Paper Aeroplanes (25 page)

Miss Anthony moves to Margaret’s old seat and puts her arm around me.

‘You’re not the tough little cookie everyone thinks you are, are you?’

As much as it pains me to do so, I shake my head.

‘Will your family be OK with your results? Would you like me to talk to them?’

‘No, it will be fine. Things at home are fine.’ It is nice to be able to say that, without it being a lie.

When I eventually summon the courage to leave Room Six I go into the toilets and splash my face with cold water. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I never thought my time here would end so dismally. School was always the place I was happiest. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

When I get down into the foyer everyone has gone. The table that had our results on is cleared, and the caretaker is jingling his keys, obviously keen to lock up and get on with his summer holiday.

‘Bye, Mr Blake,’ I shout to him. He doesn’t hear me as he disappears into his office.

I carry on out. As I walk across the playground I remember the games of tag we played at break, the time I fell over and scraped my knee – I still have the scar. The time Margaret convinced herself there was a man in the bushes and the entire school got sent inside only to discover the gardener was in there digging up a tree. It all seems like so long ago already.

As I walk towards the school gate I see a silhouette that makes my heart jump. I get closer, preparing myself to be hammered further into the ground.

When I see Renée coming towards me I don’t know where to look. Should I watch her as she walks or look away and act surprised when she gets to me? Neither. I should be bold. I start walking towards her. We stop and stand face to face. Tudor Falls is behind her, watching us to see what happens next.

‘I saw Margaret. She told me about your results. She looked as upset as you do,’ I say, quite shocked by how pale she is.

‘I bet you think I’m even more of a loser now, don’t you?’ she asks, not looking at me.

‘I couldn’t think you were more of a loser,’ I say.

She nods and keeps her head down.

‘How did you do?’ she asks me after a short pause.

‘I passed everything. Four As, three Bs, two Cs. I did well,’ I say, trying not to look too happy about it.

‘That’s great. I’m really pleased for you. I, on other the other hand, have ruined my life.’

‘What are you going to do? Grammar school? A job?’ I ask, trying to move the conversation along.

‘Grammar school, I guess, if they’ll have me. I can’t stay here anyway. At least you’ll be rid of me. I’m sure you’re pleased about that. I don’t blame you.’

‘Actually I –’ I’m cut off by the sound of a car rolling to a standstill behind me. I hear a door shut, then another. Renée looks angry. I turn around. It’s Sally and her mum.

‘Florence,’ says Mrs Du Putron as she pushes Sally by the elbow towards me. ‘Sally has something she needs to tell you, don’t you, Sally?’

Sally folds her arms. She huffs and tuts in her usual style, then after a few seconds her entire face changes, and she starts to sob. Renée and I share a bemused look. This is a first.

‘I’m sorry, Flo. I’m sorry for what I’ve done,’ blubs Sally.

I’m confused. First Sally cries and then she says sorry? Is this really happening?

‘Come on, Sally. Tell Florence why you are sorry,’ urges her mother.

Renée steps forward and stands next to me. Sally sniffs in a nose full of snot and starts to speak. She is spitting and spluttering all over the place.

‘I never slept with Julian. He isn’t the father of my baby. I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand. I didn’t know Dad would beat him up and that he would leave Guernsey.’

The atmosphere feels as pregnant as her belly.

‘What did you say?’ asks Renée, her head thrust forward, her bottom lip hanging low.

‘I said that I never slept with Julian. I made it up. He isn’t the father of my baby,’ repeats Sally, dropping her head.

‘Well, who is the father then?’ asks Renée. More capable of words than me.

‘Phil.’

‘Who’s Phil?’ asks Renée, getting annoyed.

‘Oh my God, the twenty-seven-year-old from your dad’s work?’ I say, horrified. ‘You actually had sex with him? Did your dad beat him up as well?’

‘My husband deeply regrets what he did to your brother, Flo. He isn’t one for controlling himself when he gets upset,’ said Mrs Du Putron.

‘Please forgive me, Flo. The school have said that I can come back next term and study from home when the baby comes. We can still be best friends, and we can sit next to each other when I come in, can’t we?’ begs Sally.

