Truly, Wildly, Deeply

by Jenny McLachlan

  ‘Well, I won’t tell her if you don’t,’ I say. Then I add, ‘They say eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul, but I think bedrooms are far more revealing.’

  He considers this for a moment then says, ‘OK,’ and leads the way upstairs. ‘But if my mother comes back you must pretend you are using the toilet.’

  After a painful walk up the stairs – the price I must pay for my curiosity – Fab pushes open his bedroom door, and I step into a neat and organised room.

  One wall is taken up entirely with books, which are arranged alphabetically, and the Polish flag is pinned above a carefully made bed. On the window sill are the various caps and hats Fab wears into college and a pile of folded scarves. Everything is ordered and tidy: from the shoes lined up beneath the radiator, to a collection of photos stuck to the side of the wardrobe.

  ‘My Polish friends and family,’ Fab says, nodding at the photos.

  Then I see another photo. It’s the only one on a chest of drawers and it’s also the only one in a frame. It’s a wedding photo. The bride is wearing a billowing veil and gazing up at the groom.

  ‘Are they your mum and dad?’ I ask, and Fab nods.

  Some bits and pieces are displayed around the photo: a Swiss army knife, a little metal box, a white egg covered in blue circles. Something about how precisely they’ve been placed next to the photo tells me these are special things.

  ‘My father lives in Poland,’ says Fab.

  That’s all. He doesn’t tell me if his mum and dad are divorced, or why he’s living with his mum and not his dad.

  Fab asks me direct questions all the time, but even though I’d like to know more about his family, I don’t say anything.

  Instead, I say, ‘You have your dad’s eyes.’

  ‘And his height.’

  ‘Yep. You definitely don’t get that from your mum.’

  Fab’s still hovering in the doorway, watching me. ‘So,’ he says, ‘what has my room revealed about my soul?’

  ‘That it craves order, which is not what I was expecting at all. At college you seem very … spontaneous.’

  He spreads his hands wide and smiles. ‘I am a man of mystery! What is your bedroom like?’

  ‘Messy, full of rats and chaotic,’ I say, ‘and yet I’m a bit of a control freak.’ I take one last look around me and I see that the blanket at the end of his bed is folded in a perfect square. ‘I guess our souls are made of different stuff.’

  Just then, a car beeps outside, and my tour of Fab’s soul is over.

  Downstairs, I insist that Fab stays inside even though he wants to come out to the car with me.

  ‘No way,’ I say, knowing what a fuss Mum will make if I introduce her to Fab, a boy she’s never met before. ‘I can get in a car on my own.’

  ‘In that case, I will put the finishing touches to the collage.’

  ‘Don’t you dare add any pink to my side!’

  True to his word, Fab stays in the house.

  ‘So who lives in there?’ asks Mum, the second I get in the car.

  ‘A man of mystery!’ I say as mysteriously as possible, and then I’m bombarded with questions for the whole journey home.

  FIFTEEN

  For the rest of the week, Fab claims to be improving our collage and when we hand it in on Friday, Miss Caudle clasps her hands to her chest and declares it’s perfect. Then she sticks it in the centre of her display board, making Romilly announce that, just as she suspected, ‘Fannie are Miss’s favourites’.

  ‘We do make an excellent team,’ agrees Fab, as we gaze proudly at our poster.

  Miss gets us to act out scenes from Wuthering Heights, which is fun, but I’m still pleased when we get to the end of the lesson because I’m hit with a rush of Friday Feeling. It’s extra big because tomorrow is Sophie’s party, and it looks like Jim was right: everyone’s going.

  As usual, Fab and I are the last to leave the room.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Cuddle,’ says Fab. ‘I hope you have an enjoyable weekend.’

  ‘Urrgh,’ she says, dropping a pile of folders into a box. ‘Hardly. Marking and mowing my lawn. I’ve got a massive garden and a push lawnmower. It’ll take me ages, but it’s got to be done.’

  ‘I will come and do it for you,’ says Fab, without missing a beat. ‘We have an excellent electric lawnmower. What is your address?’

  Miss Caudle’s eyes shoot open. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that, Fab.’

