Paparazzi Princess (3 page)

Later that night when they’d all gone, I sat with Dave on my lap and put the list of questions on the computer ready to post on facebook. A ping sound told me that an email had arrived.

It was from Pia. She’d sent a photo of an enormous buxom woman dressed as Boudicca in a helmet with horns, long plaits and wearing a big brass bra and carrying an axe as if ready to do battle. Underneath it, she’d written:

I loved having Pia as a mate. She made me laugh daily. I looked back at the intimidating woman. Weapons were one approach but somehow I was hoping that I could win a boy’s heart
without
having to beat him into submission.

‘So . . . your homework for the Christmas holidays,’ said Mrs Moran, our English teacher, with a well fake smile.

A groan spread through the classroom.

‘But
Miss
, it’s the holidays,’ said Chrissie O’Connell.

Mrs Moran laughed. She’s OK for a teacher, round and jolly, like a fat golden hen, and she doesn’t mind when someone in class talks back to her.

‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Moran, ‘and I hope you all have a very merry time. However, we don’t want your brains to get rusty, do we? No, we don’t, which is why I’ve come up with a project to keep you active. Think of it as an early Christmas present.’ The class groaned again. ‘The perfect winter holiday,’ she continued. ‘I want you to think about what that might be and then write about it. You can choose your angle—’

‘No school, no homework,
that
would be the perfect holiday,’ Tony Davidson called from the back of class.

‘Yeah, Miss, it’s like asking us to write about what we did over the summer,’ said Jason Clery. ‘That’s, like, so junior school.’

‘Come on, class, where’s your enthusiasm?’ asked Mrs Moran. ‘It’s not a difficult task. It might even be enjoyable. I’m asking you to think about what the festive season means to different people. To someone on their own, or someone in hospital. Someone homeless. What it means in other cultures, maybe. What would be a really perfect winter holiday? Is it the movie version with log fires inside and snow outside? A family all together? Presents, masses of delicious food and television or perhaps a celebration of the birth of Christ? But then what about people of other faiths? What would the perfect holiday celebration be for a Muslim or Hindu or Buddhist? I think it could be a great project. You have a lot of scope and a lot to think about.’

Although I got what she was saying, my heart sank. My perfect winter holiday would be a Christmas with my mum back. She died of cancer just over a year ago in early December. I could write pages on an
imperfect
Christmas because that’s what it was last year. An awful, miserable time. Charlie and I were at Gran’s and although her place is as homely as you can get, even she didn’t feel like decorating that year. It wouldn’t have been right when the one person who should have been there wasn’t. I’d felt numb. Charlie and I just sat in front of the telly and watched one movie after the other, but if you asked me what they were about, I wouldn’t know and I don’t think he would either. Mum used to make Christmas so special. She really loved it. As soon as she got out the decorations, she’d put on her favourite Christmas CD by Phil Spectre and she’d sing along at the top of her voice. She always made Charlie and me wear Santa hats and well naff jumpers with holly or reindeer on them. It was tradition,
our
family tradition, and she said such things were important in making Christmas memorable. She was right about that.

One year, she dressed up as a Christmas tree. Who could ever forget that? The costume was hysterical, a pointy green hat like the top of a tree, then a tunic dress which you put your arms through and it widened out towards the skirt like the branches of a fir tree.

Mad, but that was Mum. She liked to dress up for any occasion, any excuse. She’d also make her own mince pies and cake and for weeks, our house would smell of nutmeg, cinnamon and oranges. She went the whole hog: advent calendars, red candles that smelt of frankincense and sandalwood, tinsel everywhere, even on the taps in the bathroom!

