To Be Honest (14 page)

“And the letter?”

“He thanked me, but took the piss. Basically he just thought it was weird.”

“So you read it?” I knew it. I’m livid.

“
No
,” she says, spinning so fast I believe her. “I wouldn’t do that. But it’s pretty obvious what you put.”

And the scent of blueberry disappears from my nostrils ‘cos I had more faith in Josh than that. But he’s in love, so I guess I’ll forgive him.

“What about Kai?” I’m still trying to process the longing looks; the lingering; the basic obsession.

Miss Mint puts her chin in the pads of her fingers and holds it.

“Was Felix with him? Kai, I mean? When Josh mooned over him?”

I nod, slowly.

“I think Josh was scared,” she says, wisely. “He knows the whole school worships Kai and Felix’s not out yet so he’d be scared too. Kai, was cover for Josh and Frankee for Felix. It’s just like one of those weird celebrity shows, or Shakespearean drama,” her eyes roll. “I think it’s amazing, but sad in a way,” and she shakes her head, sadly. “Hidden love sucks.”

Yes, I know, I think. “And you’re with Kai now.” I’m testing. I’m soft; I am raw. I don’t know if I’m ready to find that out for sure.

She takes a deep breath and then holds out her palms. “I think so,” she says. Then she crosses her arms. “But really I’m doing you a favour.”

“Oh? How come?”

“Well when we swap our lives back, the deed’s already done.”

“What do you mean?” Dread scuttles like beetles all over my neck. I think what I’m hearing is the last thing I want.

“Kai and I having sex.” There, she’s said it. The harmony’s

broken.

Mr Morlis will be so disappointed.

* * *

Now we’re trying to think of ways to help Mum. ‘Cos she’s not baking or making; her spending’s got out of control. I see where I get it from now.

Mum’s stuck on internet shopping like tartar to teeth, Miss Mint says, which is quite witty for her.

I think of the short, black dress price. What a fool. What was I thinking? Eighty quid! I could pay for Mum’s heating for a month. Go to Paris with Taff. Like a grown up. Which would be a million times more fun than Courtney’s party.

Miss Mint says it’s easy.

“All your mum needs to do is to realize there’s more to life than home trimmings and sewing. She needs an event. Something fun. To dress up.”

That won’t be easy, I think. You don’t know my mum. But then I remember she does. I tell her about the dress and me lying and she goes kind of quiet and says, “well, let’s give it to her.”

“What?”

“She said it’s grown up, right? The dress, I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“So she’s a grown up. So we’ll just say it’s hers now.”

I’m not sure quite how that will help, but the power of clothes is something I’ve come to believe in recently. She’s nothing to wear it to though, I think meanly. Quite seriously. If there’s a neighbourhood party, Mum says she won’t go, which I think is ridiculous. Mum’s forty two. If she doesn’t start partying, what will she do? End up all lonely and take up bowling?

“OK, she can have it.” Mum does need some bling. “You think that will help, though?” I’m still not convinced. Last time Mum wore Lycra, like, everyone winced. It was Easter and Dad had just left the country. Mum went on a bender of
SATC
meetings-up and it all came to a sticky end when she threw a tea party.

She went round the bend making scones and tooth-friendly, no-sugar fruit cake and chocolate éclairs. Such great care did she take with the masses of food, she entirely forgot to get something nice to wear. That’s when she got the idea of internet shopping, you see. One click and she’d bought a demure, on-the-knee Lycra number. The only thing was, she’d not checked what the size was so when the guests came, she was decked in this miniscule slut-suit: Miss Mint would have died. The dress was appalling, and Mum nearly cried.

Luckily, Martha was there to assist. She doled out the teacakes. “Get out now,” she’d hissed and Mum got changed into cords and a tunic, I think. I tell Miss Mint all this. I see her heart

Sink.

“So she doesn’t do Lycra?”

“She might if it’s right. And not too revealing, or small, or skin-tight,” I say, ‘cos I’m thinking it might be a plan now that Dad’s gone to try and find Mum a nice man.

