Dancing Daze (14 page)

I pull out my guide eagerly and flip through the pages. “Did you know that Budapest is often described as the Paris of Middle Europe? Or that there are over sixty galleries and museums in the city?”

Clover groans. “Jeez Louise, Beanie, I said
interesting,
not snooze-inducing. You’re supposed to be keeping me awake, not boring me into oblivion. I’ll read my magazine instead.” She picks up her handbag, which is under the seat in front of her, and rummages through it without success. “Must be in my wheelie bag.” She stands up and opens the overhead bin. Then she looks back at me. “Beanie, where did you put my wheelie bag?”

“Last time I saw it was on the Aircoach. You put it in the trunk, remember? Mine fit under the seats, but yours didn’t.”

She screws her eyes tightly shut and then opens them again. “Oops!”

“Clover, you look blingtastic,” I say, stifling my giggles. “Just like a gangsta rapper’s moll.” Clover is standing in front of me in a knee-length flamingo-pink Puffa jacket with a halo of fluffy white fake fur around the hood. Her feet are snug in matching silver-and-pink puffy snow boots. We’re in the only clothes and shoe shop at Budapest airport, and it’s pretty slim pickings. But as it’s minus two degrees outside and Clover has only a light leather jacket, a red knitted skater dress, and ballet flats to her name, she doesn’t have much choice. She has to buy them, along with some lacy black underwear, black jeggings, and two sequin-encrusted purple tops. I offered to lend her some of my clothes, but she said there was no way she’d fit into them. “I’m far curvier than you, babes,” she said. “Your jeans would cut off the circulation in my legs.”

She studies herself in the shop mirror. “At least no one I know is going to see me over here. I’m such a muppet. I spent a whole night sorting out my Hungarian wardrobe too.”

While she’s paying, I adjust my own bag on my shoulder and look out into the foyer, past the scurrying travelers, toward the doors leading outside. I can see what look like white feathers falling from the sky, spinning in the orange airport lights. “Look, Clover. It’s snowing.”

She grins. “You’d better pull on your beanie, Beanie. It’s snow time.”

Outside, I stick my tongue out to catch the swirling flakes. They melt instantly.

Clover laughs. “You’re such a child, Bean Machine.”

“At least I don’t look like a skiing Bratz doll.”

“Touché, darling.” And then she pelts me right in the face with a snowball.

The hotel is amazing! I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first. The taxi driver drove up all these narrow rickety streets and then dropped us off outside a huge wooden door with a curved top. There is a small brass plaque outside saying
BALZAC HOUSE.
Clover pressed the intercom. There was a buzzing noise and the lock on the door clicked open, but no one came to meet us. We looked at each other, shrugged, and then walked inside.

The hallway is spectacular. It has huge, soaring vaulted ceilings, like the inside of a Victorian church, and it smells like a church too, of old wood and damp.

As we stood there wondering what to do next, Clover wrinkled her nose. “Bit smelly.” But as soon as she spotted a tall, beautifully dressed Hungarian man in his early twenties walking down the sweeping marble staircase toward us, a welcoming smile on his handsome chiseled face, she quickly changed her tune. “Now, that’s more like it,” she murmured.

“Welcome to Balzac House,” he said politely in perfect English. “Can I take your bags?”

“I wish you could,” Clover said wistfully.

He looked confused.

“Clover’s bag got lost on the way,” I explained.

He shook his head. “That is a shame. Airlines. So disorganized.”

Before I could correct him, Clover had pressed her foot against mine and grinned. I smiled back at her.

“I will arrange a welcome pack for you — toothpaste, shampoo, et cetera,” he continued. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Not at all. You’re a complete doll,” Clover said. “But if I think of anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Let me carry those.” He took my bag and backpack from me. “I hope you will enjoy your stay,” he said, leading us up the stairs.

“You’re such a sweetie,” Clover gushed, her eyes fixed firmly on his bum. “We definitely will,” she added, wiggling her eyebrows and digging me in the ribs. I could only laugh.

I’m now lying on the double bed, waiting for Clover to come out of the bathroom. She’s been in there for ages. I had a quick shower, but she insisted on filling the giant old-fashioned brass bath and having a soak in all the delicious smelly things that the hotel provided. The receptionist also dropped off a large plastic bag packed with toiletries, so she’s really happy.

I’m starting to get bored. “Clover, hurry up. I’m starving,” I shout at the bathroom door.

Nothing.

“Clover? You OK?”

I hear a splash and then, “Sorry, Beanie. Must have drifted off. How long have I been in here?”

“Too long. Get your skates on. My stomach is growling like a grizzly.”

Seconds later she appears in the doorway, cheeks bright red and shiny from the bath. “Give me two secs.”

I avert my eyes as she dashes past me, completely naked. “Clover!” I say.

She just laughs. After shimmying into her underwear, she starts doing this funny hula-hula dance, wiggling her hips, waving her arms in the air, and singing,
“I love ma body. I love ma body.”

“Have you completely lost the plot? Get dressed. You’ll freeze.”