We always had a great tree, a real one that smelt of pine and was decked with loads of red and gold baubles with silver and gold tinsel circling from top to bottom. She loved the card sending too – no copping out and doing it by email for her. She’d spend ages buying and wrapping presents and never got bored with it like Aunt Maddie did. Aunt M said doing Christmas cards year after year made her feel like she was trapped in a groundhog day. She gave up doing it years ago and donated the money for cards and gifts to charity, telling us that Christmas was nothing but a commercial venture. One year, she gave my and Charlie’s Christmas present money to a farm in Africa. Typical of her as Missgoodietwoshoes-savetheworld but so different to Mum’s attitude which was Christmas was a time to celebrate life, loved ones, a time to be joyful and blow the expense.

Mum bought the cards, gifts and all the seasonal trimmings
and
donated to charity. That was her attitude to everything – yes, put something back into the world but make sure you have a good time while you’re here too.

An image of Mum in the kitchen wearing her red-and-white Santa hat and singing, ‘It’s getting to feel a lot like Christmas,’ flashed through my head and my eyes filled with tears. I missed her as much now as when she first went – more even, because the longer it was since she died, the more final it seemed. She hadn’t gone away for a break, on a holiday. No. Wherever she’d gone, she wasn’t coming back. Not even for Christmas. It sucked.

Pia turned around in her seat and gave me a sympathetic look. She sensed what I was feeling and she was right.
I say bah humbug to your project, Mrs Moran.

*

‘Have you decided what you’re going to do at Christmas?’ asked Pia as we filed out of class in the break.

I shrugged. ‘Not sure. Ignore it? Hide under a holly bush and only come out when it’s all over.’

Pia linked arms with me. ‘I know it’s hard for you but I remember your mum and how she loved it all. It was her favourite time. She’d hate to see you unhappy. I reckon you should carry on the traditions she started, get into it all big time like she did. Do it for her.’

‘I . . .’ I had no defence. Pia was right, and Mum had said almost exactly the same words to me in her last week. She said she was sorry she couldn’t be around and that I was to try my best to be brave and to celebrate the joy of being alive and the spirit of Christmas. I’m sure that she’d have understood that I couldn’t do it for her last year but maybe this year, I could. I
should
.

‘It’s our first Christmas at Porchester Park,’ Pia continued, ‘Mum told me that the decorators are coming in this week to do a number in reception. I bet they’ll make it look fabulous, plus we’ll be together. Maybe we should throw a party. Get Tom and the others from school to come. We could put up a ton of mistletoe for snog sessions.’

The idea of seeing Tom over the holidays did appeal. Maybe we could take things to the next level, from flirting and the occasional kiss to being an item. My first proper boyfriend.

‘OK, yeah. I guess we could have a cool yule with no school,’ I said.

‘You’re a poet and you didn’t know it,’ Pia added.

I went into my version of what was meant to be street dancing but had a feeling looked more like I’d put my hand in an electric socket and was having a seizure.

‘Cool yule, outta school,’ I said in a rap style.

Pia joined in. ‘Don’t be a fool, no rules.’

I grabbed my crotch à la the late Michael Jackson and attempted to moonwalk backwards. Of course that was the moment Tom came round a corner. When he saw me and Pia, he rolled his eyes and grinned. ‘Ah, the crazy twins. You ’ave ze ants in ze pants, ah oui?’

‘Mais non, dude, we’re getting down,’ I said. I did a knee drop then jerky spin in what was meant to be a cool smooth move but sadly, lost my balance and toppled into the wall.

‘Keep taking the medication, Hall,’ said Tom. ‘You clearly aren’t well.’

‘You just don’t recognise talent when you see it,’ said Pia.

Tom laughed then looked right into my eyes, ‘Oh yes I do,’ he said in a suggestive voice. I blushed and inside, I felt my stomach rise as if a soft breeze had lifted it then it floated back down, making me feel disorientated. Tom always has this effect on me. I love him being flirty in public, though, and noticed a couple of passing girls check us out. He’s one of the cutest boys in our school, tall and handsome with light brown shoulder-length hair, flawless skin and eyes the most astonishing jade green. Trouble is, he knows he has babe appeal and that half the school fancies him.

