Girls, Guilty but Somehow Glorious (6 page)

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9

SUNDAY 2.00 a.m.

A dangerous breakfast looms . . .

I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned. I counted sheep – our sheep, on our farm, me and Oliver. My brain was absolutely raging. I didn’t know whether to obsess about Oliver, worry about Tamsin and Chloe, or wonder how on earth we were going to interview Matthew for the ‘life coach’ job. Every half hour, I checked my mobile. I even rang Tamsin at 2 a.m., I was so worried about her. Her mobile was still switched off.

Finally I fell asleep. But then, horrid dreams had me in their spell. I was chased through deserted streets. My legs wouldn’t move. Men with paper bags over their faces loomed out of alleyways, begging and clutching at me. Then I was at a funeral, but I wasn’t sure if it was Chloe’s or Tamsin’s. Then a live frog jumped out of my pocket. Then a pterodactyl crapped on my head. It would have been less exhausting to stay awake.

Eventually I woke up, dragged a few clothes on and lurched downstairs. My mum, looking elegant in her kimono, was sipping coffee and reading the style section of the Sunday newspaper. Dad was making scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.

‘How was the concert last night, darling?’ enquired Mum, offering me her smooth and fragrant cheek to kiss.

‘Oh, cool,’ I replied. Parents must never know if an event is a total nightmare, because they might not let you go next time. ‘Can we sell this house and go and live on a farm?’ My parents looked startled.

‘A
farm
?’ said Dad, still stirring the eggs. ‘I thought teenagers liked towns.’

‘Not all teenagers,’ I said. ‘Actually I’m thinking of becoming a vet.’

My parents exchanged what I believe is known as a Significant Glance. Mum put the newspaper aside.

‘But you hate science,’ she said. ‘Especially biology. You said so only last week.’

‘That’s because I’d bombed in that test,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’ve changed my mind. Can we sell this house and go to live on a farm? Can we sort it all out before the summer holidays?’

‘Count me out,’ said Mum. ‘With
my
hay fever? Are you mad?’

‘Count me out as well,’ said Dad playfully. ‘I’m frightened of cows.’

‘Seriously, Zoe,’ said Mum, pouring more coffee, ‘farming is a profession. Well, a calling, almost. You need specialist skills. You need to be the outdoor type. Well, look at us.’ She shrugged, and looked at Dad. He was holding a wooden spoon and wearing a pinny decorated with fluffy clouds. ‘And anyway, farms cost a fortune. Our little house isn’t worth anything. You couldn’t even get a single cow into our front garden.’

‘Not unless you folded it up and ironed it,’ said Dad eagerly. He likes ironing.

‘But farms have hundreds of acres,’ said Mum. ‘Land costs money. We could never afford it, even if we wanted to.’

‘And we don’t want to,’ said Dad. ‘So that’s that. Next question?’

I made myself a cup of tea.

‘Next question,’ I said eventually, tucking into a piece of toast, ‘Did Tamsin ring you last night?’

‘No,’ said Mum. ‘Why? Is something wrong?’ She went pale.

It’s no use trying to keep anything from Mum. She may look like a jet-setting businesswoman on the surface, with her sleek suits and her state-of-the-art laptop, but underneath she’s some kind of Stone Age ape-mother, defending her babies from the sabre-tooth tiger. She’s also a tiny bit psychic, but unfortunately it doesn’t work when it comes to the lottery.

‘She rang me on my mobe last night,’ I said. ‘She’s fine. I just wondered if she’d rung you as well.’ I smiled brightly.

Mum flew to the phone and dialled Tamsin’s mobile. I just went on eating my toast. Dad and I rolled our eyes at each other.

‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’ he asked, in a mock polite voice, like somebody on a train you’ve never met before.

‘Homework and babysitting,’ I said. ‘In other words, fabulous excitement from beginning to end.’

‘What homework?’ he asked. He’s always hoping it will be something he can help me with.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘Just Hitler, you know. The rise of Hitler.’

‘Hitler
again
!’ groaned Dad. ‘You seem to do nothing but Hitler! What is wrong with the exam boards?’

Meanwhile Mum got through to Tamsin’s voicemail. ‘Hi, darling!’ she trilled in a light-hearted voice. ‘How is everything? Hope you’re OK, and if you’re feeling a bit tired, don’t forget we’d love to have you home for a day or two and give you lots of TLC.’

