‘She was a priestess, based at the shrine of Delphi, who was said to speak with the voice of Apollo. She was always an older woman, given the name of Pythia, and kings and so on would come to consult with her,’ Priscilla said.
‘Why are you drawn to that in particular?’
‘I like the idea that the most influential voice in the Greek world was a woman’s.’
OK; whatever Vee said, Priscilla was pretty cool – the kind of person I wanted to be when I grew up. I also admired her style: crisp white shirt, cardigan and little suede skirt. I looked away so she wouldn’t see me fangirling all over her.
‘Yes! Excellent point!’ Mr Gerardo said again. I loved how enthusiastic he was. ‘You could also explore the Delphic maxims … A list of sayings, supposedly from Apollo himself. There’s one very famous one – does anyone know it?’
How on earth were we supposed to know that?
‘Is it Be Yourself?’ Priscilla asked, frowning.
‘Close,’ said Mr Gerardo. ‘It’s Know Thyself. Which is an interesting difference, isn’t it?
‘When you come to read Hamlet, you’ll hear Polonius say “to thine own self be true". But for the Greeks, it was more important to know yourself. Which do we think is more important?’
I had promised myself that I wouldn’t raise my hand too much, or talk in class as much as I used to. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. But nobody else was saying anything. So I said, ‘Know yourself. Because you can’t be yourself … Until you know who that is.’
‘Yes!’ said Mr Gerardo. ‘Exactly, Lola.’ He beamed.
I felt like a fraud: I might have been able to answer that question but it didn’t mean that I really knew myself, or knew who the hell I was supposed to be these days. But still, I left feeling that at least there was one class I was definitely going to enjoy.
After that I had a session with a teaching mentor to help me get up to speed with all the coursework. Her name was Ms Tennant and she was almost disturbingly empathic, mirroring all my expressions with a scary intensity.
‘So how is it all going so far?’ she said.
‘It’s going OK – I mean I won’t know for another week or so.’
‘Of course. But it still must be very stressful.’
I nodded, trying to look as if I was a normal student agonising over coursework and exams, rather than a fugitive from internet justice.
Then I looked up. Was she being … a bit too empathic? Did she know?
It was possible. The teachers would presumably have access to my forms that had my real name on them. Just two seconds on Google would give them the entire story.
‘I’m fine,’ I muttered.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Well, any problems you can speak to your pastoral Head of Year. That’s Mr Gerardo.’
That was a relief, at least. We discussed the rest of my subjects: English Literature, French, Standard Level Maths and Standard Level Biology. For Group Six, I wanted to take Mandarin, but Ms Tennant had other ideas.
‘You’re already very language-heavy,’ she said. ‘Even for your Group Three, you should really be doing something like History or Philosophy – instead of Classical Greek and Roman Literature. How about dropping CGRL and doing History instead?’
‘No, no,’ I said, panicked. I definitely didn’t want to give that up.
‘We do want you to broaden out – that’s what the IB is all about. Get out of your comfort zone. What about Computer Science?’
I was already feeling thoroughly out of my comfort zone, so we compromised with me doing History as a Group Six subject. My heart sank at the thought of all the extra work.
‘What about the community service module?’ I asked.
‘I think you have enough on your plate. My recommendation is that you start that up next year.’
‘But won’t it be too late?’ I was crushed. That was one of the things that had attracted me most about the IB; the fact that you had to do voluntary work as part of it.
‘Lola,’ she said. ‘The IB is very demanding – even for people who aren’t joining in the middle of term. That’s why we recommended to you and your parents that you not do the full Diploma. You can just get the IB certificate, which is a great qualification in itself.’
I left her office feeling very deflated. If I’d stuck with A-Levels, I would be doing the things I was good at – languages. But now I was being stretched across a ton of things I didn’t know if I could do, or wanted to. How was I going to manage it all?
Now it was lunch time: another ordeal. I made my way through the crowd towards the cafeteria. I could see Vee ahead of me, talking to a few other people. They looked far, far cooler than me; one of the boys was wearing actual leather trousers.