  ‘Yes.’ He whips his notebook out of his bag. ‘I insist.’

  An awkward moment follows as a range of emotions flash across Miss Caudle’s face: amusement, shock, horror … temptation.

  I decide to help her out. ‘Fab, you can’t just go round to a teacher’s house and mow their lawn.’

  ‘Why not? Miss Cuddle’s grass is long: I can cut it.’

  ‘Because it breaks some sort of teacher law, right, Miss?’

  Miss Caudle nods. ‘It wouldn’t be professional of me to invite a student to my home.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be professional?’

  ‘Look, Fab,’ I say, ‘a teacher can’t encourage their sixteen-year-old students to come round to their garden to get all hot and sweaty.’

  Fab’s eyes widen in horror as he realises what I’m hinting at. ‘But I just want to help! Miss Cuddle, is your lawn very untidy and are you very busy?’

  She sighs deeply. ‘Yes and yes, but I’m afraid Annie’s right.’

  ‘Then I will come on Saturday and bring my mother. She will be my … what do you call it? In Poland it is przyzwoitka.’

  I get out my phone. ‘Spell it,’ I say. A moment later, I tell Miss Caudle, ‘Fab’s mother’s going to be his chaperone.’

  A smile spreads over her face. ‘Well, if your mum’s there, I’m sure there won’t be a problem. I’d love to meet her!’

  ‘And she would love to meet you. We will bring cake, szarlotka. It’s very nice – apple cake with crumble on the top.’

  ‘No, if you’re mowing my lawn then the least I can do is provide the cake.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ says Fab. He is so bringing cake.

  After he’s got Miss Caudle’s address, we walk down the corridor together.

  ‘Fab,’ I say, when I get to my form room, ‘is there anything you think of saying but choose not to because of, I don’t know, peer pressure … etiquette … embarrassment?’

  Fab considers my question carefully. ‘Never,’ he says. ‘Life is too short for embarrassment.’

  ‘Yeah, I used to think that too,’ I say, ‘before I met you.’

  And this makes Fab drop one of his Incredible Hulk arms round my shoulders and laugh so hard that he almost knocks me over.

  SIXTEEN

  PAR-TAAAAAAY! is not what I think when I wake up on Saturday morning. I’m a bit more: urrgh, party … really?

  I lie in bed, my entire body aching from three whole weeks of commuting to college. For a moment, I consider ringing Hilary and cancelling tonight, but then I remind myself that I’m her friend, and friends make sacrifices for each other. Even if we only go to the party for a bit, that’s better than nothing. Plus, I’m starting to get to know everyone at college and I’d quite like to be seen as a party animal, even if right now I feel more like a party insect – an ant, say, or a woodlouse.

  I’ve got a whole day to recover. I just need to chill out and get some energy back.

  I pick up my phone and ring Mum’s number. She answers straight away.

  ‘Good morning, favourite daughter,’ she says.

  ‘Where are you?’

  I hear her take a sip of tea. ‘In the kitchen. You know I’m in the kitchen – that’s why you’re ringing.’

  I laugh. ‘True. So, please will you make me some toast?’

  ‘Butter and Marmite?’

  ‘And maybe a hot chocolate?’

  ‘You’re pushing your luck, but, OK, just this once.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. The room service here is excellent.’


  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried it.’

  ‘Mate, it’s not my fault I can’t carry a tray upstairs … So insensitive.’

  ‘Ha, ha. See you in five minutes.’

  I pull open the curtains, pile up some pillows on my bed and pick up Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff has just brought his wife, Isabella, home and I’ve got a feeling things aren’t going to go too well: Isabella’s called Heathcliff a monster and he’s said he’d like to crush out her entrails. I’ve finally encountered a couple who get on worse than my mum and dad. Just.

  I roll out of bed around midday, meet up with a friend from secondary school for ice cream, then do a lazy workout at the gym with my personal trainer, Sabine. That’s right, like Kim Kardashian and Jay-Z, I have a personal trainer. Sabine is a university student who’s doing a PhD on disability in sport and because I’m her guinea pig I get the sessions for free. Today I tell her I need to save my energy so we just do a bit of stretching and a lot of talking about her holiday in Thailand.

