by Davina Bell
‘She wouldn’t say so, but she’s doing that fast blinking – you know what I mean?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say slowly. ‘I totally do. I guess I’ve known her so long I kind of don’t see all that stuff anymore.’
‘You guys are lucky,’ Matilda says, putting her script down. ‘Growing up, I never had a group of friends like that.’
‘Seriously?’ I ask, because Matilda is smart and sporty and kind in the way that the head girl of a primary school usually is, and I can’t imagine everyone not loving her – kids and teachers and parents.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ she says, looking over at the ping-pong table, and for a second her eyes have a flash of something in them. Something defensive, maybe, or pain. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t do friendship very well.’
There’s a whole heap of stuff she’s not saying, and I bet I can guess what it is. ‘You were worried that people were just being your friend because your mum’s famous?’
‘Yes! And it was stupid. Because most of the time, I’m sure nobody cared. I was probably just being paranoid.’
‘I get that. For sure. Sometimes that’s how I feel about my brother and sister, too,’ I admit. ‘When I meet new people. Like they’re looking through me – like I’m glass – because they want to get to Tally and Rishi on the other side.’ I can’t believe that I’m saying this, but I keep going. ‘Has Belle ever said … Never mind.’
‘No – say!’ Matilda insists.
I take a deep breath. ‘Has Belle ever said this thing … it’s kind of stupid. About, um, the Lola Effect?’
‘Ha! Of course,’ says Matilda. ‘Your mysterious power to make people like you in three seconds. Personally, I think Belle’s jealous of that. And she’s not jealous of much because she’s so good at everything.’
‘Except ball sports,’ I say, thinking back to the first day we met. ‘But most of the time, I’m not that confident. And so I smile wider when I’m nervous. I wink at people when I’m feeling shy. I dress like I don’t care what people think – like I don’t care if they’re comparing me to Tally. And I put things on the internet that make me seem like my life is, well … breezy. But it’s not real. And sometimes I feel as if I’m not real – like I’m this weird art-project robot that I’ve created.’ The words have all rushed out of me, and I have to pause to take a breath. ‘I worry about weird stuff. And that, I guess, is the secret life of me.’ I’ve never said this to anyone before – not even to Belle – but Matilda is so easy to talk to.
‘The Secret Life of Lola,’ Matilda says. ‘Well, your secret’s safe with me. Now can I tell you something?’
‘Sure.’ I put my brush down so she knows I mean it.
‘You know how there are heaps of photos on the internet of me holding a book?’
I nod. It might be weird to admit that I’ve googled her, but I have. I’ve seen them all.
‘That all started because I thought, well, I’m never gonna be as interesting as people think I am. I’m never gonna be a child star, and I’m quiet, and I feel awkward when people are looking at me, and I know there are all these people with cameras with massive lenses hiding in the bushes wherever we go. So I thought, wherever I go, I’ll have a book, that’ll be my thing – like, a talisman or something. And if people think that’s boring, well, that’s their problem.
‘But holding a book on my first day at Hollyoakes, that’s what led me to Belle. She was like a missile, straight away wanting to know everything I’ve ever read and what I thought about it. And that’s what led me to this place. Which I love. It’s like a town from a storybook.’
‘It is, isn’t it!’ I say, chuffed. ‘And FYI? The Secret Life of Matilda is safe with me too.’
‘I should go,’ she says reluctantly. ‘I need to be sharp tomorrow in case I have to fill in for any of the roles.’ She pulls out the rest of the stuff in her backpack to leave with me. Corn chips! Maltesers! Wagon Wheels! CHICKEN IN A BISKIT!!
‘Thanks,’ I whisper as I let her out the front door. ‘For this – but for also for everything.’ I wonder if she’ll know what I mean. I feel a weird happy-sadness in my heart: happy because it’s like I have a new friend. And sad because she’s so awesome, I can see why Belle would like her best.
‘No,’ she says, looking deep into my face. ‘Thank you. I know it must be weird … with Belle and everything. But you’ve been really great about it. And also?’ she adds. ‘You’re killing it with those sets. And you can always finish them off in the morning with a hairdryer. Good luck!’
It’s already 2am. I don’t need luck. I need a miracle.
