I think when she first came to Queens we were all swept away by her sense of entitlement. I mean, we are all relatively privileged, going to a top London private school, but as the daughter of one of Britain’s oldest families, Octavia was born knowing she would never be asked to do a tap of work and so she never has. Not that she ever goes on about her family or her money or anything. Actually, she’s incredibly mum about the whole thing. A lot of girls would flash their title as much as their cleavage. But then Octavia doesn’t need to wield her title, she only has to bat her lashes and the world falls at her feet.
It is kind of cool having a friend who’s unabashed about speaking her mind. Octavia can rinse anyone in any argument, and for someone as—well, let’s face it—wimpish as me, that’s an impressive quality. I kind of live in my own head a lot. I like to break up a melodic line of Bach into four bits and muck about with the bits in my head. I invert some, switch others around and break them with a bar, and then interweave them with the original.
Sad, I know.
It’s hard to explain to other people and so I rarely do. Which I think is for the best. That’s why Octavia’s good for me. The perfect antidote for an introverted swot like me is a madder-than-mad friend who makes me dare rather than cower. She drags me out of my head and reminds me there is another world outside musical notes. I think I would be a total freak without her. The best thing about her is the way she makes me laugh. Well, most of the time. On other occasions her eccentricities have been known to drive me into realms of despair.
Since we’d heard about this trip, she’d been in a slump. I suspect it wasn’t really the usual Outer Zone Hell thing as she claimed. I wondered if it wasn’t something to do with her parents. When I stayed with her once I got the impression money was a bit of an issue, but Octavia’s never said anything, so I haven’t. Anyway I’m probably reading too much into things. An old mattress and worn curtains aren’t really such a big deal. Nor is lack of central heating. I guess I just presumed that Octavia’s family would have a chauffeur-driven Roller but her parents don’t even own a car.
My mother found this incredibly strange. “Who doesn’t own a car?” she exclaimed when I told them about my stay. They’re actually dreadful snobs, my parents. But then my father said, “Those old families are often obsessively careful about avoiding anything flashy. Besides, damn sensible not having a car in London. Not to mention good for the environment.” This from a man who collects vintage cars and drives a Range Rover the hundred yards to his office every day! Hypocrite. As if he imagined that I didn’t know he was only saying all this rubbish because of Octavia’s title.
Finally, the coach bearing our cargo of boys pulled up. I’d been counting on the American boys to cheer up Octavia, but by the time they finally started clambering out of their coach, even that sliver of hope began to vanish. She looked disdainful as the boys whistled and called up to us. None of us moved from our loungers. We didn’t want to appear too keen. But we all looked knowingly at one another and grinned, imagining the pull fest that lay ahead, once we’d checked out who was fit and who was fit to forget.
But not Octavia.
I climbed off my lounger and sneaked a peep over the deck to check out the last of the boys as they walked up the gangplank.
“I think one of the Americans is wearing a suit,” I mentioned. Octavia loves good tailoring. God knows why. At our age only guys in pretentious bands wear suits.
“I bet it’s machine made,” she replied, not even bothering to peer over her sunglasses.
As long as a boy is Savile Rowed to the eyeballs and fit, she’ll pull him. There isn’t a boy on the planet that doesn’t want Octavia the moment he lays eyes on her. Many a London boy has shed his Ralphies for a bespoke suit simply to catch Octavia’s eye.
Sometimes I wish I had a less attractive friend, which I know sounds really mean. But seriously, it’s no fun being second prize.
With her thick mane of glossy black hair, green cat’s eyes, and breathtaking figure, she makes every other girl she stands beside look bad. Add to that the fact she always dresses in the most spellbindingly fabulous way, and you have to wonder why any girl in her right mind would want to be seen next to her. She does make me laugh though—and force me to do things I’d otherwise never dare. Octavia doesn’t believe in the concept of “too far.” Her favorite line from her favorite film, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, is, “You can never go too far.”
Me? I’m sometimes afraid of my own shadow.