  I spend the rest of the day lounging in my room, reading and letting my mind run over the past few weeks at Cliffe – and stalking my new friends online.

  Personally, I’m not that into social media. I’m not on Snapchat or Instagram, and the last time I posted on Facebook was four weeks ago (a picture of Alice eating a grape). I suppose I like to keep things to myself rather than share them online, but, luckily for me, my new friends don’t feel the same way.

  Jim’s clearly a fan of obscure music and comedy and TV, which I already knew, and Hilary seems dedicated to sharing inspirational quotes with the world: ‘Everyone is gifted, but some people never open their package!’ It turns out she’s not following her own advice because, buried away, I discover a film of her cousin playing the guitar and Hilary singing along to a country song called ‘Getting Ready to Get Down’. She kept that quiet, although now I think of it, she does seem very fond of a certain pair of cowboy boots.

  I can’t see Mal’s Facebook page as he hasn’t accepted my friend request … Tonight I’m going to have to crush out his entrails.

  Unexpectedly, it’s Oliver’s online presence which really captures my imagination. He’s reposted loads of pest-related articles which are basically Annie clickbait: ‘Zombie cockroaches are real and this wasp controls them!’, ‘Bug of the month!’ and, my personal favourite, ‘Today is Race Your Mouse Day!’

  Fab is on Facebook but his page doesn’t offer up many clues as most of it’s written in Polish. I’m just considering opening up Google Translate when I realise how late it is. Hilary will be round soon and I need to make my bedroom ready to receive guests.

  When she rings the doorbell half an hour later, I’ve picked up all my clothes, cleaned out the rats and even blown up the airbed. This is good, I think, as I look round my unusually tidy room. A bit cramped, but essentially good.

  Downstairs, I can hear Mum chatting to Hilary, all excited that I’ve finally invited a friend over.

  ‘I’m up here!’ I shout out, then I make a grab for my laptop.

  When Hilary walks into my bedroom, I’m dancing around the room to Josh Ritter singing ‘Getting Ready to Get Down’.

  She stands in the doorway, watching me through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Are you ready to get down, Hilary?’ I shout over the music. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’re such an amazing singer?’

  She grins and shrugs, then throws down her bag and joins me on the rug, singing along at the top of her voice.

  I always thought my room was small, but here I am, dancing round it with a friend, and there’s still room for the rats’ cage and an airbed. I get this little shiver down my spine. Could Hilary’s voice be awakening my inner party animal? I turn the music up a bit louder so that this rush of energy will carry me through the next few hours.

  SEVENTEEN

  Two hours later, Mum drops Hilary and me off on the seafront. The sun’s setting and there’s this huge mackerel sky stretching to the horizon. At least, I think it’s a mackerel sky: rows of rippling blue clouds lit by the last rays of sunshine. The sea is covered in choppy waves and as we walk towards the East Bay Hotel, the wind is so fierce I have to abandon my crutches and put my arm through Hilary’s just to stay upright.

  ‘Have fun!’ Mum calls as she drives past, tooting her horn.

  I watch her go with only a slight pang of regret that I’m missing out on our usual Saturday night film and curry routine. But would a massive party animal like me really want to stay in, eat biryani and watch Ghostbusters: Answer the Call (again)? I look at the grand entrance to the East Bay Hotel. The windows are glowing and music is thudding out from a distant room. Er, yes, right now she would – just a bit.

  Like she can read my thoughts, Hilary pulls me across the road and together we squeeze through the revolving doors. We follow the music and laughter and find ourselves in a huge ballroom.

  ‘It’s just like Cinderella!’ says Hilary.

  I sort of know what she means. Chandeliers line the ceiling and blue velvet curtains sweep the floor. If the room didn’t smell faintly of roast dinners, I’d be feeling pretty glam. There’s a DJ in the corner pumping out Tinie Tempah, but with the exception of a little girl in a white party dress the dance floor’s deserted.

  Hilary’s arm tightens on mine as we scan the room. The edges are packed with people who all seem to know each other and neither of us has a clue who the birthday girl is.

  ‘Over there,’ I say, nodding towards a corner table where Jim is waving enthusiastically. Mal and Oliver are waving too, only less enthusiastically, and with wide, slightly alarmed eyes.

