by Jenny Colgan
‘No shit.’
‘We were at your wedding.’
‘My WHAT?’
‘We’re attracting attention.’
‘My wedding NEXT MONTH!’
‘Shh. Yes.’
‘Oh my God.’ Tashy’s eyes were darting around. ‘What’s it like? What’s the weather like? How do I look? How’s the food?’
‘Um,’ I said.
‘Does everyone cry? Is there a fountain? Is Max all right or does he look a bit of a dick in his morning suit?’
‘Um, Tash, I don’t know if I should tell you.’
She was very red in the face. ‘Oh. This is bullshit, isn’t it? I’m out of my mind. OK, tell me: what have you done with my friend?’
‘Max wears a bottle-green waistcoat,’ I barked out suddenly. ‘He looks like a prick to start with because he’s embarrassed, but he relaxes into it and looks alright. And your Vera Wang is gorgeous.’
‘Fuck a duck,’ said Tashy, sitting back. ‘Fuck a fucking duck.’
‘I’m just … I mean maybe all this is weird enough. Maybe you’re not supposed to know the future or something.’
‘But what about … ? I mean, you must know other things that happen.’ She beckoned over another couple of drinks.
‘Really not much,’ I said. ‘They elect a right-wing president in Europe, but there’s not a lot we can do about that. And I know who wins Big Brother, but I doubt the odds are great.’
‘If you’re from the future you should really look older,’ she said grumpily.
We sat there.
‘How old are you?’
‘Well, judging by the spread of my pubic hair, I’d say about sixteen.’
Tashy took a long draught of her drink. ‘Fuck. I mean, how the hell?’
‘You know when you cut the cake at your wedding … ?’
‘You didn’t make another stupid wish?’
I nodded slowly.
‘Your wish came true at my wedding?’ she said slowly.
I nodded. There was a long pause.
‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘that makes one of us.’ I remembered her sniffling on the bench.
‘Thing is,’ I said, ‘the only person who recognises me is you.’
‘Oh no,’ said Tashy.
‘What?’
‘Maybe you’re a complete figment of my imagination, like that giant rabbit.’ She examined the huge bill the waiter had put in front of her. ‘Maybe not. So what are you going to do?’
‘Fuck knows. My job is gone.’
‘Really? I think Flora Scurrison, Teenage Accountant has something of a ring to it.’
‘My flat too.’
‘Oh, your little flat. I’m so sorry. Have you spoken to Olly?’
‘God, no. I’m just so relieved somebody recognises me I hadn’t thought about it.’
‘Wow, he’ll be thrilled to get some nubile little—’
‘Don’t be disgusting. And don’t be stupid. If I’m going to be a nubile little teen I’m definitely going to be after Jamie Theakston or Gareth Gates or someone, anyway.’
‘You’re joking.’ She stared at me suddenly. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
As she stared at me, Tashy’s face started to crumble.
‘Tash. Tash, what’s the matter? What is it? Why were you on the bench?’
She let out a familiar Tashy wail. ‘I don’t knooow!’
‘It’s not Max, is it? Please, don’t let it be Max.’
She looked up at me, tear-stained, as I beckoned over another couple of Mojitos.
‘Maybe,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s just nerves. I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I promise I didn’t bring about an inexplicable cosmic phenomenon just to bother you about your wedding.’
She studied my face for a bit. ‘Is that an enormous spot you’ve got brewing on your forehead?’ said Tashy.
I rubbed it crossly. ‘Stop changing the subject.’
‘So, what’s the matter?’
Tashy shrugged. ‘It’s daft really. When you’re younger, you think, oh yeah, I’ve got tons of friends, it’ll last for ever. Then you grow up, and everybody’s working and so busy and settling down, then tons of people move out of London to have babies and you never hear from them ever again. Ever. Like they’ve been eaten by polecats. So, then you wake up one day and you think, God, I’ve got a problem, who can I call. Then you realise that your partner, your life, the person you’re meant to spend your life with – you can’t talk to them.’
‘You can talk to me,’ I said gently.
