'Someone sounds happy,' Mum called from the living room. 'Come a n d have a chat, Sylvie. Did you have a good time, darling? Tell me all about it.'
H e r computer was still on and it gave a little ting to show she had a message. M u m kept her eyes dutifully on me, not even glancing at it. I squinted at the screen suspiciously, hating the 140
thought of some creepy guy sending lewd lovey-dovey messages to my mum.
'Hey, you're not m e a n t to peer at my messages,' said Mum, pink a n d beaming. 'Gerry phoned me up tonight too. T h a t was a huge relief, because I'd been a little bit bothered he'd have speech difficulties because of his stroke a n d I was scared I wouldn't be able to unders t a n d him. T h a n k goodness h e s p e a k s absolutely normally. He's got a lovely voice, actually, really warm and friendly. He's still very keen on us going swimming on Sunday.'
'Do you want to borrow my costume?'
'I'd never squeeze into it! No, I've treated myself to a new one.' Mum went and rifled in a plastic bag. 'Look, w h a t do you think?'
It was scarlet with little white roses.
'It was so h a r d finding anything decent. I like the shape of this one but they only h a d it in red and it's ever so bright. Do you t h i n k it's too bright?'
I did my best to reassure her. Then she asked me all sorts of stuff about Carl a n d Miranda and Paul. She went on and on about Paul.
'What's he like? Is he good looking? W h a t sort of clothes does he wear? Is he a nice boy? Did you have fun together?'
'We weren't together, Mum. It was him and Miranda, Carl and me,' I insisted.
T know you're totally Carl's girl, darling, b u t maybe . . . maybe it would be good to s t a r t seeing other boys.'
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'No t h a n k s . I don't want to. Come on, Mum, you know I j u s t want Carl.'
M u m sighed. 'Yes, I do know, b u t . . . Oh well.
Whatever. I'm sure things will work out. I j u s t w a n t you to be happy, darling.'
When I got into my room at last my mobile rang. I hoped it would be Carl, but it was Miranda.
'Well, I think our little friend Paul belongs in an aquarium,' she said. 'Talk about an octopus!
I let him have this little weeny snog when we were saying goodbye and it was suddenly h a n d up here, h a n d down there, h a n d s all over the place. Is Carl like that, Sylvie?'
'Um. No. No, he's not a bit like that,' I said.
'So, do you like Paul, Miranda?'
'Mmm. Well. He's OK. Ish. I'd sooner have Carl though.'
'Well, he's taken,' I said.
'I know, I know.'
'Don't sound so disappointed! Miranda, this outing to Kew, do you think it's really going to work? I mean, maybe we could go bowling again? Or we could go for a pizza together? It's j u s t t h a t Kew's such a weird place for us, especially with Paul tagging along too.'
'Oh, Paul will like it all right. He'll be grabbing hold of me and whisking me behind the potted palms at every opportunity,' said Miranda, giggling. 'Oh well. It might be fun.'
It didn't look as if there was any way I could talk h e r out of it. Kew was our place, Carl and 142
me. J u l e s h a d t a k e n us there and we'd h a d a picnic u n d e r a willow tree and t h e n we'd wandered in and out of the glasshouses. Carl and I climbed the rickety steps all the way up to the balcony under the roof. We peered down at all the palms while trapped birds flew in and out of the branches as if we were truly in t h e jungle.
We'd introduced a glasshouse into Glassworld, a gigantic crystal palace w h e r e a l b a t r o s s e s soared overhead, casting shadows with their great white wings, and enormous red roses and white lilies and pink orchids bloomed in the artificial w a r m t h while snowflakes patterned the outside of the glasshouse like lace.
Why h a d n ' t I known about this special glass exhibition? Why did Miranda have to push in everywhere and take control? I wondered if I was sick of Miranda. But when she phoned on S a t u r d a y and asked if I wanted to come round I was pleased.
'Come right now! I'm soooo bored,' she said.
'Bring Carl too.'
'I can't. He's watching the Boy with the Golden Boots play flipping football,' I said.
Miranda chuckled. 'Just so long as I don't have to go a n d watch him. I find football the most tedious game on this planet. OK then, Sylvie, you come. Don't be long, will you?'
'OK, I'm coming now,' I said, though I wasn't sure how I was going to get there.
