Girls, Guilty but Somehow Glorious (4 page)

.

.

6

SATURDAY 9.45 p.m.

I break my solemn promise . . .

Donut slouched off to ‘bring the car round’. It made him sound like a manservant – but then, that’s the sort of relationship he has with Beast, or so the gossip runs. Chloe was sitting on the wall sort of snivelling and shuddering. Beast was stroking her leg and whispering things to her. I felt decidedly spare. It’s usually my job to look after Chloe and reassure her, but that job appeared to be taken.

Chloe specialises in injuries and ailments. This was the third time in our relationship that she had demanded to be taken to hospital. But I was beginning to suspect she had double motives this time. She wasn’t staring into Beast’s eyes or anything gross, but she was kind of looking down in fascination at his hands, and listening.

She knew it was her duty to struggle bravely to her feet, grab my arm, and say firmly, ‘Come on, Zoe! We’ll get a taxi home. It’s all right, Mr Beast, or whatever your name is – thanks for your help,’ exactly as laid out in the
Anxious Parents’ Charter.

I felt a bit uneasy as the last time I’d been driven by a schoolboy, the car had mounted the pavement and destroyed the frontage of Flowers to Go. We had been unhurt, luckily, but the chrysanthemums were utterly mashed. I had assured my parents I would never go in a boy’s car again.

‘If you faithfully keep this promise, Zoe,’ Mum had said, with her Serious Face on, ‘we’ll buy you a puppy when you’re twenty-one.’

Typical of my family. You have to walk everywhere for six years, until your feet are covered with massive blisters the size of the moon, before you can get your hands on a puppy. Chloe’s parents got her a puppy while she was still at primary school. Although Chloe’s puppy has turned into the huge and rather sordid dog called Geraint. Much as I envy the puppy idea, I’ve always been a bit wary of Geraint. Sometimes he behaves as if he’s some kind of sleazy boy in dog’s clothing.

‘It’s OK,’ I said, asserting myself at last. ‘There’s no need for you guys to leave the concert. We’ll get a taxi. My family’s got an account with a taxi firm.’

‘Don’t worry – Donut’s a very careful driver,’ said Beast, looking up at me and winking. I wished he wouldn’t do that. It made me feel part of a conspiracy or something.

‘Zoe!’ hissed Chloe unexpectedly. ‘Donut has gone for his car now! It doesn’t matter! It’s only to casualty.’ I was amazed at her foolhardiness. She must know that Beast and Donut were planning to drive out of town at 100 mph, over several roundabouts and through several electronics stores without stopping, and eventually mug us and abandon us in a wild wood, stranded without our mobile phones or handbags, in the rain.

‘Anyway,’ said Beast, grinning, ‘the band is crap.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Chloe. ‘They suck. Ow! My stinkin’ ankle!’

Beast caressed her foot some more.

I was astonished. Chloe
adored
Toilethead. They were her favourite band. She had pictures of them stuck on her bedroom wall. She had once collected their autographs on her thigh and hadn’t washed for a week. And now apparently they were crap, just because Beast Hawkins said so. Mad, Bad, Dangerous Beast. I was amazed and, needless to say, horrified.

Shortly afterwards, Donut strolled in, carrying his car keys in a raffish, joyriding, hooligan kind of way.

‘I’m illegally parked,’ he said as if it was the coolest thing in the world. ‘So move, guys!’ I wondered if it was too late to send a goodbye text to my parents. A deep sense of doom settled over me.

Somehow Beast got into the back of the car with Chloe, and I was sure he was going to be holding on to and stroking several other bits of Chloe as well as her ankle. This meant I had to sit in the front with Donut. I glanced sideways at him. His warts were worse than ever. He grinned at me, and his teeth flashed greenly in the streetlights.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Please don’t drive fast, because I get carsick.’

‘Don’t worry, babe,’ he said. ‘I used to be a speed freak but since I wrote off the last car I’m a reformed character.’

He started the car. I shrank back in my seat and prepared to meet my Maker. But what was this? Donut edged the beat-up old banger ever so gently out into the city traffic, and drove like a sweet old lady down towards the hospital.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what you doin’ later?’ I was torn between the desire to keep him in a good mood because he was driving, and the desire to tell him to take a running jump.

‘I have to go home,’ I said, ‘and babysit for my two little brothers. Because my parents are going to a nightclub later.’ It was easy, inventing both younger brothers (I was thinking of the dreaded Norman twins) and a parental lifestyle. A nightclub! My parents’ idea of fun after 10 p.m. is a cup of cocoa and a DVD of
Miss Marple.

