Seven hours and eleven minutes into it, the boys were beginning to wonder if watching all three Lord of the Rings movies in one day had been a particularly good idea. In hindsight, picking the extended editions had probably been a mistake, given that they had only just finished The Two Towers and had yet to embark on the four hours and eleven minutes of The Return of the King. The long-term, brain-melting impact of their decision had been made obvious by their slowly developing signs of insanity. Cameron had steadily consumed five large bottles of Diet Coke and given the amount of sweets he and Mark had gone through it looked as if they were in a race to see who could give themselves diabetes first. The other two boys – Peter and Imogen’s boyfriend, Stewart – were also beginning to show signs of Hobbit-induced Dementia, with Peter running around with his grandfather’s skullcap on his head and Stewart having inexplicably removed his top somewhere between Helm’s Deep and Osgiliath.
Adjusting the skullcap and looking deep in thought, Peter turned to Mark and asked in a serious tone, ‘Mate, what is the deal with you and Meredith? How can you not like her? She’s unbelievably hot. Like, I mean, unreal.’
‘She’s not just hot,’ answered Mark. ‘She’s probably the hottest girl I’ve ever seen who’s not in the movies, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s an evil bitch.’
Cameron giggled before remembering that in this group ‘bitch’ wasn’t a compliment. ‘Mark! Stop it. Meredith’s one of my best friends … she never says anything bad about you.’
Stewart looked up from the DVD player, where he was inserting disc one of The Return of the King, and sighed. Meredith’s name had always caused problems in the group and the sooner the topic was dropped, the better. ‘Lads, forget about her. Cameron likes her, Mark doesn’t. OK?’
The Return of the King began and the boys settled back on the sofa. For some time, Mark remained in a huffy silence, infuriated that Cameron had once again defended Meredith by telling him something which was clearly a lie. Did Cameron really think he was stupid enough to buy that kind of crap? Meredith Harper could have found something bad to say about a saint if she wanted to, so there was absolutely no way she had never said anything bad about him!
Had he been more analytical, Mark would probably have realized that he was angrier with himself than Cameron. For the last year or so, Mark had struggled to fight his strange fascination with Meredith. This fascination irritated him, for he believed quite firmly that had Meredith been ugly the only word used to describe her would have been ‘bully’. But she was not. In fact, as he had just admitted to Peter, she was anything but. She was beautiful, she was clever, she was rich and she was glamorous. There was also no denying that she had a way with words and that helped her a lot as well. People found it harder to be angry with cruelty if it made them laugh and Meredith played upon that. She was also cleverer, by far, than most of the other people in school and there was quite simply no one who could read people or manipulate them like Meredith Harper.
Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a sip of his Diet Coke, annoyed at how frequently Meredith Harper appeared in his thoughts these days. Still, he, at least, was able to see her for what she really was; Cameron, on the other hand, seemed to delight in everything about her – especially the bad bits. Trying to break his best friend away from the popular set’s busy socializing schedule was becoming especially difficult for Mark. Days like this – just hanging out with Cameron and the guys – were turning into things that needed several weeks’ notice. Mark found it increasingly difficult to ignore what he knew were slightly petulant feelings at Cameron not being particularly upset about this. But, after all, if Imogen could make time to see Stewart on a regular basis, there was really no logical reason why Cameron couldn’t do the same, unless, of course, Meredith was deliberately attempting to pull him away from his friendship with Mark – something that she seemed more than capable of doing.
‘You know, Cameron, you want to try having some balls once in a while. And stop letting Meredith walk all over you,’ Mark declared self-righteously.
Stewart sighed, picked up a Walnut Whip and threw it directly at Mark’s face.
At precisely seven thirty, as the early Saturday morning sun lit up the day of Kerry’s sixteenth birthday, an e-mail arrived in the in-boxes of Meredith Harper, Catherine O’Rourke and Imogen Dawson, announcing that a crisis had erupted in the middle of the night. Sometime on Friday evening, Kerry had gone into meltdown with the stress of the impending birthday. Apparently overwhelmed by her own fabulousness, she had very quietly excused herself from the dinner table and tottered upstairs to her bedroom, where she had crawled under the covers and proceeded to have a full nervous breakdown. Her mother, who had learned the hard way what to do in such situations, made a telephone call to Cameron and it was left to him to contact the others.
