Something More (Girlfriend Fiction 11)

by Mo Johnson

  ‘Unluckily for you, they’re not,’ she snapped, before smiling at Terry again. ‘Bill Jennings comes in for five hours on a Monday to unpack the weekend’s donations. He leaves everything in a bundle over there for the girls to go through on Friday. You’re welcome to have a rummage.’

  We dropped to our knees and began to handle the pile. I wished I had gloves. ‘Ahh, check these out.’ I held them up: a pair of stained black tights with a hole in them.

  ‘What about these?’ Terry was waving an enormous pair of knickers. ‘Even Gran could get into these.’

  ‘Will you just shut up about Gran? I’m sick of you saying mean things about her all the time.’

  Terry sniffed at my outburst. ‘Gran McGonnigle is Queen Mean.’

  ‘She is not.’

  ‘You don’t notice because it’s never directed at you, Princess Isla.’

  ‘Oh don’t start with that again.’

  ‘You’re her favourite,’ she said.

  ‘That’s rubbish. You just think she’s mean because she stands up to you and puts you in your place.’

  ‘Well, she’s never going to put me in yours.’ Something in her voice made me look up.

  Gran is tough – I’m the first to admit it – but it’s always clear where you stand with her, and she gives good advice, whether you want it or not.

  ‘I’m sure she loves us both in her own way,’ I said.

  ‘She won’t love me if I’m pregnant. She’ll hate me, and then you’ll really be the star granddaughter.’

  She spat the last few words out. So much for her good mood. I’d had enough. ‘Do you get why they call it self-pity, Terry?’ I didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘Because you should keep it to yourself. No one wants to hear it. I’m doing my best to help, and I don’t remember getting any thanks.’

  She pulled another bag of junk towards her and was halfway through it when she said, ‘Sorry.’

  We worked together in silence. A few minutes later she added timidly, ‘What if we don’t find Mitsy?’

  ‘That won’t be an issue now,’ I told her.

  Her face lit up when she saw what I was holding. She jumped to her feet and hugged me, and we did a little dance on the spot, doing our best to ignore the fact that locating the mouse had only solved one of our problems.

  Terry had said she’d do the test on Friday morning, but she’d already taken off for the early train when I got up.

  ‘It’s a miracle,’ said Dad.

  ‘It’s unusual,’ Mum corrected. ‘Let’s not start talking miracles until they both tidy their rooms.’

  I finally found her that evening, curled up on her bed.

  ‘You’ve been avoiding me.’ She didn’t deny it.

  ‘Did you do the test?’ I demanded.

  She refused to answer.

  ‘Terry, it feels like you’re mad at me, and that’s not fair. I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’

  Funny the difference a few days can make. In the past I would have stormed out of the room, just as angry with her as she was with me. Tonight, I weathered her stormy mood. ‘We both know that’s not true.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Do you want me to wait with you while you do it now?’

  Her voice trembled when she finally spoke. ‘I need more time. Just another day.’

  I relented. ‘All right. But it has to be tomorrow, okay?’

  I left her and went for a walk on the beach. It wasn’t quite six, but it was almost dark. In a few weeks September would be here, bringing with it the frenzy of spring instead of the mellow calm of a Scottish autumn.

  I’ll never get used to reversed seasons. It’s unnatural to have Christmas in summer. People should be snowed in on Christmas Day, huddling round a turkey for warmth, not picnicking in the sun, scoffing seafood.

  With a jolt, I wondered what Christmas would bring for us this year. Terry’s dark cloud settled over my head again, dripping steadily on my little collection of happier thoughts about the weather.

  I tried to tell myself that worse things happen. If Terry was dying, or was in an accident, that would be much worse. I just hoped my parents would see it that way.

  The biggest problem was not being certain. At least if we had an answer we could devise a plan.

  A dog began to sniff at my feet. I glanced around for his owner, but I couldn’t see anyone in the fading light.

  ‘Hey, little guy,’ I said, holding out my hand.