Art was my next class and I spent the whole lesson fantasising about what Tom and I could do together over the next few weeks. Winter scenes from every slushy movie I’d ever seen played through my head: we could roast marshmallows by the fire then snuggle up on the sofa to watch old black-and-white movies, maybe go ice skating up on Hampstead Heath then to a cosy café for hot chocolates. I could see it all so clearly – him laughing in the snow at something I’d said, a look of delight on his face when he unwrapped some perfect present I’d found him. Oh yes, the next few weeks could be romance heaven for a new couple like us. I was beginning to change my mind about the whole holiday, in fact – a lovely time with Tom, then Christmas Day with Gran. Fab. Gran did a great turkey dinner with all the trimmings and her house was big and comfy. I felt safe there and there were always people dropping in. Maybe this year, it could be ding dong merrily on high and a time to deck the halls with Christmas holly. Yes, I decided, it was the season to be jolly and I would be!

‘Let’s go and look for Tom again,’ Pia suggested in the lunch break. Now that she had a proper boyfriend, she was as eager as I was that I had one too. ‘He’ll probably be in the dining room. Let’s go and see if we can find him.’

We made our way through the maze of school corridors and up to the first floor. Our luck was in because Tom was mooching about outside the canteen with his mates Josh Tyler and Roy Mason.

‘Ah. Your personal love slave has arrived,’ said Josh Tyler when he saw me. ‘Hey, Hall, Tom was just saying that he’d like you to get your clothes off and wait for him in the gym.’

Tom rolled his eyes. ‘You know I didn’t say that, Jess.’

‘Yeah right,’ I said. ‘And anyway, like I would strip in this weather for anyone. Don’t you know it’s two degrees outside today?’

‘Sorry about my crass friend,’ said Tom and he came towards me, put his arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. ‘But if it really is two degrees outside then all the more reason for me to warm you up.’

Behind him, Pia mouthed that she’d see me later then disappeared back down the stairs. She understands about giving a couple space, unlike Roy and Josh who were hanging around watching the whole scene. I decided to ignore them. Tom had his arms around me, that was what was important. I snuggled into him and it seemed like the perfect time to ask him about hanging out in the holidays. ‘Er, Tom . . . now that we’re . . . er . . .’

‘We’re what?’ asked Tom with a quizzical look and a quick glance at his mates.
Back-track, back-track
, I told myself.
Maybe it’s too early to refer to us as ‘we’. Boys don’t like being pinned down.

‘We . . . I mean me,’ I continued. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to get together over the holidays and you know . . .’

I heard Josh snigger and Tom let me go and stood back a step. ‘Get together?’

‘Yes. Maybe—’

Tom shrugged. ‘Um . . . not sure what I’m doing yet, Jess. I . . . I don’t really do plans. I prefer to stay loose, not be tied down to anything. Know what I’m saying?’

I felt a thud of disappointment in the pit of my stomach. This wasn’t going well and my earlier fantasies faded like a snowball in an oven. I got what he was saying all right.

‘Er . . . yeah, course. Keep it loose. Me too.’ I stepped away and went towards the stairs.

‘Hey, you OK? You look kind of upset,’ Tom called after me. Josh and Roy were still looking on as though they were enjoying my discomfort. I cursed myself for asking Tom about hanging out while they were there.

‘Me, nah. Never. Loose as a goose, that’s me.’ Inside I felt like dying. What was I saying? Loose as a goose? What idiot says mad things like that? Me. That’s who. I don’t even know what it means. I am such a love loser.

‘Cool,’ said Tom. ‘And I’m sure I’ll be over to see Charlie at some point, practise some sounds with him and that. Maybe catch you then.’

‘Yeah. Right.’

No lingering looks or suggestive comments this time, I noticed.
They say girls are changeable but I
really
don’t get boys
, I thought as I thumped down the stairs.