From: Cameron Matthews <manorexic@msn.ni>
To: Meredith Harper <sizezerois4heifers@msn.ni>, Imogen Dawson <eurovision_queen@msn.ni>, Catherine O’Rourke <sxcladyee@msn.ni>
Everyone,
As we all know, today is a v. important day. Kerry is sixteen but has unfortunately been in bed for the last twelve hours due to an FIB (Fabulous Induced Breakdown). So far, we have got things under control this end and her sister has managed to recurl her hair – we’re hoping the 1 o’clock trip to the beauty parlour will force her to leave her room.
Now. This is very important: we have a list of things to do and I have numbered them so no one gets confused – Catherine.
a) Lisa Flaherty
b) The Biology homework that was due in yesterday, which she has clearly completely forgotten about
c) How her sister’s lost weight (seriously – she looks AMAZING – you can hardly even notice that beak nose of hers)
d) That Catherine’s lost series 5 from her box set of S&TC
e) How she really reminds all of us of Eddy from Absolutely Fabulous
f) That they’re definitely not making a sixth series of Footballers’ Wives
g) Or suggest that her curls are anything other than totally and utterly amazing
Love,
Cameron xxx
PS – Catherine, don’t wear that weird Bo-Peep costume again.
Within an hour, every socialite who wasn’t bedridden with stress was frantically getting ready to go over to Kerry’s house. Cameron was pulling on a pair of Dolce & Gabbana jeans and furiously styling his hair, before hurtling into his father’s car to be driven to Kerry’s, receiving breathless phone calls from her every ten minutes. Meredith was strutting down her driveway in a pair of Manolos to get a lift with Cameron, Catherine had draped a rosary round her neck in the hope it would help with the crisis and Imogen was taking delivery of a package from London, which she had a sneaking suspicion might get her in trouble later since it definitely contravened point 6 of Cameron’s e-mail.
By the time they had arrived at Kerry’s house later that morning, it was clear the birthday princess wasn’t going to be moved and it was time for emergency mani-pedi-waxing at the house. An expert with nails, Imogen began manicuring Kerry’s cuticles, while Catherine carefully wiped away the tears that Kerry was periodically shedding. Cameron was downstairs in the kitchen, frantically calling the caterers to make sure all the cakes were the required pink and Meredith, never a team player, was drumming her nails on the marble-top counter.
‘I mean an FIB is totally understandable,’ she hissed, ‘but she’s been like this for fourteen hours.’
Cameron pulled the phone away from his ear and nodded. ‘I’ve told you – if she’s annoying you this much, hit her.’
‘I can’t hit her, Cameron. She bruises like a peach … selfish bitch.’
The doorbell rang and it was the waxing lady from the salon, who had agreed to make a house call in return for time and a half. Cameron dashed to the door and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God you’re here. It’s a total emergency!’
‘Where is she?’
‘Upstairs – in the pink bedroom. I’ll take you up in a minute. Can I get you a drink? Tea, lemonade, rosé?’
In the meantime, Meredith, Imogen and Catherine had gathered around Kerry, who had stripped down to her underwear in preparation. Having at last risen from her bed, she was now flouncing around her room trying to decide what type of wax to go for when she spotted Meredith’s costume – a black velvet dress with gold and pearls around the neckline.
‘What is this?’ she asked dangerously.
‘It’s my costume,’ said Meredith.
‘It doesn’t look very Marie Antoinettey.’
‘That’s because I’m going as Anne Boleyn. I love her. You know that.’
‘Well, I love Strawberry Cheesecake Häagen-Dazs but I’m not going to a Marie Antoinette party dressed as it, am I?’
‘They both got beheaded!’
‘That’s not the theme!’ roared Kerry. ‘It’s Marie Antoinette’s time and you’re going as Anne Bo-freaking-leyn.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Meredith snapped. ‘It means one less woman wearing a similar style of dress to you. Less competition.’
‘No!’ screamed Kerry, her curls burling around her head. ‘You’re only doing this because Anne Boleyn dresses make you look really thin and because you want to stand out and steal the limelight from me!’