  Jim jumps up from the table, hugs us and tells us we’re ‘the most beautiful women in the entire world’.

  ‘What have you been drinking?’ I ask, laughing.

  ‘Truth potion,’ he says. ‘I’m going to the bar. What d’you want?’

  ‘A Coke,’ I say.

  ‘A Coke? Sure you don’t want anything else in that Coke?’

  ‘No, thanks. If I drink alcohol I fall over.’

  ‘Can I have an orange juice, please,’ says Hilary, pulling some money out of her purse.

  ‘Seriously?’ says Jim. ‘You want me to go up to the bar and order a Coke and an orange juice? Why don’t you go wild and get a cup of tea while you’re at it?’

  ‘Actually, I’d love a cup of tea,’ I say, ‘and a real man would happily go and get me one.’

  ‘Well, you picked the wrong people to hang out with,’ says Mal, ‘because we’re not real men and Jim’s barely a real boy.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Jim says. ‘Then watch this.’

  Five minutes later, he comes back with a tray. ‘One Coke and one orange juice,’ he says, putting them down on the table, ‘and five cups of tea.’

  We all raise our teacups to the moment Jim became a man.

  For the next hour, the DJ desperately works through various dance hits in an attempt to get someone, anyone, up on the dance floor (the little girl’s collapsed on her mum’s lap). As we sit around, talking and listening to music, something pretty good happens. All my tiredness and aches and pains seem to drift away. Maybe it’s the velvet curtains, or maybe it’s the easy-going banter the boys are supplying … or just possibly it’s the Panadol Extra that I took before I came out. Who knows? All that matters is that I’m really starting to love this party.

  We talk to loads of people from college, Oliver gets more drinks and brings back a plate overflowing with crisps, cold pizza, and cheese and pineapple on sticks. At one point, Hilary and Oliver go off to the toilets together, which would be weird if it were anyone except Hilary and Oliver.

  ‘Will you introduce me to the birthday girl?’ I ask Jim, shouting to be heard over the music. ‘It seems rude not to say hello.’

  He leads me through the crowd to a girl wearing a big floaty dress and an even bigger smile.

  It turns out Sophie is a bit excitable and uber-friendly, and instantly she’s hugging me and telling me
she adores my skirt and that I’ve got hair like Kim Kardashian. But then she kind of blows it by saying: ‘You’re the disabled girl from college, right? So what’s wrong with you?’

  Sophie and I are standing facing each other, her hands resting on my shoulders.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with me,’ I say. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ This is my stock response to the old ‘What’s wrong with you?’ question, and, to be honest, it can go one of two ways: badly or awkwardly. Tonight, it goes a third way.

  Sophie throws her head back, cackles and bellows, ‘I’m allergic to strawberries!’ Then she turns to Jim and says, ‘And you’re the guy who looks like the ugly one from One Direction, but, you know, in a good way because you’re normal and he’s gorgeous.’ Then she releases me and wanders off towards the toilets. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she calls over her shoulder.

  ‘Man, that was harsh,’ says Jim, as we walk back to our table.

  ‘I think you should take the 1D thing as a badly phrased compliment,’ I tell him. We weave through the people hovering around the edge of the dance floor. ‘It’s like saying that out of Harry Potter, Ron and Hermione, your magic is as good as Ron’s. Yes, he’s the worst at magic, but he’s still tons better at magic than most people.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, smiling. ‘You’re right. Cheers, Annie!’ Then he throws an arm over my shoulder and gives me a sweaty hug.

  EIGHTEEN

  Salt ’n’ Pepa’s ‘Push It’ is what finally gets everyone dancing. I’m not sure if Sophie’s mum requested it, but she is instantly up and owning that dance floor. And that’s all it takes to make everyone who’s been hovering start to dance. I’m sitting with Hilary, eating birthday cake, when James Brown’s ‘Sex Machine’ comes on.

  ‘I love this song,’ she says, and starts singing along.

  Then we notice that the dancing seems to have stopped and that something is happening. More and more people are getting to their feet and crowding around the dance floor. Hilary stands on her tiptoes.