I put my iPod in and listened with a critical ear to a piece I’d composed for my music tutor. The piece was due to be handed in soon, and I’d already used my extension, but it was still missing something. The more I heard it, the more discordant it sounded.
Mr. Menzies climbed onto the upper deck, looking like a puddle of tea in his polyester khaki safari suit. “Right, girlies! Enough sunning yourselves!”
Octavia turned onto her tummy.
“Come on, chop, chop. We’re not here for a holiday. Cover yourselves up now, this is a school trip, not a harem. The boys have arrived, so we’ll convene in half an hour in the lounge bar for a welcome drink and a discussion of our program.” He really is such a fool. Who says words like convene anyway? Also he used his fingers to parenthesize the word bar as the bar would not be serving alcohol to us. Obviously the teachers would drink themselves stupid the entire week. They always do on school trips.
“What do you think the boys will be like?” I asked as I set off down the stairs from the upper deck.
“American?” Octavia replied. “Totally, like, totally, like, American, man,” she added in a perfect American accent.
“Yar, what’s up with the way they talk? Do you think they’ll really call one another ‘dude’ and high-five one another?” Perdita asked.
“Frankly I don’t give a damn as long as there are some fitties amongst them,” Octavia declared. “It’s not as if I want them for their conversation, darling,” she added as we strolled into the air-conditioned bar and came face-to-face with a godlike boy in a bespoke suit and rubbish trainers, stretched out in one of the booths.
He looked up from his newspaper and smiled and for some reason I thought his smile was just for me. Which, of course, it couldn’t have been.
He was opening and closing his mouth but I was so mesmerized that it took forever to decipher what it was he was saying. By the time I worked it out, I was drooling with desire. He had introduced himself and was asking what I was listening to.
“Erm, well, that is, well, nothing. No one you’d know,” I blabbered away uselessly.
“She’s listening to herself,” Octavia told him, flicking her hair seductively. “Rosie’s always listening to herself. That’s the nature of genius, the pursuit of perfection. She’s the most brilliant composer! Scarily talented in fact.”
Octavia was being genuinely nice. She’s always singing my praises and trying to help me get over my shyness with boys, but I was feeling too freakishly awkward to cope with this godlike boy without him knowing I had a scary talent.
He smiled. “So, can I listen to you?” he asked, stretching out his long fingers for my iPod.
“It’s not finished yet,” I explained. “It needs something. It needs … a lot in fact …” I babbled on, but he’d already placed the earpiece in his ear. And he closed his eyes and smiled, and as I waited for his verdict, I fell madly, inexorably, impossibly in love with him.
“I love that key change at the end,” he said to me, passing my iPod back.
And that was that. There was no key change at the end, but a key change at the end was precisely what it needed. He was the answer to all my dreams. Unaware that cupid’s arrow had pierced my heart, Octavia strolled across to my dream boy as if gliding down a runway. “Nice suit. Gieves and Hawke?” she enquired.
“Ozwald Boateng,” he replied disinterestedly, his eyes still fixed on me.
“Very nice,” she purred, swinging her legs into the booth and snuggling he
r bikini-clad figure up beside him.
He looked over at me. I was still rooted to the spot. It was clear that Octavia had staked her claim, and normally that would be enough for me to back off and climb back into my box. But not then. At that moment I wanted to scratch out her eyes, and I am so not normally like that.
“Octavia,” she announced as if her name were a promise—or a threat. Then she kissed him on each cheek. “Loving the suit, loving the sun, loving you, darling,” she declared.
“Salah,” the guy replied, and maybe I was delusional, but I thought he moved slightly away from her.
The rest of us were all about to leave Octavia to work her spell, but Salah called out, “Hey, music girl, aren’t you going to join us?”
Octavia said, “Rosie is madly shy, darling.”
The worst of it was, she was right. I was too shy to join them. There was nothing I could do but leave Octavia to it. I decided to go back to my computer and effect the key change in the last passage.