‘Everything makes me look thin, Kerry. And do you know why? Because I am thin!’
At that point, the waxing lady entered and Kerry settled down for the wax. It was a couple of minutes into the ‘what wax’ discussion that Meredith finally deigned to speak again.
‘You should get the Brazilian,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s nowhere near as painful as people make out and you really should get it done at least once.’
‘I thought it hurt like a mo-fo,’ said Kerry, her lip trembling.
‘Carrie Bradshaw got one, didn’t she?’ answered Meredith, playing the ace that could get Kerry Davison to do more or less anything.
‘That’s true,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Series three – when they’re in LA. All right! A Brazilian. You’re sure it doesn’t hurt that much, Meredith?’
With all the cool of a frequent liar, Meredith turned smilingly to her friend. ‘Mine didn’t.’
It was five minutes later, when everyone else was downstairs in the kitchen, that Kerry’s scream echoed through the house and Meredith put down her fresh orange juice and smiled.
The shock of the Brazilian and the lingering fear of what a vengeful Meredith might trick her into next forced Kerry to get a hold of herself. By five o’clock, everything was prepared and Imogen had time to drive home to get changed. At half past six, an hour before the first guests arrived, Cameron was standing in full costume at the first-floor window, staring down Kerry’s long driveway, when he saw Imogen get out of a car.
‘O Holy Jesus,’ he whispered.
Kerry laboured into view in a magnificent pink-and-white dress, with her blonde hair piled high atop her head with a little crown on it. ‘What! What’s wrong?’
Cameron turned to face her and began speaking in a voice full of mounting panic. ‘Remember, Imogen’s your best friend and you’ve always known that she is a ruthless, attention-seeking, self-centred she-beast, so don’t freak out now.’
Kerry began to breathe heavily, panicking at what exactly Imogen had done that was so bad that Cameron was already swinging into damage limitation mode. Seconds later, she saw what it was and a waif-like Meredith was sweeping up the stairs in her Anne Boleyn dress, just in time to see Kerry hiss in rage and hurtle past her.
Imogen had somehow got her hands on one of the original costumes worn by Kirsten Dunst in Marie Antoinette. Having seen the film more times than Sofia Coppola had, Kerry recognized the dress immediately and was flying down the stairs like a diamanté-clad demon. She flung the door open to see Imogen, present in arms, smiling calmly as if nothing was wrong.
‘Quelle la fuck?’
‘Kerry, what’s wrong?’
‘Where did you get the black dress worn in the masquerade ball scene in the second third of the movie?’
‘Oh, this? Daddy pulled some strings.’
‘I’ll be doing the same thing when I hang you!’
‘What!’
‘You have come as Marie Antoinette in an outfit from the movie to my birthday!’
‘It’s a Marie Antoinette theme. God, what’s your problem?’
‘No one else is actually supposed to be Marie Antoinette! I am the birthday girl. It’s Kerry’s day. I’m the star!’
‘Kerry, calm down.’
‘Take it off.’
‘What?’
‘Strip.’
‘Bite me.’
‘You know I will!’
‘Kerry! What is your problem? I won’t tell anyone else I actually am Marie Antoinette. It’s just a dress.’
‘Imogen, how could you do this to me on my birthday? What kind of friend are you? I mean look, look, at Meredith! She came as Anne Boleyn so that she wouldn’t outshine me. That’s real friendship!’
‘You yelled at her about it earlier on!’
Kerry looked speechless with shock at having this totally accurate assessment of the facts thrown back in her face. ‘I was in the middle of an FIB – a Fabulous Induced Breakdown. You know it can make people go crazy!’
‘Don’t explain an FIB to me. I’m not some retard like Catherine who can’t remember the group lingo.’
Standing apart from this fracas, Meredith privately thought that in her svelte black velvet gown she had radiantly outshone Kerry, who, right now, looked like an over-frosted cupcake – a very angry, over-frosted cupcake. Everyone’s attention was then mercifully distracted from the argument by Catherine’s re-emergence, in the same Little Bo-Peep outfit she had been warned against earlier but which she had apparently decided to wear regardless, now that she had accessorized it with bangles, necklaces and a rather bizarre-looking wig that turned out to be a huge amount of toilet paper covered in a thick layer of talcum powder and stuffed into a bird cage.
