A Tiny Bit Marvellous

by Dawn French

  a) A food professor

  b) An omelette chef or

  c) A chicken.

  I am neither or all of the above, SO IT’S NOT IMPORTANT!! Check this out teachers and examiners, I ain’t never gonna cook a egg, you get me? So get off my back with all the bloody annoying questions. I ain’t interested. No interest. Interest rate equals zero. Interested? NOT. Tell the egg info to the toe coz the foot ain’t listenin’. Tell it to the foot coz the knee ain’t listenin’. Tell it to the knee coz the thighs ain’t listenin’. Tell it to the thighs coz the … torso ain’t listenin’. Tell it to the torso coz the arm ain’t listenin’. Tell it to the arm coz the hand ain’t listenin’. Tell it to the hand coz the face ain’t listenin’. Tell it to the face coz the ears ain’t listenin’. Tell it to the ears coz the … cochlea in the inner ear ain’t listenin’. And listen up suckers – Dora Battle ain’t listenin’ to any of it!

  In the end, I put that ‘a large egg yolk contains about 60 calories of energy plus vitamins A, B1, B2, D and E. The white has no fat and about 4g of protein.’ And that’s all I know. Debbie Gabb said that was the right answer and she’s dead clever, so I think I’ve got two points at least. Not that I am one tiny bit bothered.

  Soon as we came out of that exam, it was the end of official school for our group so we went bloody mad. There was like, Tango being poured all over you and loads of screaming and kissing and stuff, and we all signed each other’s shirts with things like ‘always be you’ and ‘food tech sluts rule’ ’n’ shizz like that. It was so wild. I did my hair up in like a big pineapple ponytail on top with some tennis racquet tape. It was crazy. I never show my roots underneath like that, I felt like … so free. I can’t believe I never have to go to another single lesson in my entire life. I will happily never ever learn another single thing ever again. Yippee!! Double smiley face.

  Me and Lottie just hugged and hugged and then she did like this amazing thing? She gave me this small pink box with a ribbon on and asked me to open it. Inside there was like this gorgeous little mirror with all stuck-on beads ’n’ stuff around it and on a dangly label attached to it, it says, ‘Look in here to see my forever best friend, whatever happens.’ I so couldn’t believe it, it is so completely beautiful and I like instantly burst into complete tears.

  All I had bought for her was a toe-ring she liked from when we went shopping at the Oracle in Reading on her birthday. I had to describe it to Dad and he went back to get it for me the week after (God, try describing a toe-ring to an ancient old man with no fashion or anything in him. But hey, he did get the right one and actually, he did pay for it so big props to him) but what she gave me was so like thoughtful and meaningful – just like her. No wonder she is my best ever friend, coz no one else even comes close. Nothing compares. To her.

  So, I came home and tried on my prom dress for next week, which is like so. Radically. Gorgeous.

  I ordered it online with Dad so Mum hasn’t even seen it, not that she cares. She hasn’t even asked me about this last exam AT ALL. Unbebloodylievable. She’s not even looking me in the face at the moment, she obviously detests me so much. Fine by me. Keep your distance, doesn’t bother me one bit. Suits me, in fact.

  The dress is gorgeous but I am so going to have to lose weight for it to look right, and I’ve only got a week. So instead of only eating white food, I think I’ve got to only eat no food. That’s the only way to lose the big lumps of fat bulging out over the top at the sides. I will, of course, be drinking loads of water though, coz you can really like die ’n’ stuff if you don’t? I will def need tights coz got no time to tan but I’ve got all the other stuff I need I think. What I haven’t got is a limo. Parents refused to pay for one and everyone else’s is full so me ’n’ Lottie still have to find a way to get there.

  So, exams are over. YAY!

  God, I’m actually missing Art. Wishing I had a bit of Art coursework to be doing. I actually realize I actually quite like Art. Yeh …

  Omigod. I’m like SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO bored.

  Just gonna check if anyone’s answered my Facebook friends ad.

