Girls, Guilty but Somehow Glorious (10 page)

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17

SUNDAY 11.31 p.m.

Ghastly interrogation

‘How was babysitting?’ beamed Mum, looking up from an old episode of
The X Files.

‘Oh, fine!’ I said airily. ‘The twins peed on my head, though, so I’m off to have a shower.’

‘How disgusting!’ said Mum savagely. ‘Those children are completely feral. That woman’s a disgrace. I hope she paid you extra.’

‘Yeah, fine – see you in a min!’ I called, and ran upstairs. I didn’t want to get into too much detail about the babysitting fiasco. I didn’t feel it had been a total triumph on my part, somehow.

In the shower I made my plans. I would hide some ordinary clothes in my schoolbag. I would set off for school as usual in the morning, but I’d get off the bus three stops early, at the station. I’d go into the ladies’ loos and change out of school uniform. And I’d jump on the next train out of town, like something in a spy thriller.

I wrapped my newly fragrant head in a towel, dived into my dressing gown and, in the privacy of my bedroom, I flipped open my laptop and went online to check train times. There was a train at 9.15 a.m., which meant I could be with Tamsin by 10.30 a.m. There was still the little problem of paying for the ticket, though.

There were two possible sources of cash. One was an old teapot with a broken spout. It sits on the kitchen dresser and random coins are put in it from time to time. It might amount to about £20, but if nobody had ransacked it recently it might amount to anything approaching £50. I went downstairs and peered into the teapot: 30p! Not even enough for a packet of peanuts!

The other source of cash was Mum’s handbag. It sat nearby on a kitchen chair. It was open and the wallet was peeping cheekily out as if to say, ‘
Rob me, rob me, go on, you know you want to
.’

I felt sick at the thought of stealing from Mum. She was only in the next room, watching TV. Dad was upstairs, chained to his PC. Stealthily and guiltily I lifted the wallet out of the bag. I thought I’d just check how much was there. If there were loads and loads of notes, she might not miss one or two. I’d only borrow them, of course. I’d collect my babysitting money in a day or two and pay Mum back before she even noticed anything was missing.

I unfastened the wallet and what did I see? A photo of myself, grinning out at me. And a specimen of my signature. It said ‘Love you totally and hugely, Mum – always, Zoe.’ It had been on my Mother’s Day card to her. She’d photocopied it (so as not to wreck the card) and put it in her wallet. There was a photo of Tamsin in there too, but no tender message. Ha! I’d got one over on the glamorous firstborn for once!

I was so deeply touched by my own message of love to Mum that I couldn’t complete my daring burglary. What a disaster! Then I had an idea. I heard the finishing music from the TV news and I knew Mum would now emerge for her nightly fix: a cup of something called chai, a sort of milky tea with spices.

I put the kettle on. When Mum emerged, she looked bleary-eyed and sad. It was The News. I don’t know why she watches the stuff. It was my job to cheer her up and simultaneously get some money off her. And if I could succeed with Mum, maybe it would turn into a possible career option.

‘Chai, Mum?’ I enquired, giving her a hug. ‘The kettle’s on.’ These words alone can charm the average adult and lower their blood pressure to a comfortable level.

‘Lovely, darling,’ she said, sounding tired.

‘Guess what!’ I said, embarking on an outrageous lie. ‘There’s a school trip to Stratford-on-Avon in a couple of weeks!’

‘Is there?’ Mum sounded pleased. ‘I don’t remember the note about it.’

‘You know me. I always lose notes home,’ I said, keeping my back turned and getting out the mugs so she couldn’t see my face. Sometimes Mum can tell when I’m lying. It’s to do with her career in insurance. Once she followed her instincts and identified a man who had deliberately burned down his own home in order to collect the insurance. She said she knew he was guilty because of his body language. He kept touching his nose, apparently.

I had to be very careful not to touch my nose. It started to itch insanely. A thousand invisible ants were running over it.

‘It’s £35,’ I said quickly. ‘For the trip – the theatre seat and the bus and everything. Do you want extra cinnamon?’ Skilfully I distracted her from details of the trip to her favourite spice.

