The initial excitement of Finn’s invitation dissipates and I get a nagging earworm saying maybe it’s a bit soon to be going to his house and also, what does he imagine we’re going to do there? Talk about the weather? Catch up on homework? How many other girls has he lured to his room by telling them they’ve stolen his strawberry tart? I fancy him, sure, but I don’t want to look like a desperate, skanky, ho-bag. Still, I get this fluttering in my stomach when I think about being there, lying next to him on the bed…
After school I dash to Finn’s house. My earlier apprehension has become nervous excitement and I guess I’m enjoying the kick because my pace and pulse quicken on the way. Finn lives nearer to school than I do, on the other side of the park. And when I say on the other side of the park, I mean ON THE PARK. 66 Buckingham Road is a four-storey end-of-terrace townhouse, its overgrown front garden laid with decorative paving stones; a flight of chunky steps leads up to a glossy red front door with stained-glass panels. Finn’s family must be absolutely Lotto-winning-private-jet-fifty-foot-yacht minted.
Standing on the top step, I inhale, then breathe out my nerves. I imagine I’m with Finn, sunning myself on our own personal island like Richard Branson, sipping piña coladas…
Reaching for the door knocker, cast like a cat with a mouse dangling from its mouth, I notice a set of buzzers. I press the one labelled MASTERSON.
A super-suave, SAS, 007 type opens the door. He looks like he could have trained police officers, slept with beautiful women every night for the last thirty years, and probably keeps a gun in his sock drawer.
“Um, hi. I’m looking for Finn,” I say to the sergeant. “Is this the right house?”
“Hi, you’re Carla, right? Come in.” He speaks in tones the colour of Merlot, deep and smooth.
“Yeah, thanks.” Mr Masterson Senior leads me to another door off the hallway. I head into the house.
I’m beginning to register my surroundings – the ornate Indian lampshade, Hockney prints on the wall, the tiled floor – when Finn comes careering from the living room, dodging his dad like the Stig taking the Hammerhead on Top Gear. He grabs my hand and pulls me upstairs.
I follow Finn into his room. His blue-checked duvet is crumpled at one end of the bed and there’s still a dent in the pillow where his head has been. I let myself daydream about resting my head there, what it would be like to breathe in his sleepy scent. I imagine lying down next to him, his arm coiled around my waist, his hot breath on my neck.
I force my thoughts onto something else. Otherwise I’ll get lost there.
“Nice house.”
“Maisonette. Rental. There’s a family in the basement and another above us. We’ve got the garden though, pretty sweet for summer parties.”
OK, maybe I won’t be on that island any time soon. Not loaded after all. No matter. It’s still a gorgeous maisonette.
“Your dad looks like a right hard man.”
“He was a marine. Seen a fair bit of action.”
“And now?”
“Runs a catering business. He’s always liked cooking. He told me this story about when the ship was sailing home – the cook had been killed along with a good chunk of the crew, so he made this meal for the rest of them, the lucky ones. He brought it into the mess and someone had put on the film Chariots of Fire, then that song “Jerusalem” came on and everyone was singing and he just burst into tears. So he’s not so hard, really. He was only, like, twenty then. I guess being in a war’s a lot to deal with. He’s been cooking ever since.” He looks at his feet, contemplating.
There are piles of Board Mag on the floor. His mountainboard leans against the clothes rail, its wheels caked in mud.
I pick up his helmet, and run my finger over the stickers. I hover over a four-leaf clover.
“Isaac gave me that one before my first race, for luck.”
“Did you win?”
“Didn’t come last.” Finn shrugs. “You can sit down.”
I sit cross-legged on the bed. “So why am I here?”
“I’m not sure I’m equipped to answer such probing questions about the nature of existentialism. Why are any of us here?”
I roll my eyes.
“You know what I mean. Why did you invite me over?”
“I thought maybe you could help me with my Art. You’re pretty good at it.” My heart sinks. He only wants to study. “That, and I can’t stop thinking about you.” Whoa.
The walls are covered in mountainboard posters and photos of him and Greg, Georgia, Fat Mike, Slinky and, ugh … so many pictures of him and Violet glossy-coat Brody. Sienna told me her diet is entirely vegan. Seems to me she’s been at the Pedigree Chum. No, that’s cruel. I don’t even know her. I think I’m just a little intimidated by her. I mean, why isn’t she with Finn? Clearly, there’s some history – all these photos…
Look at that hair. Who am I kidding?