The group went silent in shock and Meredith nodded authoritatively to Cameron. Cameron nodded back and looked at Bo-Peep. ‘Catherine, can we talk to you for a minute, please?’
Four hours into the party, it was unfortunately clear that Catherine’s outfit was not the worst offender when it came to authenticity. Most of the girls had opted for old 1980s-style bridesmaid dresses, which they had then covered with as much bling from Claire’s or Accessorize as was humanly possible, while the boys had bought plastic swords and thrown-together outfits that generally made them look like a cross between a confused musketeer and a drunken pirate. This of course meant that Imogen’s period-perfect and highly-flattering outfit was among only four that were getting complimented. Kerry had long ago made her peace with the fact that Cameron was getting noticed (male) and Meredith (wrong period), but every time someone said how nice/sexy/realistic/glamorous Imogen looked, Kerry looked like she had swallowed an insect. However, karma came in such an unexpectedly brutal form shortly before eleven o’clock that even the birthday banshee had to make her peace with Imogen immediately.
Cameron was in the kitchen talking to Mrs Davison, Kerry’s mother, and doing what he imagined to be a very good job of acting sober – in fact, his wild hand gestures and overly enthusiastic answers made it perfectly clear to Mrs D that Cameron had long ago lost the battle with the birthday champagne, so she nodded politely in all the right places and moved the bottles of Bollinger as far away as she could. Just at the point when Cameron was about to explain that they would all be fine in their exams, Imogen hurtled into the room, her diamonds glinting in the light and giving her the appearance of a crazed, if beautiful, dragonfly.
‘Emergencia! Emergencia!’ The words, when they came, were more of a squeak and she had grabbed Cameron’s arm in such a vice-like grip that he feared he was losing circulation.
‘Imogen, dear, what’s wrong?’ asked Mrs Davison, worrying that Kerry had either burst into tears for some unknown reason or started a fight with one of the guests.
Imogen turned with a freakishly bright smile and answered in a pretending-to-be-fine-but-sounding-deranged voice, ‘Oh, Mrs D! Hi. Hi! Hi! How are you? I’m great. Party is. GREAT. Everything is fine, A-OK, in fact. Cameron, can I talk to you over here for a minute? Would you excuse us for one second, please, Mrs D? Great, thanks.’
She pulled Cameron over to the drinks table and began breathing short, fast and furiously.
‘Imogen, is everything all right?’
‘Of course it’s not all right! I just said “A-OK”! How could it possibly be all right? Michael is here!’
‘Michael … Michael-Michael?’
‘No, Saint Michael the Archangel … of course, Michael-Michael. I knew Kerry was pissed, but even I didn’t think she would go this far! Oh my God, Michael is here. Here. And Stewart is out there …’
‘Looking like Bluebeard.’
‘Shut up, Cameron! If they run into each other, I’m going to be like a successful prostitute.’
‘Well and truly screwed.’ He nodded.
At that point, Meredith and Kerry entered the room, taking Imogen by an arm each and sweeping her into the nearby dining room, which had been made a No Party Zone by Mrs Davison’s express orders. When Mrs D went to protest, Kerry held up her hands and shook her head. ‘Emotional emergencia, Mother. We’ll be out in fifteen minutes. If you try and stop us, Imogen will have absolutely no choice but to kill herself and you know we don’t like to do anything on our own!’
Seconds after Kerry had locked the door behind them, Imogen lunged at her. ‘I will kill you. Kill you. Or, better yet, I will call someone on the Ivory Coast and I will sell you into white slavery if Michael and Stewart run into each other, Kerry. I will sell you to Robert Mugabe!’
‘I didn’t invite Michael!’ Kerry squeaked.
‘You have to believe her, Imogen,’ said Meredith, sitting on the window seat, bathed eerily in the moonlight. ‘She would never have wanted her party to be upstaged by your break-up.’
Muttering under her breath, Imogen had to admit that this was right and took a seat next to Meredith. ‘Don’t turn on the lights. I don’t want people to know we’re in here until we’ve figured out a plan.’