I take a moment to examine her face. A face that has instilled such fear into me for so long. A face that has disempowered me, put me down, hurt my feelings and demoralised me over and over again. I have no pity for her at all. I could quite happily never see her ever again.

‘Actually no,’ I say. ‘I won’t be at Tudor Falls next year. I’m going to the grammar school.’

‘You’re what?’ asks Renée, stunned.

‘Yup. Mum has kindly refused to fork out for my Tudor Falls school fees any more so I’m coming to the grammar school too,’ I say, offering Renée a forgiving smile.

‘What do you mean, ‘‘too’’?’ asks Sally, as her tears dry up and she starts to resemble the Sally we all know and hate.

‘Me and Renée. We’re going together. Isn’t that right, Renée?’

‘That’s, right,’ she says, still confused but smiling too.

I walk closer to Sally. I take a good look at her face. I hope it’s the last time I ever see it. ‘Because
we
are best friends,’ I say, looking her right in the eye. ‘Good luck with motherhood. I’m off to live my life.’

As Sally watches us, speechless, her face pulsing from the shock, I link my arm through Renée’s and we walk away. Leaving a lifetime of memories behind us, my best friend and I leave Tudor Falls for the very last time.

‘I’m coming!’ I shout out of the window as Aunty Jo beeps her horn for the fifth time.

I shove the last of my books into my bag, zip it up and run down the stairs. After slamming the front door behind me I mouth ‘Sorry’ at Aunty Jo as the house rattles from the force of it.

‘Honestly, Renée. If you are ever on time for school it will be a miracle,’ she says, driving away from the house.

I turn the radio on and we sing along to ‘Country House’ by Blur. We make each other laugh by doing silly voices on the word ‘countrrryyyyyy’.

‘OK, quickly this morning,’ she tells me as we pull up at Flo’s house. I get out of the car and run up the drive. I knock once then go in.

‘Morning!’ I shout through the hallway.

‘Bloody hell, Renée, do you have to shout?’ says Flo’s mum as she comes out of the kitchen.

‘Sorry, Mrs Parrot. Morning,’ I whisper.

She rolls her eyes.

‘Hey,’ says Flo as she comes down the stairs. She looks cool in a tightish blue cardigan and a navy checked skirt, thick tights and black shoes. I still can’t get over how good it is not having to wear uniforms. Just one of the perks of being a sixth former at the grammar school. That, and boys.

‘Here you go, girls. One of these each,’ says Flo’s mum, offering us a plate with two slices of toast and Nutella on it.

‘Bye, Mum,’ says Flo. ‘Are you still OK to pick me up after hockey tonight?’

‘Yes, but don’t take ages in the changing room this time. I get stuck talking to the other mums when you do that and I have about as much in common with them as I do interest in hockey.’

‘I won’t.’

HONK HONK.

‘Bye, Mrs Parrot,’ I say, getting Aunty Jo’s hint loud and clear.

From the back seat I ask Flo to turn up the music. It’s ‘Without You’ by Mariah Carey. The three of us sing it (badly) at the top of our lungs. As we pull up to the school entrance other pupils look at us like we are idiots, but we don’t care.

‘I think Marcus Holmes is going to ask you out today,’ I say to Flo as we get out of the car.

‘No way! He fancies Vanessa Finton. It’s so obvious,’ she says, brushing it off like she always does when I say things like this.

‘When are you ever going to get a bloody boyfriend?’ I tease, pinching her on the arm.

‘When are you going to think about anything other than food or boys?’ she jokes back.

‘Come on, I’ll race you to the common room,’ I say. ‘Last one there buys chips at lunch.’

We both start to run.

‘BYE THEN?’ shouts Aunty Jo after us. We hear her but the stakes are too high to turn back. Along the corridor our new headmaster, Mr Bailey, shouts at us to stop running. Our feet stop before our bodies so we land in a giggling heap on the floor.

‘Renée and Flo, how many times do I have to tell you that the school corridors are not a running track?’ he says, standing over us.

We pick ourselves up and try to stop laughing.