‘What play are you going to see?’ she asked.

I panicked. My mind went blank. The only play I could think of was
Twelfth Night
because that was what we saw last time we’d been on a school trip to Stratford. That had been only last term. We couldn’t be going to see it
again
. I pretended not to be able to find the cinnamon, ransacking whole cupboards even though I could see it right there in front of me, next to the bread bin.

‘Cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon . . .’ I muttered, on my knees now among the saucepans.

‘It’s next to the breadbin, Zoe,’ said Mum with a sigh. ‘What play is it?’

Still harping on the goddam play. My brain literally refused to come up with a single Shakespeare play, even though if I’d been quietly lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, I could have thought of dozens. Millions, in fact.

‘It’s thingummyjig,’ I said. ‘The one with the . . . ghost thing.’

‘
Hamlet
?’ asked Mum.

‘
Hamlet
, yes!’ I cried.

‘Who’s in it?’ asked Mum, horribly interested. You could tell she was on the point of booking up to see it herself. ‘It’s my favourite Shakespeare play.’ Whoops! I had selected the wrong one. Mum was now simply
too
intrigued by far. If only I’d said we were going to see
The Very Dull History of Duke Boreo of Venice
.

‘Who’s in it?’ I repeated in an offhand way, fiddling with the cinnamon. I wondered whether, if I sniffed the cinnamon, it would stimulate my brain. Or maybe I could sniff it and stage a terrible sneezing and coughing fit which would force Mum to think about something different from Shakespeare. However, I didn’t think I could perform well enough to get away with it. Then suddenly I realised I didn’t
have
to know who was in the play.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, telling the truth. Although it wasn’t
totally
telling the truth in the sense that we were talking about a production which didn’t actually exist.

‘Tell you what,’ said Mum, looking suddenly energised in a quite revolting way, ‘let’s go and look it up on the RSC’s website.’

And leaving her steaming cup of chai to cool on the table, she headed for the PC. Dad was just winding up and was more than happy to vacate the computer chair. My heart was hammering wildly. Within seconds Mum would discover that there wasn’t a production of
Hamlet
in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s current schedule. What then?

She logged on to the RSC’s website. I felt sick. What should I do? Admit it was a con to try and get money out of her? Never in a million years! Pretend to be muddled and extremely stupid? Certainly. That was always my only hope.

‘Yes! There it is!’ cried Mum in excitement, navigating the RSC’s website. ‘
Hamlet
!’ My heart turned a somersault. Could it be that I had not told a lie after all? You mean there actually was a production of
Hamlet
? Result!

Oh, thank you, thank you, you lovely guardian angel
, I prayed silently. What on earth had I done to deserve such divine support?

‘My God!’ exclaimed Mum. ‘How extraordinary! How fascinating! It’s an
all-male
production – in
Russian
! I can’t wait to hear all about it, Zoe. In fact, I’ve half a mind to buy a ticket, myself!’

It seemed my prayer of thanks to my guardian angel had been a little premature. It seemed I was in deep, and possibly also hot, water – right up to my neck. How could it be so difficult just to get my hands on a train fare?

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18

SUNDAY 11.58 p.m.

Secret plans for a desperate journey . . .

‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Mum. ‘They’ve sold out. How clever of Mr Fothergill to book early. I must congratulate him when I see him.’

I made silent plans to keep Mum and Mr Fothergill separate for the rest of their lives. It was kind of the opposite of a dating agency.

‘So,’ I said, trying not to sound too scheming or grasping, ‘can I have the £35, please?’

‘Of course you can!’ beamed Mum. She logged off (with regret) from the RSC website. We went downstairs and she handed over the loot. ‘In fact,’ she said, ‘you can have an extra £5 for ice creams and coffees and things.’ You could see she was really proud of me, going to see an all-male production of
Hamlet
in Russian. I was going to have to lie for England when I told her all about the ‘visit’. And possibly lie for Russia, too.

