Alice in Time (8 page)

Imogen and I decide to meet up in town on Saturday morning, do some shopping and then go back to her house. She wanted to meet up in the afternoon but I persuade her to make it earlier because I don’t want to be stuck at home all morning with Mum and Rory. Saturday mornings are when Mum ‘tries to catch up on the housework’ and attempts to rope me in, totally disregarding the fact that Saturday mornings are when I like to catch up on a bit of sleep.

The first time I met Imogen’s mum she told me to call her Claire. ‘Mrs Crawford sounds so stuffy, don’t you think?’ she said to me, like I was a grown up and not a little girl of seven, which I was at the time.

Not that I get much chance to call her anything, mind you, because I don’t go to Imogen’s very often, and when I do, we spend most of our time in her bedroom so that we don’t disturb Claire’s ‘artistic flow’. She seems to wander round in an artistic trance most of the time.

I wonder if Imogen knows how lucky she is to have such a laidback mum. One who isn’t always out at work and worrying about everything. Also, it must be great to have something in common. They’re both totally into art. I can’t think of one tiny thing that Mum and I have in common, except that we hate each other and I don’t think that counts.

When I meet up with Imogen on Saturday, she tells me that she has to go to the art shop because she needs to buy some felt pens.

‘Can’t you get them at W.H. Smith’s?’ I say, because the art shop is such a long walk.

‘No, they’re special ones,’ she informs me quite sharply. She’s in a mood today so I decide not to complain too much and we set off a bit too briskly for my liking. It’s all right for her. She’s not carrying a bag, but I’m lugging all my overnight things with me. Which is really annoying, because if my plan works then I won’t actually need any of them. As I hurry along beside Imogen, I go over the plan in my head to check that I’ve got it straight. When I left the house this morning, I told Mum I was going to spend the night at Imogen’s and I packed all my stuff – except I made sure I had a stunning outfit in the bag. Well, I say stunning, I don’t actually own anything
stunning
, unless of course Seth is stunned by how naff I look. I have a bit of a problem with clothes, to tell the truth. Everything I own is deadly boring and I can’t even raid Mum’s wardrobe because everything in there is even more boring than my stuff, if that is at all possible.

So sometime in the afternoon when I’m at Imogen’s, I’ll change for my date with Seth and then at about half past six I’ll tell Imogen that I’ve had a call from Mum asking me to go home because she has to go into work – some emergency or other – and needs me to look after Rory. I’ll then leave Imogen’s and go and meet Seth and then, depending what time the date finishes, I’ll either go back to Imogen’s and tell her the emergency is over and Mum came home, or if it’s too late I’ll have to go home and tell Mum that there was an emergency at Imogen’s – a sick aunt or something, and they all had to leave suddenly. It’s not as complicated as it seems, honestly.

It just boils down to Imogen thinking I’ve gone home and Mum thinking that I’m at Imogen’s and all the time I’m out with Seth. It’s just the last bit that’s slightly up in the air, but by that time I’ll have had a brilliant time with the most gorgeous boy in the world and I’m sure it will all fall into place.

By the time I’ve run through this plan for the hundredth time, we arrive at the art shop. Unfortunately it’s not a case of going in, finding the pens, paying for them and leaving. When we get in there, the shop owner seems to know Imogen and starts asking after her mum, saying what a good customer she is. Eventually we manage to escape and make our way down the aisles of tightly packed shelves until we get to the ‘special’ felt pens, though I don’t know what’s special about them.

Then it takes ages to work out if it would be cheaper to buy them individually or in a pack, which has twenty percent off, and are the ones in the pack the right colour, etc, etc, until I feel like screaming. Eventually she decides on a pack and a couple of loose ones. When we get to the till I nearly faint at the price but the man tells her she can have a discount, ‘on account of her mum’. Imogen looks like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her. She can’t get out of there fast enough, but when we do finally reach the pavement, she won’t tell me what the problem is.

I’m a bit miffed by now because, apart from the fact that we’ve now got to walk all the way back into town, it’s too late to do any serious shopping. I was hoping to find a new bra, you know, one of those push-up ones that make you look like you’ve got more than you really have. I certainly need all the help I can get in that department. I was also hoping to find something
really great that I can wear tonight. The outfit in my bag isn’t exactly ideal for a night out with the coolest boy on the planet. I feel really on edge, sort of excited and terrified at the same time. I’ve never been on a date before and I don’t know what to expect. Most of all I don’t want to make a fool of myself or look too young or blush too often. I
so
wish I could talk it over with Imogen, or anyone for that matter.