• • •
When we came up from changing, the rest of the guys were already in the bar. Octavia was still in her bikini and Mr. Menzies was giving her a piece of his mind. She ignored him as she sipped a mint tea and fluttered her madly long eyelashes at Salah, who had been joined in a booth by three other fitties drooling shamelessly over her.
Both sides of the bar had floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the Nile on one side and Luxor town on the other. It was madly modern, more like the sort of uber-trendy bar you find in London, where you have to be a member to get in. The staff were all in black tie and were wandering around with glasses of iced mint tea, a red drink called karkaday, and freshly squeezed orange juice.
I sat down with Octavia though she barely acknowledged me. It wasn’t because she was being mean. She’d sighted her prey and that was that. She probably wouldn’t notice me again until she’d pulled Salah. And I can’t blame her. I could easily have got lost in a boy like that.
• • •
We’d all taken our seats, Octavia and the boys in booths on the Nile side of the bar and girls on the shore side. Off in the corner stood a large woman in a bizarre hippie getup and an Egyptian man whose Indiana Jones–inspired attire was complete with flak jacket and hat. Our diminutive history teacher, Mr. Bell, who was over a hundred years old if he was a day, was wandering about the room passing out itinerary sheets. He looked the height of madosity in a pair of high-tech binoculars and a straw hat that had a special compartment in the crown in which to carry water.
Monday, Day 1
Welcome aboard the Nefertiti
Sunset: 17:56
12:30 Welcome drinks and discussion of itinerary
13:00 Lunch in the Nefertiti restaurant
14:00 Coach to Temple of Karnak and Temple of Luxor
17:00 Tea served on the pool deck
20:00 Dinner in Nefertiti restaurant
22:30 Whirling Dervish and Belly Dance Show in Upstairs Ankh bar
Overnight in Luxor
Everyone immediately began reading their itinerary, but as hard as I tried, I couldn’t take my eyes from Salah. Not even humming a little lovely, lovely Bach could stop me from noticing his lashes sweep across his honey brown cheekbones or that he had shiny black hair just like Octavia’s. But it was more than that. He had suggested a key change. He had taken an interest in something other than the way I looked—or rather, the way Octavia looked. It was awful. And the truth was, they looked brilliant together. I could groan with the unfairness of it all. Why was I standing in line behind Octavia—well, everyone really—when the looks and charisma were handed out?
Salah’s long, tapered fingers rested peacefully on the table. His hands mesmerized me. I have known a lot of boys, and one thing about them is they never stay still. Never. Repose is not something you associate with sixteen-year-old boys, and yet that’s what Salah had. Repose by the bucketload.
I found myself stealing glances at him until he eventually noticed, at which point I went bright red—which, given my Irish complexion and strawberry-blond hair, was never a good look. After that, I studiously avoided eye contact with him and fiddled with my BlackBerry even though I had no signal.
The big woman in the hippie getup introduced herself as Carol and began to drone on in a ghastly nasal twang.
“First of all, let me introduce myself to the girls of Queens.” And then, I swear this is true, she gave us a little bow as if we were actual queens or something. “My name’s Carol, and this gentleman beside me is our Egyptologist, Mo-ham-med.” She exaggerated the name clearly as if she were speaking to infants. “He’ll be leading the tours and answering any questions you might have, and I’m sure there’ll be a heck of a lot of those.”
That set us girls off in a piss take of American accents. Honestly, I know we’re immersed in American culture through film and television, but it doesn’t make American accents sound less funny, does it? In fact, maybe that’s why they make me giggle so—because it’s like meeting a television character in real life.
Mohammed stepped forward then, took off his Indiana Jones hat, and grinned broadly. I was so loving him. He just looked so happy and enthused. Normally I would have shared this thought with Octavia, but she was still all over Salah.
“I’m the guy who’ll be giving you all the bloody blah, blah, blah about Egyptian history,” Mohammed explained. “You know what blah, blah, blah means? You bloody well will by the time we finish. Then you will say, ‘Mohammed, shut the bloody hell up with the bloody blah, blah, blah.’ ”
All the students laughed and clapped, but Carol waved for us to settle down.
