'Creep' Miranda muttered.
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'What?'
'Not you. Him. W h a t a jerk. He called me a little kid, can you believe it!'
'So, no vodka?' I said, very relieved.
'Don't worry. We'll go to Waitrose.'
Miranda got a wire basket in the superm a r k e t and threw some chocolate and crisps in too, plus a couple of magazines. Then she walked over to the wine section, while I h u n g back. It wasn't any use. As soon as she p u t her h a n d on a bottle a middle-aged woman came over and told h e r she wasn't old enough to purchase alcohol.
'But I'm eighteen,' said Miranda.
'Yes, and I'm Queen of the May' said the woman. 'Go back to school, you silly little girl.'
'You can't tell me w h a t to do, you sad old woman,' said Miranda, but she had to p u t the bottle back on t h e shelf.
She abandoned the wire basket in the middle of the aisle and walked out. She h a d h e r head held high, tossing h e r hair. I shuffled along after her, worried t h a t everyone was looking at us.
M i r a n d a swore u n d e r h e r b r e a t h a s she stomped out of t h e exit. First all the four-letter words she could t h i n k of. Then she embellished them with adjectives. Then she made up new swear words of h e r own, inventive a n d disgusting. Then she tailed off into childish invective.
'Old snot-nose suck-a-toe sniff-a-bum,' she said.
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I b u r s t out laughing and she did too.
'Oh well. Third time lucky,' said Miranda.
I rolled my eyes. 'Miranda. It's not going to happen. They won't let you buy any.'
'I'm not going to buy it. We'll go home and take it. It's a bit of a bore trailing all t h e way back, but it can't be helped.'
'Won't your p a r e n t s mind?'
Now she rolled her eyes at me. 'They won't notice. No one will be there. Dad's at work.
Anorexic Annie will be at her yoga class. The cleaning lady will be done by now and Minna's got the day off. So come on. We haven't got all day. We've got to be back in town by three thirty.'
'Why?'
'You'll see,' said Miranda.
'Tell me.'
'I said, you'll see,' she said.
We caught the bus to h e r end of town. The posh end. I walked along Lark Drive, wondering what it would be like to live there.
'You're so lucky living here,' I said.
'What? It's so boring. I'm leaving home as soon as possible. I want to live in London in one of those great warehouse a p a r t m e n t s with high ceilings and shiny new furniture and views right over t h e rooftops. It will be so cool. I can't wait to get my own space.'
Miranda seemed to have a great deal of space already. I thought about my own tiny box room at home. I could touch both side walls when I was lying in bed. I thought of Mum squashed 293
into the small bedroom so she could charge Miss Miles t h a t bit extra for her big room. We could all do with h i g h ceilings a n d shiny new furniture and any kind of view, not j u s t the similar shabby semis opposite.
' W h a t sort of a bedroom h a v e you got, Miranda?'
'Oh, t h a t ' s so boring too. It's all deep purple and bead c u r t a i n s a n d velvet cushions a n d fancy glass mirrors,' said Miranda, shuddering. 'I t h o u g h t it divinely decadent when I was, like, eleven. I keep nagging to get it all redecorated.'
I thought it sounded divine, full stop. 'Can I see it?' I asked as we got to her front door.
'Sure,' she said, twisting the key. 'Funny. It's not double-locked.'
She stepped inside, into the beautiful cream hall, the stained glass in the door panels casting lozenges of red and blue and green on the pale carpet.
'Come on, then,' she said, starting up the stairs.
Then she stopped, so abruptly t h a t I bumped into her.
'What?'
'Ssh! Listen,' she said.
We stood still. There was a sound upstairs, a little gasp, two voices whispering.
'Is it burglars?' I mouthed. 'Oh God, should we dial nine-nine-nine?'
'No, we don't w a n t the real police. We w a n t 294
the moral police to come and give my mother a good b a s h i n g w i t h t h e i r truncheons,' said Miranda, not bothering to keep h e r voice down.
Toga class! Well, she's up there in h e r bedroom with someone. I'm sure they're simply trying out the lotus position together – not!
'You m e a n — '
Yes. Honestly! I wonder who it is this time,'
said Miranda.
'Miranda? Is t h a t you, darling? I'll be down in a minute, sweetheart.'