‘Sorry, Mr Bailey,’ we proclaim in unison.

‘I think he fancies you,’ I say as he disappears around the corner.

‘OH, SHUT UP!’ Flo yells, thumping me on the arm.

We walk calmly to the common room, giggling all the way.

Thank you Emily Thomas, for calling me out of the blue and making my lifelong dream of writing fiction into a reality. And for being the kind of editor who says, ‘It’s a bit far, I love it’, rather than pulling me back. And for making me feel constantly encouraged and confident and like I could actually do this. I’m looking forward to doing it all over again.

Thank you to Georgia Murray for the meticulous line editing, and all at Hot Key Books for making being published an exciting, inspiring and fun experience. A brilliant team from marketing to editing. I’m very proud to be in the line-up with such a hot new publisher.

Adrian Sington, my literary agent, who has been there from the first time I said ‘I want to write books’ and thus seen me through to now. What fun the future holds.

Laura Hill, Alex Crump and Claire Morgan at Independent for being in control of my life and just being generally awesome. Alex, I miss you.

Laura Symons and Laura Hopps at Premier for pulling out the stops on the PR. I think people got the message!

John Di Garis for my fabulous cover photo and my cousin Elise Rix and her lovely friend Kerry Bowden for being Renée and Flo. Thanks to Jet Purdie at Hot Key Books for being patient and working with the image to create a fabulous jacket for
Paper Aeroplanes
. I love it.

Thank you Caroline Flack for the quote for the cover, and for being a great friend and someone I can rely on to be ridiculous with. Same goes for you Jo Elvin of
Glamour
magazine. Thank you, thank you.

Thank you to Andrew Anthonio and all at Mayfair Associates for making me feel endlessly secure and supported. We got through the bad times, now let the good times roll.

All the girls of Ladies College in the 90s. Most of you inspired this in some way. Special shout out to Janet Unit, Lucy Guilbert and Diana Kennedy for the stories and trips down memory lane. I hope this makes you smile.

Thanks to Lilu . . . my cat, my muse. (That’s right, I thanked my cat.) Who disappeared and devastated me, then came home the day I finished the last word of this book. Oddly found on the doorstep of one of my favourite authors, Lionel Shriver, which I translate as her giving me a sign that this whole writing a book thing was a good idea. Better also give a shout out to our dog, Potato. Because he is just the best little guy, and those extra heartbeats when I write make all the difference to me. (Yup, I thanked my dog as well.)

My most amazing friends Louise and Carrie for being the inspiration to this story. It is the way you guys make me feel that gave me the inspiration to write 70,000 words about friendship.

And my wonderful husband who high-fived me every time I finished a chapter. Those little moments of support are what get you through a daunting task like writing a book. Thank you for the mini celebrations every time I achieved something tiny and thank you for letting me bang on about two teenage girls who I hope you now understand. You’re nice and I like what happened.

My family, past and present.

And then I am going to thank Twitter, because I am modern. Without Twitter all those hours alone would have been spent ACTUALLY working and this book would have been finished a year ago. So thanks a lot Twitter, thanks a lot!

If you enjoyed Paper Aeroplanes, tell Dawn what you thought on Twitter now
@hotpatooties
@HotKeyBooks

Dawn O’Porter is a broadcaster and print journalist who lives in London with her husband Chris, cat Lilu and dog Potato. She has made documentaries about all sorts of things, including polygamy, childbirth, geishas, body image, breast cancer and even the movie Dirty Dancing.

Dawn has written for various UK newspapers and magazines including Grazia and Stylist. Although Dawn lives in London she spends a lot of time in LA and travels a lot. You may have seen her dragging two huge pink suitcases with broken wheels and her Siamese cat Lilu in a box through airports. At some point she plans to get new suitcases – the cat, however, has a few years left in her yet.

PAPER AEROPLANES is Dawn’s first novel.

Follow Dawn at
www.dawnporter.net
or on Twitter:
@hotpatooties

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hot Key Books, Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT

Copyright © Dawn O’Porter 2013

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ebook ISBN: 978-1-4714-0037-7