Still, at least I had the train fare. OK, I had behaved abominably and lied till my face was a tasteful shade of duck-egg blue, but it was all for a good cause. Tomorrow I could bunk off school and go and see Tamsin – and rescue her from whatever dragon it was who had tied her to that rock.

Before I switched off my bedside light, I tried to call Chloe. Her mobile was switched to voicemail. So I whizzed off a text:
HAVE TO DISAPPEAR FOR 2 DAYS PLS TELL MY M&D I AM STAYING WITH YOU TOMORO NIGHT IF THEY ASK.
I was planning to ring my folks tomorrow afternoon – preferably when my dad would be out walking the neighbour’s dog between two and three precisely – and leave a message saying I was staying overnight at Chloe’s to avoid being interrogated.

In other words, the lying and deception over
Hamlet
was as nothing to the terrors of truanting. I was so scared I could barely eat breakfast. Luckily Mum didn’t notice, as she was getting ready to shoot off to a big insurance meeting. By car, thank God. How awful it would have been if she’d been travelling by train, and as I lurked furtively on the station platform, Mum had suddenly appeared opposite, with her briefcase and steely glare – and turned that steely glare on me.

A casual sweatshirt, baseball cap and trainers were all that was needed to turn my school uniform into some kind of nerdy travelling outfit. I was hoping to hide my face with the baseball cap. I’d got shades as well. I got changed in the station loo as planned, and stared at myself in dismay in the mirror. I looked like some kind of transsexual, colour-blind golfing junkie with a great-grandparent who had been a chimpanzee.

If only I’d been able to pack a fabulous chic scarlet and black New York actress outfit with high heels and a hat the size of a pizza. But I could only pack stuff that would fit into my school bag. To be honest, I’d have looked more stylish if I’d stayed in school uniform.

Never mind. I walked out on to the platform. Oh no! To my extreme and total horror, Mr Norman was standing opposite! Looking immensely relaxed and happy, as you would if you were looking forward to a blissful day spent miles away from the homicidal twins you had inadvertently fathered. I was wearing my baseball cap and shades, but he still clocked me. I could tell he was trying to decide if he recognised me or not. I turned away and walked with a strange hunchbacked shambling motion towards the timetables on the wall.

I could feel Mr Norman’s eyes boring into my back. Well, into my backpack. I tried hard to radiate the personality of a shambling hunchbacked transsexual golfing junkie. It wasn’t easy.

I heard the sound of teetering high heels totter past behind me. Some kind of sex vision in blonde and black had been sent by my guardian angel to distract Mr N. I could see the whole scene reflected in the glass of the timetable display case. The blonde minced on down the platform, and Mr N (and most of the other men) followed her with their eyes on stalks.

Hoorah! My train was arriving. I made a mental note always to have a blonde stashed away in my luggage. Then if I needed to be particularly incognito, I could let her out, a bit like a cat out of a carrying basket, and she could swank about, fascinating everybody while I furtively got on with the serious business of life.

There was a seat at the far end of the train compartment, kind of tucked away, and I sat down there with my cap pulled well down over my face and read
Heat
magazine. The guard checked my ticket and nodded grimly. He had a face like those mountains carved to look like various US presidents, only a lot less friendly. I bet he would have smiled if I’d been a blonde in black.

Eventually we arrived. I jumped down on to the platform and immediately saw Tamsin waiting for me. She looked just
fabulous.
Excuse me for a few years while I describe her outfit. It started up top with a wonderful sort of fascinator thing with fuchsia feathers on her head.

Her face, was, as usual, beyond beautiful. She looked a bit pale and anxious, but that only added to her charm. Tamsin’s face is made for melodrama. She does good tragedy. When my face is sad, I look like a very stale cheese sandwich. She’s dramatic. She’s a legend. And those cheekbones! Her mum could have been Madonna.

Her jacket was small and black, with a nipped-in waist and jet beading on the lapel. One of her vintage collection. Then there was her dress. It was sublime. It kind of billowed. It was silk, with a pattern of pink strawberries and black and grey leaves. Her shoes were high-heeled, black and drop-dead elegant. Her bag was to die for.