I stay up painting all night – as in, I see the dawn break. I paint through the time that should be breakfast, but I don’t have time to eat. I start drying the giant canvas sheets with the hairdryer, which wakes up Rishi.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper as he comes down into the basement, holding another hairdryer.
He doesn’t say anything. He just sits and dries them with me as the sun climbs higher into the sky. As we lay them out on the basement floor, he looks over them. Then he looks at me. His whole face breaks into a smile.
I send a thumbs-up emoji to the girls. Then I sleep for the rest of the day and, suddenly, the sun is setting and it’s almost time to leave for the Biennial Sprint-Musical Triangular Trophy.
Luckily, I’ve pre-planned my outfit: bright-yellow silk puffy balloon shorts, kind of like a pirate might wear, with black stockings underneath. My leopard-print high-top sneakers that used to belong to Aunty Claire. A black turtleneck jumper and a houndstooth blazer. Do you know what houndstooth is? It’s a type of chequered pattern. I roll up the sleeves of the blazer. Then I slick my hair down and pull it into a low bun, and borrow Tally’s giant gold hoop earrings. I’m technically not allowed to wear make-up, but I sneak a bit of gold glitter onto my cheeks and hope Mum’s too busy to notice.
It looks cold outside, so I pull out a scarf – a bright red knitted one. Rishi says it’s vain, how long I take getting ready, but it’s not about how I look – not really. When I’m standing in front of the mirror, I’m focusing on the colours together – how today the red and the yellow are so fierce and strong and opposite, it’s almost like they’re biting each other. How the busy houndstooth pattern makes the plain yellow shorts seem so smooth. Now that I’ve put on the red scarf, I switch the leopard-print sneakers for my red Cons, and I get that feeling that lets me know I’m ready – the feeling like you’ve tapped a tuning fork against a table and the note rings out, steady and pure. Then a bit of my fringe pops up, like it wants a part. I sigh and run to Tally’s room and grab her lucky red beanie, the one she wore in her first video that got over a million likes.
And now it’s five o’clock, it’s dark, and Dad’s already left to drive the first lot of Goldies in the mini-van. Mum has taken the littlies to the clubhouse so that Pop can get her cat make-up done and Gwynnie can put the folded programs on people’s seats. So Rishi straps his banjo onto his back (he’s going to play some bits for us while the sets are changed), and he carries one end of my rolled-up canvases to Corner Park Clubhouse while I carry the other, hoping it isn’t going to rain and ruin my insane, glorious, one-night-only creative frenzy.
We cross the oval round the back of the clubhouse, past the garden where Gracie’s name is carved into the tree. I can hear excited chatter coming from the giant marquee, and the squeak of the floorboards in the clubhouse as people move around, setting up, taking seats. Gracie would have been so into this, I think to myself as we shuffle along. She would have loved every second. I LOVE YOU, GRACIE! I shout out with my heart, hoping she can hear it from wherever she is – maybe somewhere up in the star-dusted sky.
By now I’m super sweaty. Boy, these are heavy. ‘Rishi?’ I pant. ‘You’re a really – good – brother.’
He flashes a smile at me, and it’s the kind of warm, sparkly smile he should definitely do in RexRoy’s next photoshoot instead of his awkward photo smile. ‘I’m not just saying thi
s because you just said that, but these backdrops … Tiny, they’re your best work yet.’
‘Aw, shut up,’ I tell him, smiling at the ground.
The first person we see when we get to the CPC – aside from the Eco Worriers and their fundraising buckets? You guessed it.
‘Oh, hi, Rishi,’ Pepper Peters says in this super-fake voice. She’s standing at the top of the clubhouse stairs wearing the tallest top hat I’ve ever seen and a kind of creepy clown outfit with a cape made of cobwebs. Actually, that part’s pretty cool. Like something Tally would wear to a Halloween party.
‘Um, hey…’ I can tell that Rishi is desperately trying to think of her name while he’s climbing the stairs, puffing, thinking she might be a friend of mine.
‘This is PP,’ I tell him. ‘Nice hat,’ I say when we reach the top and rest for a second.
‘Pepper,’ she says. ‘Nice roll of … what even is that?’ She wrinkles her nose in disgust as she looks at my canvases. ‘An old rug?’
‘Art,’ I say. I want to add something else – something clever and snippy, but I think about Belle and Michelle Obama and They go low, we go high. ‘That’s an interesting costume choice for a tree.’
