Superdrug testing all the cosmetics, then I drag her into Boots and sniff all the perfumes until I find one I like and spray it all over my neck. Seth won’t be able to resist me!
Chapter Eight
We’re still in high spirits when we get back to Imogen’s house and I can’t wait to get into my new clothes and try out the lip-gloss I bought. It takes me a while to realise Imogen’s brooding mood has returned. She silently indicates to me to put my bag down at the bottom of the stairs, then practically creeps down the hall to the kitchen. Not that we need to creep. There’s some very loud classical music coming from the back of the house where Imogen’s mum has her painting studio. The music gets louder as we enter the kitchen and now Imogen is using sign language, not because she wants to go undetected but because I wouldn’t be able to hear her if she did say anything. Imogen looks at me apologetically and shrugs her shoulders. Wordlessly, she goes to the fridge and passes me some milk and a chunk of Edam.
Alice in Time Page 6