  That’s all I’ve got left to do in life.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Mo

  Hello, you have reached Mo. If you would like to speak to psychologist Mo, press 1. If you would like to speak with author Mo, press 2. If you would like to speak with mother Mo, press 3. If you would like to speak with wife Mo, press 4. If you would like to speak with wanton amoral fast harlot potentially adulterous lunatic Mo, just whisper, because she is very close by. Thank you. You have selected crazy Mo. Unfortunately the person you wish to reach is otherwise engaged with all-consuming thoughts of frivolous fancy and is dangerously teetering on the brink of shameless folly, and so is perilously out of control and presently unreachable. The remainder of your call will cost you dearly and do you no end of unsalvageable damage. Please seek the permission of an adult before you proceed and thank you again for using our service. Don’t forget – we can also provide you with train times, cinema listings and bereavement counselling.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Dora

  Why the wank does she do it?! My exams are finished, Mother, I’m allowed some time to chillax, for God’s sakes. My way of relaxing is talking to my friends on Facebook. I’VE TOLD YOU THAT NINE MILLION TIMES, YOU IDIOT!! I am not a car-jacker or a joy-rider, or a shoplifter, or a happyslapper, or a pisshead or a crack whore. It’s not against the bloody law to use the internet, even if it is for ‘two hours and it blocks everyone else’s time’. Dad is watching bloody rugby and Peter’s in his room making fur leg-warmers out of Granny Pam’s old coat.

  Listen Mum, you don’t even know how to switch it on you cockhead, so why are you so stressed out? What has it got to do with you who I’m contacting and why? People who are seventeen and about to be eighteen in a couple of weeks are meant to be talking to each other on Facebook. It’s the law. Go and talk to all the other mothers and bloody find out that actually, I am hardly on it at all, compared to some of them. Talk to Rachael Faulkner’s mother – she is bloody like addicted to it! And she has her own laptop. And she has an iPhone. With a Twilight cover. Which they pay the contract for. So actually I think you’ll find I am a breeze. You should be grateful to have someone so bloody generous as your bloody daughter you bloody cow. GO AWAY!!!!!

  Anyway, during the twenty-seven tiny minutes I was actually allowed to be on there, I was glad to see that my cupcake offer has brought in three really quality new friends. One is a friend of Lottie’s brother called ‘Cupboard’. One is a guy from a party last year who I can’t really remember if he’s fit or not called ‘Not Robert Pattinson’. And one is a guy who says he knows Peter and has seen me and thinks I’m hot, called ‘X-Man’.

  Oh my actual God. Three guys! That’s more than I expected. Three more, actually. It was like, so cool talking to them although I think Cupboard might be called that for a good reason coz he was nice and everything, but he seems mainly interested in the cakes. I’m going to ask Lottie all about him when she comes over to ge
t ready for the prom next Friday.

  OMFG! I’m so excited about the prom. Peter wants me to watch a film called Carrie with him tonight coz he says it’s all about an American prom and what normally happens at them. He’s being quite nice at the moment. Maybe he realizes that his big sister is, like, a woman at last and he ought to like really respect me or something? Looking forward to the film – I love films with loads of floaty dresses and buff guys in.

  So does he.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Oscar

  What a perfectly ridiculous day. I was already somewhat exhausted due to the rantings of Disgruntled Dora, who was abominably ignorant of the content of one of modern history’s finest motion pictures, Carrie, directed by the charmingly suspect Brian De Palma. She found it ‘horrific’ and ‘disturbing’. How can Desperate Dora be so deeply brainless?

  Perhaps the more pertinent question should be ‘How on earth can she be genetically related to me in any way?’ I must take time to sit Mama and the Pater down in order to posit the difficult unavoidable questions regarding Dingy Dora’s true parentage. The only possible solution I can offer with reference to her bird-wittedness is that, if she is my genuine sibling, then surely in a cruel twist of DNA mutancy, I somehow imbibed all of the many brain cells she left behind in her haste to exit Mama’s womb, some two years prior to my entrance. Typical of her to leave the place untidy. Whatever the process, the result is staggering. She is a freakish marvel. My sister, the empty-headed lady.

