There she was, walking towards us, looking stunning in very tight jeans, a black satin shirt (mostly unbuttoned) and a crazy furry waistcoat. Her hair wafted past her shoulders in a mad cloud of curls. She took little swaying steps on account of the incredibly high heels of her killer boots.
Carl and Paul stared at her. Carl smiled. Paul shook his head, looking bemused. He gave a little whistle.
‘She’s Miranda?’ he said. ‘Oh boy!’
Miranda came wiggling up to us, laughing and talking and hugging as if we were all her oldest friends, even Paul – particularly Paul. She didn’t apologize for being so late; she didn’t seem the slightest bit fussed about it. She let Carl pay for her to go into the bowling alley as if it was totally her due, not even bothering to thank him. She didn’t take much notice of me either. She just nattered away to Paul and he nodded and smiled and preened in a totally sickening fashion.
‘Happy now?’ I said to Carl as we queued up.
‘Sure,’ he said, but he didn’t actually seem sure at all.
I hated the noise and blare and stale chippy smell of the alley. I hated the game itself. I couldn’t seem to get the knack at all. I tried to copy the others, bending down and then rolling the ball, but I was lousy at aiming – once my ball jiggled over into the neighbouring alley, causing four boys to start screaming abuse at me. I ignored them, though I knew my face was beetroot red. I stood with my hand on my hip, yawning every now and then, trying to pretend that the game bored me silly and I wasn’t even going to try to play properly, but I didn’t fool anyone.
It didn’t help that the other three were so good at it. Paul was by far the best, aiming stylishly, effortlessly, his ordinary boy body suddenly taking on a Glass Boy grace. He spoiled it by punching the air and leaping about crazily each time he knocked ten pins down, which happened with monotonous regularity.
Carl did his best to copy his style, bending exactly the same way, extending his head, flicking his wrist, like a Paul shadow. He could copy the technique but he didn’t have Paul’s natural ability. He looked good but he only ever demolished half his pins.
Miranda did things her way, of course. She could barely bend in her tight jeans and adopted an odd crouching position, her bum in the air, so that all the boys in the bowling alley started goggling at her. She was very aware of this and played up to her audience, tossing her hair and leaning further forward so that the remaining two buttons on her shirt strained and popped. Everyone expected her to bowl as badly as me, but somehow she had the knack. The ball left her hand, spurted up the alley and knocked the pins over with a satisfying thunk each time.
Miranda and Paul were level-pegging for a while, but then he started drawing ahead. Miranda laughed and clapped him, telling him he was absolutely fantastic in this silly breathy voice. I thought she’d been taken over by aliens, just like Carl, but when she looked at me she pulled a funny face, raising her eyebrows. She was obviously just playing a silly game with him, scoring her own jackpot.
The evening was starting to seem endless. It was all Paul’s fault. He was making Carl and Miranda behave like cartoon morons. I hated the way he lorded it over Carl, jostling him, swearing, telling silly jokes. Carl tried hard to join in, though it was the sort of behaviour he’d always despised. I hated the way Paul looked at Miranda, as if she was a page-three pin-up. She played up to him, wiggling and giggling until I wanted to shake her.
I hated the way Paul treated me. He ignored me most of the time, as if I truly wasn’t worthy of his attention, but when he felt it necessary he ordered me around like I was someone’s little sister, only there under sufferance.
We went and had hot dogs and chips, and Paul squiggled red and yellow lines of ketchup and mustard up and down his dog and then started squiggling Carl’s too. Carl just laughed, even when they were drenched. Then he grabbed the ketchup and started swamping Paul’s meal in turn. I couldn’t believe it.
Miranda sighed and started eating her chips delicately, one by one.
‘Here, let’s make them a bit tastier for you, Miranda,’ Paul giggled, aiming the mustard at her plate.
‘You squirt so much as a spoonful and I’ll ram it down your throat and season your tonsils,’ Miranda said calmly.
Paul blinked at her, taken aback. ‘Hey, hey, lighten up, I’m only joking,’ he said.
Carl was surreptitiously scraping the worst of the sauce off his food. I knew just how much he hated cheap ketchup and mustard.
‘What about you, Sylvie?’ said Paul, juggling the red and yellow bottles.
‘No thanks. You’re behaving like two-year-olds,’ I said primly.
Paul pulled a face. ‘Oooh, I consider myself severely chastised,’ he said in a silly voice. ‘That’s rich, coming from the youngest of us.’
‘I bet I’m not the youngest,’ I said. ‘How old are you? When’s your birthday?’
It turned out I was the second oldest.
‘So it’s your birthday very soon, Carl,’ said Miranda. ‘What do you want? I know, some select and sparkling item of glasswear.’
I held my breath. If Miranda started talking about Glassworld then Carl would kill me. No, worse. He’d never play Glassworld with me again.
