aPOLOGIes . . .

I am who I am . . .

And who I am is someone who is wrong occasionally.

Without any shadow of a doubt, this has been one of those occasions. Yesterday, after we’d got back from the train station, I made a big blotchy-faced apology to my mum. She listened quietly to what I had to say and then she said, ‘We all make mistakes, Lottie. The important thing is not to go on making those same thoughtless mistakes over and over again.’ And then she gave me her police sergeant look and said, ‘But understand this – if you run off like that again, I’m going to sell you on eBay. And I seriously mean that.’

My sister, Ruthie, who was sitting in the next room and blatantly earwigging our private conversation, chipped in at that point and shouted through the open doorway, ‘She’s not worth the trouble, Mum. You wouldn’t get any bids.’

‘Keep your beak out, Big Bird,’ I shouted back.

‘Oh wind your neck in, Beryl,’ said Ruthie.

This made me go quiet. Beryl is my official middle name but it upsets me to be reminded of this fact.

My mum looked up at the ceiling and said, ‘Oh for goodness sake! Is it unreasonable to expect you two to like each other?’

Ruthie appeared in the doorway with a look of horror on her face. ‘Get real – I don’t like her,’ she said. ‘She’s my squid sister.’ And then Ruthie winked at me and said, ‘But I love her to bits. Obviously.’

‘Fish-breath,’ I muttered under my breath. I was smiling though. I couldn’t help it.

‘Squid,’ said Ruthie.

‘Get out of my kitchen, the pair of you,’ said my mum. And as I went hurrying off up the stairs to my room, I heard her say to Ruthie, ‘You’re twenty years old. When are you going to start acting as if you are?’

And this made me chuckle because I can’t ever imagine Ruthie being all grown-up and boring, which is probably why I love her to bits.

In contrast, my friend Goose is only fifteen but she’s got her foot to the floor in the fastest car on the motorway to middle-age . . . and I love her to bits too. When we were walking to school together this morning, I asked her how things were at the Ponty-Carlo Picture House.

‘Pat Mumble fired me,’ she said.

‘Whoops,’ I said. ‘That was probably my fault, wasn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry,’ shrugged Goose. ‘I would’ve left anyway. The lack of daylight was turning me into a vampire and giving me a Vitamin D deficiency . . . and anyway, the situation between me and Tim Overup was totally untenable.’

Goose is very good with words. At the time, I didn’t know what untenable meant so I just nodded sympathetically. But a little while ago, I looked it up in a dictionary and it said this:

unte’nable adjective being without a base; incapable of being maintained or defended; groundless; unsound

. . . which doesn’t leave me a whole lot wiser.

‘To be honest, Goose,’ I said, ‘I didn’t think he really seemed your type.’

Goose shrugged again. ‘That’s why I like him. He’s totally different to anyone I’ve ever been out with. He’s mature and thoughtful, he knows loads about books and films and art, and he totally does his own thing and doesn’t fit into any poxy pointless pigeonholes.’

I thought about this for a while and, while I was thinking, we walked along in silence. Finally, I said, ‘So does that make him a Type A, Type B or Type C person?’

Goose laughed. ‘I don’t know. But who honestly cares?’

And even though I was a bit confused, I smiled back and said, ‘No one, I suppose.’

We walked along in silence for a bit more and then I said, ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘Nothing,’ said Goose. ‘I’m just gonna live each day as it comes and then when I’m a bit older and a bit more grownup, I’ll see if he’s changed his mind.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘. . . but you might have changed your mind about him by then. Or fallen in love with somebody else. Or moved to Kentucky. Or anything. Life can only be understood backwards but it has to be lived forwards, you know.’

Goose stopped walking and looked at me, a hint of a grin on her face. ‘True. You’re very wise sometimes, Lottie Biggs. Do you know that?’

‘Am I?’ I said, genuinely confused. ‘I don’t think so! If I was wise I wouldn’t have run off to Aberystwyth without telling my mum and I wouldn’t have dragged you along with me as back-up and, if I really was wise, I’d certainly have noticed that you were having an existential crisis in the middle of my sister’s grotty kitchen.’ And then I said, ‘I’m truly sorry. I honestly am.’

Goose put her head on one side and smiled. Just for a moment, she reminded me of my mum. But then she stuck her tongue out and went boss-eyed and any similarity to my mum instantly vanished. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Just don’t do it again.’

‘I won’t,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘Honestly, Goose, friends like you can’t just be ordered out of a catalogue, can they?’

This time it was Goose’s turn to look confused. But only for a second. Then a sparkle appeared in each of her eyes and, linking her arm through mine, we continued on our way in the direction of school.

We hadn’t gone more than a few paces though before the ting-a-ling of a bicycle bell stopped us in our tracks and caused us to spin round. Behind us, weaving dangerously on an ancient black bike, was Tim Overup. Flashing us both an awkward grin, he scraped his shoe along the pavement until he wobbled to an awkward halt. Then he leaned forward awkwardly on to his handlebars, pushed a stray piece of awkward gingery hair away from his eyes, and awkwardly asked, ‘Gail, might I have a quick word?’

I snuck a glance at Goose. Goose hates being called by her proper name. It can make her turn quite chopsy. To be fair, she didn’t look like she was turning chopsy just then but she had gone very still and very red and her mouth was hanging slightly open. I nudged her and her mouth snapped shut.

Tim Overup fiddled with his fringe again, gave another nervous smile and said, ‘Er . . . Gail . . . I won’t keep you long. It’s just that . . . um . . . well . . . I’ve been thinking about our last conversation and I can’t help thinking that I’ve been a bit of an idiot . . . I’m really sorry and . . . well . . . I was wondering if there was any chance . . . any chance at all that you’d . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Goose, suddenly finding her voice again.

Tim Overup blinked. And then he smiled. And this time, it wasn’t a small nervous smile – it was a great big happy and relieved one. It actually made him look rather nice.

‘Fantastic,’ said Tim. ‘I’ve got your phone number. I’ll call you later, shall I?’

‘Yes,’ said Goose, who now had a great big happy smile on her face too.

‘Fantastic,’ said Tim, again. ‘That’s really fantastic.’ And then he put his hand into the pocket of his jumbo cords and pulled out a crumpled page of newspaper. ‘I . . . er . . . don’t know if you’re interested but . . .’

‘I am,’ interrupted Goose.

Tim did a funny little laugh. And this time, it sounded less like the funny harrumphing giraffe-laugh that I’d heard him do on the bus that other time and much more like a very sweet happy hiccup. He handed her the page from the newspaper and said, ‘There’s a film on at Movie World called Love, Lies and Secrets. This review in The Western Mail described it as the romance of the year. We could go and see it together if you like?’

Goose smiled so widely that it looked like her face was splitting in half. ‘I would DEFINITELY like,’ she said.

‘Fantastic,’ said Tim for the billionth time. ‘I’ll call you later then, Gail.’ And then he made that sweet little happy hiccup noise, climbed back on to his ancient saddle and pedalled off towards the sixth-form centre. For a moment, Goose stood rooted to the spot with a weird faraway look on her face and watched him disappear down the road. Then she said, ‘Am I dreaming?’

‘Nope,’ I said.

‘Fantastic,’ said Goose. ‘Fan-flipping-tastic.’ And with that weird faraway look still firmly plastered all over her face, she said, ‘He calls me Gail. How utterly romantic is that?’

‘Is it?’ I said. ‘I thought you hated being called Gail.’

‘Not by him I don’t,’ said Goose, and then she threaded her arm back through mine and we finished the final half-mile to school propelled through the air on a whirlwind of love and optimism.