Mum was out, taking Miss Miles to visit h e r mother in some nursing home in Worthing. Miss 143
Miles seemed ancient enough to me. It seemed bizarre t h a t there was an even older, wrinklier version propped up in a bathchair somewhere. I decided I was never ever going to get really old.
I wondered about nipping next door and asking J u l e s if she could possibly drive me to Miranda's. It seemed an awful cheek but she was almost like an aunty to me. I hurriedly changed into my best jeans a n d a T-shirt and an embroidered ethnic waistcoat thing t h a t Mum used to wear way back before I was born. I hoped it might make me look vintage and funky.
I suspected I j u s t looked like I was dressing up in my mum's old clothes but I didn't have time to t r y out another look.
I grabbed my keys and r a n next door. J a k e a n s w e r e d , eventually, w e a r i n g a s w e a t e r over his pyjamas, his hair sticking straight up.
'Hi, Jake,' I said. 'I haven't got you up, have I?
It's two o'clock!'
'Heavy night last night,' he said, scratching his h e a d and yawning. We were rehearsing, working on my new number.'
Jake's p a r t of this silly schoolboy band, playing t h e lead guitar. He talks like he's part of a mega-band playing to millions.
'Did it go well?' I said politely, as if I cared.
T e a h , it did actually.' He paused, playing air-guitar. 'But we need to try it out on an audience.
You should come, actually, Sylvie. Bring some friends.'
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'Like . .. Miranda?' I said, guessing his game.
'Yeah, whoever,' he said.
'Well, maybe,' I said. 'Look, Jake, is your m u m in?'
'Mum? No, I think she's gone up to town to see some a r t exhibition. Dad too. And Boy Wonder's watching football.'
'I know. Oh. I was r a t h e r hoping to beg a lift to Miranda's from your mum.'
'I'd give you a lift. If I could drive. You can hitch a lift on the handlebars of my bike if you like.'
'Oh, h a ha.'
'I'm serious. You're only a little titch.'
I winced at t h e nickname.
'I suppose I'll have to walk it,' I said, and waved goodbye.
It was a very long walk – all the way across town – to Miranda's house. I'd put on my boots with heels. I realized this was a serious mistake by the time I'd got to the end of the road but I didn't w a n t to waste any more time going home and changing. I staggered on, and then r a n for a bus. Big mistake. I'd come out without any money whatsoever so I h a d to get off again a n d carry on walking. I thought I'd take a short cut down the back streets but I got a bit lost. It was about half past three when I eventually r a n g the doorbell of the white house.
No one answered. I wondered if M i r a n d a h a d gone off somewhere without me. I r a n g t h e bell again a n d again a n d t h e n t u r n e d a n d 145
s t a r t e d limping dejectedly back to t h e gate.
I h e a r d t h e door open behind me.
'Dear God, you took your time,' said Miranda.
She w a s w e a r i n g black b u t seemed oddly speckled with white.
'Fairy dust?' I said, touching it.
'Hey, you're making it worse,' said Miranda irritably, slapping my h a n d away. 'What took you so long?'
'I'm sorry. I got a bit lost. I h a d n ' t realized it was so far,' I started, but she wasn't interested.
'Come in, then,' she said. 'We're in t h e kitchen. We're cooking. You have a lot of catching up to do.'
She'd called Alice w h e n I'd failed to materialize within ten minutes. Miranda had made Alice a smoothie in her mum's special blender, a n d t h a t h a d suddenly given them the idea of making cakes. They'd never made cakes before but t h a t didn't deter them. They h a d flour and eggs and sugar and b u t t e r and j a m spread all over the long kitchen table, with bowls and cups and spoons scattered all around.
Alice was listlessly beating a gloopy mixture in a bowl, h e r h a i r tied up in a topknot. Her face was as pale as the flour. She smiled at me wanly.
It seemed obvious t h a t she wished she h a d Miranda all to herself. They carried on making their cakes, chatting together, occasionally asking me to pass them more flour or milk as if I was their little scullery maid. I h a d half a mind to walk straight out, all the way home again.
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Miranda flicked a little flour at me. 'Don't look sulky, Sylvie. I expect you've still got time to make a cake yourself if you get a m a d move on. Although you seem in total sloth mode today.'
'I practically ran here, Miranda,' I said, flicking h e r back.
