Drama Queen (14 page)

‘I was really, you know – knocked out by it,' he said. He took another step towards me. I took another step back. O-m-G. What should I do now? I could
hardly tell him the message was meant for Clare or I'd give the game away. All I could think of was to get rid of him as quickly as possible. With helpful timing the baby started crying again.

‘Look, you'd better go,' I said. ‘He doesn't like strangers.' I virtually bundled Cedric out of the door and closed it behind him. I stood there leaning against it, my mind racing.

This had put me totally off my stride.

The following Monday I posted my letter to Henry on the way to school and continued with a lighter heart. At least I was doing
something
.

The bus arrived. Clare had saved a seat for me as usual. I climbed in beside her.

‘So what am I doing wrong?' she demanded.

‘Nothing!' I replied, feeling really guilty. I had a horrible flashback of my message. Oh, why had it gone to
Cedric
, of all people?

‘But I must be. I was being really interested in his music and his bike and everything but he simply didn't react.'

‘Maybe you seemed too keen.'

‘You think so?'

‘You have to kind of encourage males without seeming too desperate.'

‘You think I'm acting like desperate?'

‘No, not desperate exactly, but you know males. You have to kind of get them interested by being interested but not
too
interested.'

‘And you think that I'm being
too
interested?'

‘Exactly. Look, from now on, cool it. Pretend he doesn't exist.'

‘I'll try.'

Once inside school, I met Mr Williams in the corridor. He asked me if I'd finished my revised
Romeo and Juliet
essay. When I said ‘almost' he practically self-combusted. He said that if I didn't have it in by lunchtime, which meant twelve-thirty on-the-dot, he would have to give me a failure grade for it which would bring my coursework average down even further.

‘But Mr Williams. I'll never get it done by lunchtime.'

‘That, Jessica, is your problem,' he said, and made off down the corridor.

Luckily the next class was double art. Now art
really is
my best subject. I was nicely ahead with my coursework. With any luck I could persuade Ms Mills to let me have an hour or so in the library to finish the essay.

I took my work out of my portfolio. They were studies for a still life of three oranges and a bowl of goldfish. I placed my sketches in a prominent position for inspection. I expected praise from Ms Mills. I sat with a modestly non-commital expression waiting for it while she went through my portfolio. She looked up with a frown. A
frown
!?

‘Yes, a good start as usual, Jessica. But I must say you've still a lot more work to put in. Especially on this final study …'

(More work? That final colour study was
brilliant
. I was thinking of entering it for the Turner Prize, as a matter of fact.)

‘… for a still life, it's very angular.'

‘But that's the point, Ms Mills. It's my tribute to Futurism.' (Couldn't she
see
?)

‘Sometimes, Jessica, I think you're trying to run before you can walk.
Square
oranges?'

Run? Hadn't she noticed the twentieth century? A whole hundred years has taken place since
anyone
had painted what she would call a
good
still life (something circa 1910 – definitely
before
Cezanne).

I was instructed to redo the final study. ‘Remember cold-warm-cold, dear. Oranges are
round
, Jessica. In case you hadn't noticed.'

‘But Ms Mills, I was hoping you might let me have some time off to work in the library. I'm a bit behind on an English ess—'

‘Out of the question, Jessica. Not when you've got so much to catch up on.'

I sat for the next hour obediently doing totally unoriginal perfectly rounded oranges in pastel and watching the minutes tick by on the art-room clock. Each one of them bringing me nearer and nearer to being a GCSE English failure. I'd never be a writer now. And it was all Mr Williams's fault. Twelve-thirty came and went. The bell rang for lunch, irrevocably sealing my fate.

I made my way miserably down to the canteen. Clare was there already.

‘What's up?'

‘Everything,' I moaned. ‘Like what?'

I explained about my
Romeo and Juliet
essay and my brilliant tribute to Futurism.

‘You can imagine what it's doing for my coursework averages. It's not fair, Mr Williams is being so anal. And Ms Mills is really down on me.'

‘You know why, don't you?'

‘No?'

‘It's obvious. Neither of them is married, or has a partner as far as we know. It's clearly sexual frustration, and they're taking it out on us.'

‘You think?'

‘Definitely.'

I paused in the middle of a forkful of shepherd's pie. They were both really into art.

Ms Mills + art – poodle hairdo + great smile. And Mr Williams + art – worn cords + nice hair. Or to put it more scientifically:

MsM + a – ph + gs = MrW + a – wc + nh

Or maybe:

Nice Match!

‘I've just had an idea,' I said. ‘Don't you think that they would be just perfect for each other?'

‘What, Ms Mills and Mr Williams?' Clare chewed on a radish thoughtfully. ‘Umm, well …I dunno, maybe.'

‘But they are.'

‘In which case, why haven't they got together?'

I shrugged. ‘Perhaps they need help.'

‘What sort of help?'

‘Like something to throw them together.'

‘Like what? Locking them up together in the supplies store?'

‘Maybe something a bit more subtle.' I wracked my brain. It needed to be something outside school. Some accidental meeting … Then it occurred to me. ‘Does your sister still get those free theatre tickets?' Clare's sister was a nurse. Her hospital was always getting hand-outs of free tickets for plays that nobody wanted to see.

