Drama Queen (15 page)

I had decided most definitely.

Henry > Jane

I held my breath. He was obviously looking for someone. The blue-rinse ladies and the elderly man with the dog were unlikely candidates. Which only left me.

He caught my eye again and half-smiled and nodded. I smiled back, waiting for him to say something. But he seemed to be waiting for me to. I couldn't think of how to start. This was just so embarrassing.

He turned away and went to the counter and bought a Coke. Drink in hand he took a circuit of the room that passed my table. Our eyes met again. He took a sip out of his Coke bottle and gazed around the café as if someone might magically materialise out of thin air. Then he turned and
started to make for the door
.

I couldn't simply give up like this. ‘Wait!' I said.

He turned back to face me. ‘Yes?'

‘Are you Henry?' I blurted out.

‘Are you “
A friend”
?' he asked.

I nodded, blushing to the roots of my hair. This must seem like the most obvious pick-up in the history of the universe. Having come so far I couldn't give up now. I
had
to do it. I reached in my pocket and passed him the envelope.

He raised his eyebrows and pulled out a chair. ‘May I?'

I nodded and he sat down at my table. With a look of concentration he drew out the card. (Oh, why did it have to be such a naff card?) I cringed as he read the message on the front: ‘
To someone special
'.

One look at his face told me instantly. ‘Oh my God. It's not from you, is it?'

He shook his head.

I was getting up from my seat. ‘This is just so embarrassing. Forget it even happened, OK? You … me … we were never here. Right?'

‘But … ‘ he started.

‘No, really. I've made a stupid mistake.' All I wanted was to get out of the café as fast as I could. If only the stained linoleum floor would swallow me up. If only I could put my life on rewind and do a retake.

I could hear my bus revving up at the stop, preparing to leave. ‘That's my bus,' I said, groping for my backpack.

He reached the door before me. As I pushed it open our hands met. Well, maybe only the tips of our fingers. But the touch went through me like electricity. He was smiling in a way that made me smile back. I suddenly realised I was so, so glad he wasn't the right Henry.

‘It's too late. You won't catch that bus now,' he
said. He was right. It was already picking up speed, accelerating away from the stop. ‘Why don't you let me buy you a coffee and tell me what this is all about?'

I sat down in my seat again. ‘You promise you won't laugh?'

‘Not if you don't want me to.'

‘OK.'

So I told him the whole story. He didn't laugh. He was quite sympathetic actually. Then somehow one thing led to another and I found I was telling him about Mum and Dad. And Cedric and Clare and the mess I'd made of everything. He was a good listener. I don't know what happened to the time. An hour went by like minutes.

We walked over to my bus stop together. He took my mobile number and said he'd ask the neighbours and if he found a single possible Henry he'd be in touch right away. Then he swung his jacket over his delectably fit shoulder and said, ‘See you around.'

I watched as he made his way back towards the mall.
Perfection
. Oh, why had I made such a fool of myself?

Most of Sunday was spent in a miserable haze of self-recrimination. I kept on having these hideous flashbacks of the moment I'd passed Henry the card. He must've thought I was
such an idiot
. In fact, I spent practically the whole day catching up on homework as a penance, which just proves how bad I felt.

The next day I headed into school with my backpack crammed with completed assignments. I even caught an earlier bus so I didn't have the usual mad dash to avoid being on the late list.

I arrived at the same time as a herd of swots. Hump-backed like wildebeests under their heavily laden backpacks, they made for their usual browsing grounds in the library. Not wanting to be categorised as one of them, I lingered outside. I was loitering in the school car park when I saw Mr Williams's car nosing into a space. He climbed out, and then who
should climb out behind him but Ms Mills! I couldn't wait to tell Clare.

I waited by her locker till she arrived.

‘You're in early,' she said.

‘Yes, and you'll never guess what I saw!'

‘What?'

‘I was just passing the car park when Mr Williams's car drew up.'

‘And?'

‘And guess who got out?'

‘Mr Williams?'

‘Mr Williams
and
Ms Mills.'

‘No way!'

‘No, really, honestly.'

‘Body language?'

‘Hard to tell. She had on her green quilted parka – you know the one that sticks out all round and makes her look like a caterpillar.'

‘What about him?'

‘Too far away, couldn't spot any love bites.'

‘Gross!'

The bell went for double English at that point, providing an opportunity to study Mr Williams at closer range. I even took a front desk so I could get an uninterrupted view. He walked in and took his
place at the teacher's desk. He looked very pleased with himself: well scrubbed, positively pink and well-shaven. Catching sight of me, he said, ‘Excellent performance of
Mother Courage
. Thank you for the ticket, Jessica. I do hope you'll get a chance to see it yourself.' Then he smiled at the class in an unusually benevolent way and asked us to get out our set books.

We were studying
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
and Clare was asked to read a passage aloud. I'd finished the book over the weekend and I was only listening with half an ear as I mused about Tess and Angel. Why had the whole relationship gone so disastrously wrong? He and Tess were a perfect match. Angel was all high ideals and love of nature and Tess full of youthful innocence and country purity.

A + (hi + lon) = T + (yi + cp)
Good Match!

It all hinged on a lost letter … Nightmare! The very thought brought back a horrible sick feeling as I relived that excruciating experience with Henry …
Henry
!!!!! I could feel myself going hot and cold all over.

Mr Williams's eye was upon me. He'd noticed my lapse in concentration. ‘So Jessica? Would you like to
comment on the passage Clare has just read?'

‘Errm… ‘ (O-m-G. What passage?)

‘Yes, Jessica?'