I remember my gran used to cook things in a pressure cooker. It was a huge great saucepan with a tightly sealed lid and all this steam built up inside it until eventually it came hissing out the top. I was terrified of the thing and refused to go in the kitchen when she was using it because I was convinced it was going to blow up and cover everyone and everything with hot stew. Well, that’s what I feel like: a pressure cooker. Actually, that thought has made me really miss my gran. If she was still alive, I could talk to her about everything. I can feel tears welling up behind my eyes. Why does life have to be so complicated? If I wasn’t seeing Seth tonight I would be more relaxed and could be having fun with Imogen. Mind you, she’s marching along with a face sullen enough to scare the spots off a Dalmatian. I don’t know what’s up with her. Perhaps I should ask her.

‘What’s up?’ I say, trying to keep up. You’d think she was embarrassed by me the way she’s walking three steps ahead all the time. She stops suddenly so I bump into her and glares at me, like it’s my fault.

‘What do you mean, “What’s up”?’

Whoa, tread carefully. What I don’t need right now is an argument. ‘Well, you know . . . I just thought you looked a bit —’

‘What?’ she snaps back. ‘A bit what?’

‘Oh, you know . . .’ I flounder. ‘Maybe a tad . . . distracted,’ I finish, madly trying to avoid the words sulky, sullen, surly, miserable, morose, moody and downright dismal.

‘Yeah, well . . . you know . . . it’s just that . . . the thing is . . .’

It’s so unlike Imogen to falter where words are concerned. That’s usually my job.

‘Look . . . when we get back to my place . . .’

I nod in what I hope is an encouraging way.

‘Just try and avoid my mum as much as possible.’

God! Is that all! I can relate to that one. Maybe falling out with her mum is a new one for Imogen. I, on the other hand, am experienced beyond my years in such matters. I’m mightily relieved that I can help her with this.

‘No problem,’ I tell her. ‘I’m well qualified in Mum Avoidance.’

‘It’s just that my dad had to go away for a couple of days on business and Mum gets a bit . . . she just gets . . . she misses him . . . gets a bit stressed.’

I bite my tongue. Gone away for two days? You want to try seven years, I think, and then see how stressed things will get!

‘Thank God he’s coming back tonight.’ Imogen suddenly looks more cheerful. We’re back in town now and she manages a smile and asks me what I want to do.

‘OK,’ I say, looking down at my trainers, jeans and totally nondescript top. ‘What I want is to look less like a little girl and more . . . well, you know . . . more . . . just older.’

I think Imogen is going to laugh at me, but she doesn’t. Instead she looks me up and down, stands back a bit and scrutinises me with her head on one side and says, ‘Hmm, I
see what you mean.’ I’m not at all offended, just relieved. ‘How much money have you got?’ she asks, all business-like. If there’s one thing Imogen loves, it’s organising people.

‘Not much,’ I tell her. I emptied out my piggy bank this morning and I’ve got about thirty pounds on me, but I might need some tonight so I can’t spend it all.

‘Right,’ she says, looking at her watch, ‘let’s hit the charity shops.’

‘Are you mad?’ I squawk. ‘When I said I wanted to look older, I meant about seventeen, not seventy!’

‘Don’t panic,’ she says. ‘When did you last go in a charity shop? It’s not all baggy skirts and camel-hair coats, you know. You can pick up some really decent stuff if you look carefully. Some charity shops only take designer labels now. Come
on
!’ she says, literally dragging me into the Oxfam shop. ‘Just think of it as recycling,’ she adds rifling through the racks. At first I’m deadly embarrassed, but after a while I begin to wonder why. The shop is full of all sorts of people, young and old, trendy and square. We have a laugh at some of the stuff on the rails, things that even my mum wouldn’t be seen dead in. But she’s right, there are some OK things and I find a really nice pair of low-waisted black jeans which look miles better than the blue ones I’ve got on, and in Cancer Research I find a dead cool Joe Bloggs tie-dyed top. I can’t believe it. And I haven’t had so much fun in ages. Even Imogen seems to be enjoying herself and we spend ages in Superdrug testing all the cosmetics, then I drag her into Boots and sniff all the perfumes until I find one I like and spray it all over my neck. Seth won’t be able to resist me!

