Charm School (9 page)

‘Sorry, dear? Did I mishear? Could I possibly have heard you say the word “boring” about our lovely, inspirational Words About Beauty?’

‘Well, yes,’ admitted Bonny, wishing to heaven that she’d kept her mouth shut.

‘Beauty that shines like a star?’ reverberated Mrs Opalene, as though the switches on the sound panel had all pushed themselves right up to
FULL.
‘Eyes that sparkle like jewels? Flowers that shimmer in loveliness? You call those—’ Her bosom trembled. ‘—
boring
!’

Bonny was trembling too, now. But still she tried to explain. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that none of those things the poets are writing about actually
do
anything, do they?’

‘What do you mean, none of them do anything?’

‘Well, they don’t,’ Bonny said stoutly. ‘None of them. Flowers and jewels and stars. They just sit there, looking pretty, and twinkling and glowing. That’s all they do, and it must be terribly boring.’

‘But they’re
beautiful
!’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bonny. ‘I agree they’re all nice to look at. What I’m saying is that it’s probably a lot more fun to
look
at them than to
be
them.’

They were all staring at her, open-mouthed.

‘After all,’ Bonny finished up determinedly. ‘Even the lady who could walk in beauty like the night couldn’t have been going anywhere very interesting or the poet would have mentioned it.’ She was about to switch off the microphone and get on with reading the
Handbook of Sound And Lighting
she’d found in a heap of cassette tapes, when Sarajane spoke up.

‘Well, obviously this lady couldn’t have been going anywhere very exciting, or she wouldn’t have stayed looking nice.’

‘That’s right,’ said Pearl. ‘If she’d been climbing up a mountain, she would have got all sweaty.’

‘And if she’d been at a funfair, her hair would have been blown about,’ said Cristalle.

‘And if she’d been on a beach, her make-up would have melted and smudged,’ put in Suki.

They were all at it now.

‘You can’t do very much at all if you want to stay walking in beauty.’

‘No, you certainly can’t. You might get grubby.’

‘Or ladder your tights.’

‘Or break a fingernail.’

‘Or get stains on your blouse.’

‘Or scuff your heels.’

‘Or—’

Just as, exasperated, Bonny reached forward to fade out this catalogue of woes, a hand came down to stop her. It was Toby, who had once again slid in silently and was standing behind her.

‘Oh, don’t turn them off,’ he begged. ‘I’m listening. This is more exciting than any adventure story. What else could possibly go wrong with their poor clothes?’

He pushed Bonny’s fingers so the volume shot up again.

‘Or the pleats in your skirt might fall out,’
Angelica
was fretting.

‘Or you might lose one of your earrings,’ warned Amethyst.

‘Or your hem might—-’

But Bonny couldn’t stand it. Jerking her hand under his, she cut Cooki off in mid-wail, and swung round to face him.

‘Is it time for lunch yet?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Nearly. I just came by to pick up your tea cup.’

Their hands collided on the way to pick it up. The cup spun off the ledge, splashing dregs on his jeans.

Clutching his head, the tea boy reeled dramatically round the little back room. ‘Oh, no!’ he shrilled. ‘A spot on my pretty trousers. Now I shall have to go all the way home to change, and I’ll be late for the party!’

Seeing Bonny giggle, he stopped, satisfied, and rubbed the dregs of tea into his trousers, where they disappeared. ‘Good colour, grey,’ he said. ‘Hides everything.’ He nodded through the glass window. ‘Not like all those girly lemons and pinks.’

‘Men do wear yellow shirts,’ argued Bonny. ‘And pink ones.’

‘But they don’t have to
go
with anything.
When
one gets dirty, you just pull the next out of the cupboard. You don’t have to waste half your life standing in front of the mirror, worrying.’ He plucked at the shirt he was wearing and squeaked at Bonny. ‘Now tell me the truth! Does this shirt look exactly right? Does the green go with the grey of the trousers?’

‘Everything goes with grey,’ Bonny said. But he wasn’t listening. He was still doing his imitation. ‘No, don’t spare my feelings! If they’re not an absolute match, I swear I’ll trail round twenty shops till I find a colour that’s
perfect
.’

‘Twenty shops is nothing,’ scoffed Bonny. ‘Suki in there went round forty to find the right choker.’

‘Really?’ The tea boy peered at Suki through the glass. ‘I think I’d just pick the one I liked best in the first shop, then go off fishing.’

‘So would my dad,’ said Bonny. ‘Mum says that’s why men’s clothes are always the first things you come to in big stores. Because, if you had to drag them any further, they wouldn’t go.’

‘Too busy,’ said the tea boy. ‘Better things to
do
than trail round shopping every time the fashions change.’ He picked up the microphone and pretended to make a news announcement. ‘
To no-one’s astonishment, men’s favourite trouser colours will remain the easy-to-match, stain-hiding dark range, and their hems will stay at ankle length for yet another season
.’ He grinned at Bonny. ‘And, believe me,’ he added, ‘no-one will even notice.’