‘And toast!’ said Dad.

‘And Dad says toast!’ said Mum. ‘He sends his love. Ring us when you get a min. Lots and lots and lots of love.’ She put down the phone and sighed anxiously. I prayed that Tamsin’s mobile wasn’t lying at the bottom of the river. ‘Zoe!’ said Mum sharply. ‘Have you tidied your room? I want to take a load of stuff to be recycled. What about those old clothes you were sorting out for the Oxfam shop?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I groaned. ‘I’ll do it today – after my history homework, OK?’

Whenever Mum’s worried about Tam, she has a go at me. It’s not fair, being the young one. You’re still there, in the firing line, after the glamorous firstborns have all gone swanning off to their cool and stylish lives at uni.

With no hens to milk or pigs to scratch, I had little choice but to embark on ‘Hitler’s Rise to Power’. Well, obviously, I did spend half an hour selecting the right colour lipstick, first. One can’t study the Third Reich wearing just any old pink. In the end I selected a kind of bruised 1940s secret sinister pink with brown overtones.

I texted Chloe:
DON’T FORGET WE’RE INTERVIEWING SOMEBODY CALLED MATTHEW AT 2 p.m. YOUR PLACE.

There was no reply. Maybe Fergus and Toby were right, and Beast had already made her into a pie. Eventually I really got into Hitler. I had a fantasy that I was a secret agent. I pretended I was a glamorous typist. I had my hair done in two sausages each side of my head, and I wore a figure-hugging satin dress in dove grey. I was blonde, obviously. You had to be blonde, in those days. It was Go Blonde or Be Exterminated, almost. Mind you, sometimes I think life in the twenty-first century’s a bit like that, too.

I wormed my way into his good books by flattering him with witty badinage, as we strolled on the ramparts of his mountain hideaway.
That moustache!
I would enthuse
. I so love the way it’s just as wide as your nose!
I was planning to assassinate him with a stiletto hidden in my cleavage, when my mobile phone rang – or rather, laughed. I grabbed it.

‘Hello?’ said a faraway voice. ‘I’m ringing about the advert.’

Oh God! Another one! At least this time I was in private. Because I’d been through such hell with Matthew over the aliases, I decided that if the issue of names came up, I’d quietly ditch Jane and Africa.

‘Oh, right, yes, hello,’ I said briskly. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Scott Nicholls.’ He sounded nervous, but somehow sensitive and intriguing. He sounded dreamy. He sounded like a poet with long curly hair and passionate grey-blue eyes.

‘Right, Scott,’ I said, ‘We’re starting a life coaching company. We’ll be turning people’s lives around. Giving them, er . . . control. The work will be varied. And fascinating.’

‘Oh,’ said Scott. ‘Right.’

‘We’re doing some interviews this afternoon, if you could possibly make it?’ I enquired. God, I was so efficient. In part of my brain I’d already convinced myself that I
was
starting a life coaching company. Never mind Oliver Wyatt – I was rapidly falling in love with
myself
as a thrusting young executive.

‘Yeah, I could make this afternoon,’ said Scott, evidently postponing his plans to wander pensively by some daffodils. I gave him Chloe’s address and suggested he come at three. It was all fixed.

Amazing! Our ad had only been up for twenty-four hours and already we’d got
two
candidates, and they both sounded fabulous in their different ways. I wasn’t sure which I preferred. Matthew sounded masterful and macho, as if he would look after me. Scott sounded attractive and vulnerable, as if he would require looking after. Either way, I was game. Chloe and I might have to end up tossing a coin.

My phone laughed again. This time it was Chloe herself. I couldn’t wait to tell her all about Scott and Matthew.

‘God, Zoe!’ she whispered. ‘Sorry I didn’t ring earlier. I lost my phone. I just found it now in Geraint’s basket. I didn’t want to use the landline because I didn’t want Mum to overhear.’

‘Overhear what?’

‘Well, last night Beast said, well . . . uh, I know it sounds uhhh, a bit over the top, but he said I was
beautiful
.’

‘Watch out!’ I protested. ‘Beast is bad news. You know that. He’s famously a heartless cad. Frankly I’m amazed you can still speak this morning, after all the heroin sandwiches he must have forced you to eat on the way home last night.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ giggled Chloe. ‘All they did was drive me home, but Beast was whispering these things . . . we were in the back, and Zoe, he
snogged
me!’