  Despite her absence of quantifiable intellect, I still find the creature to be endearingly amusing, and I can’t help liking her. Upon discovering the true depth of her ignorance about this particular film, I couldn’t resist watching her very closely as the full and frightening nature of it dawned upon her. Her mouth fell open in staggered stages too funny to ignore. She frowned repeatedly as she tried to wrap her understanding around the concept of such a masterful piece of terror theatre. I witnessed the gradual creeping-on of the collywobbles and the dawning of the heebie-jeebies. I failed to predict that she might be awake half the night, blubbering on about how haunting the imagery was. This constant whimpering, along with regular visits to my bedchamber throughout the night to thwack me soundly about the head as punishment for frightening her, resulted in a day-long fatigue on my part.

  Today was specifically the day I least of all wanted to be deadbeat. Today was my all-important second session with my Beloved. Today was to be the clincher, the bells and whistles moment. I did not require anything haggard or droopy upon me, on this most propitious of days. Thanks to Dotty Dora, I was most definitely wilting where I ought to have been perky. Damn her to a thousand screaming hells. I needed my wits about me to play my Kleinian wizard at his own game, to dazzle him with my virtuoso display of wicked wisdom.

  Ocean blue was the order of the day, wardrobe-wise. I was to be azure from head to toe. I wanted my garments to say ‘Come on in, the water’s lovely. Go on, Noel. I am your ocean. I dare you. Dive in.’ Regrettably, I don’t have any blue slacks but my mossy green stripy boot-legs sufficed. I suppose I was still saying ‘dive in’, but also, what with the virescence of the trousers, ‘watch out for the rocks and indeed any floating algae’. I wondered why I had bothered when Noel beckoned me into his room in the most displeasingly perfunctory manner. As if I were simply the next client. In out, in out. Don’t treat me like that, mister, and you’d better get ready to shake it all about.

  We sat and he sighed and smiled. Ordinarily his smile is breathtaking and reduces me to jelly, but today I detected in it the briefest whiff of contrivance. It was somewhat forced, I thought, but I was prepared to overlook it, considering that it may well be a symptom of nerves. Could it be that Noel was suffering the initial misgivings of inchoate longing? Could it be that he was barely able to stifle his fears of expressing the love that dare not speak its name? Possibly. There is something about his demeanour that proclaims self-confidence, and yet … Hmn.

  He started our session with a fair amount of bumbling, stating that he had ‘thought very long and hard about our last meeting’ which he had found ‘challenging and fascinating’. Oh yes, my dear. You have me there, pinned in glorious amber. I am delighted to recognize myself as challenging and there is not a soul who knows me would deny that I am most certainly fascinating. I might have chosen ‘dazzling’ in the stead of ‘fascinating’ as a more accurately nuanced description myself, but no matter.

  He then proposed that I think back in time to when I was about three years old, in order to investigate my relationship with Mama and the Pater. It’s a potent tribute to my contented childhood that I could remember only rather lovely things, mainly to do with Mama’s wardrobe and having wonderful stories told nightly by the Pater. I regaled Noel with gloriously amusing anecdotes concerning my panoramic journey from childhood to teenagehood via a vast motley panoply of marvellous shoes. At this point he assumed I wasn’t taking the session very seriously. Perhaps he was right, but my stories were far more entertaining than anything he was desperately trying to elicit, and I have no desire to bore him. How would that be in the slightest bit enchanting? It simply wouldn’t.

  He then started a confusing diatribe about how my ‘posing’ might be my way to arrest my own personality, to tear myself from the clutches of the parents, that I possibly deem myself as so completely different to them that my opposition might be referred to as ‘murderous aggression’. ‘I beg your pardon, dear darling deluded boy?’ I said. He replied, ‘I don’t suggest that you want to actually murder them, but that you may be murdering or sabotaging something in yourself in order to stand apart. It’s purely provocative, and it’s a stage.’