‘Say you’re sick,’ said Kerry. ‘Go tell Stewart you’re not feeling well and he should help take you home. That way you both leave and there’s no way Stewart can run into Michael.’
‘But my dress …’
‘Apology accepted,’ beamed Kerry.
‘No, I mean, it’s too pretty for me to leave early.’
For a moment, Kerry thought of how satisfying it would be to march back into the party, find Stewart and Michael, drag them to one side and say, ‘Stewart, this is Michael; Michael, Stewart. Stewart is Imogen Dawson’s boyfriend of one year; Michael is her newfound potential adulterous love-interest. Now, you two chat among yourselves!’ But she realized that this would make her a bad person, so she remained where she was.
Cameron was too busy trying to stop swaying in the moonlight and feverishly plotting how he could get his hands on another bottle of champagne to be of any practical assistance, so it was Meredith who spoke again. ‘I hate to say this, because it goes against almost everything I believe in, but the dress isn’t the most important thing. Kerry’s right. Imogen, stay in here and we’ll send Cameron to go get Stewart.’
As Cameron shakily weaved his way through the party-goers to find Stewart, he was stopped by Mrs Davison, who asked in the voice of a woman who knew she should but probably didn’t want the answer, ‘What’s going on in there?’
‘I cannot say, Mrs D,’ said Cameron, nodding with exaggerated seriousness, ‘but it’s sort of like a cross between Dangerous Liaisons and Clueless. So don’t worry, it’s very fabulous.’
‘Oh, good … because that’s what I was worried about.’
‘Stewart! Excuse me, Mrs D, gotta go!’
Stewart was busy playing beer-pong with Peter and Mark when Cameron lurched into view. ‘Stewart, Imogen’s not feeling very well. She’s got a massively bad headache and she’s really sorry, but can you get in the taxi with her and take her home?’
‘Shit, yeah, of course. Where is she?’
‘She’s in the dining room. She wants to go as quickly as possible, out the back door. She doesn’t want to distract everyone from the party.’
For a moment, Cameron feared he had taken the lie too far. Surely, not even trusting Stewart could possibly believe that Imogen would ever pass up an opportunity for grabbing attention? Thankfully, Stewart just nodded his head and went to find Imogen, leaving Cameron to follow along after him. It was when he turned round to wave goodbye to the other two boys that he saw a suspicious look pass briefly over Mark’s face.
Emerging from the dining room ten minutes later, with Imogen and Stewart safely packed off in a taxi heading back to Malone, Kerry, Meredith and Cameron congratulated themselves on a job well done. Kerry all but glowed with self-satisfaction as she hit the dance floor, having managed the all-but-impossible twin tasks of elbowing her best friend out of the limelight while saving her from public humiliation – the moral high ground at no personal cost. As the three of them burled around to the music, in the sure knowledge that everyone was watching them and the firm belief that they were all admiring too, they caught sight of Michael smoking out on the terrace.
Wow, thought Cameron. Imogen has seriously good taste.
‘I love my crown!’ squealed an ecstatic Kerry, pointing to her tiara.
Double Biology on a Monday morning started at precisely half past nine, so it was perhaps no surprise to find Meredith, Cameron and Kerry standing next to the vending machine at twenty to ten. Meredith and Cameron were already clutching their morning Diet Cokes in their hands, waiting for Kerry to get her Rice Krispies Square before they slowly floated in the general direction of the Science block. However, today there was a delay and they were not happy.
It was one thing for them to be criminally late to class because of their own laziness and non-existent work ethic, but it was something else entirely when they were held up by somebody else. The current offender was a buffalo-sized second-year who had already bought four things from the machine and was currently hurling himself against it in an attempt to get his trapped chocolate.
‘Excuse me,’ said Kerry, ‘but can I use it for one minute and you can go back to battering it then? It’s just that I have to get to class and also –’
‘Fuck off!’ snapped the candy-bar maniac.
Cameron stepped in front of the offender and said in his silkiest, too-nice-to-be-genuine voice, ‘Excuse me, Buddha Junior, but I think God is trying to tell you something by trapping that calorie log you call a snack. Maybe you could get out of our way and come back to it when you’ve got some manners – or a waist. Either/or.’