“Yes, Mohammed, thank you.” She coughed awkwardly. “As you can see from your programs,” she continued, slightly flustered, “after lunch we’ll be taking a bus to Karnak Temple. Now it will be very hot, so please apply plenty of sunscreen and wear a hat. Ms. Doyle, Mr. Bell, and Mr. Menzies, my two British counterparts on this tour, will be accompanying us.”
Ms. Doyle, who was dressed like a freak from a war film and was munching on a high-energy bar, lumbered over to join Carol. I bet she ate girls for breakfast. Carol embraced her as if Ms. Doyle were a tree. “I am sure Mohammed will have a lot to share with us, but Ms. Doyle is also an Egyptology buff herself, and will have a heck of a lot to tell you. She won’t mind sharing her time if you have any questions, as long as you respect her personal space on the boat. We teachers need our leisure time too, you know.”
Again, all of the girls from Queens burst into laughter at hearing the American use of the word leisure. The guys looked at us like we were maddies, so we all quieted down. As miraculously good-looking as they were, I was beginning to worry they might be a super nerdy lot and took their teachers seriously, which might turn out to be a bit of a yawn.
Carol continued. “Mr. Menzies, a fellow geography teacher from Eng-ga-land, could you present yourself, please?”
I looked at Mr. Menzies in his safari suit. His khaki trousers were actually shorty shorts exposing the knobbly white knee of the Englishman. Not our best ambassador. He giggled girlishly, which made the boys from New York crack up, and I began to relax and think they just might be cool after all.
Mr. Menzies stood up and joined Carol and Ms. Doyle at the front of the room. He was so embarrassing, chuckling away lecherously at the two of them as if he’d never seen such hot totty. It really was too sick-making for words and almost made me forget all about Octavia and Salah.
Mr. Menzies gave Carol a nudge with his elbow as he said, “Thank you, Carol. Sterling job, sterling job and I think, for the purpose of our trip here, and in the spirit of cross-cultural relations, you can all call me Nigel.”
“Oh darling, do we have to?” Octavia whined, stretched out catlike in the booth. Seriously, she was all over Salah, and with her dark mane of shiny hair and tanned lithe body, she bore a striking resemblance to Cleopatra. I could hardly blame Salah for being smitten. Still, it made my head spin with crossness.
�
��Yes, Octavia, on this you will fall in line with everyone else,” Nigel told her, puffing out his chest manfully—for the sake of Carol I suspected. “And while we’re at it, you can go and get dressed. You are a Queens lady. Show a bit of decorum.”
Oh poor, poor innocent Nigel. He really had no idea.
Chapter 5
Sam
Karnak
At some stage in life, you have to sign a peace treaty with your desires.
The girls were all hot. Two of them were sizzling. So was the heat. We were wandering around the Karnak Temple complex, standing in the insane temperature, listening to Mohammed as he tried to explain the complex history of the place. He was dressed like an intrepid explorer and looked like the real deal compared to the other guides in their Lacoste tees and trendy sunglasses. Everyone looked so modern that it was pretty hard to believe we were actually standing among some of the oldest ruins in the world. Mohammed was passionate about his subject, but I was checking out the history of Karnak on my BlackBerry because it was hard to hear him over the noise of all the other guides. Yo was stumbling around the temple in his VR visor, bumping into walls, experiencing his own virtual Egypt. He said it “enhanced the real experience.” Given that he wasn’t experiencing the real thing in his visor, I wondered how it could be enhanced, but whatever.
Mohammed moved us along as he tried to explain why the Karnak Temples had been built. The teachers kept interrupting him, showing off to each other. The girls kept disappearing behind pillars, chatting and fiddling with their own BlackBerrys. The entire temple complex was alive with the sound of tourists, their guides, and the ring of cell phones. I started to take some shots with my Leica, but it was so crowded it was difficult to use and I reverted to my digital.
True Love, the Sphinx, and Other Unsolvable Riddles Page 3