I knew I should just go up and talk to them. But I was worn out after a morning of unfamiliar things. Also, what if I was pushing in where I wasn’t wanted? Vee had been friendly, but what if her friends didn’t want to talk to the new girl?
I slunk back across the courtyard, keeping my head down, and then out past reception.
Chapter Nine
Unlike my old school, the place was minimum-security – once I showed my student ID, which said I was IB level, I was allowed out.
As I walked along the street, I tried to cheer myself up by thinking: I’m in Paris. I turned right out of the school, and within minutes I was beside a huge park, with tall black gold-topped railings and trees, bare against the cold blue February sky. I knew, from my pre-arrival research, that this was the Jardin du Luxembourg.
I was surrounded by beauty. On one side was the park: on the other side, little cafés with people sitting outside, chatting and drinking espresso, wearing scarves and sunglasses. There was something about Paris that made it more than fine to wander around on your own. I wasn’t escaping; I was exploring.
I was also hungry. But could I really walk into one of these cafes and eat by myself? Surely I would look like a loser. But I couldn’t go back to school either.
After passing several expensive restaurants, I found a more modest place, where I sat in a corner inside. I ordered a Coke and a croque-monsieur, which I knew was an extra-delicious ham and cheese toastie.
‘Merci,’ I said, as the waiter gave me my Coke. I had a feeling this place was expensive, but it didn’t matter. I had a pretty good allowance.
There were so many reasons to be grateful. I had a good allowance. I was in Paris. I had escaped. But I was so unhappy, I could barely eat my croque-monsieur. The loneliness felt like a vice gripping my chest, slowly killing me. What was I doing here? It would have been hard to go back to my old school, but at least I knew everyone. Here, I was like an alien. If I vaporised back to my space ship, nobody would notice. Vee seemed friendly enough – but she already had friends.
Opposite me, two older women were having a glass of wine with their lunch. It was obviously the done thing here. Pity I couldn’t have one.
Then I thought about it. Obviously, it wasn’t something I would ever do in my normal life. But I was in Paris now: this was my chance to do something completely different. Why not? Maybe this was the kind of thing Lola would do, if not Delilah. I started picturing my new self: a cool, hardbitten girl who kept a bottle of whisky in her room and poured a tot of it on stressful days. On the spur of the moment, I ordered one too.
I took a sip. It certainly seemed to help with the tight, horrible feeling. With a glass of wine in hand, I felt less like a clueless teenager and more like a chic Parisienne. As I sipped and munched, I began to feel better, and soon my glass was empty.
‘Voulez-vous un autre verre?’ the waiter asked.
‘Oui, merci,’ I said, before I realised exactly what he was saying. Before I could correct my mistake, he’d brought me another glass.
I must look older than I was – maybe it was the white hair? It was too late, and too embarrassing, to say no. I found myself sipping it. Then I saw the time, and drank it down in a panic.
After leaving a one
-euro tip though I had no idea if that was right, I started heading back towards the school. It was close by; I had time.
Or at least, I would have if I hadn’t got lost.
I was just around the corner – so why couldn’t I find it? I didn’t have data so no Google Maps. And I was horribly fuzzy from the wine; I couldn’t believe how quickly it had gone to my head. Oh; and now it was raining.
‘Hey!’ said a voice, just behind me.
I looked round and it was him again: Tariq.
‘You go to Jean Monnet, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Here – have some umbrella.’
I couldn’t believe how secure he was – straight-out admitting that he recognised me. Most boys I knew would never have admitted to recognising a girl even in an ID parade. But he was different – with his golf umbrella and his polished shoes. His accent was the kind of cut-glass posh English that reminded me of old films.
‘Thanks. I was a little lost,’ I admitted. Oh no. Did I just say ‘losht’?
‘No problem. I was just coming back from the printer’s,’ he said, lifting a white plastic bag. ‘Picking up some flyers for the Film Club. What about you? Prison break?’