'Darling! Sweetheart!' M i r a n d a m u t t e r e d .
She marched back down the hall. 'I'm not going to wait to find out.'
She darted into the living room, grabbed a bottle of vodka from the drinks tray and then went to the front door.
'Aren't you going to say anything?' I asked.
'Absolutely not,' said Miranda, slamming t h e door h a r d behind us.
Will you tell your dad?' I asked.
'I might,' said Miranda. 'But t h e n again, he h a s girlfriends, I know he does.'
'So did my dad,' I said.
'But your mother left him,' said Miranda, taking a swig out of the vodka bottle straight away.
'Actually, he left her.'
'So, that's men for you. I bet your m u m doesn't have boyfriends. I bet she does real mumsie things like cooking and cleaning and fusses around you and kisses you goodnight.'
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'She does. B u t she has got a boyfriend, actually.'
'She has?' Miranda looked surprised. Tou've never mentioned him.'
'I've only j u s t met him.'
'What's he like?'
I shrugged. 'OK, I suppose. You know. A bit dull and boring. My m u m keeps on about how funny he is but I can't see it myself.'
'I bet your mum doesn't sleep with him though.'
'Well. He spent the night at our place.'
'And you don't mind?'
'I didn't really t h i n k about it. I was at the hospital with Carl. I was too busy worrying about him.'
'Don't worry. We'll fix things for Carl,' said Miranda.
'How?'
'You'll see.' Miranda took another swig of vodka.
A p a s s i n g w o m a n frowned at her. 'You shouldn't be doing that,' she said. 'I'll tell your mother.'
'Yeah, tell her. Like she'll care,' said Miranda.
She took a longer swig.
'Miranda! Come on!' I dragged her away down the street. 'Let's go to the park where no one can see us. I wish we'd bought t h a t picnic – I'm starving.'
Miranda bought us large 99 ice creams from the van at the p a r k gates. She sprinkled hers with vodka.
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'Mmm, yummy! Maybe I'll s t a r t marketing my own alcoholic ice cream,' she said, licking enthusiastically.
'You're t u r n i n g into an alcoholic,' I said. 'Do you drink like this on your own?'
'Sometimes. When I'm feeling fed up.'
'I don't get you. Why should you ever feel fed up? You've got everything.'
'Money,' said Miranda, walking towards the children's playground. 'Possessions. T h a t ' s about it.'
'Looks. Personality.'
'Yeah. Well. Maybe.'
'So lucky lucky you! Don't s t a r t a poor-little-me rich girl r a n t , please.'
'Oh s h u t up, Titchy Face,' said Miranda, sprinkling more vodka on h e r ice cream. She licked again. 'Oh double yum. Mmm. No, more like double yuck, it's gone all oily. Maybe it's not such a good idea.'
She threw h e r ice cream into a rubbish bin and sat down on a swing, stuffing the vodka bottle into h e r blazer pocket. She s t a r t e d swinging violently, kicking h a r d w i t h h e r m a d boots, h e r s k i r t flying u p , showing holes of white flesh in h e r black tights.
'I look like a Dalmatian,' she said, plucking at them. She put h e r head right back so t h a t h e r hair nearly swept the ground.
'Hey, come and swing, Sylvie.'
'Carl and I used to come here when we were 297
little,' I said, standing on the swing beside her and jerking it into action. 'We'd pretend the swings were our magic horses. Mine was a black filly with a white s t a r on her forehead and Carl's was a pure white stallion. We'd gallop for miles through the air, racing each other. Then when we were tired and dizzy we'd set up home on t h a t twirly roundabout thing. We played t h a t it h a d real rooms, one for each section, and we'd squash up between the metal bars pretending we were in the kitchen making our food, and then we'd climb over into the dining room and make out we were eating it, and we'd watch television in the living room, humming all our favourite theme tunes, t h e n use the computer in the study, tapping our fingers in the air, then we'd go to the bathroom and wash, and finally we'd go to the bedroom and curl up together in our tiny bed.' I stopped swinging. 'It was so real.