‘I’m a five-star babysitter,’ grinned Donut, looking as if he habitually ate five babies for breakfast.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No Followers. It’s a strict rule of the house.’ I was a bit pissed off that Chloe wasn’t backing me up. It was so quiet in the back, I wondered if she and Beast were actually snogging or something. I was so tempted to turn round and have a look.

‘Followers?’ said Donut. ‘Whatdjer mean?’ Though a sixth former, he was clearly intellectually challenged.

‘It’s just one of my parents’ stupid jokes,’ I explained. ‘Back in the Victorian era, there was, like, a No Followers rule for servants. Like, they weren’t allowed to – uh, entertain men friends.’

‘Bummer!’ said Donut, and sighed unpleasantly.

Suddenly we arrived at the hospital. We drove right up to casualty and helped Chloe out. Then we went inside and registered. Chloe was hanging on to Beast all the time, even though I was there and quite willing to support her. She clearly fancied him like hell. I was disgusted with her – or would be, once I was sure she’d escaped serious injury.

.

.

7

SATURDAY 10.28 p.m.

Heart stopping-moment in casualty

We sat in a corner of casualty. Chloe sat between me and Beast. He had his arm round her shoulders. I thought this was a bit of a liberty. So I threw my arm round her shoulders, too. That meant, however, that what I’d done was throw my arm round his arm. He peeped at me behind her back and winked. My God! What a two-timer! He was already flirting with her best friend, literally behind her back!

I had other, more pressing problems: Donut was sitting next to me and his huge thigh was pressing sideways against mine. It wasn’t all that different from being snuggled by a fat dog wearing denim. I wriggled grumpily.

‘Shove up a bit, can’t you?’ I said.

‘Sorry, babe,’ said Donut. ‘Crowded in here, innit?’

It was. People were pouring in all the time. Guys with bleeding heads, women with dodgy collarbones, an old lady with a black eye. They all looked worse than Chloe. I wondered how long it would be before she gave up, admitted she was the least hurt of anybody there, and limped off home.

Suddenly there was the sound of a laughing baby. People looked round. Oh no! It was my phone! I have a laughing baby ringtone. I regret it sometimes. I dived into my bag and grabbed it. A number I didn’t recognise showed on the display.

‘Hello?’ I said. On all sides, people were watching.

‘Hi,’ said a deep sexy male voice. ‘Could I speak to Jane Elliott, please?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Wrong number.’ Thank God. I didn’t fancy taking a phone call here.

‘Uh, wait,’ said the voice. ‘Is that Africa?’ For a split second my memory banks tried to warn me that I ought to know what the guy was talking about. But I was so aware of all the strangers watching and listening that I couldn’t concentrate.

‘No?’ I shook my head sarcastically as if I was being called by a retard. ‘It’s
England?
I think you must have a wrong number.’

‘Sorry. I was hoping to speak to Africa Stevens or Jane Elliott about an advert – some kind of weekend project. My name’s Matthew Kesterton.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry! Of course!’ My heart almost leapt out of my mouth and impaled itself on one of the coathooks by the door. My alias was so damn subtle, I’d completely forgotten it! For an instant there I hadn’t even remembered that Chloe was Africa! I was so distracted by all this Beast and hospital stuff, our ad had gone completely out of my head. I felt myself blushing furiously, and struggled to my feet.

‘Just a second, sorry . . .’ I said. ‘I do remember something about this. I’m not Jane, but I could take a message for her, or even maybe . . .’ I weaved my way towards the exit.

My mind was racing. What could I say and not sound a total imbecile? Matthew certainly had a charismatic voice, and I didn’t want to alienate him totally before we’d even had a chance to inspect him.

‘Sorry about that,’ I said, as I reached the relative privacy of the corridor. ‘I’m Jane’s aunt, and I’m in a hospital casualty department. There’s been a bit of an accident, and I seem to have picked up Jane’s phone by mistake. Wait – she’s round here somewhere – there she is! Jane!’ I called out to myself, hoping no one was watching. The corridor was semi-deserted, thank God.

‘There’s a call for you, Jane,’ I said to myself. ‘I seem to have picked up your phone . . .’ Then I did a bit of dramatic rustling, swapped the phone to my other hand, dug deep and produced a different voice.

‘Hi!’ I said. ‘This is Jane!’ I should never have gone squeaky. I sounded like a demented glove puppet on a children’s TV show from the 1960s.

‘Sorry to ring at an inconvenient time,’ said Matthew. ‘I hope nobody’s seriously hurt?’