'Well, no one but a m a d m a n would walk all t h a t way. Why didn't you get a lift?' said Miranda, flicking again.
'I tried, but my mum's out and so is Carl's.
Look, stop it, I don't want to get covered in flour.'
'Why on e a r t h didn't you get a cab?'
I very nearly grabbed the big bag of flour and tipped it right over h e r head. 'Because I don't have any money as I'm not a spoiled little rich girl like you!'
'Look, you two, don't get into a fight, for God's sake,' said Alice. A n d stop messing around with t h a t flour. I need it. Look, my eggs have gone all funny. Do you think they've curdled?'
'They're coming out in sympathy with Sylvie,'
said Miranda. She suddenly put h e r floury a r m s round me and gave me a big hug. 'Hey, sorry sorry sorry sorry! OK? Now, grab a bowl a n d get cracking, Sylvie. Do you know how to bake a cake?'
'Of course,' I said, though I'd only ever made little Barbie fairy cakes out of a packet mix.
But Carl was a brilliant cook. He'd started off when we were seven with a Winnie-the-Pooh recipe book, making a really good quick-mix 147
birthday cake. Then he fell in love with Nigella a n d h e r chocolate cake, a n d t h e n he got attached to J a n e Asher and experimented with one of h e r cakes whenever any of us had a birthday. He wouldn't let me help, rapping my fingers with his wooden spoon, but I always licked out t h e bowl, and if I begged h a r d enough he let me play around with the icing bag when he was decorating.
I rolled up my sleeves and started measuring and mixing. By the time Miranda and Alice h a d finished faffing around with too m a n y eggs and too much flour and way too much milk so you could drink their cake mix I'd caught them up.
Miranda found three different cake tins. I bagged the best sponge tin quickly, badly wanting my cake to come out well.
'Does your m u m make lots of cakes then?' I said, impressed with the assortment of tins.
'My mum?' said Miranda, flipping back h e r long hair, making a weird white streak at the front. 'You have to be joking. My ma's so afraid of putting on weight she rarely enters the kitchen. If she smelled our cooking cake fumes she'd need to scrub out h e r nostrils pronto.'
I thought Miranda was joking b u t when I went off in search of a loo I b u r s t in on an extraordinary stick-thin woman tweezering her eyebrows in the Venetian glass mirror. She raised one of these beautifully arched eyebrows at me.
'Oh, I'm so sorry,' I stammered.
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Her reflection smiled at me. 'It's OK, sweetheart. So who are you then?'
She was speaking slowly and kindly to me, like I was six.
'I'm Sylvie, Miranda's friend,' I said.
'Oh. Of course,' she said. Then she sniffed delicately. 'What's the smell, Sylvie?'
'We've been making cakes. I hope that's all right. We'll clear up all the mess,' I said anxiously.
'That's fine, darling. Making cakes! How lovely' she said, as if it was anything but. She looked as if she lived on rocket leaves and Evian. She was beautiful in a weird other-worldly emaciated elfin way. She h a d Miranda's dark eyes and tilted nose and thick glossy hair but her face was all cheekbones and pointy chin.
Her skimpy designer T-shirt and skinny j e a n s h u n g loosely on her.
I wondered w h a t it would be like to have such a scarily glamorous mother. I thought fondly of my m u m with her home-dyed hair and her round shiny face. She wasn't fat, b u t she h a d to yank h a r d at her Tesco jeans to get t h e m to zip up over h e r tummy.
'I've j u s t met your mum,' I said to Miranda when I got back to the kitchen.
Miranda paused, scraping the mixing bowl.
'Old Anorexic Annie?' she said.
'She is ever so t h i n . Is she, like, on a permanent diet?' I asked.
'Oh yeah. Plus the personal t r a i n e r at six in the morning, and colonic irrigation once a week.
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She pays money to have some dimwit shove a hosepipe up her, imagine!'
We imagined it all too vividly and groaned and giggled.
'Still, she does look wonderful,' said Alice. 'I'd give anything to have a figure like hers.'
'I wouldn't,' said Miranda. 'I think she's off her head. It's not even like she's a model any more so she h a s n ' t got her job as an excuse.'
'She was a real fashion model?' I asked.
'Yeah. From when she was fourteen. Our age.
She's got huge glossy photos of herself all over her dressing room. How sad is that? I think she looks gross in t h e extreme.'
