The Manifesto on How to be Interesting (25 page)

“Alright then.”

They rode the Tube in more silence. Each stop punctuated the awkwardness, making the situation feel even more screwed up. But Bree hoped that getting away from the scene of the non-kiss might make things normal again. Well, as normal as a teacher and student playing hooky to go stare at some dead woman's writing desk can be.

“We're here.” She strode out of the carriage, leaving him to follow. They emerged into weak sunlight shining directly into their eyes – the sort of low winter sun that painted everything gold. Bree already felt better. Mr Fellows looked around him – taking in the tourists, the pigeons, and Nelson's Column.

“Trafalgar Square? What are we doing here?”

She pointed over the heads of about ten thousand tourists photographing the fountain to the grand staircase of the National Gallery.

“We're going there.”

He followed her finger. “The National Gallery?”

She nodded.

“You're into art?”

“No. Not usually. But probably the only painting I care about in the whole world is in that gallery.”

And for the first time since the Jane Austen desk incident, he smiled. “Now I'm intrigued.”

She smiled back. “Well, let's go in and satisfy your curiosity.”

They made their way past huddled groups of tourists, not even glancing up at Nelson's Column as only London-regulars could, and climbed the ornate staircase. The moment they entered the gallery, the hustle and bustle of the city was replaced with whispers. The air was cool. Bree hadn't been there in years and had forgotten how beautiful the entrance hall was. She crossed the turquoise mosaic floor and stared up at the glass domed ceiling. It was stunning.

She felt Logan by her side.

“Whoa, that's pretty.”

“It is indeed.”

“So where's this favourite painting of yours?”

“Erm. Straight ahead, maybe?”

“You don't know? I thought it was your favourite painting in the world.”

“I can look at it online whenever I want.”

He smiled again. “That is so sad.”

They got a bit lost. Bree ended up having to ask directions and the gallery guy looked a bit surprised at her request.

“Erm, that painting?” He scratched his head. “Room Five, I think.”

She followed the signs and, soon, there it was. In a small red room with nobody else in there. Bree sat down right in front of it and grinned when she saw the look on Logan's face.

“This?”

“Do you like it?”

“It's grotesque! What? I'm so confused.”

“It's called
The Ugly Duchess
.”

“It's a bloke in a dress.”

“It's not a bloke, look, she's got boobs.”

Logan wrinkled his nose. “Ergh. I missed those. They're like shrivelled balloons. It's horrific.”

Bree watched all the emotions play out on his face, still smiling, before turning her attention back to the painting. She'd never really “got” art and how people could “get lost” in paintings. She'd often thought people only pretended enthusiasm to make themselves appear more cultured and interesting. But, with this one, she got it. Just staring into the brushstrokes coaxed her mind into a quiet spot it very rarely visited. She examined the duchess's wrinkled face, her intricate headdress and the small red flower she clutched in her hand like her life depended on it.

Who were you?
Bree thought.

Logan sat next to her, a bit too close.

“Okay. So it's…different…but why is this your favourite painting? It's not exactly easy on the eye.”

“That's what I like about it.”

“Why?”

Bree thought back to the day she first saw this painting and all the thoughts she'd had, right on this very bench, all those years ago.

“How many portraits of pretty blonde women with their perfect boobs out did we walk past to get to this room?”

“I dunno. Every other painting, I guess.”

“That's exactly why I like this one. She's gross. Horrendous to look at. Her breasts are all deflated, her face is like a nightmare, she makes you recoil. And yet…somebody, somewhere, a long, long time ago, thought this woman was worth the time – the
days
– needed to paint her picture. To make her place in the world more permanent.”

“Why?”

She moved even closer to him on the bench. “That's precisely why I like it. I don't know. But she obviously had some story to tell.”

“You think she was interesting in some way other than the way she looked?”

She looked at him. “Exactly.”

They sat there for a while, just looking.

“Bree?”

“Yes?”

“I like that this is your favourite painting…”

“But…?”

“But…well, you wouldn't put it on your bedroom wall, would you?”

She laughed. “No. I suppose you wouldn't.”

“Bree?” His voice sounded a bit nervous.

“Yes?”

“Why are you so obsessed with people being interesting?”

That
was a question and a half. She felt herself get ruffled and defensive, her skin itching the way it always did when someone hit a bit too close to her private thoughts. This was Logan though…

“What do you mean?” She stalled for time.

“Well, this painting, and all the new things you're doing at school. Why? Why aren't you happy just being you?”

Bree stopped looking at the painting and instead assessed her feet.

“I want to be a good writer. And you're the one who said I had to lead a more interesting life.”

He looked worried. “I think you took what I said too literally, Bree. I never told you to change who you are.”

“I want to be a writer, more than anything,” she protested. “And you were right, I didn't have anything to write about. But now I do.”

His eyebrows furrowed together in concern. “What? What are you writing?”

She considered telling him about the blog. About the rules. But the words got wedged somewhere inside her before they were even near to her throat. Much as she had fallen for him, this…thing, whatever it was she was doing, it was just for her.

“Nothing. Just, you know, scribbling in my diary. The normal sort of crap seventeen-year-olds write about.”

“I'm sure it's not crap.”

“What if I told you I was writing
The Pier
sequel?”

He spluttered with laughter despite himself.

“See!”

“Sorry, Bree. Honestly, I'm sure whatever you're working on is brilliant.”