‘I have a teenage soulmate,’ said Tashy. And she rubbed fiercely at her wandering mascara. Then she leaned forward. ‘This time,’ she pointed at me, ‘don’t marry someone just because they’re nice to you when you’re thirty-two.’
‘Tashy, I just look younger, I’m not retarded. And there are worse things than marrying a nice man,’ I said.
‘I know. Oh, I know how lucky I am. I know. I know,’ she said. Then, in a smaller voice: ‘I don’t know if I can watch him eat a boiled egg every morning for the next forty years.’
‘Every morning?’
‘He makes it perfectly. Then he lets out this ridiculous sigh through his teeth, like: “Ahh. Egg. Jolly good.” Then he breaks the shell very carefully, and nibbles round the top bit with his teeth. Yeeugh. Like a little rat.’
‘Hmm. Do you think just the riot squad, or are we going to have to call “S.W.A.T.”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tashy, that’s nothing. You’ve just got wedding nerves. Everyone says the first year of marriage is by far the worst. You have to wrestle each other into submission, then after that it’s completely fine.’
‘Yeah, they say that, but they don’t tell you what to do if you feel like kicking his head in when you see its bald top shining over the top of the Telegraph.’
‘Look, I remember you,’ I said. ‘You were so bloody excited about getting married. You were ticking a box. There’s nothing wrong with Max. OK, he’s a little bit boring, but you were OK with that, you really were.’
I didn’t remember Tash being this bad the first time round.
‘Yes. And you were doing so much better with Olly. Now you’ll probably run off with Jamie Theakston or something.’ She let out a huge sigh. ‘Every day you get older, there are fewer choices. That’s what getting older is. A daily diminishment of options.’
I stood up to go to the toilet, but the room was swaying.
‘I feel sick,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Shit … I mean, I feel so pissed.’
‘You’ve had two and a half cocktails.’
‘Ohhh, Tash …’
‘Fuck. I don’t believe you have the drinking capacities of a teenager.’ Tashy started to laugh.
‘Oh, come to me, lovely fresh liver …’ I started to sing.
‘Shit.’ She put her drink down. ‘This really isn’t funny.’
‘Is everything alright here?’ The smooth maitre d’ came over, pretending to be polite whilst fixing us with beady little eyes. ‘Are you together?’
‘We’re just leaving,’ said Tashy firmly, standing up and dragging me with her.
‘Yeug-bleh,’ I said.
Tashy took the hood of my anorak firmly and marched me to the door.
‘Hff-nng mnay,’ I dribbled at her, staggering up the stairs, which she eventually managed to correctly interpret as ‘I don’t have enough money for a taxi’, and stuffed a couple of tenners into my pocket.
‘Call me tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll work something out.’
‘Blergff.’
‘Take her home,’ she said to the cabbie.
‘Will she be sick?’
‘No!’ I said. I wanted to say, ‘Actually, in no sense in my real life could I get inarticulate on two Mojitos, but clearly I have a very different body going on. It’s all a misunderstanding I’m sure can be worked out by some practice.’
; ‘Get her in then.’ He looked disapprovingly at Tashy. ‘Next time, leave your babysitting charges at home.’
Through the back window I watched Tashy staring at the retreating vehicle, then remembered nothing else until I woke up outside the front door of my parents’ house. Not noticing all the other vehicles lined up outside, I blearily lurched inside, with the exaggerated gait of someone trying to pretend they’re not pissed. My parents were standing, staring at me. Next to them were the next-door neighbours, other people from down the street, and two policemen.
‘Oh my God!’ screamed my mother. ‘Oh my God!’
The policemen looked at each other.
‘This,’ one said to my dad, ‘is why we don’t come out to over fifteen-year-old cases till after twenty-four hours.’
But my dad was already rushing towards me.
‘Where the hell … ? You stupid, stupid little cow …’
He dragged me up and enfolded me in his big arms. My dad hadn’t hugged me like this in – God, so long. It felt good. I nestled into him, smelled his familiar smell, of properly ironed shirts and bread, before he left and started to smell of aftershave and conditioner, if I got close enough to smell him at all.