‘Fuck off, faggot.’
‘Look, Jabba the Hutt, I am not kidding around here. Beat it or we’ll tell everyone that you were caught staring at the other boys in the showers after PE.’
‘Yes,’ said Meredith, ‘and, unlike your haircut, this isn’t a joke.’
The boy skulked off, leaving a grinning Kerry to begin purchasing her snack. Her joy, however, was short-lived. The Rice Krispies bar she wanted was selection ‘F-10’ but, as happened three times out of five, Kerry forgot that there was a separate button for ‘10’ and instead typed ‘F’, then ‘1’, then ‘0’. As ‘F-1’ (a Twix) hurtled into her hands, Kerry let out a gasp of shocked pain and her eyes filled with tears. Refusing to buy anything else from a machine that had clearly tricked her, she stormed down the corridor, bravely stifling a sob.
‘I knew she was going to do that,’ said Meredith.
‘Why didn’t you warn her, then?’ asked Cameron.
‘It entertains me.’
NO EATING OR DRINKING IN THE LABORATORY
They passed the sign on the Biology room door and began drinking their Diet Cokes. Imogen was waiting for them at their usual table – the one nearest the door for a quick, easy and efficient exit. She had already stuffed a packet of McCoy’s in her blazer pocket and was busy texting when Meredith, Cameron and Kerry trooped in, with Kerry hurling the Twix in the bin with a disgusted sigh.
‘Oh my God,’ Imogen hissed, pointing a perfectly manicured fingernail across the room. ‘You will not believe the freak show that’s going on over there.’
Meredith, Cameron and Kerry turned their attention to a table where Coral Andrews and her hippie sidekick Paula Flockley were busy drawing flowery tattoos on to their hands with felt-tip pens.
‘What the hell is that on their feet?’ asked Meredith, throwing her bag down on the table.
‘Socks and tights,’ answered Imogen. ‘I know, it’s so hideous.’
‘Why are they doing it?’
‘Well, it’s just in case we didn’t know that they’re really independent and alternative,’ sniped Cameron. ‘Retards.’
‘It looks stupid,’ said Meredith, getting increasingly irate.
‘Meredith, if you react to it, you’ll only be doing what they want.’
‘Just be thankful they haven’t started “singing” again,’ said Imogen comfortingly. ‘Thank God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the saints.’
But God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the saints had apparently decided to play a well-timed joke, because at that precise moment Coral began to sing Fields of Gold and on cue Paula provided an annoying descant.
Meredith rolled her eyes. ‘Why can’t Coral just die?’
‘Because women like her grow up to spend their gap year in Thailand trying to find themselves and then take lots of drugs and become Buddhists in Goa,’ said Cameron.
‘I hate her,’ said Meredith.
‘I hate her hair,’ said Imogen, ‘and, with that face of hers, it looks like someone stuck pubic hair on top of a potato.’
‘What’s happening?’ asked Kerry, looking up from her nails.
‘Coral. Socks. Tights. Singing. Pubis,’ Cameron explained.
‘Oh, her,’ sighed Kerry, returning to her cuticles. ‘She is not fun.’
Mr Roger Corbett stood at the front of the class and cleared his throat. Mr Corbett’s most endearing quality was that Biology remained his passion, despite the total indifference of ninety-five per cent of his pupils, but maybe it had something to do with him only being out of teaching college for two years. Today he beamed down on his students and began to talk in his overly cheery voice. ‘Now, this morning we’re going to look at one of the most relevant parts of Biology, something which I think you’ll find rather exciting. I certainly do, because it’s all to do with blah blah blah blah blah blah …’
Frankly, Mr Corbett could have been speaking in Klingon by that stage for all Meredith cared. She had already turned back to her conversation with Kerry, Cameron and Imogen and they were busy doodling when they were rudely interrupted. ‘Cameron, what’s the answer?’
‘Um … three?’
Mr Corbett’s entire body flopped in a melodramatic gesture of total disappointment. ‘Ack, Cameron, no! Come on now! Were you listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you?’
‘No.’
Momentarily crushed by a combination of Cameron’s total indifference and the smirking faces of his friends, Mr Corbett turned on the overhead projector and asked the class to take down the notes. Cameron, Meredith, Imogen and Kerry busied themselves with lining their paper in red ink, writing the subject title and date at the top of the page.