‘Oh no!’ I squeaked. ‘It’s OK! It’s my Aunt Lizzie’s friend Bertie.’ Where in the world did that name come from? ‘He fell off a ladder. He was painting her ceiling. He thinks he might have broken his ankle.’

‘Oh God,’ said Matthew. ‘I’m really sorry.’ He was so sympathetic and polite, bless him! Lavishing all his concern on a Bertie who never existed! ‘Can he move his foot at all?’ asked Matthew. I was getting a bit irritated now. Did Matthew have to pry quite so much into the personal medical records of somebody? Even if that somebody was fictitious?

‘Yes, he can move it,’ I said, so squeakily my throat literally hurt. ‘To be honest, I think it’s just sprained. We can talk about the project, no problem.’ No problem apart from ruptured vocal cords, anyway.

‘So this project,’ said Matthew. ‘What is it, exactly?’

At this point I realised that Chloe and I had given no thought whatever to the fictitious ‘project’ we were going to be pretending to interview the guys about. For an instant I was tempted to shriek an insane noise down the phone or run into the nearest loo and hurl it down the toilet. But Matthew’s sexy voice kept me focused – just.

‘It’s to do with, well, uhhhh,’ (I was thinking on my feet, now) ‘did you see that programme called
The Life Laundry
?’

‘No,’ said Matthew. ‘Does it matter?’

‘No, no,’ I insisted. ‘It was about, you know, helping people to reorganise their lives, y’know? That’s what this project’s all about.’

‘What’s the rate of pay?’ Matthew asked – rather cheekily, I thought. Though I suppose if I was applying for a job it would be uppermost in my mind.

‘Uhhh, £5.60 per hour,’ I said. There was a silence. Matthew was evidently disappointed. I didn’t want him to be put off. ‘That’s the starting wage, obviously, but you know, it could go up.’

‘Oh,’ said Matthew. He was sounding slightly less than thrilled. I had to keep him interested.

‘Look, can you come for an interview?’ I asked.

‘When?’ enquired Matthew.

‘Well, how about – tomorrow afternoon?’ I was flying by the seat of my pants here.

‘What time?’ asked Matthew.

‘Well, could you make, say 2 p.m.?’

‘Sure,’ said Matthew. I loved the way he said
sure
. The guy was just dripping testosterone, you could tell. I gave him Chloe’s address, because I knew that tomorrow afternoon my parents were going to be hanging about and doing things at home.

I didn’t want my dad Trying to Be Amusing or my mum hovering nearby with a Terribly Concerned look on her face while we were trying to conduct a serious interview. Also we hadn’t told them about the ad, and I just knew my mum would disapprove. Quite apart from the fact that I would have to be a squeaky Jane for interview purposes, and Chloe was going to have to become Africa.

It would be much easier to do it at Chloe’s. Her dad’s always in Dubai, and we could easily get rid of her mum for a few hours by telling her a strange star had appeared in the east, or something.

‘OK,’ said Matthew with thrilling briskness. ‘I’ll be there.’

Seconds after I rang off, Donut appeared. He seemed even more repulsive after my conversation with Matthew.

‘Your mate’s thirsty,’ said Donut, approaching the drinks machine. I inspected the merchandise.

‘I’ll get her a sports drink,’ suggested Donut. ‘Give ’er a bit of a hit, like. High energy.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Chloe only drinks water or juice.’

Donut laughed in a jeering kind of way. I selected still mineral water and put the money in the machine.

‘What’s yer name again?’ enquired Donut with graceful etiquette.

‘Zoe,’ I said. ‘Zoe . . .’ Wait! I
so
didn’t want to reveal my true identity, but my recent experience of aliases had left me somewhat bruised and tired.

All the same, it was essential Donut didn’t know my real name. I had to think of a fictional surname, but my brain kind of jammed and I could only think of Hitler. Even someone as stupid as Donut might smell a rat if I said I was called Zoe Hitler. ‘Zoe . . . Berlin.’ It was the names-as-geography thing again. I’d finally succumbed to it.

‘Cool, so, uh – whatyer doin’ tomorrow night, Zoe?’ asked Donut, looming over me like some enchanted wardrobe.

‘Babysitting,’ I said firmly.

‘For your little bruvvers again?’

‘No – the people down the road.’ This was true. I had to babysit tomorrow for the terrifying Norman twins. My heart sank at the thought. Being stuck in casualty, chatted up by a hideous hulk was bad enough, but it was as nothing compared to the torment routinely dished out by the dreaded Normans.

‘Where d’you live?’ asked Donut. It was absolutely vital I didn’t reveal my real address. I just knew he’d be round there, parking his heap of metal and slouching menacingly up the path to our helpless, innocent house.