‘Jesus. The stink off you,’ he said.
‘Oh my God, is she drunk?’ said my mother.
‘A sixteen-year-old girl drunk,’ said one of the policemen to another. ‘What an extraordinary event. Shall we head off and see if we can find any pigeons in Trafalgar Square?’
‘Perhaps there might be a bear in the woods who needs our assistance in a toiletry matter,’ said the other.
‘She was gone all day,’ said my mother, tearfully trying to justify herself to the policemen. ‘She didn’t go to school. If something had happened you’d have had to read a poem at her funeral and get an OBE.’
‘Yeah,’ said the policemen thoughtfully.
One came over to me. ‘You’re too young to drink,’ he said.
‘Not in a restaurant,’ I said, wobbling.
‘Who took you to a restaurant?’ barked my mother.
‘Don’t worry your mother,’ the policeman told me. ‘Do you hear? Be careful. There are lots of bad things out there. I know you think you’re an adult, but I can assure you, you’re not.’
‘Except in the eyes of the law,’ said his colleague. ‘Oh, no, forget I said that.’
‘Don’t you have a phone?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said, staring at the ground. I was definitely sobering up a bit. I had kept the phone switched off all day, terrified that someone I didn’t know might call me and ask me something I was completely unaware of.
‘Didn’t it even cross your mind to phone your mum and dad to tell them where you were?’
Um, of course not.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘The young today,’ said the second policeman, who looked about twenty-two. ‘So selfish.’
‘Forgetful, not selfish,’ I said. ‘It’s not easy being sixteen. Growing a lot, you know. By the way, I am so hungry. Is there anything to eat, please?’
‘Huh,’ said my mother. ‘Eat! It’s a good crack round the ear you’re needing.’
‘Don’t say that in front of a policeman, Mum.’
‘This is serious, Flora Jane. Have you any idea how frightened we were? All those stories? Miss Syzlack phoned us after registration this morning. You didn’t turn up the whole day. You never miss school.’
I must have done, surely. I couldn’t remember. Was I really that much of a goody-goody? No wonder everyone had hated us.
‘Your mother’s been driving up and down the streets looking for you,’ said my dad. ‘We’ve had the whole neighbourhood out.’
I felt bad. They really were flipping their lids. Indeed, the people from the street were now hovering in the sitting room, looking awkward. Their promised evening of excitement was turning into a dull domestic.
‘Now, you can talk to me, darling,’ said my mum seriously. ‘Have you just been to have an abortion?’
‘Mum! There’s nine people here!’
‘You can tell us, you know. We’ll support you.’
‘That’s nice to know, but trust me, if I needed an abortion, number one, I’d make my own decision, and number two I would never, ever tell you about it. And I certainly wouldn’t be drinking alcohol afterwards. Or standing up, in fact.’
A complete and deadening silence fell over the room.
‘Quick, Martin. Um … a burglar!’ said one policeman to the other, and they left hurriedly, followed by the rest of the street.
‘Go to your room,’ said my mother. ‘I can’t even look at you at the moment.’
This was my mother? For a horrible, heart-stopping moment I felt like saying, ‘Well, see if you want to look at me when he disappears with Superbitch Stephanie and it’s your turn to beg for help.’ But, oh goodness, she looked so fragile. Her arm was reaching out as if she wanted to lean on my dad for support, but couldn’t bring herself to.
‘OK,’ I said contritely. ‘Can I have some dinner?’
‘You’ve been to a restaurant and now you want to eat?’
‘Um, let’s not concentrate too hard on the restaurant,’ I said. ‘Just an omelette? I’ll make it myself.’
They both started laughing.
‘God, that’s the first smile I’ve had all day,’ said my dad and, too late, I remembered I learned to cook when I went to university.
‘I mean … a cheese sandwich of some kind.’
‘Where were you?’ said my mother, getting up with a sigh.
‘I went into town to see a friend.’
‘A male friend or a female friend?’