  Well, honestly, talk about the Depressive Position, I could easily have fallen into a black hole of disappointed despair on the spot if I didn’t have my eyes so keenly focused on the prize. A prize which, with every word he was speaking, was becoming less beguiling and rapidly turning from gloss to matt. I held up my hand to his mouth to halt this off-putting torrent of nonsense. He seemed surprised. I had to seize the day, I couldn’t be part of this charade one single moment further.

  I said, rather gallantly I thought, ‘Poppet, you must shush now because you are babbling. I understand that you are nervous, darling, because believe it or not, so am I. See how I quiver? Let us not protract this masque a nanosecond more. Let us admit the magic between us. I can no longer continue prospecting for romance in this elliptical manner. Let us be bold. Tumble into my labyrinth of love. Kiss me, Noel, I implore you. Kiss me hard, dammit man, and mean it!’

  Noel shot up out of his chair looking not a little surprised and said, ‘Peter – Oscar – whatever your name is, this is entirely wrong, mate. You have utterly misunderstood. You are sixteen, for God’s sake!’

  To which I replied, loudly, possibly too loudly, ‘I AM NOT A CHILD. I AM A FUNCTIONING ENCHANTING GENTLEMAN WHO JUST HAPPENS TO UTTERLY ADORE YOU, YOU SILLY NAUGHTY FOOL!’

  At which moment, Mama barged in. She has always taught me that it’s rude and wrong to do so when a client is in session, but nevertheless, she did it. It was most impertinent. She caught me mid-opine and, as so often is her wont, she immediately punctured the delicate moment with her brusque manner.

  She said, ‘Oscar, you are ranting. Stop it immediately, this isn’t clever or funny. I know you have a schoolboy (ouch) crush (ouch) on Noel, but this is just ridiculous. He has no interest in you whatsoever (ouch).’

  I looked to my darling, who was looking in turn at the carpet. (The awful claret carpet. I keep telling Mama to sort out the ghastly soft furnishings in that place, they are not conducive to harmonic thinking in any way.) ‘Noel,’ I said, ‘is this true? After everything we’ve been through?’

  The look on his face told me he didn’t think we had been through anything. Oh dear, he is so very superficial, and actually I realize now that I could never truly love one so shallow. I require a chap to have depth. Buckets of it.

  He eventually spoke. ‘Peter
, there is, was, and never will be, anything going on between us, mate, never. I’m just not … that way.’

  What ‘way’ could he possibly be referring to?! He’s just not … splendid? Is that it? Not … fascinating? Not … intriguing? Not … clever? Not … ENCHANTING? If that weren’t insulting enough, he called me ‘mate’. Twice! He dares to suggest I am his mate?! AAARGH. How very low.

  ‘I am not your “mate”, sir, and never shall I be,’ I retorted. ‘You should away to your lodgings to consider the enormity of your loss, and pray never darken any of my portals ever again, you insufficient unchivalrous lout. Return you to Mordor, you Kiwi … fruit!’

  Mother hurriedly frogmarched me from that hideous place and sat me in her room. Which also has claret carpet. (The rot is irretrievably throughout, the sheer lack of taste has spread like anthrax.) I was breathing heavily, and felt faint. It had all been so heinously excruciatingly embarrassing.

  She spoke in her terrifying soft voice. ‘You are making a complete arse of yourself, Oscar, please stop or the humiliation will drown you. Put it all behind you this instant, you are barking up completely the wrong tree with Noel. There will be no more therapy with him, do you understand? I know you will be temporarily heartbroken, but you will recover from this, for the simple reason that I suspect your ego will have broken your very great fall. Now. Much more importantly, I am cocking furious with you. Luke Wilson has just been on the phone wanting to know how come you seem to know so much about him? You know how important confidentiality is. Care to explain yourself? And care to prepare yourself for an old-fashioned thrashing, you blethering idiot?!’

  Discovered. Revealed. Terrible. All is terrible.