'Miranda!' said Alice.
'It's OK. She says I look gross. Do you know w h a t she said to me the other day? I'd called out for a takeaway pizza after supper and she caught me stuffing my face. So she gives me this mournful lecture, right, and she finishes up,
"You could be such a lovely-looking girl if you'd only watch w h a t you eat, Miranda. If you'd only lose weight you could be a model!" Like I'd want to be a brainless clotheshorse!'
'What do you w a n t to be, Miranda?' I asked, smearing my finger round and round my bowl.
'I r a t h e r fancy being a journalist,' said Miranda. 'I can write, I'm nosy, I'm pushy, I'm clever at getting people to do stuff. Yeah, I'll be a great journalist.'
'I'd much sooner be a model,' said Alice, striking a pose. 'Or an actress or maybe a singer.
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Hey, Miranda, remember way back in the juniors when we sang t h a t Cheeky Girls number and shocked all the teachers?'
'That's my speciality, shocking teachers,' said M i r a n d a . 'I've been slacking recently at Milstead. OK, Sylvie, you can help me out. Shall we develop a Cheeky Girls routine?'
'You're too much of a Cheeky Girl already,' I said, putting down my bowl. 'Why do cakes t a s t e better raw t h a n cooked? I wish I'd left more in the bowl.'
'I think your cake is going to be the best,' said Miranda. 'You really know w h a t you're doing, don't you? Hey, do you want to be a cook – like, celebrity chef, own your own r e s t a u r a n t ? '
'No, I w a n t to be a writer. With Carl,' I said.
'Oh yeah. You've written this famous book together,' said Miranda.
'Shut up,' I said. I didn't w a n t her to talk about it in front of Alice.
'Don't tell me to s h u t up, Titchy-Witchy,' said Miranda, but she changed the subject. 'Come on, cakes, I'm hungry,' she said, tapping at the oven door. 'Shall I have a look to see if they're done?'
'No, they've only been in ten minutes tops.
They won't rise if you let a draught in,' I said.
'We've got to sort out how we're going to decorate them.' I peered inside cupboards and drawers. 'Oh great, your mum's got an icing bag!
So why h a s she got all this baking stuff if she doesn't like cookery herself?'
'She tries to get the au pairs to cook. And for 151
a y e a r we
actually h a d a proper cook-housekeeper. I t h i n k the cake stuff started then.
She made all sorts – cheesecakes, b a n a n a bread, carrot cake, oh yummy yummy – but t h e n Annie went on this mad macrobiotic diet and drove t h e cook daft with w h a t she could and couldn't eat so she left and t h a t was the end of my cake-fest.'
'You'll have to come round to our house. We've got this sweet Polish au pair now and she makes this fantastic apple-sauce cake – you'd love it,' said Alice.
It was so weird hearing them chatting away, like Victorian women comparing servants.
'Did you ever have au pairs, Sylvie?' Alice asked.
'Nope.'
'But your m u m works, doesn't she? Who looked after you when you were little?'
'I went to a childminder and for a bit my m u m was like a childminder – she looked after these twins, and she was their cleaning lady too.'
I wasn't being entirely truthful. Mum j u s t scrubbed up after us if we made a mess with our dough and finger paints but I wanted to make a point.
Alice looked e m b a r r a s s e d , h e r pale face flushing, b u t M i r a n d a b u r s t out laughing.
'What's so funny?' I said furiously.
'You are, Sylvie, scoring points left, right and centre and putting us poor little rich girls in our places. OK, you win, you win. And you haven't 152
even started on your great-great-granny in the matchstick factory getting phossy jaw and your g r e a t - g r e a t - g r a n d d a d being shoved up chimneys when he was six months old—'
'Oh s h u t up,' I said, giving her a shove, b u t I burst out laughing too.
My cake was by far the best, pale gold and light and fluffy, risen to the top of the tin. Alice's was a pale soggy sad affair and Miranda's was squashed down at the very bottom of her tin.
'Someone's sat on it!' said Miranda. 'Oh, j u s t look at yours, Sylvie! How come yours is so perfect? Ah, you're going to tell us your m u m is a cook as well as a cleaning lady?'
'Of course,' I said, gently easing my perfect sponge onto a wire rack. 'No, actually, it's Carl.
I've watched him cook.'
'You're so showing off today' said Miranda.
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