‘A female friend.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Tashy.’
I watched them closely, hoping they’d say, ‘Oh, Tashy’, but they didn’t. They had no idea who she was at all.
‘And where did you meet her?’
I couldn’t explain this. How could I? And I was very, very weary. I wondered if the teenage truculent secret weapon still worked, because I didn’t know what more I could say.
‘Are you going to run my life for ever?’
My dad came and stood over me. ‘If you’re going to go out with complete strangers and get pissed illegally, young lady, then yes, we are.’
‘It was just a drink,’ I said sulkily. ‘I just wanted to see she was all right.’
My parents looked at each other.
‘Well, if you won’t tell us where you were …’
‘I can’t,’ I said. There was no way I was going to start telling them anything. They’d have me committed. Hadn’t they seen Girl, Interrupted?
‘Fine. You’re grounded,’ said my dad.
I was what? ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Grounded? What is this, nineteen seventy-five?’
‘And I’m taking you to school tomorrow to make sure you get there.’
‘I think we’ve been far too relaxed with you,’ said my mother. ‘I think that’s the problem.’ She looked at me sincerely. ‘We trusted you, Flora. And you let us down.’
I hated to see her face like that.
‘I think you’ll find it was Dad who did that,’ I wanted to shout, but couldn’t. Inside I was boiling at the unfairness of it all.
‘Well, things are certainly going to change around here,’ said my dad. I looked at him, panicking slightly. By my reckoning, they had about a month left together. A month. Things certainly were going to change around here.
I slouched up to bed, the sound of their bickering ringing in my ears, very unwelcome after all this time.
I woke up the following morning with a start. That was the weirdest dream of … no, shit, piss, bollocks. Here I was, still underneath a gingham duvet, trapped in a ridiculous prison for God knows why. Even more trapped now I was grounded. I cursed myself for not realising how stupid it would be to disappear for twelve hours. But being sixteen took a bit of getting used to. I squeezed my c
ellulite-free thigh for some reassurance, but it wasn’t cheering me up properly at all. Then I thought of my lovely coffee maker. There’s nothing that makes me feel grown up in the morning so much as grinding my own beans, then getting in the shower and letting the smell of fresh coffee permeate the flat. But in this house, as it had always been, it was Nescafe. For some reason it was the small details – the coffee; my wardrobe, full of nice suits and beautiful shoes; my Clarins products in the bathroom rather than own-brand mega jugs of supermarket shampoo – that I suddenly missed more than anything else. I sniffled away to myself.
‘GET UP!’ my mother was shouting again. ‘Your dad’s dropping you at school. Wants to see how your first hangover’s going.’
I heard some muffled protest about this, and got up, nervous as … well, as a kid on the first day at school. Except this would be far, far worse, because it wasn’t as if I didn’t know anyone. If my mobile was anything to go by, I did. I just wouldn’t be able to recognise anyone or know anything about them.
I hid my head under the duvet.
‘I feel sick!’ I shouted. Actually, I felt fine. I’d forgotten how quick hangovers passed when you were young. Nowadays I take two days to get over them. Or did, when I still had a ‘nowadays’.
‘That’s how it works,’ shouted my mum. God, was she always this assertive?
I tried to put a brave face on things as I got dressed in my old school uniform, crying only once in a tie struggle. Dark green, grey, light green. I looked like a mildewed pond. Spice Girl-style loafers, which I couldn’t have loathed more.
OK. I swallowed hard. I had hated school. But that was then. This time I was going to do much better. No one was going to call me Scurrilugs, and if they were, hell, I’d dealt with enough junior analysts and work-experience people to bother about that. And this time round I was going to be cool, cutting and smart, and nobody was going to get to me.
Likewise, I was extremely unlikely to get mega-crushes on any of the boys or teachers, seeing as that would be child abuse, and I certainly wasn’t going to be insanely self-conscious, because I had a fabulous body and looked great. Hell, I peered into the mirror, where did that spot come from? Never mind. And I wasn’t going to squeeze my spots this time round either. Though it looked so tempting …