I had to say something. ‘I think the book would have been so much better if Angel had found the letter in the first place,' I said all in a rush.

I could see Mr Williams was making a big effort to be patient. ‘An interesting point of view. So what would have happened, do you think, assuming he had?'

‘Well. I reckon that if he'd found the letter before they got married, he would have forgiven her.'

‘Wouldn't that have ruined the plot?'

‘No, it would've made it much better. You could have a brilliant bit about them both going off to become missionaries together in Africa. And none of that gloomy bit when she has to harvest swedes in the rain and it all gets so despressing …' I glanced at his face. ‘Errm.'

Mr Williams was sitting back in his chair gazing at me with an unreadable look on his face. ‘Tell you what, Jessica. How about you writing a chapter of your alternative version for us. Let's say you start with Angel finding the letter. And then we'll compare them.'

‘But Mr Williams—'

‘It seems a pity to waste such an imaginative approach,' he said firmly.

‘Yes, Mr Williams.'

‘Right. Now, anyone else? Charlotte, how do you feel about Angel's reaction to Tess's confession?'

I fumed. I had enough homework as it was. He was being a huge pain.

I had a real moan to Clare in the canteen at lunchtime. ‘A whole chapter! How does he think I'll find the time?'

‘So what do you reckon now about your brilliant scheme to get him and Ms Mills together?' she asked.

‘Well, he went to the play. He said so.'

‘Hmm.' Clare took the tiniest mouthful of yogurt and licked the back of her spoon delicately. ‘But how about her? We still can't be sure they actually met up.'

‘True.'

Later that day, however, when I was passing the art room on the way to an English period I had confirmation. Ms Mills's handbag was open on her desk. I texted Clare straightaway:

rendevous confirmed
spotted mc programme in
ms m's handbag!
love j

I was in the cloakroom, standing at the mirror congratulating myself, when someone came up behind me.

‘Hi.' It was
Christine
. Christine never spoke to lesser mortals like me. She took out a brush and started to waft it through her perfectly straight and shiny hair.

‘Don't you live at Rosemount Mansions?' she asked.

‘Yes. Why?'

‘There's that boy who lives in your building …'

‘In Rosemount? What boy?'

‘Cedric something.'

‘
Cedric?
' (What did Christine want with Cedric? I couldn't be hearing this.)

‘It's just that he has this session at this club Matt goes to.'

‘Cedric. Do we mean the same Cedric? Darkish hair, skinny, square black glasses, kind of dweeby.'

‘But
cool
dweeby,' she said, turning to me.

I stared at her. Cedric was
cool
dweeby? ‘Cedric has a session at a club?'

‘Yes, I thought you knew him.'

‘I do – sort of.'

‘He's into some really good stuff. I wondered if he could make me a compilation tape?'

‘Of
jungle
?'

‘It's a surprise for Matt's birthday.'

‘Ah. Huh.' (Cedric was cool. Jungle was cool. He was a DJ in a club. This was seriously worrying. Was I getting out of touch?) I gave her his number.

‘Thanks, I'll see you around.' She swept out after that.

I stared at myself in the mirror. Suddenly it was me who was the dweeby one. Cedric had somehow metamorphosed into something so ultra-cool I hadn't even recognised it.

The equation had slipped the other way. If Cedric was cool dweeby, Clare was going to have to redouble her efforts. Currently, Cedric was cool dweeby, a DJ and into jungle. While Clare was still in her double brace and tracksuit bottoms and devoted to Victoria Beckham. Or, to put it scientifically:

Ce + (cd + DJ + j) > Cl + (db + tb + dVB)

Or to simplify:

Cedric > Clare

How was I ever going to turn that into Cedric
Clare?

I caught up with Clare in the games changing room. She was currently doing double rounds of circuit training twice a week.

‘Did you know Cedric was a DJ?'

‘Oh, he did mention it. He does this session at a club on Wednesdays.' (I don't think Clare recognised the seriousness of the situation.)

‘But don't you see what this means? He must think he's the coolest thing on two legs.'

‘I know.'

‘Has he been in touch?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘Have
you
rung
him
?'

‘No, but …'

‘But
what
?'

‘I did text him.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Oh, nothing really.'

‘Come on.'

‘Just that I was hoping to hear from him.'

‘Oh Clare, honestly. What did we agree?'

‘But he hasn't and time's running out.'

‘Look, from now on, you don't call him, you don't
text him. You don't even answer his messages.'

‘Not answer his messages? Won't he think that kind of odd?'

‘No. You've got to bring out a male's competitive instinct. The higher you value yourself, the more he'll want you.'

‘Oh, I see … ‘ said Clare doubtfully.

I went home that night with more homework than ever. Just when I thought I'd caught up, Mr Williams had given me a whole chapter to write.
A whole chapter
. That would take for ever. I let myself into the flat, ready to have a good moan and get a nice hot meal and a sympathy session from Mum.

The flat was dark, empty and silent. Mum wasn't there. There was a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

Crisis on play
Emergency rehearsal
Fish fingers and peas in freezer
Back whenever
X Mum

Fish fingers and peas and no sympathy. And it was all Mr Williams's fault. What an ego-tripper. Anyone would think he was running the Royal Shakespeare Company the way he carried on. I grumpily defrosted the fish fingers and put them in the frying pan. Bag came and wound himself round my legs, mewing.

‘We've been abandoned, Bag. Nobody cares.' How anyone could be expected to write a chapter of a book on a meal of fish fingers. A whole chapter! I bet Thomas Hardy hadn't. I bet he'd had one of those vast Victorian feasts – like pheasant and grouse and port jelly and suckling pig before he wrote his.