It was as if we were really doing it, even though we were making it all up. I thought it would all be real one day Carl and I would be sweethearts all through school and then we'd go to a r t col-lege together and we'd share a little flat, and it wouldn't m a t t e r even if it was as pokey as our roundabout house, j u s t so long as we could be together. Then one day we'd get married. I even h a d my dress planned. Not a white meringue. I thought I'd have something soft and silky and simple with high-heeled glass slippers like Cinderella, only you can't really get glass shoes, can you? And I can't really m a r r y Carl now, only 298
I still can't get my head around it because it's what I've been planning for so long and it's w h a t I've always wanted and I always thought it was w h a t he wanted too.' My voice cracked and I started crying.
'Sylvie?' Miranda sat up, groaning. 'Oh God, I feel sick. Don't cry. Look, maybe you still will m a r r y him.'
'You mean he might j u s t be going through a phase, like Jules said?'
'I don't know. I think we can all fall in love with anyone. And even if Carl stays gay he does love you, Sylvie.'
'Do you really think so?'
'Yes! You never know, you could still get married, and even if you don't have sex you could still have a lot of fun together. You'd probably be very happy together, unlike nearly all the other married couples in the world. Oh God, I seriously t h i n k I am going to puke.'
She heaved herself off t h e swing a n d staggered to t h e wastebin. I held h e r hair back for her while she was sick. She made a horrible retching noise and groaned and grunted. I'd have wanted to die with embarrassment, but once she'd finished she wiped h e r mouth and t h e n grinned at me.
'Thanks, Sylvie. This is w h a t best friends are for, eh? Stopping you getting sick all over your hair!'
'Any time,' I said.
She reached for the bottle of vodka.
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'For God's sake, don't drink any more! That's why you were sick!'
'No, it was because I was swinging too much.
I need to wash my mouth out with something.'
She took a mouthful, b u t then shuddered and spat it out. 'Maybe not such a good idea. Have you got any gum? I really have to clean my teeth.' She checked h e r watch. 'I suppose we've j u s t about got time to get back to my place.
Though you're n e a r e r t h e park. Can I clean my teeth at your place? Or do you think we'll dis-cover your mother in bed with her boyfriend?'
'Oh God, I hope not.'
'No, I know! We'll walk in on little Miss Lodger Lady having it off with her boyfriend.'
'Oh, don't be so mean! Poor Miss Miles,' I said, but I couldn't help snorting with laughter.
It was even h a r d e r to keep a straight face when we got home a n d encountered Miss Miles peeping out of h e r room in her kimonol
'Oh, girls, you startled me,' she said. 'You've caught me out!'
We goggled at her.
'I was j u s t having forty winks on my bed after lunch. Tut tut. You'll think me such a dozy old soul.'
'Not at all, Miss Miles,' I said warmly, pulling Miranda into my bedroom.
We collapsed inside, h a n d s over our mouths, eyes streaming. When I stopped giggling I glanced round my bedroom anxiously. It looked even smaller a n d shabbier w i t h M i r a n d a 300
sprawled all over the bed. She'd kicked off her witchy boots and they lay toes up on my grubby fake-fur rug. She wrapped herself in my old duvet cover. It h a d a faded p a t t e r n of fat teddy bears, all gurning with alarming cheeriness.
Miranda imitated their expression and then sucked in h e r cheeks.
'Yuck, I so need to clean my teeth. Can I be really gross a n d borrow your t o o t h b r u s h , Sylvie?'
She padded along t h e landing to the bathroom. I fussed around my bedroom, hiding old socks and underwear in my wardrobe, stashing a sheaf of Glassworld jottings in an ancient pink Barbie suitcase, and r e a r r a n g i n g my bookshelves, tucking old Flower Fairy and Little Bear books behind all my teenage titles in case she thought me retarded.
Miranda smelled strongly of Colgate and my mum's best Boudoir perfume when she came back.
'Do I look a bit better?' she said, striking a pose. 'I couldn't find any make-up in t h e bathroom. Can I use some of yours, Sylvie?'
'Sure,' I said anxiously. I ferreted in my drawer for my make-up bag. It was embarrassingly frugal – n a t u r a l foundation, two pale lipsticks and one waterproof mascara.
Miranda's lip curled. 'How am I m e a n t to look beautiful, babes?'