‘A tree no more,’ she says, smirking. ‘Annabel had a ski accident yesterday and shattered her leg so I’m playing the part of Wonka-mort. That’s Willy Wonka and Voldemort.’ She turns to Rishi. ‘It’s a huge deal.’
‘Do you have to sing?’ I ask, trying not to sound too enthusiastic because I know that if she does, the chances of Cloud Town winning are going to rocket to the ground.
‘Two giant solos,’ PP says triumphantly. ‘Your mum’s going to be so proud.’
I can feel myself beaming. ‘She sure will. Congrats! Hey, uh, these are kind of heavy. We’d better keep going. Break a leg and all that.’
‘Well, that’s rude,’ Pepper says, pouting.
‘Break a leg’s what they say in the theatre,’ Rishi explains. ‘It’s bad luck to say good luck – wait, is that right? Yep, I think it is. See ya, Pee Pee.’
‘Byeeee. Hope you guys don’t get … psyched out,’ she says, grinning.
What does that even mean?! ‘Back at you,’ I say breezily, like I have a clue. She makes eyes at Rishi and flounces off, her cape flittering behind her. Ugh. She is the literal worst.
We lug the canvases to the tiny backstage area, which is already packed with the most insane collection of things, including a replica model of Hogwarts made entirely out of gingerbread. It’s insane – the detail is amazing – but straight away I know the audience isn’t going to be able to see it that well from below the stage and so it won’t be very effective. Between that and Wonka-mort, I think we’re in with a shot against Cloud Town.
‘Let’s lean them here for now,’ I tell Rishi.
‘Sure. I’m just gonna go see about miking up the banjo. Don’t get too psyched out,’ he says.
‘Shut up.’ I head over to the marquee. Inside, it’s noisy and warm. I’ve always loved the energy of the Sprint Musical, but behind the scenes it’s a hundred times better – a thousand. An electric feeling ripples through the air. There are lights and a heater and different sections for the three different towns. Thanks, Pepper’s aunt. To one side, the RexRoy boys (minus Rishi) are serving coffees out of Mikie’s cart. That was Matilda’s idea. Apparently in the movies it’s called craft services.
There are people in all kinds of costumes, dashing around or sitting still in make-up chairs, having their hair done. There are racks for all the clothes, the hangers clattering as people swipe through them. In one corner of the marquee, a bunch of Willowbankers are warming up with some dance moves and they’re actually not half bad. A group of Cloud Towners about our age are doing stretches bang in the middle, so everyone has to walk round them, and two of them can do full splits. Oh – and they’re wearing white contact lenses so it looks as if they’re zombie freaks. I bet they’re Dementors. Cool.
I head for the corner that looks like a leopard-print convention. Suddenly, I’m nervous. Like, really nervous. Like, Is there a bathroom backstage? kind of nervous. I need Belle to calm me down, but I can’t see her. Weird. Eventually I find Judy painting a cat nose onto Mikie.
‘Where’s Belle?’ Judy asks me. ‘SIT STILL,’ she barks at Mikie.
‘I thought you would know,’ I tell her. ‘I just got here.’
‘Well, please find her, like, now,’ Judy says just as Mikie turns his head, causing her to poke him in the eye with the eyebrow pencil.
‘BABE!’ he yelps.
‘BABE,’ she yells.
‘I’m on the case,’ I say, backing away. Tense.
Soph is gathering up the dance troupe for one last practice, but she says she hasn’t seen Belle either, and neither has Matilda.
‘She was here,’ she says. ‘She went to check that her watch was exactly synched with the official timekeeper’s clock. But that was a while ago. And Lola? Her dad isn’t here yet.’
Oh, jeepers. ‘Are you ready to go on? If you need to?’
Matilda nods. She looks sad. ‘Got the costume. Know the lines.’
I run back outside to go see if Belle’s stuck in a bathroom queue or something, and I run smack bang into …
Nana Marjorie. She’s sitting in her wheelchair at the bottom of the clubhouse ramp, waiting for Grey Dare to help the other Goldies out of the van. They’re here! And is there anything hotter than a guy helping grandmas?! Umm, no.
‘Hello, Magnolia,’ she says as I bend to kiss her papery cheek. ‘That’s some outfit.’