What sort of address should I invent? Should I go for somewhere posh, so he’d feel intimidated and back off in case my dad, Lord Berlin, horsewhipped him? But if I was posh, he might be even more turned on. He might think,
Hmmmm. Pull this little darlin’ and you’re laughing, mate. Skiing holidays, Porsche, the lot
.

On the other hand, if I invented a life of picturesque poverty he might think that because I was trailer trash, he could do what he liked with me and nobody would care. Or even worse, he might make it his mission to rescue me from the mean streets and come round with charitable bags of hamburgers and his mum’s cast-off clothing.

‘I live . . .’ I hesitated. I was hopelessly poised between the devil and the deep blue sea. ‘I live in . . . Blue Street.’

‘Blue Street?’ frowned Donut. ‘Where the ’ell’s that?’

‘It’s in Devilsham,’ I said. ‘A bit out of town. Over towards Deeping. In fact, we live on a farm. Way out in the sticks.’

‘A country girl, eh?’ said Donut, horribly charmed by my ludicrous lies. ‘Got any haystacks where you live?’ I would have backed off, but the wall was behind me. ‘Tell you what,’ said Donut tenderly, ‘you’re a well fit bird. Fantastic earrings.’ And he lifted a podgy finger and touched my sacred hoop earrings! Earrings given me last Christmas by my sacred sister, Tamsin, reading social sciences at Waveney Wessex College!

I edged sideways to get away from the podgy finger, and then to my utter astonishment, a face appeared behind him. A pale face. A handsome face. A haunted face. It was
Oliver Wyatt
! Strolling down the corridor towards us and carrying, bizarrely, a bunch of lilies. Our eyes locked. My heart reared up like a demented humpbacked whale, butted me ferociously in the tonsils, then plunged back with a thunderous lunge towards the deep blue sea, which lay somewhere in the region of my pelvic bones.

Oliver Wyatt looked at me with perfect indifference, because, of course, he had absolutely no idea who I was. He did, however, recognise Donut’s back, and tapped on the thuggish shoulder with magnificent, imperious disdain.

‘Donut!’ he said. Donut turned round – still, catastrophically, holding on to my earring. Oh no! Oliver was going to assume I was some kind of trashy hanger-on of Donut! I had to make it clear that for him to fondle my earrings was completely out of order.

‘I hate them!’ I said treacherously (and quite painfully), tearing off my earrings. ‘They’re
so
not me! You can have them if you like! Give them to your girlfriend!’ OK, it was obvious. But I was desperate. So desperate, my words had come out in a horrible chavvy shriek.

Oliver looked down at me with mild astonishment, as if I had picked my nose or possibly hawked and spat on the hospital floor.

‘Nah, leave it!’ said Donut cheerily, refusing the earrings. He noticed I was staring at Oliver with foolish longing. If only Oliver would swoop down and rescue me right now! Was his white horse tied up in the hospital car park? It was time for him to act, dammit!

‘This is . . .’ Donut struggled to remember my name. ‘Jade Burley.’

‘Jade Burley?’ I snapped. ‘I’m Zoe Morris, you idiot!’ I shot Donut a contemptuous glance and turned to Oliver. ‘What’s your name, in case he gets it wrong?’ I enquired, in what I hoped was an arch, witty and sophisticated manner.

‘Sir George Plunkett,’ said Oliver. Donut laughed a horrid snorting laugh.

‘He isn’t!’ chortled Donut. ‘He’s Olly Wyatt, innit? Who’s the flowers for, Olly? Some fit bird havin’ your baby or summink?’

Oliver looked offended and slightly embarrassed. ‘My mother’s just had an operation,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Her mate’s bust her ankle,’ said Donut, indicating the nearby casualty ward with an oafish toss of the head. Oliver frowned slightly and looked sympathetic.

‘Hope it’s OK,’ he said to me. For an instant he looked right down into my face. His eyes were deepest brown. It was as if a chocolate fountain was raining down on me.

‘Oh, she’ll be OK,’ I said. ‘Chloe’s just got weak ankles. I hope your mum gets better soon.’

‘She’ll be fine,’ said Oliver. ‘So – Donut. Are you coming to the Next Big Thing tomorrow?’ The Next Big Thing is an annual party, just for the sixth form.

‘I dunno,’ said Donut. He looked down at me. ‘Are you comin’, darlin’? Or are you gonna be tied up milking the pigs?’

‘I can’t come,’ I said, with what I hoped was waspish distaste. ‘I’m not in the sixth form.’

‘Wait . . .’ Oliver’s eyes had turned in my direction. ‘Pigs . . . ?’