We’re still in high spirits when we get back to Imogen’s house and I can’t wait to get into my new clothes and try out the lip-gloss I bought. It takes me a while to realise Imogen’s brooding mood has returned. She silently indicates to me to put my bag down at the bottom of the stairs, then practically creeps down the hall to the kitchen. Not that we need to creep. There’s some very loud classical music coming from the back of the house where Imogen’s mum has her painting studio. The music gets louder as we enter the kitchen and now Imogen is using sign language, not because she wants to go undetected but because I wouldn’t be able to hear her if she did say anything. Imogen looks at me apologetically and shrugs her shoulders. Wordlessly, she goes to the fridge and passes me some milk and a chunk of Edam.

I look around the kitchen. It seems to be more chaotic than usual. Actually, chaotic is a polite term for revoltingly messy.
The sink is full of washing-up and on closer inspection it’s not just crockery in there. The cups and plates are jumbled together with painting paraphernalia, causing a tide mark of greasy, black paint. Old food smells are mingling with the strong smell of turpentine and linseed oil. I know it’s linseed oil because there’s a big bottle of it that’s fallen over on the draining board, the thick oil snaking its way to a puddle in the sink around the washing-up bowl. If the music wasn’t so loud I’d suggest perhaps we should tidy the place up a bit, but Imogen is looking like a thundercloud and would probably take it the wrong way.

She’s found some cream crackers and chocolate biscuits in the cupboard and is indicating with her eyes towards the kitchen door, which I take to mean, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here’. As I try to exit, clutching the milk and the Edam, I run slap bang into Imogen’s dad, who we didn’t hear come home on account of the music. I manage to stop the milk from ending up all over the floor at the expense of the cheese, which falls with a thud at her dad’s feet. (I think he’s called Clive, but I’m not sure, so hope I never have to address him directly.) We’re all standing there staring at each other when suddenly the music stops abruptly, as if some sixth sense has alerted Claire to the arrival of Clive, and the double doors that separate the kitchen from what should be a dining room, but is now Claire’s studio, are flung open with a flourish.

‘Darling!’ cries Claire, rushing past Imogen, who nearly ends up with her bottom in the bin as she steps back out of the way. Claire is wearing an ankle-length black dress, some floaty scarf-type thing and her hair is swept up in an intricate design.
It’s only as she passes me that I see it’s held up with a paint brush, and not a clean one at that. She looks as though she’s about to go out to a very posh party, except that she’s covered from head to foot in splotches of paint.

‘God! She’s a bloody walking cliché,’ Imogen mutters, and although I’m not exactly sure what she means, I get the impression it’s not good.

Claire falls into Clive’s arms. They start kissing in a way that can only be described as
passionate
. Bloody hell! I’m tempted to watch so I can get some tips for later, but frankly it’s embarrassing. I sneak a look at Imogen to see if she’s embarrassed too, but she just looks bored. Not knowing where else to look I find myself staring into the studio. There’s an enormous canvas in there, but it appears to be painted completely black. Maybe it’s an undercoat or something. Imogen grabs me and we sidle round the reunion going on in the doorway. I think about retrieving the cheese but Claire’s three-inch heel is now impaling it to the floor.

‘Hi Dad,’ Imogen says as we pass, and he replies with something that I imagine is probably ‘Hi there, darling’, but he’s having trouble as Claire seems to have her tongue firmly down his throat. Yeeurk! Gross, I mean they must be in their forties!

As we go up the stairs I surreptitiously look at my watch. After all, I have a schedule to keep to. It’s quarter to three, which means I’ve got just over two hours to make myself look beautiful before I have to put stage one of my plan into action.

Imogen’s bedroom is amazing. For starters, it’s massive and has different ‘areas’. There’s her working area, which has
a massive desk, except it’s not like one you’d buy in a shop – it goes across one whole wall. It’s been custom-built to fit everything, so it’s got a writing bit at one end, a computer in the middle and a space for artwork at the end. I wonder if I’d be as clever and creative as Imogen if I had such a desk. I notice that at one end of it she’s got a kettle and one of those mini fridges. In fact, it’s more like a bedsit than a bedroom. I am so jealous. If I had a room like this I’d never have to leave it or see Mum and Rory at all. Halfway along the other wall is a television which can be turned so it can be seen from the sitting area in the big bay window where the sofa is or from the big bed, which is practically a double.