I bounded towards her like a wacky chimp in a tea advert. I felt thrilled and proud that she was my sister, but simultaneously ashamed that I was dressed like a sporty Neanderthal. Tamsin didn’t seem to notice, though. She sort of collapsed into our hug like somebody falling downstairs.

Luckily I was feeling particularly strong and chunky, and as we linked arms and walked out of the station she still seemed to be leaning quite heavily on me. Was she ill? Drunk? Or was it just the shoes?

‘There’s the bus,’ said Tamsin, and we crossed the road and got on. We paid our fares and sat downstairs. Tamsin held on tight to my arm. ‘Thank you
so much
for coming,’ she said. She sighed.

‘So what’s the problem, then, Tam?’ I asked cheerily. I was trying to look as if I could sort anything out, no problem. Unwanted pregnancy? I could arrange for it to be adopted by a film star. Men behaving badly? I could put them in their place with a single flash of my terrible eyes.

‘Not on the bus,’ whispered Tamsin. She looked around furtively. What did she need to look furtive about? I was the one who was bunking off school. In fact – oh God, I’d almost forgot! If I was going to stay the night here with Tamsin, I
must remember
to ring home and tell them I was staying over at Chloe’s.

I hoped and prayed they would be cool about my ‘staying over at Chloe’s’. We didn’t often stay over on weekdays. I’d have to tell them we were working on something. I know! I’d tell them we were working on an assembly.

Oh God! I’d also have to get in touch with Chloe and make sure she’d got my text and was all set to back me up. ‘
Please, GA
,’ I whispered to my sadly overworked guardian angel, ‘
don’t let my parents ring Chloe’s landline for any reason.
’
The rest of my day was balanced on a high wire of deception. And Tamsin thought
she’d
got problems.

We got off the bus in the town centre and walked a few hundred metres to Waveney Wessex College. Tamsin’s room is up on the top floor. I hadn’t been there since the previous term. I could hardly believe my eyes. Her room had had the mother of all makeovers.

The bed was covered with a lustrous ruby and silver throw, and there was a huge lamp made out of a Chinese jar. A vast bunch of lilies exploded from a clear glass vase the size of a wardrobe, their heavy scent suggesting a five-star hotel by a Swiss lake or something.

A mobile depicting wacky Victorian gentlemen riding old-fashioned bicycles whirled and turned above the bed. (Frankly, I thought Tamsin’s taste had slipped slightly when it came to the mobile, but let that pass.)

One whole wall was covered with the most enormous blow-up picture of Marlene Dietrich, Tamsin’s major icon from the era of early cinema. I think Marlene’s legs were even longer in this picture than life size. Hanging from a hatstand by the door was a collection of beautiful hats and scarves, many glittering with sequins.

‘Wow,’ I gasped. ‘This is amaaaaaazing, Tam! It’s totally fantastic! I adore it!’ Tamsin pulled a funny kind of face, kicked off her shoes and filled the kettle at her washbasin. ‘And you look fabulous, too. These shoes!’ I picked one up and cradled it as one might hold a holy relic. ‘They are pure, pure Hollywood. Or do I mean Paris?’

Tamsin said nothing. She switched on the kettle, turned to me, gave a weird, downbeat little shrug and said ‘Tea or coffee? Or instant hot chocolate?’

‘Whatever you’re having,’ I said.

‘I’m drinking jasmine tea at the moment,’ said Tamsin, reaching for an exquisite little teapot on the shelf.

‘Jasmine tea?’ I had just about heard of it.

‘It has flowers in it,’ said Tamsin, handing me a packet of loose tea. I sniffed it. It smelt mysterious and grand. Little dried flowers lay sleeping among the tea leaves.

‘My God, Tam, you live like a freakin’ princess these days,’ I said with a broad grin. ‘How can anything be wrong when you have this kind of lifestyle?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Tamsin. And she went kind of extra,
extra
pale.