  He responded by humping my leg.

  ‘Bugger off, dog,’ I yelled, jumping up and shaking my foot. He clung on.

  ‘Hey, take it easy, he’s only a puppy!’

  I looked up into the bronzed face of one of the Coledale Beach surfers.

  ‘He needs some serious training,’ I told him.

  ‘Beg yours?’

  ‘He needs to be trained,’ I tried again.

  He seemed confused. I was about to smack him and his stupid dog when I realised he was genuinely struggling to understand me.

  Language barrier alert! Speak slowly.

  ‘Sorry, I’m from Scotland. I was just saying that – your – dog – needs – some – puppy – training.’ I smiled to soften the criticism.

  ‘Or maybe you just need to chill.’ He whistled to the dog and jogged off.

  ‘Wanker!’ I figured that sounded the same in any accent. The next person who told me I needed to chill would be taking their own advice in a morgue.

  I checked out the time on my phone and was about to leave when two figures walking along the shoreline, their silhouettes dark against the blue-black sky, caught my attention. They walked close together, but they weren’t touching. The light was dim, but one looked like a guy and the other was definitely a girl: no guy would be seen dead in a hat like that.

  Miss Fluffy Hat was reaching out now. Her hand came to rest on the guy’s arm and I stopped to watch, intrigued despite my bad mood.

  He stopped walking. He shook his head, not happy with what she had to say. He seemed to stumble across the lumpy sand in his hurry to escape her.

  She quickened her pace, caught up with him and reached for him again, but he brushed her hand away, shaking his head. She didn’t make another attempt to catch him, but she must have spoken because he froze.

  Yes! I almost cheered. She’d won him over.

  They moved together again, but they didn’t kiss. That was disappointing. Maybe she was playing hard to get.

  They walked shoulder to shoulder until they reached the grass and approached without seeing me, their conversation becoming louder.

  Gradually, over the sound of the ocean, the wind carried their voices to me. ‘So…you’ll keep your promise, then?’

  The guy didn’t reply.

  Molly Phillips repeated her question.

  ‘You’ll ask Isla, at the party tomorrow?’

  I hardly dared to breathe.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he sighed, then he turned in my direction. I had just heard the resigned voice of Jack Ferris.

  I crept away and headed back to the house. So much for a relaxing walk on the beach. I couldn’t understand what I’d just seen.

  ‘Is that a hickey on your neck?’

  Terry and my parents were in the kitchen drinking tea. Dad’s head spun round so fast that his lips got left behind.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ I glared at Terry and pulled my collar down to reassure him.

  ‘You missed dinner,’ said Mum.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘What’s with you two? Neither of you have eaten tonight. You’re not turning anoraksick, are you?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Anorexic!’ we all corrected him.

  I love the thought of someone pathologically losing anoraks, instead of weight. It’s a disease this family needs to contract, considering we moved to Sydney with far too many heavy jackets for the warmer climate.

  ‘I had a snack before, but I don’t know what’s wrong with Terry. It’s not like yo
u to refuse food.’ I eyed her with fake concern. Payback for the hickey comment, baby.

  ‘I’m fine…I, er…I just ate too much lunch,’ she explained in a rush.

  ‘Are you sure? You didn’t have any breakfast this morning either, did you?’ Mum said.

  Ha, who was Miss Cocky now.

  ‘Is there something going on?’ Mum demanded.

  Damn. I’d gone too far…

  Terry looked away, but Mum wasn’t about to let it go. ‘You two are acting really—’

  ‘Ahhhh! Bloody things! Why can’t they come in tins like they did in Scotland?’

  Dad had just stabbed his finger on a pineapple. The tiniest prick of blood appeared on his thumb, and his face drained of all colour. He held it up to Mum. She went into nurse mode immediately and fussed all over him.

  ‘Hold still, love,’ she cooed.

  He’d better start weaning himself off that kind of attention, I thought meanly. It would all change if a real baby landed on the doorstep.

  Terry and I dashed to make our escape.