‘Mmm. In fact, she's got some she can't use this Saturday, I think.'

‘Could you bring them in tomorrow?'

‘What are you up to?'

‘Just a little idea of mine.'

‘You'll
never
get those two together.'

‘Wanna bet?'

Next day I offered to clean the art-room sink after double art. Ms Mills was pottering around as usual collecting up brushes and putting paper away, so we had the room to ourselves. I said, ever so casually, ‘Ms Mills, do you like the theatre?'

‘Why do you ask, Jessica?'

‘It's just that I've been given this free ticket for the preview of the Brecht play at the Almeida and I can't go. It seems such a waste not to use it. I was looking for someone who's, you know, a bit cultural, to give it to.'

‘Well, how thoughtful of you, Jessica.' Ms Mills sounded flattered. ‘When's it for?'

‘This Saturday.'

‘Saturday. Yes. I'd like it very much. If you're sure there's no one else you want to give it to.'

I handed it over to her. It was so easy. Now for Mr Williams.

I came across him at breaktime putting up the poster for his play on the Arts Activities noticeboard.

I coughed politely to attract his attention. He turned and nearly jumped out of his skin at seeing me standing there.

‘Oh, Jessica! What can I do for you?' He looked really hot and uncomfortable for some reason. Probably regretting how terribly unfair he had been about my
Romeo and Juliet
essay.

‘I just wondered, Mr Williams, seeing as you're so interested in the theatre, whether you might like this ticket I can't use. It's for the Brecht play at the Almeida.' I held it out for him to see.

Mr Williams got his glasses out of his top pocket. ‘Oh … ooh. How nice of you, Jessica. Yes, I was thinking of going to it, as a matter of fact. Are you sure you can't use the ticket? Or change it for another night maybe? I wouldn't like you to miss the opportunity to experience Brecht live.'

‘It's a complimentary, Mr Williams. And I can't make Saturday.'

‘Then I accept with pleasure. Most thoughtful of you.' He put the ticket in his pocket.

I positively floated down the corridor to my locker, envisaging Saturday night and
love blossoming
in the centre stalls. I texted Clare right away.

nice match!
ms m and mr w sat night
row g seats no. 25 and 26

I lay in bed that night happily visualising Mr Williams and Ms Mills sitting side by side in the Almeida. Sharing a box of chocolates maybe. Having a drink together in the bar in the interval, laughing in a slightly embarrassed way about the coincidence that had brought them together. Later, he'd offer to drive her home, and then maybe she'd invite him in for coffee …

So much for Mr Williams and Ms Mills. Now for Jane and Henry. That Saturday was the day I was due to go to Forest Vale. Henry would have received my letter by now. He
had
to be there and he
had
to be the right Henry.

I washed my hair and used tons of conditioner and blow-dried it so that it was really shiny. I'd even washed my favourite jeans the night before and tumble dried them so that they shrank to an optimum fit. Not that it mattered, of course, what I looked like – I was only finding Henry for Jane.

The bus that morning seemed to take for ever, stopping at umpteen random stops which I hadn't remembered from the previous journey. I arrived early at the café all the same. I peered through the steamy windows. There was no one who looked as if they could possibly be Henry. Venturing inside, I
found the café's customers consisted of two blue-rinse ladies who were taking a break from shopping and an old man with a mangy dog and a pile of newspapers who looked as if he lived in the place. I bought myself a coffee and chose a table near a window away from the others and waited.

Each time the door opened with a jangle of the bell, I nearly jumped out of my skin. But the only people who turned up were a jogger who wanted a bottle of mineral water and a woman who came in collecting for charity.

I kept glancing at my watch – the minute hand seemed to be on a go-slow. Eleven o'clock came and went. By eleven forty-five I was starting to give up hope. I rubbed a place clear in the steamy window. And at that moment, this fit-looking guy appeared inside the circle of steam like the hero of an old movie.
He was coming straight for the café
.

He opened the door and looked around. My jaw dropped. This boy was
gorgeous
. Divine bright blue eyes met mine. In spite of myself my mind did a lightning calculation:

Did his sexy blue eyes, fit body, nice smile lines, high cheekbones, perfectly faded jeans, cool leather jacket, latest trainers,
equal
my nice, shiny, blow-dried
hair, long legs and straight teeth (thanks to two years of an agonising fixed brace), errm, nice-fitting jeans, not bad T-shirt, decent nails (I'd stopped biting them), errm (I tried to think of more positives but I was really scraping the barrel now).

H + (sbe + fb + nsl + hcb + pfj + clj + lt) = J + (nsbdh + ll + st + nfj + nbTs + dn)
Match Pl-ease?

Because frankly, I wouldn't substitute a single thing about him.

But could this be Henry? He was slightly shy-looking. A little young perhaps to suggest
marriage
. But then some people married really young, didn't they? Lucky Jane. I hoped she appreciated him. I'd hardly be human if I hadn't felt just a flicker of envy. No, more than a flicker – the green serpent shifted and stretched and recoiled itself inside me. I reassessed my image of Jane. Suddenly she had thinner lips, and there was a cold calculating look in her eyes. She certainly didn't deserve him. What Henry needed was someone understanding. Somebody more like
me
.