She looked back at
The Ugly Duchess
. “I dunno. Life is so bloody hard. I don't want the whole struggle to be pointless. If I'm going to get crap thrown at me from great heights my whole life, well, I want to damn well make sure I leave a mark on this world in exchange for all the misery. I
need
to be interesting, Logan, I need to be someone. Because…otherwise…I'm just sad and lonely and confused and it's all for nothing. And she” – she gestured towards the painting – “she might have been a total minger, but she was interesting enough for someone to paint her. And now, here she is, hanging on a wall in the National Gallery. She probably had a horrible, lonely life and has been dead for hundreds of years, but now, technically, she's immortal.”

Bree finished her speech with a tight voice. Logan was quiet for a moment, before cautiously putting his arm around her.

“It gets better, Bree. Life, I mean. You will never be more miserable than you are aged seventeen. Not because life itself gets easier – it's always going to be hard in some way. But you know yourself better, and you don't care what people think as much.”

She shrugged him off, not wanting to get confused again by the will-they-won't-theyness between them. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I hated school. I don't think there are enough adjectives in the English dictionary to describe how awful I felt throughout adolescence. But now…” He tailed off.

“Now you're so happy that you've pulled a sickie from work and lied to your wife so you can spend the day in London with a teenager?” she finished for him.

Well, someone had to say it. Eventually.

He didn't stand up to leave, not like she thought he would. He just shook his head a bit.

“I'm not sure what we're doing, Bree. But I know that, so far, we've not done anything wrong.”

So far…

“All I know is that, for some reason, we need to see a bit of each other at the moment. For both of us. I've had such a great day.”

She looked over at him and nuzzled her head into his neck to try and get him to put his arm back round her.

“Really?”

He grinned and obliged. “Really.”

Their intent attention on
The Ugly Duchess
meant all the silly tourists crowded round them, queuing to get close, and taking pictures on their phones – tricked into thinking it was
The Mona Lisa
or something. Bree's elbow got jostled by one enthusiastic American wearing not one but two bumbags.

“Ouch.”

Logan manoeuvred her more into him so she was out of the way of the stampede.

“Have you had enough time with her? Maybe we could grab some food?”

“That sounds great.”

And, getting their elbows out ready to fend off sightseers, they barged their way out of the room.

The next hour was spent stuffing their faces with afternoon tea in a place Logan knew. Bree happily sampled every flavour of teeny tiny sandwich, all the scones, and the two types of clotted cream on offer. Although nothing would ever compare to the joy of a strawberry Pop-Tart.

They waddled out, feeling pretty sick, into London rush-hour traffic and tried to navigate their way to Victoria station in a sugar-induced haze. The entire city appeared to be heading in the opposite direction from them so it was like swimming upstream in an endless torrent of grey suits and glazed-over eyes. They were banged into and jerked about by seemingly everyone – too busy being busy and important for manners. In the end, Bree turned it into a game, and yelled “I'M THE SALMON, I'M THE SALMON” whenever they accidently stepped into another crowd of incoming walking traffic. Logan took it a step further, adding a fish face and flapping his body about limply, while the swarms of people rushed past, deliberately ignoring their attempts at humour. Exhausted by giggling, fish impressions, and the day in general, they collapsed onto their train and rode home quietly. Bree leaned on his shoulder as she watched the grey buildings whizz past and turn back into meadows and mansions.

It got awkward though when they came to say goodbye. Logan kept looking around anxiously.

“So, I guess I'll see you tomorrow,” Bree said, so sad that the day was over. She felt rejuvenated and free, and like herself for the first time in ages.

“Yes, I've got you first thing, haven't I?”

She nodded.

“You'd better have done your coursework.” He waggled his finger.

It was supposed to be a joke but Bree could almost hear a klaxon honking.

“When have I ever not done my coursework?” Although admittedly it had been a struggle to get it all done recently, what with her blog, her workouts, playing pretend with Jass… She'd only just made her Latin deadline last week, when usually she handed coursework in two weeks in advance.

“Yes…right… Oh, is that the time?” He looked at his watch. “I'd better…”

Bree looked at the time on her phone. “Yeah, me too. I'd better…”

They stood in silence.

Finally, she said, “I had such an amazing day, Logan – sorry, I mean, sir. It was just what I needed. Thank you.”

He readjusted her scarf, a proud look on his face. “You do seem a lot happier than yesterday.”

“I am.”

“Is it back to being the most popular girl in school again tomorrow, then?”

She rolled her eyes, not really wanting to think about Jassmine and Hugo just yet. It was so rare in her life to have moments to truly cherish, she wasn't going to wreck it with bad thoughts.

“Yep. I guess so.”

“Okay. Bye, Bree.”

“Bye, sir.”

He turned and walked away first. She watched him become smaller and smaller, until he was ant-sized. Then she turned on her own heels to go home.

Rule number four: One must fall in love with somebody forbidden

So we're off sex – probably for ever – and now we're onto its much less exciting, but oh-so-much-more important relative: love.

L.O.V.E.

It's what we're here for, folks. To find someone. To have them find you. To have a warm burning in your belly that makes you want to kiss the world for making you feel so wonderful, and also throw rocks at it because you hate how vulnerable it's made you.

And when we're not desperately searching for it ourselves, we're hunting for stories of other more successful seekers. Is there any story more beautiful to listen to than how a couple got together? Even boring couples. Even ugly couples. Even imaginary couples. We read books about people who don't exist, who are only a collection of character strokes on a page, and actively YEARN for them to be together.

These tiny dramas of first moves, missed opportunities, and misread signals make up the very best of human life. If it were possible, we would cover ourselves with superglue and roll around until we were covered in love story after love story, like a protective blanket from everything else that is shit.

Love is interesting.

Falling in love is interesting.

Being in love is interesting.

Falling out of love is interesting.

But it is so unimaginably more interesting if that love is forbidden.

You aren't supposed to be together.

This particular love isn't allowed.