“It’s only skin, Beanie. We all have it. And I happen to love the skin I’m in.”

Outside, it’s a beautiful night — clear, crisp, and freezing. Our breath hangs in the air like little dragon puffs. The city is gorgeous, and it is a little like Paris, with its old buildings and pretty squares. It seems edgier, though, as if anything could be lurking around the next corner.

We head toward Vörösmarty Square. When we asked Boris, the receptionist from the hotel — Clover shamelessly asked him his name — where to go for dinner, he suggested we pick up some food at the famous Christmas Fair in the square and gave us directions. He promised it was only a few minutes’ walk and was well worth the effort.

“I love this place,” Clover says, swinging her arms and crunching through the fresh snow in her new boots. “It’s got character. And I guess we’ve found the Christmas Fair.” She points across the road at the dozens of brightly lit stalls.

As we cross the street, I smell mulled wine. It reminds me of Christmas Eve. Every year, Dad used to make a big saucepan of it for his and Mum’s Christmas Eve party. I feel a slight tug in my stomach, thinking about Dad and Mum together. Yes, they argued a lot, but we were still a family. And now they both have different families, but I’m the bridge that links them together, and at the moment, I’m doing my best to
keep
Dad with his new family! So far, my Send-Pauline-Packing plan is coming along nicely.

We find a pancake stall and buy two savory pancakes, stuffed with gooey melted cheese and spicy sausage, and sit on white metal chairs under an outdoor heater to eat them while we watch the crowd mill by. Lots of the women are wearing coats just like Clover’s. Others are wearing fur from top to toe, with big furry hats like cats perched on their heads.

After we’ve eaten, we wander among the stalls. Clover munches on some roasted chestnuts. I try one, but they don’t really taste of anything and they leave a funny zingy aftertaste in my mouth, so one is enough. Then I spot a tourist stall and I’m like a bee drawn to honey.

“Oh, no,” Clover says, trying to drag me past it.

But I give her my best puppy-dog eyes. “Pwetty pwease?” I beg her.

She sighs. “Just a quick look.”

I spot a snow globe with a tiny ballerina perched on her tippy-toes in it. It’s perfect for Mills. Then I remember that she’s not exactly speaking to me at the moment. But I buy it anyway.

As we make our way back to the hotel, the snow starts falling thick and fast, covering the footpath with a layer of what looks like fresh icing sugar. By the time we get to Balzac House, it’s a couple of inches thick.

Clover throws herself on the ground and moves her arms up and down. “Snow angels. Come on, Beanie.”

So, laughing, I lie down beside her, snow falling on my face, and make a snow angel too.

The perfect end to a perfect day.

Clover has another bath before bed, just because she can. I tell her she’s going to shrivel up like a prune, but she says she doesn’t care. “I never have time for a bath at home. Hotels are for pampering yourself, Beanie. And the best thing is, you don’t even have to clean up afterward.” With the mess Clover makes when she stays over at our house, sloshing bubbles all over the floor, it’s probably just as well.

“Clover, can I use your laptop? I want to finish reading Claire’s diary before we see her tomorrow.”

There’s a slight pause. “If you think it would be helpful, Beanie, then sure, fire ahead. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that. Let me know if you find out anything else about the bullying.”

So while she drifts away to bathe, I flip through the rest of Claire’s diary entries. Most of them are short and more factual, and she doesn’t mention Zsuzsanna again until the final entry. It was written just before she traveled to Dublin two weeks ago.

The writing stops abruptly. I peel my eyes from the screen. My heart is beating fast. Claire sounds like she’s in such distress, and I desperately want to help her. She can’t stop dancing. She just can’t! She’s too good, and she’s worked too hard to throw it all away.

Originally maybe I was hoping that if I fixed things for Claire, Mills might forgive me, but it has gone way past all that now. If the bullying doesn’t stop, if it continues to grind Claire into the ground and she’s forced to throw away the one thing she loves most in the whole wide world, then what? I dread to think. I can’t let that happen. I have to help her, but how?

“Now, that is a stunning swimsuit,” I say. “It really suits you.” I’m trying to keep a straight face, but it’s difficult. Clover is standing in front of me in the weirdest swimsuit I’ve ever seen. It’s fluorescent orange and slashed to the belly button. A large gold ring holds together the two thin strips of fabric covering Clover’s breasts. It was that or a leopard-skin microbikini. The shop in the baths wasn’t exactly well stocked.

We’re in the Gellért Baths, housed in a huge old gray hotel on the side of Gellért Hill, and it’s pretty chic in an Addams Family kind of way: murky, with lots of big ferny potted plants, stained-glass windows, and funny little stairways leading off the main hall. The changing rooms are pretty normal, though: clammy tiled floors and lots of primary colors, like in a nursery school.

We’re here for the photo shoot that Clover set up for Claire and some of the other dancers. Saffy wants some interesting photos in an “exotic” Hungarian location, and the baths with their aquamarine tiles, gold pillars, and palm trees are certainly exotic.