She improvised, using my pinkest lipstick as rouge for h e r cheeks and commandeering my 301
deep-red felt pen for lipstick. She outlined her eyes with the black felt pen and gave h e r lashes three coats of mascara. Then she brushed out h e r hair and retied it into two little decorative plaits, the rest hanging loose and glossy down her back.
'You look lovely,' I said.
'Yes, I do,' she said, smiling at herself in my looking glass. 'OK, Sylvie, you get tarted up too.'
'Mmm, bit of a waste of effort for me,' I said.
'No, no, come here. Let me have a go,' said Miranda, sitting me down on the bed.
'Don't put too much on. I'll j u s t end up looking like a clown,' I said.
'Have faith, little chum,' she said.
She did her best. She used my felt tips again, but the softer shades, peach for my lips and grey for my eyes. Then she restyled my hair, back-combing it on top so t h a t it couldn't go into its little-girly parting.
I peered at myself in the mirror. 'I look . . .
OK,' I said. I was secretly thrilled.
'You look flipping fantastic,' said Miranda.
'Almost as gorgeous as me. Maybe I'll be one of those makeover women on television. I've improved you one h u n d r e d per cent. Now, get out of t h a t m a n k y uniform and p u t your j e a n s on. I'll need to change too. I'll have to borrow something of yours.'
'But it won't fit you.'
'Yes it will. Granted, you're a little matchstick 302
but I'm not Elephant Woman, you know. I'll squeeze into something.'
Squeeze was the operative word. Miranda tried on several T-shirts but could barely t u g them over h e r breasts. Then she picked out the blue sleeveless vest top of my pyjamas.
It always looked totally little-girly on me. It looked incredible on Miranda, the straps tight on her plump white shoulders, the lace edging straining over her cleavage, clinging to h e r curves.
'This will do,' she said complacently. 'Now, your j e a n s are going to be useless on me. W h a t about a skirt?'
She wanted something short and tight. They were all too short and way too tight on Miranda.
She couldn't even get t h e m zipped up.
'Haven't you got anything with an elasticated waist?' she said crossly.
She flipped through the few clothes in my wardrobe, making disparaging remarks.
'Look, I'm not running a dress shop,' I said.
'Hey, w h a t about this?'
She pulled out my old purple gypsy s
kirt. It came down almost to my ankles but it swayed round Miranda's knees, somehow looking j u s t the right sexy length. The waistband stretched to its limit, j u s t fitting.
Tra-la!' said Miranda, wiggling h e r hips so t h a t t h e lacy hem of the skirt flew out. 'Now I'm looking good.'
'Yes, you are,' I said, sighing.
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'Right, we're ready!' She looked at h e r watch.
'We'll have to get a move on.' She picked up the vodka again.
'Miranda!'
' J u s t one more weeny swig for courage!'
'Why? What are you going to do?'
'We're going to Kingsmere Grammar.'
'Oh no we're not!'
'Yes we are! Don't pull t h a t silly face at me.
We have to go, for Carl's sake. Don't you want to help him?'
'Yes, of course, b u t — '
'This will work. Trust me!'
I didn't t r u s t her at all, but I went with her all the same. She wouldn't tell me w h a t she was intending to do.
'I don't know yet. We'll j u s t have to see how it goes. How they're all reacting to Carl. Maybe he was exaggerating a bit before.'
'Carl doesn't exaggerate,' I said.
We saw t h a t for ourselves. We got to Kingsmere j u s t as t h e i r bell went for t h e end of afternoon school. T h e r e w a s a p a u s e for a m i n u t e , t h e n boys s t a r t e d to s t r e a m out, a p u r p l e army, r u n n i n g , s h o u t i n g , shoving, cheeky little Year Sevens with piping voices, g r e a t loping sixth formers, and all t h e years in between. The Year Nines came out last, when we were beginning to t h i n k we'd missed them.
Carl w a s there at t h e front, his head up, w h i s t l i n g as if he w a s strolling down a deserted country lane, though all the boys 304
were baying at his heels, shouting insults.
'Bender.'
'Queer.'
'Faggot.'
Paul was there, calling too.
'Glass boy.'
'Ass boy.'
They all guffawed. Carl strolled on, still whistling, though his face was bright red.
'Glass boy, ass boy,' Paul chanted, a n d they all chorused it.
'That bastard,' I said, trembling. 'We have to shut him up.'
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