‘What!?’ I was disgusted, shocked and panicky. ‘What?
Really?
’

‘Yes! And he asked for my phone number!’

I was worried. Chloe is easily swept off her feet – especially when wearing espadrilles.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Be really careful.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Chloe, trying to sound sensible. ‘He’ll probably never ring me anyway. He probably treats all girls like that.’ You could tell by her voice that she was lying, and that she wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep until he rang her. ‘So what’s all this about the interviews?’ she asked, sounding almost really interested.

I quickly briefed her on the Scott and Matthew scenario, and she said it would be fine to interview them at her house. Her mum had gone off to spend the day with some friends.

‘So, no probs?’ said Chloe, rather dreamily.

‘Well, there is a problem, actually,’ I told her. ‘Last night, at the hospital, I actually got to talk to Oliver Wyatt – out in the corridor by the drinks machine.’

‘Really?’ said Chloe. ‘Wow! Well done you!’ But you could tell she was thinking about something else.

‘But I’ve got myself into a really stupid dilemma.’ I cringed at the thought that Oliver was waiting for Dad’s phone call inviting him to come and work on our farm. I was just about to tell Chloe all about it when she interrupted me, ignoring all mention of my dilemma.

‘Beast is really just a pussycat,’ said Chloe.

I gave up. My best mate was clearly obsessed and deluded. What really bothered me was that if Beast was the pussycat, poor little Chloe was certainly the mouse. I’ve always felt a teeny bit responsible for Chloe, and I knew with a sickening certainty that, at any moment, he was going to pounce. And I wasn’t going to be able to do a thing about it.

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10

SUNDAY 12.33 p.m.

It came from outer space

When I got to Chloe’s house she had lunch ready – the inevitable beans on toast. Then we spent an hour making ourselves look fabulous and businesslike by tying our hair back and applying a lot of red lipstick. Chloe tried to get away with cargos and a T-shirt, but I soon forced her into a pencil skirt and a nice crisp blouse. I was wearing a plain black dress, and some chunky silver jewellery.

We tidied up Chloe’s sitting room. We polished the coffee table, plumped up the cushions, and arranged pens and paper, so we could make notes.

‘I keep thinking we really
are
doing a job interview,’ giggled Chloe. ‘When do we tell them the job is really just taking us to the Ball?’

‘Hmm . . . I don’t think we should say anything like that in the interview,’ I said. ‘No matter how gorgeous they are. I think we should act as if it really is about being a life coach.’

‘Yeah . . .’ agreed Chloe. ‘But – but how do we wriggle out of it later?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, feeling a bit doubtful. ‘Let’s just play it by ear.’

‘What if we don’t like them?’

‘We just ring them later to tell them the position’s been filled,’ I said, thinking fast and trying not to panic.

‘You’ll have to do that,’ said Chloe, shuddering. ‘No way could I tell people they’re dumped!’ I sometimes wonder how she’d manage without me to do all the dirty work. But in a funny kind of way, I like being the one who can actually hack it, while Chloe watches admiringly from a place of safety.

Suddenly Chloe’s doorbell rang with a horrid nerve-shredding BAZZZZ! It’s not very spiritual really. I’m surprised her mum hasn’t got a yak’s bell from Tibet or something.

‘You go!’ whispered Chloe, going pink and sort of cringing as if she was hiding in mid-air. On my way through the hall I passed a mirror, and took a quick peep. I looked like someone auditioning unsuccessfully for the Matrix. Unfortunately Nigel had surfaced and was pulsing away on my chin like a road sign. What kind of life coach can’t even control her own complexion?

Nigel wasn’t the only throbbing little item in my repertoire. Suddenly I remembered the aliases. Oh God! I was going to have to conduct this interview as Squeaky Jane. Maybe it would be sensible to give up right now, before we even started. Maybe we should send Matthew away and apply to become nuns.

My heart was pounding anxiously as I opened the door. Matthew with the thrilling masculine voice was about to appear. I could hardly wait.

A strange, rather plump boy stood there. His fair hair was slicked back, and he was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. His face was pasty, and he didn’t smile. He held out his hand.