* * *

I can’t stop thinking about Kai and Miss Mint maybe having sex. We skirted the issue for the rest of the day, like
Strictly on Ice
, winding and weaving our words, skating round important bits and missing out others. There’s no lies, but we’re up to day six. Six jour. And I’m starting to feel like what we don’t say counts, for sure. ‘Cos my chest kind of hurts, like pleurosis.

* * *

Taff’s back the next day, so we say our goodbyes and I traipse back home, well to 45, and stop off at Waitrose to buy wine, which I can, no ID questions asked. And that’s fine, but what’s not fine is when I get home I pour one massive glass and then slide off of
Posy
and

Onto

The

Floor.

‘Cos sex with Taff’s definitely breaking the law.

“Back by three,” Taff had boomed carefully down the line from the ‘base’ as he calls it. “See you then. Keep things hot.”

And I’d said, “what, the roast? Oh yes, fine. I’ll do pork. Lots of crackling.” He’d cracked up, delighted, ‘cos I’d talked about food, so I hadn’t had time to consider the rude innuendo.

I’ve passed my week’s marking to Miss Mint and she’s given me homework. We argued a bit, ‘cos she seems to think her doing physics revision and me ticking year 7 spelling’s unfair. But I think she should just get a life, to be honest. I’m sitting and struggling with forces and fields; stupid Newton and circuits and weird curving yields, when a figure appears in the window and slinks, pale and lithe, like a stealthy, elasticky lynx, past the house.

It’s Felix. He knocks once on Josh’s front door.

I turn away, glad. I don’t need to see more.

* * *

Taff’s back a bit early: two minutes to three. The taxi draws up as I’m stirring gravy.

Who knew I could do that? Have I stirred it enough? Are there lumps? There
are
lumps, oh no, oh and they’re big ones and also there’s one in my throat as the door slams.

He’s in and he’s there and it’s wrong. It’s wrong as he pushes me up against the draining board, smoothes back my hair and says, ‘hi’. It’s wrong as he takes the spoon from me and licks, licks it well.

Really well.

And says, ‘yum, this is wonderful, Phoeb. Come here. Grrr.”

But it’s wrong ‘cos it’s not me he’s telling, it’s her.

So to stop all this wrongness, I turn into Mum. I fly round the room, whisk away every crumb, with clanging and basically making as Much Noise as Possible. He’s watching me now, from the oven, and you know that phrase, ‘a smile plays on lips?’ well, his comes back to mine

For a thoroughly, utterly, really good time.

His smile, I mean. Up, down, all over, it skips. It visits my mouth; stays a while, then it strays round my jaw bone, my ear lobe, the nape of my neck. And here I was thinking I’d give him a peck on the cheek and it would all be fine. Not likely.

Taff takes my hand and says, “let’s go upstairs,” and I instantly know that this man really cares for Miss Mint. Phoebe Mint. And it’s not my call to pull him. Nor his. No, it’s not ours at all.

The way I get round it is really quite cool. I wink at him and say, “I bet you’ll drool over all of this food I’ve done, mainly for you,” and I do, so I don’t need to stress it’s not true. It works. He’s interested. His smile takes a break from kissing my fingers. His head starts to shake really slowly, like he can’t believe it’s real that his food-freaked fiancée has made this great meal.

So after we can’t stuff any more parsnips and potatoes in, we sit down on
Posy
and cuddle. Which is fine, I think, ‘cos Miss Mint wouldn’t mind that. And he says with a twinkle, “Phoebs, I love you but I have to say I love you even more now you’re a tiny bit fat.”

And I hit him. ‘Cos even though I don’t care how much I eat and the food was delicious, I’m not turning into a porker like Olly Goddard. Not for anyone.

* * *

After we’ve dozed a bit,
Posy
’s getting uncomfy and I have an idea.

“Let’s walk to the Country Kitchen.”

It takes some persuading, ‘cos Taff’s stiff and burning in places I don’t want to think about. But he grunts and heaves off the sofa and stretches his incredible arms out. We gather ourselves and our wits and our mitts and our coats, ‘cos it’s cold outside, and shouldn’t we take the Lamborghini or just stay in? He says with a grin. And again, he is nuzzling and pressing, caressing, but even though everything in me says ‘yes’, my outside is strong and well done, Miss Mint, I think, ‘cos eventually we leave. I’m wearing the peacock coat from last Saturday. The military boots. My chignon’s in place.