  ‘Thanks for the hickey comment,’ I snarled once we were upstairs. I’d had it. Supporting Terry was like trying to rescue an echidna from a rosebush: every now and then I got a waft of sweet perfume, but most of the time my hands were being ripped to shreds.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She marched off.

  Get stuffed, Terry!

  ‘If it looks like a horse and

  smells like a horse, it’s probably

  a donkey.’

  (Gran McGonnigle)

  I love those first seconds of oblivion after waking, when you’re absolutely in the moment. I reckon we get them to recharge our batteries. Mind you, if that’s the case it’s a bit of a rip-off: a couple of seconds aren’t going to compensate when reality kicks in. And it did kick in the next morning, in record time.

  I jumped out of bed, determined to drag Terry into the bathroom. She wasn’t home.

  She was probably at the shops with Mum. Perhaps she’d already taken the test? I scoured her room for evidence, found Mitsy and stuck my hand inside. The box was still there.

  Terry was doing my head in. Part of me understood her reluctance to find out the truth: until she did, she could pretend it wasn’t happening. But it was so unlike her not to take charge.

  I calculated the time in Scotland as I went back to my own room. Time to call Fiona. She’d cheer me up.

  ‘You just caught me; I was about to have a bath and an early night. What’s new?’ she asked, sounding as if she were in the next room.

  I told her about Sam and the photos.

  ‘No way! He seriously has a thing for you, I can feel it.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Definitely. Remember last month when he told you he liked your ink drawing? And what about that day when he asked what was in your sandwich?’

  ‘Hardly irrefutable proof, Fi.’

  ‘So now you want to play it down? You were ecstatic for the opportunity to tell him you were eating egg and pickle last month, although personally I would have lied.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with egg and—’

  ‘Shut up about the food and describe the photos again.’

  When I’d finished she said, ‘There’s no doubt about it. He’s into you. Just go up to him tomorrow night at the party and tell him you like him, too.’

  ‘It’s tonight,’ I reminded her.

  ‘You’ve got to do it. The worst that can happen is he knocks you back, and why would he if he’s been stalking you with a camera?’

  I protested at the stalking claim.

  ‘Well, following you extremely closely then,’ she said. ‘Hey, I think it’s great you’re moving on. You’ve got to get over Brian sometime.’

  ‘Does he ever ask about me?’

  She paused just a little too long.

  ‘Go on, give me the truth.’

  ‘He does, actually.’

  My throat felt tight.

  ‘Do you want his new email address?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should have let him stay in touch.’

  ‘Fi, I don’t need a lecture.’

  ‘I’m just saying—’

  ‘And I’m just saying that’s how it had to be. There was no point.’

  ‘But you were mates, too.’

  ‘It would never have worked, so just drop it, okay?’

  ‘I will, but you’d better not make Brian your excuse for not going after Sam,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve cut Brian out of your life because you wanted a fresh start. That’s fine, but it looks like you might be getting one with this Sam guy, so grab it. I mean it. Don’t play hard to get like you always do.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Isla, when did you first meet Brian?’

  ‘Year 7.’

  ‘When did you finally go out with him?’

  ‘Year 9.’

  ‘I rest my case. Now enough about you. Did I tell you about my new diet?’

  I sighed. Fiona has tried every diet known to women who need something more important to worry about than their weight. She is so not fat.

  ‘Terry’s been on a health kick since we came here. She even joined a gym last month,’ I added, hoping to avoid a morsel-by-morsel account of what fi had eaten this week – but I should have known better than to mention Terry to Fi.

  She snorted in disgust at the mention of my sister’s name. Terry often gave my friends a hard time – usually behind their backs, but fi was an exception: Terry took great delight in winding her up right to her face. A few years ago, fi and I walked into our kitchen one night just as Terry was saying, ‘If Fee-Fi-Foe-Fum is staying for dinner, Mum, you’d better make sure we have a whole cow for her to chew on.’