As Mr Corbett walked around the room, inspecting his pupils’ progress, he was relieved to see that as he passed the group’s table, all four of them had now turned over their pages and continued writing, proving that they were halfway down the projection slide and therefore making good progress. Had Mr Corbett ever stopped and turned the pages back over, he would have noticed that Cameron, Meredith, Imogen and Kerry had taken absolutely no notes from the first half and only turned their pages over when they sensed the teacher approaching. Had Mr Corbett then flicked back through their files at any point, he would have realized that this was a tactic they had been employing for over a year and that subsequently they did not have a full page of Biology notes between the four of them. In fact, for the last half an hour, Kerry had been absorbed in compiling a list of all the presents she had received on Saturday – and making a side note of which ones came with receipts, Imogen had been texting Michael under the table, and Meredith and Cameron had been passing notes on how rubbish it was that Coral Andrews was still alive.
As he passed the door, Mr Corbett glanced out of the glass and spotted a pupil walking down the corridor outside. The boy was new to Mount Olivet Grammar, having just transferred from an American high school at the start of term. His name was Blake Hartman and he was in their year, but in another house – Chichester. Being monumentally self-absorbed and holding fast to the view that Chichester was for freaks, none of the four socialites sitting at the table nearest to the door had even noticed yet that a new boy had enrolled. As Mr Corbett turned back towards the door to ask Blake for the homework due in last Friday, they had no idea that this was about to be their collision course with destiny and Blake Hartman. It was also about to be a collision course between Mr Corbett’s head and the door.
In his over-eagerness to reach Blake before he disappeared out of sight, Mr Corbett almost hurtled over his own feet. As he opened the door, Mr Corbett tripped and his forehead wedged on to its corner. For one breath-holding second, the door and Mr Corbett’s head were as one – there was a squelching noise as the door first gashed open part of his eyebrow and then separated again from his flesh. The teacher reeled backwards, holding his eyebrow, defiantly refusing to admit that he had been wounded and, with his spare hand, he gestured to Blake to come into the room. Blake edged in, apparently terrified that he would be blamed for this near lobotomy.
‘Just, eh, wait there for a moment, Blake, please,’ said Mr Corbett pleasantly, before raising his blood-spattered hand in a defiant, Nelson Mandela-like pose. ‘It’s OK, everyone, I can still teach. The lesson will carry on.’
But as Mr Corbett held his handkerchief to his head and began talking about stamens again, the lesson did not continue for Cameron Matthews, Meredith Harper, Imogen Dawson and Kerry Davison. The four of them had seemingly frozen in the poses they had adopted in the second after the accident – their hands had reached out slowly and taken the person’s next to them, so that all four of them were now linked together in total, stunned silence. What had just happened was quite simply too funny for any of them to even begin to know how to react.
‘Oh my …’ said Meredith quietly. ‘Did that just happen?’
‘No,’ said Imogen, ‘it didn’t. It couldn’t. No.’
A giggle popped out of Kerry’s mouth and, before they knew it, all four of them were convulsed with laughter. While Mr Corbett tried to turn his handkerchief into a makeshift eye-patch, Meredith flopped forward on to the table, sobbing with laughter and Imogen and Kerry collapsed into each other, with Imogen carefully tracing a finger under one eyelid to check if her mascara was running.
It was Cameron who halted long before the others, when he was directly addressed in Blake’s soft American accent. ‘Em, has he forgotten about me?’ he whispered, with a smile, still standing between the doorway and Cameron’s desk. ‘Do you think I could go? I seriously haven’t done that homework.’
Cameron smiled back and nodded. ‘Oh God, yeah. Cut and run!’
‘Cool. Thanks. I’m Blake Hartman, by the way.’
‘Cameron Matthews. Hi.’
‘Yeah, I know who you are. Don’t tell him I’ve gone!’
With that, Blake left the room, leaving Cameron feeling curiously nervous about what exactly Blake had heard about him and worried in case he had looked stupid when laughing so hard. Staring over at Mr Corbett, though, he assured himself that the laughter had been worth it.