Paul laughed, thinking this was some kind of crazy joke. ‘Glass?’ he said. ‘What are you on about? Why would he want glass?’
‘Oh, our Carl’s total Glass Boy, didn’t you know?’ said Miranda.
Carl’s head jerked. Miranda saw it too.
‘You love my stained-glass windows, don’t you Carl?’ she said smoothly. ‘Didn’t you say you had your own glass collection?’
‘Sort of,’ Carl mumbled.
‘What, vases and stuff?’ said Paul. ‘Weird.’
‘It’s not weird at all. Carl’s got an amazing collection,’ I said. I thought of a way to impress him. ‘Similar pieces go for hundreds on eBay and yet he bought them for a couple of pounds ages ago.’
‘Really?’ said Paul. ‘I tried selling these little pig money banks on eBay – someone said they were worth heaps, but the most someone offered me was five quid and it cost more than that to send the little beggars. I used to collect pigs when I was a little kid. Hey, Carl, I’ve got a glass pig. Would you like it? I’ll give it to you for your birthday present.’
‘Cool,’ said Carl.
‘That’s a bit of a cheapskate birthday present,’ said Miranda. ‘Hey, I’ve thought of the most brilliant birthday treat for you!’
I didn’t like the way she always tried to take things over.
‘Will you have a party, Carl?’ she asked.
‘Probably not.’
‘Yeah, you’re not really a party guy, are you? So let’s have an amazing birthday outing!’
‘We’ve already got something planned, just Carl and me,’ I said quickly.
Carl and I celebrated his birthday together, the two of us. There was usually a family meal but then Jules generally took us somewhere special. Last year we’d gone to the glass gallery in the V and A, magical rooms right at the very top of the museum with green glass steps and a glass balcony. Carl had performed a Fred Astaire-type tap dance all the way down the glass steps, ending with a high kick, a spin round, and then stretched his arms out in triumph while I clapped like crazy.
‘What have you got planned?’ said Miranda.
‘Oh,’ I said, stuck. I hadn’t come up with a new idea yet. ‘Probably a museum. You’d be bored.’
‘I probably would. No, I’ve got a much better idea than a stuffy museum. We’ll go to Kew Gardens on one of their floodlight evenings.’
‘Gardens?’ said Carl. ‘Thanks, Miranda, but I don’t fancy that for my birthday.’
‘You will. They’ve got a Chihuly exhibition there.’
‘Oh wow!’ said Carl.
‘You what?’ said Paul.
‘Chihuly’s this amazing American guy – he makes these extraordinary glass flowers,’ said Miranda.
‘There’s this fantastic greeny-yellow
gigantic whirly glass like thousands of snakes hanging in the entrance of the V and A. That’s Chihuly,’ said Carl.
‘How did you know about him?’ I asked Miranda.
She grinned. ‘I asked my dad. He’s a bit of a glass freak too. It’s settled, right? We’ll go on your birthday, next Friday night, yeah? You and me and Sylvie …’
Carl looked at Paul. ‘Are you coming too?’
‘Sure,’ said Paul.
IT LOOKED AS if Paul was now part of us, like it or not. When Carl and I were walking home together he turned to me and said, ‘So, what do you think of Paul?’
I shrugged. ‘He’s OK.’
Carl looked crestfallen. ‘Only OK?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter? Why don’t you like him?’
‘I do like him. Sort of. It’s just he’s so …’ I searched for the correct word. Dull? Ordinary? Boring? I settled for ‘boyish’.
‘Well. He’s a boy. What else would he be?’ said Carl.
‘Yes, but he mucks around so. He’s a bit manic, don’t you think? What was all that hot-dog stuff about?’
‘Oh, Sylvie, that’s just his wacky sense of humour. He’s always larking around. Even in mid-run on the football pitch he’ll suddenly start capering about like a loony and Mr Grisby, the sports teacher, screams at him but then Paul whacks out a foot, kicks the ball and scores a goal.’ Carl tried to demonstrate, looking ridiculous.
‘You’re not getting into football too, are you?’ I said.
‘No, of course not. I’m hopeless at it, you know I am. But it’s good fun watching Paul. He’s brilliant, he really is. The school want him to try out for the boys’ team of one of the big football clubs. He’s the best at football in our whole school and yet he’s not a bit big-headed about it.’
‘Fancy you being friends with a football jock,’ I said.
‘Well, why shouldn’t we be friends?’ said Carl. ‘And he isn’t a football jock. He’s clever – he’s in the top set in nearly all subjects. He reads a lot. He’s into Fantasy. He’s lent me a couple of his favourites. There’s one that’s a bit like Glassworld. I’ll let you read it if you like.’
‘I’d sooner make up our Glassworld.’
‘Paul’s quite good at writing too. He does this cartoon thing in the school magazine. We’re thinking of doing a whole picture strip together.’