Well, maybe a little bit messy.

The Arts Centre’s rammed. We push through the jammed up weekenders, all down from the buzz of The City, which I think sounds fun, and settle for something light: maybe a bun.

We sit in the corner. Martha’s by herself, rushing round tables; a sinewy elf. But then she stops, sharp. The cake stand’s unclean; she gestures at someone.

I know it’s Miss Mint well before I see her. She’s wearing my top with the stain on the back and she’s using a mop by the counter. She puts it down, sighs, goes and sees what Martha wants. I can lip read but even if I couldn’t, I’d know it was about chocolate fudge.

“So what would you like?” I fold my arms and he says I look business-like, though his rippling, tweedy shoulders make me want to unfold them again and reach over macramé and ... but part of me’s feeling professional.

“So, what would you like?” breathes Miss Mint and I take a long gaze, though I know exactly what’s down on menu card.

He looks at her briefly, and I’m back at the fountain; that wink. He’s searching the card, though, after a drink. We choose ginger beer.

“Oh, right. Not Mint tea?”

His eyes sip her slowly. Almost tea-singly.

He can’t know her. Can he? Impossible. Surely.

Miss Mint’s face is blank as the page on her pad, ‘cos she’s a professional.

* * *

He tells me of races and rowlocks and drinking and men barking through loud loudspeakers; boats sinking and rude stories told over late curries. It’s like year 8 camp used to be and I think it’s quite funny how training means basically having a laugh with your friends. I tell him and he takes a second ... then says, “you’re right, Pheebles,” and laughs. And then it’s like adverts, where couples just laugh for no reason.

Miss Mint’s look reads treason as she comes towards us with the bill. I feel ill.

And he takes it and makes it still worse ‘cos he goes, “you’re a smart girl,” to Miss Mint and touches his nose in that way that means, “I know you know,” and my pulse starts to quicken. But then if I listen, he’s saying, “keep the tip, yeah?” and slipping ten pounds on the plate.

It’s quite late by the time we’ve shared lavender cake and I make a quick calculation: it’s half six now and he’ll want sex soon if I’m not the cox in this boat and I text Miss Mint. ‘Cos what I’m doing sux. But here goes. And I wonder if he and Miss Mint go for rows. Anyway, I say,

“I’m Miss Mint,” and he looks cheeky and says, “yes, Pheebs, I know.”

And I take a breath that has the potential to blow his mind, and I say,

“but inside I’m a girl. I’m fifteen.”

He drinks and then chokes. “This beer’s lively,” he says. “Quite a kick.”

And I stare at him hoping I won’t be sick and I know there’s no turning back now. And I wonder if he and Miss Mint often row. Martha’s put the ‘Closed’ sign up.

I tell Taff we’ve swapped.

He looks over towards the place that’s been mopped and itches his skull and flexes his knuckles and says, “god, I’m full. I’m not sure I’m up for much more, honestly. So how ‘bout we go home ...” his voice gets sexy.

“That’s what I’m trying to say: we can’t.” I don’t speak any more. I just watch myself swabbing down the tiled floor. “I’m underage really, and you’re nearly fifty. It’s all just so wrong.”

And he looks at me now, like I’m from Hong Kong.

“You’re serious,” he says, like I’ve turned on a light. And slowly he watches Miss Mint take a bite of the chocolate fudge cake, then put it back down.

“Pheebs wouldn’t do that, though.” He’s starting to frown.

“But she’s trying,” I plead with him, hoping he’ll see that I’m telling the truth: that, “I’m really Lisi Reynolds. Year 10 at Fairmere. I’m in Miss Mint’s class.”

Silently, he watches her lift the glass gateaux covers and expertly wipe the stands. Then we’re interrupted by Martha’s loud cough.

“We’re closed now,” she barks, ‘cos she’s always direct. Her gappy mouth smiles, which has the effect of scaring off customers if it needs to.