‘What? Oh, no. I was … Meeting a … my godmother for lunch.’ Where did that come from? ‘I was trying to nag – nagivate by that pharmacy, but that’s a different one. God, there’re pharmacies everywhere!’ I stopped short, looking in wonder at the three green crosses on this street alone. ‘What’s with all the pharmacies? Is everybody sick?’
Tariq grinned. ‘Well, you wouldn’t want to be caught out with a little bobo, would you?’
‘A bobo! What’s that?’
‘Oh, it just means a sore place, like if you hurt your finger.’
‘Un bobo! That’s hilarious!’ I started laughing nervously. Bypassing a woman with a pushchair, I stumbled and ended up having to grab on to a lamp-post for balance.
‘Hey, Lola,’ Tariq said, casually. ‘You’re not, maybe, a little bit drunk, are you?’
‘No! I just – I had … Maybe.’
If I thought Tariq would laugh it off, I was wrong. He looked horrified. I could see him mentally classifying me as a Problem Drinker. I was so embarrassed, my face was on fire.
‘You should have some water, or something. Or a coffee. You don’t want to be caught drinking at lunch time. On your first day.’
Now I was terrified. Caught drinking! On my first day! What was I thinking?
‘Don’t look so scared!’ Tariq said, as we reached the school. ‘You’ll be quite all right. Just go to the nurse’s office and tell her you need to lie down for half an hour.’
‘No!’ I was terrified of anyone in authority finding out. Was he crazy? The nurse would sign me up to Teenage Alcoholics Anonymous before you could say bonjour. ‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’ We showed our cards and went through reception together. At least, I blundered in like a dog squeezing through a cat flap, while Tariq wiped his feet, shook his umbrella with an elegant flick and folded it neatly.
Walking down the corridor with Tariq was completely different to walking by myself: a torrent of waves, greetings in different languages and high-fives. Even if I hadn’t been so ill, it would have been exhausting.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, looking down at me.
‘I do feel a bit ropey actually.’ I pressed a hand to my face.
‘What do you have next? Which class?’
‘Um – French.’ Was it French? It was definitely something like that.
‘French. With Xavier?’
‘Who?’
‘Monsieur Archet. He’s very interactive … I would skip it, if I were you.’
‘Everything OK here?’ It was a teacher. Young and pretty. Actually she might have been a teaching assistant; I thought I’d seen her before, though all my faculties were pretty hazy right now.
Tariq beamed at her. ‘Fine! Lola here is just feeling rather unwell.’
‘Oh dear,’ the teacher said. ‘What’s the matter?’
Tariq looked down at me. ‘I think it might be that chicken you had last night, Lola – do you think? Some kind of food poisoning, anyway,’ he said smoothly to the teacher. I couldn’t believe what a good liar he was.
‘You should probably go and see the nurse,’ the teacher said.
‘We tried, but we couldn’t find her. D’you think you could just sign a sick slip for her first?’ Tariq asked, with a charming smile. ‘You just need to lie down for a while, don’t you?’ he added, to me.
‘You know we’re not really supposed to do that … OK, Fine.’ The teacher was practically giggling at him. I don’t know if it was his Grade Rep badge, or his dimples or his handsome face, but he clearly had her wrapped around his little finger. We went to the office, she scribbled a slip, and told me to go and see the nurse that afternoon.
‘I’d wait till you’ve sobered up,’ Tariq said, as soon as she was gone. He looked very disapproving.
‘Good idea. Thank you! You’re a great …’ Unable to think of the word I wanted, I patted him on the shoulder. ‘See you later.’ And I weaved my way towards the stair-case and my room.
Chapter Ten
The mortification, like a bruise, took a day to really show itself.
The afternoon was fine; I just went to sleep, too befuddled to realise what had just happened. The next morning, I woke up with a mild hangover and a sick feeling about how stupid I had been. What was I thinking?