‘Back at you,’ I say, taking in her peach silk shirt with the bow at the neck, and the black-and-white gingham pants, and the elegant black leather ankle boots with the gold circular detail, and the headscarf. She’s wearing Tally’s second-favourite denim jacket with the collar popped. Could she look any cooler? ‘I hope you enjoy the show. Even though Tally’s not in it.’
‘A great shame,’ says Nana Marjorie.
‘It might still be good without her,’ I tell her. ‘You never know. If you’ll excuse me, I’m looking for my friend.’
‘Oh,’ says Nana Marjorie. ‘I thought you were going to wheel me up that ramp.’
I grin. ‘Sure thing.’
I’m not going to lie – wheeling her chair up that ramp is a thrill. Because of me, she can be here – so can all the Goldies. And, sure, she’ll hate it. She hates everything! But I’ve done something to make her world a little bit bigger.
When I’ve wheeled her to every possible position in the front row (she doesn’t like any of them), she finally agrees to sit on the side, next to Flora, who’s next to Joel. I whack the brake onto her chair, and then I sprint off, looking for Belle again. She’s not backstage, but Fury Freckle is, and – SPOILER ALERT! – he’s wearing a ball gown made of ice-cream wrappers and it looks incredible. He’s playing cards with Monsieur Flutard. They haven’t seen Belle either.
She’s not in the bathroom, or the bathroom queue, or the kitchenette. The hall is filling up now, most of the chairs are taken, and Cloud Town’s performance will kick off in twenty minutes. With Belle not here, I need to get back to make sure that everyone on Team Sunnystream knows what’s going on – that the performers are all here, that they’re all done up.
Has Belle disappeared because her dad’s a no-show? There aren’t that many more places she could be. I could check her house, I guess. But first I sprint back to the marquee, just to make sure. She’s not there but Sophia is, trying to juggle her phone while holding two bunches of flowers: a giant posy of pastel wildflowers in one hand, and an enormous bunch of red roses in the other.
‘Mayor Magnus just dropped off one of these for Belle,’ she says.
‘He’s here!’ I am SO relieved. ‘Phew!’
‘Tell me about it,’ says Sophia. ‘He’s just getting changed. But Belle’s going to freak out because you’re not supposed to get flowers before the curtain goes up. It’s bad luck.’
‘Could we hid
e them somewhere? Give them to me – I’ll find a spot.’ I hold out my hands and she passes me the roses. ‘Who are the other ones for?’ I ask, secretly wondering if Tally has sent them for me.
She blushes so much, she looks like a strawberry crossed with a tomato crossed with a pimple. ‘They’re … they’re for me.’
‘Who from?’ I ask, going out of my mind with curiosity now and craning my head to see if there’s a note on her wildflower posy. ‘Is it someone from Sunnystream High?’
She ducks her head and looks kind of panicked, trying to shove her phone back in her jacket, but being all fumbly. ‘Nobody.’
‘It is, isn’t it!’ I crow. ‘Did he go to our primary school? Do I know him? Is he here tonight?’
Now she looks like she’s actually in physical pain, and it’s CUTE.
‘Sophia’s got a cru-ush, Sophia’s got a cru-ush,’ I sing with a little shimmy. ‘But seriously,’ I say eventually. ‘Who is it?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ she croaks, her voice strained. ‘I can’t tell anyone.’
Oh. Whoops. I think this is actually serious.
I immediately stop with the dancing and start thinking about potentially devastating crushes. Yikes.
‘It’s not … is it Patrick?’ I say. I can see how it would be weird for Soph to be in love with Gracie’s best friend. It would give her some complicated feelings, I’m sure.
‘It’s not Patrick,’ she says. ‘He’s just my friend.’
Hmm. Who else could give you some complicated feelings?
‘Is it … is it Maisie?’ I ask. My parents were best friends before they got together. It can happen.
‘No,’ says Sophia. ‘I love Maisie, but I’m not in love with her.’
‘So you ARE in love with someone!’ I say, and she groans a little. It’s like she wants to tell me but she can’t for some reason. Her phone pings again.
‘Look,’ I say gently, putting the roses down on a stool. ‘I’m going to make this easier on you.’
Then I tickle Soph under her arm with one hand and grab her phone with the other.