‘I’m Matthew Kesterton,’ he said. We shook hands. His hand was cold and limp. Ugh! I already knew I could never,
never
go to the Ball with him, because of his horrid cold hands. I was
so
tempted to wipe mine on my dress, to get rid of the cold limp feeling, but somehow I managed to refrain.

‘Come in, Matthew!’ I squeaked, with heroic poise. I led him into the sitting room, where Chloe was waiting. She looked jittery and mad. Her eyes were more huge and green than ever.

‘This is Africa,’ I said, in the voice of a tiny cartoon character. Chloe kind of twitched and giggled. ‘Africa, this is Matthew Kesterton.’

‘How do you do,’ said Chloe. They shook hands. Chloe conquered her giggles and managed to look businesslike for a split second. I was pleased with her. ‘We’re business partners,’ she said, as we sat down. ‘Not – uh – lesbians or anything.’ God! I was instantly so
not
pleased with her! What an idiotic thing to say. I shot her a furious glance.

‘So, Matthew,’ I said in the twee tinkling voice of an elf getting down to the serious stuff, ‘can you tell us a bit about your previous work experience?’

‘Yes,’ said Matthew, looking me straight in the eye with a kind of weird confidence. ‘I’ve brought my CV as a matter of fact.’ He snapped open his briefcase and pulled out an immaculate piece of paper. He handed it over. It was beautifully set out and printed.

‘I’ve done a bit of everything, really,’ said Matthew. ‘Care assistant, relief support worker, kitchen assistant, waiter, handyperson, shelf stacker, cleaning operative, part-time receptionist, clerical assistant, warehouse operative.’ I tried not to faint. ‘And web design, of course,’ he added modestly.

‘Wow!’ said Chloe. ‘Amazing!’ Matthew gave her a contemptuous look, and turned back to me. That
lesbian
remark had put him right off Chloe. Clearly he had decided that I was the only person present who was not beneath him. He was wrong, though. Now I’d heard what he’d done, I realised I was several thousand miles beneath him. But he must never know.

‘I’ve also got three referees,’ said Matthew, fishing another piece of paper out of his bag and handing it over. I glanced down. There were three names and addresses. Boy, was he serious about this job. I felt guilty that we were, in fact, totally wasting his time. But we just had to get on with it.

‘So, Matthew, you’re obviously very experienced,’ I squeaked. He gave a serious little nod. I could see Chloe scratching her cheek. She does this when she’s trying not to laugh. My weird tiny voice was freaking her out. ‘So . . . which of these jobs did you enjoy most?’ Chloe scratched again, and emitted a kind of hysterical gasp, which she tried to disguise as a cough.

‘I liked being a receptionist,’ said Matthew. ‘Because of the responsibility. Dealing with people. Sorting out problems. But I like brainstorming too . . .’

He just talked on and on and on and on about all the lovely work he’d done. No expressions ever crossed his face, and I noticed that his eyes were a curious colour. I wasn’t sure what I’d call it. Khaki, possibly. It wasn’t a good colour for eyes. Not on planet earth, anyway.

‘Problem-solving,’ he was saying, in his dull, pasty way. ‘Troubleshooting.’

Listen, buddy
, I was so tempted to say,
just push off and do your brainstorming and troubleshooting and poodle-fiddling somewhere else, because I’d rather be run over by a cement truck than go to the Ball with you for even a split second.

‘Interesting!’ I squeaked with a gracious smile.

‘I imagine that’s the sort of thing you’re looking for?’ he asked with a pasty, khaki glare. I was startled for a moment. What
was
I looking for? ‘Being a life coach is all about troubleshooting and problem-solving, isn’t it?’ Matthew informed me.

‘Yes, of course, it’s an important part of the approach,’ I replied, trying to sound as if I knew all there was to know about being a life coach, even though I knew precisely zilch and Matthew clearly knew heaps.

‘So how does it work, then, exactly?’ asked Matthew. I began to feel as if I was the one being interviewed. Suddenly I broke out in a cold sweat. Two things were wrong.

My first problem was that I had to explain to this robo-boy how exactly our prize-winning business operated – and I hadn’t the faintest idea even how to life coach a
flea.

But the second problem was way, way more serious than the first. I could feel a horrible, painful, squeezing pain spreading through my tum. Oh God! All those baked beans! The moment of reckoning had arrived! The choice before me was simple and stark: either I had to emit a serious of deafening farts, or pass out on the floor from intestinal agony.