When I saw Vee at breakfast, I wanted to slink straight past her as I was embarrassed, but she waved me over.
‘There you are! What happened to you yesterday?’ she said. ‘I thought maybe you went back to England. Or maybe you were dieting. You’re not dieting, are you? You don’t need to. And diets are evil.’
I shook my head, though it was true that I’d lost weight recently. When I started Year Twelve I was a bit chunky. But while the whole thing was happening, I wasn’t able to eat properly for three weeks, and I lost just over a stone, which never came back. Obviously it was very wrong to be pleased about this and I should love myself at any size. But I was secretly pleased.
‘Oh, my God, Vee,’ said a voice behind me. ‘Let the poor girl eat her breakfast first.’
Someone slid into the seat opposite us; the boy I’d seen yesterday wearing the leather trousers. His accent sounded English but he looked Japanese. He was very handsome, and also better at eyeliner than I was.
‘Kiyoshi,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Hi – I’m Lola.’ My heart sank again as I remembered that my first words to everyone here were a lie.
I thought Vee might have forgotten my absence but she was like a dog with a bone.
‘So where did you go?’
‘Oh. I just …’
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘Actually I got drunk by myself!’
I don’t know why I had that impulse. Probably I was nervous and wanted to sound funny, or rock’n’roll. But I stopped myself. Be less Delilah, I told myself.
‘I … met my godmother for lunch,’ I said, awkwardly. ‘She was in Paris for the day. And in the evening … I had loads of work to do so I just powered through.’
They both nodded; obviously they were going to pretend to believe me, even if they knew that ‘work’ was code for ‘curled in a ball crying about my bad decisions’.
‘Where are you from?’ said Kiyoshi.
‘London!’ I mumbled.
‘So cool! I went there last September, for one of my mum’s shows.’
‘Kiyoshi’s mum is a fashion designer,’ said Vee. ‘He’s also a brilliant artist, you should see his sketches. And an expert calligrapher.’
‘I’m not an expert! That takes years. I’m terrible,’ said Kiyoshi.
‘Kiyoshi!’ Vee said. ‘How many times? We need to work on your self-esteem issues!’ Vee was obviously a loyal friend – tactless, but loyal.
‘Thanks, mom. Vee is my Oprah,’ said Kiyoshi, grinning. ‘Does a
nyone want anything? I’m going to get some more bubbles.’
‘He means sparkling water,’ said Vee. ‘He’s obsessed, drinks it all day long.’
‘I’m legitimately addicted to it,’ said Kiyoshi. ‘I dread the day when they find out it gives you cancer.’
I was so relieved the topic of my disappearance had been dropped. And that I hadn’t tried to make a funny story about my lunchtime escapade. To get drunk with friends might have been somewhat amusing, even a bit edgy. To do it by myself was just. Plain. Weird.
My hangover improved as the day went on, but I felt worse inside. Especially when I glimpsed Tariq between classes, striding along with Priscilla, who was looking perfect as ever in a camel coat. They probably even had matching golf umbrellas.
I couldn’t believe I’d let anyone see me in that state – but especially him. What if he was telling everyone? ‘You know that new girl with the pink hair? I’m pretty sure she’s an alcoholic.’
I wished I could check online, but of course I wasn’t on any social networks so I couldn’t. Though that wouldn’t stop people talking about me, of course. I’d literally been in this school for about a day, and I was already probably a hashtag.
Over and over I replayed the horrible memory, including the awful moment when I patted him on the arm. How could I have done something so dumb – again?
I thought of the sticker Mum had on the fridge: Wherever you go, there you are. It used to make no sense to me, but now it did. I’d changed my location, but it would take more than a random glass of wine to change my personality. I was still the same, old, stupid Delilah, who misjudged every situation and got everything wrong, always.
Chapter Eleven
Back in my room after class, I started thinking about it all again.
Not about getting drunk at lunch, but about … the whole thing.
If only I had never said it.
If only I’d been able to delete it in time.
Lola Offline Page 3