‘Unless you forget to put them on.’

‘Oh, yes.’ He snatched up Araminta’s shawl. ‘Or if they’re all spangly, like this.’ Swirling it round, he held it flat against his body. ‘Toby, the Glittering Man!’

‘Very flash,’ agreed Bonny, thinking how odd he looked. When Araminta wore the shawl, she’d just looked special – all dressed up and fancy. But Toby immediately looked like a clown, or an actor in a pantomime, or the comedy star of some Christmas Variety Spectacular. Bonny was used to seeing women glitter. (Just look at Mrs Opalene.) But men don’t go round glittering unless they’re inviting you to share a laugh. No-one takes seriously someone who is twinkling. Bonny realised for the first time why lawyers
and
bankers went to work in sober suits, and police officers and traffic wardens wore dark uniforms. It would be hard to pay them nearly so much attention if they were dressed in frothy clothes, with flashing rhinestone earrings. Trousers that twinkle say only, ‘Look! Look at me!’ Plain skirts and jackets (like Mrs Sullivan’s at school) say, ‘Now listen carefully. This is important.’ Or—

The spell was clearly working overtime, because the next thing Bonny heard Toby say was, ‘Hey! You’re not listening!’

‘No, sorry,’ Bonny said. ‘I was too busy watching you twinkle.’

‘What I was saying,’ repeated Toby, draping Araminta’s shawl over the chair, ‘is that lunch will be ready in five minutes.’

‘Goody. I’m starving. I’ll be first in the queue.’

‘Which queue?’ he asked. ‘The queue for the smallest heap of beans? Or the thinnest slice of bread? Or the tiniest dab of butter?’

‘Don’t they even eat at
mealtimes
?’

‘Eat!’ Toby said. ‘
Eat
? Oh, you’ll see one or two of them pushing the odd shred of lettuce around their plates, and nibbling at stalks of celery. You might even spot one of them
looking
longingly at a sliver of grilled fish; or gingerly dipping her spoon into a tiny tub of non-fat, low-calorie yoghurt. But what you and I would call
eating
? No, you won’t see any of that.’

‘
They
will, though,’ Bonny said drily. ‘They’ll see
me
.’

They didn’t simply see. They sat and
stared
. (All except Araminta, who stood as far from Bonny as she could in the long canteen queue, then took a seat at the far end of the table.) None of the rest of them could take their eyes off Bonny’s double slice of pizza and her tossed salad.

Bonny took her first mouthfuls, and looked round in hopes of seeing her mother. But, clearly, the victims of Bookkeeping (Advanced) were kept miserably hungry as well as horribly busy. And, anyway, Pearl was tapping her on her sleeve.

‘You do realize,’ she was saying kindly, ‘that that dressing you’ve put on your salad is mostly oil?’

Bonny gave it some thought. ‘I can taste vinegar in it,’ she said after a moment. ‘And a little bit of garlic.’

‘Yes,’ chimed in Cindy-Lou. ‘But Pearl is right. It’s mostly oil.’

Bonny was mystified. ‘What’s wrong with that? Olive oil tastes nice. And it’s good for you.’

‘It’s a hundred and fifty calories a
table-spoonful
,’ said Cristalle firmly, as if that settled the matter. Simply to keep the peace, Bonny shifted her fork across to her pizza.

Suki’s mouth dropped open. ‘Are you really going to eat that?’ she couldn’t help asking.

‘Yes.’ Bonny stared at her. ‘That’s why I took it.’

Now everyone was chiming in. ‘
All
of it?
Both slices
?’

‘As well as the salad dressing?’

‘
Now?
’

‘Those croutons look to me as if they’re
fried
,’ added Cristalle, as if the word meant ‘
poisonous
’.

Bonny tried to ignore them all. Keeping her head well down, she watched the food on their own plates. Toby was right. All that they seemed to do was shuffle it round and round, making a giant great fuss of it, but never actually putting any of it in their mouths. Bonny watched, fascinated, as Esmeralda made a great show of reaching for a slice of bread, then unwrapping her butter pat. It took her twenty times as long as it would have taken Bonny to peel the shiny foil off the tiny yellow square and fold the foil up neatly. Then Esmeralda picked up her knife and started to mash the butter on her plate.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Just softening the butter.’

‘Why?’

‘It spreads better,’ said Esmeralda.

And thinner, too. Bonny watched Esmeralda smear the tiniest fraction of butter onto her bread, and make a great display of spreading it around, though there was so little of it, it was practically invisible.

‘Aren’t you using the rest up?’

‘Gosh, no.’ Esmeralda looked horrified. ‘This is
tons
.’

She still wasn’t actually eating it, Bonny noticed. Now she was neatly cutting the slice into quarters. And, after that, each quarter into strips. And then she trimmed each crust
off,
one by one. Anyone glancing her way would be left with the impression that she was bent over her plate tucking in happily. But she still hadn’t eaten anything.