Carl went on burbling about Paul all the way home. It was almost as bad as having Paul physically with us. I wondered if he was taking Miranda all the way home or leaving her at the bus stop. I wondered what would happen when they said goodbye.
‘Do you think they’ll kiss?’ I said.
Carl stopped. ‘What?’
‘Miranda and Paul.’
‘No. Maybe. I don’t know. Why, do you think he really liked her then? I thought she went totally over the top, all that waggling her bum about. I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed for her – she’s so obvious. She can be fun, I suppose, but I don’t really know what you see in her, Sylvie.’
I was infuriated. Carl felt free to criticize my friends. He was rude about Miranda and totally cruel about poor Lucy, yet he didn’t seem to like me being even mildly critical about Paul.
‘Still, it’s good we’ve got another girl. Threesomes can be a bit awkward,’ said Carl. ‘And it’s a seriously cool idea going to see the Chihuly glass at Kew.’
‘Can’t we go on our own?’ I asked.
‘Well, it was Miranda’s idea. And I’ve asked Paul now and he said he wanted to come.’
‘What about me?’ I said. ‘You didn’t ask me.’
‘Oh, Syl, I didn’t have to ask you. I knew you’d want to come,’ said Carl, putting his arm round me. ‘Come on, stop being Sulky Sylvie.’
He so rarely put his arm round me nowadays that I couldn’t possibly stay stand-offish. I snuggled up as close as I could. He was wearing his denim jacket and the round metal buttons dug in painfully but I didn’t care if they became permanently embedded in my flesh. We turned the corner into our street. I wished the road would stretch from here to China so we could carry on walking for ever, Carl’s arm warm and protective round my shoulders.
When we got to our gates Carl stopped, looking me straight in the eyes, still holding me. I thought this was the moment at last. Our moment. Carl’s lovely mouth puckered into a kissing shape. I started trembling. But then he just blew me a kiss, turning it into an affectionate joke.
‘Night, Syl,’ he said, and went indoors.
I went into my house, feeling so churned up. I wanted to go straight to my bedroom to brood in private but I bumped into Miss Miles shuffling in her slippers to her bed, cup of herbal tea in one hand, book in the other. She asked where I’d been, and when I said bowling she became surprisingly interested and said it was something she’d been considering taking up herself. This was such a totally bizarre idea I was struck dumb. It wasn’t until she asked me if it was compulsory to wear all white that I realized she meant that bowling-green game for old codgers. I couldn’t help snorting with laughter.
‘Someone sounds happy,’ Mum called from the living room. ‘Come and have a chat, Sylvie. Did you have a good time, darling? Tell me all about it.’
Her computer was still on and it gave a little ting to show she had a message. Mum kept her eyes dutifully on me, not even glancing at it. I squinted at the screen suspiciously, hating the thought of some creepy guy sending lewd lovey-dovey messages to my mum.
‘Hey, you’re not meant to peer at my messages,’ said Mum, pink and beaming. ‘Gerry phoned me up tonight too. That was a huge relief, because I’d been a little bit bothered he’d have speech difficulties because of his stroke and I was scared I wouldn’t be able to understand him. Thank goodness he speaks 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, what do you think?’
It was scarlet with little white roses.
‘It was so hard finding anything decent. I like the shape of this one but they only had it in red and it’s ever so bright. Do you think it’s too bright?’
I did my best to reassure her. Then she asked me all sorts of stuff about Carl and Miranda and Paul. She went on and on about Paul.
‘What’s he like? Is he good looking? What 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.
‘I know you’re totally Carl’s girl, darling, but maybe … maybe it would be good to start seeing other boys.’
‘No thanks. I don’t want to. Come on, Mum, you know I just want Carl.’
Mum sighed. ‘Yes, I do know, but … Oh well. Whatever. I’m sure things will work out. I just want 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 hand up here, hand down there, hands 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 just that 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 her out of it. Kew was our place, Carl and me. Jules had taken us there and we’d had a picnic under a willow tree and then 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 the jungle. We’d introduced a glasshouse into Glassworld, a gigantic crystal palace where albatrosses soared overhead, casting shadows with their great white wings, and enormous red roses and white lilies and pink orchids bloomed in the artificial warmth while snowflakes patterned the outside of the glasshouse like lace.
Why hadn’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 Saturday 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 and 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 her mother in some nursing home in Worthing. Miss Miles seemed ancient enough to me. It seemed bizarre that 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 Jules 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 and a T-shirt and an embroidered ethnic waistcoat thing that Mum used to wear way back before I was born. I hoped it might make me look vintage and funky. I suspected I just looked like I was dressing up in my mum’s old clothes but I didn’t have time to try out another look.
I grabbed my keys and ran next door. Jake answered, eventually, wearing a sweater over his pyjamas, his hair sticking straight up.
Kiss Page 10