  Mum and I just about died on the spot, but Terry just flashed her a totally unembarrassed smile as she exited the scene of the crime. Fi’s hated her ever since. I don’t blame her.

  ‘How is she, anyway?’ fi asked now. ‘Please tell me she’s friendless, miserable and hating Australia.’

  I considered telling her about the pregnancy nightmare; but then, in a moment of absolute clarity, I understood that Terry’s news was more than a casual snippet of gossip, and not mine to share.

  ‘Terry’s Terry,’ I answered.

  ‘So, still a little witch then?’

  ‘Yep,’ I said and changed the subject.

  When we eventually hung up, I felt a bit weird. No matter how justified it was, by holding back on Fiona for the first time in my life, I’d just moved the goalposts of our friendship. I moped around the house for a bit before resorting to doing my maths homework – an act of madness guaranteed to depress me even further.

  The day was dragging like it always does when you’ve got something good to go to that night. Then the event usually flies by so quickly you can barely remember it. There should be a maths equation to explain that principle.

  Hours taken to get ready + hours of anticipation > hours of enjoyment

  Yeah…I liked that.

  I tried again.

  Terry’s stupidity x her cheek = ∞

  I reckon maths would catch on if they taught it like that.

  When I made a pit stop at the fridge downstairs later, Dad called out from his study, ‘Bring me a can of Coke, Isla.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ I asked, placing it on his desk.

  ‘Did you shake this up? Because if you did, I’ll just use my old tapping trick.’ He grinned at me and drummed his fingers repeatedly on the top of the can. ‘It works every time.’

  It was one of his dumb Dad quirks, and it made me feel better. ‘Why would I shake your can?’

  ‘To trick me.’

  ‘Dad, I’ve got a life. And anyway, when are you going to admit your theory only works because you spend so long tapping the can that the fizz dies down?’

  He pulled the ring and shook his head. ‘Untrue. See. Not a drop wasted,’ he
said proudly. ‘Now, what do you think of these?’ He passed me a wallet of photos.

  ‘Did they turn out okay?’ I already knew the answer to that question. I was just checking to see if he did, too.

  ‘Nah. They’re bloody terrible. I don’t think I’m good enough with the technology to do this job. It was much easier being a cop; we had people to do the hard stuff. I keep thinking someone at work’s going to find me out.’

  He waited expectantly while I scanned the shots of Fraud Man doing his shopping.

  ‘Geez, bananas are cheap this week.’

  He laughed and chucked a pencil at me.

  ‘I could give you a few lessons sometime,’ I offered.

  ‘Great idea. How about today?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got to go to that party.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. I don’t want to keep you from your preening and beautifying, which, if I’m not mistaken, should start about now. You’ve only got about six hours to go.’

  I pretended to be insulted.

  ‘We’ll do it when you get the time, and if you behave yourself, I’ll pay you for your expert tuition.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. You teach me to use a camera and I’ll teach you to drive.’

  I fled, in much better spirits.

  After a long bath and some minor ‘beautifying’, I steeled myself for the Battle of the Frizz. I lined up my arsenal along the top of the dresser and gave myself a good talking-to.

  Go in hard and fast: any delay will result in curl. Take down any stray hairs you see. Be ruthless. Show no mercy!

  Checking that the hair-straightening irons were standing by, I fired up the hairdryer, raised the brush, and began my attack. I was exhausted after two minutes.

  Terry appeared at my bedroom door with Mum.

  ‘Good shopping?’ I yelled over the hairdryer. There was no way on this earth I was turning it off. If I did, the frizz would win.

  They held up a few bags and began to pull things out. By the time I’d almost finished my hair, they were parading round the room like a couple of models.

  ‘Nice,’ I said, eyeing Mum’s shoes. Big clumpy heels…I’d be sure to hear those coming.

  I picked up the irons and grabbed a strand of hair.

  ‘You should leave it curly,’ Mum said, coming up behind me. ‘Mum, it’s bad enough that it’s red,’ Terry said, pouting at herself in my mirror.