He points to a ticket stub Blu-tacked to a mirror. “This is from the Freestyle Board Jam Series, where I got injured last year.”
Next to the ticket stub is the drawing I gave him. Here, among all his treasures.
“You’re really talented, you know, Carla.”
“Shut up.”
“You are.”
“I want to be an artist, but it’s not exactly well paid. Unless you’re dead or Damien Hirst. And I don’t plan on being either.”
“You could be the exception.”
“Well, even if I was ever good enough, I can’t imagine my folks would be thrilled. Maybe my dad would be OK, but – not that she’s said it outright, I mean, she’s hardly ever around to say anything – I get the impression my mum would rather I become a geneticist or work at CERN or something wholly boring like that. Nuclear research is so not my bag.”
“It’s not about her though. It’s about you, doing what you want.”
“Do you always do what you want?”
“Pretty much.”
I think about Finn turning up late for classes, sometimes skipping them entirely, and the way he talks back to teachers. Is it doing him any long-term favours? He’s obviously intelligent, but will this do-what-I-want philosophy come back to bite him on the ass come the end of school when he’s got minimal qualifications and just a dream of professional mountainboarding to pursue?
What am I going to do if I don’t make it as an artist?
“Do you ever wonder what’ll happen if we fail our exams?” I ask.
“Not really. I’ve got my board and I make enough money.”
“You’ve got a job?”
He shrugs. “I don’t worry about it.” He goes over to his sound dock, slots his phone into place and presses PLAY. I guess that’s the end of that conversation.
I point to a picture of Violet. “Did you two use to go out?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Sorry. Mum’s a journalist. I guess I inherited her inquisitive nature. So, did you?”
“Violet? No way. We’ve been friends since for ever. She’s just a mate.”
I nod. “Who’s this with you and Greg?”
“That’s Dave Compton – one of my ultimate boarding heroes – met him at XBP Mountainboard Centre in Surrey. Soon I’ll have another photo for the collection. Tom Kirkman’s going to be at the UK Board Battle. Can’t wait to meet him. He’s a legend. I’ve been practising the sweetest new trick to show him.”
“I see. Cool,” I say, widening my eyes.
“Are you making fun of me, tiger?”
“I wouldn’t dare. It’s cool. You have a passion.”
“It’s more than a passion. It’s my life.”
I can’t help but laugh out loud then.
Finn sits down on the bed behind me, grabs me around the shoulders and pulls me backwards so I’m lying on his chest. I look up at him.
“The warm-up comp I told you about is tomorrow. You should come. Greg’s racing too and Georgia will be there.”
He tells me where the skate park is and I agree to meet him.
“You smell like pears,” he says.
“That’ll be my invisible Carmen Miranda headdress. Made entirely from pears. I’m on a budget and strawberries aren’t in season till June.” The corners of his mouth curl in amusement. “Or it could be my shampoo.”
I want to pull him to me, kiss him, feed him some secret potion that makes him mine and makes him want me for ever and ever and ever. We’re inches apart and I can smell the sweet manliness of his neck, his arms, his hair. I smile at the feeling. Intoxicating, powerful, it grips me.
I gulp. I think he’s going to kiss me. This is it. Me in my washed-too-many-times-was-white-now-grey-vest-top and elastic-band-tied-back-unkempt-blob hair. He. Is. Going. To. Kiss. ME.
I feel my face flush scarlet.
He leans in. I close my eyes…
The door swings open and I sit bolt upright.
“Oh, didn’t know you were here. Sorry.” Isaac looks me up and down. “Didn’t mean to, er” – he searches his feet for the word – “interrupt.”
“Heard of knocking, mate?” Finn snaps.
Isaac’s wearing a long-sleeved top under a black shirt. His jeans are loose, baggy, normal. Not like the guys in my year. He has the same coffee-dark eyes as Finn, but behind a curtain of hair. He’s attractive, but in a quiet way.
Silence expands between us.
“What do you want, Isaac?” Finn asks, breaking the tension.
“Dinner’s ready.”
He backs out of the room, and shuts the door.
“Better go,” I say. “Culinary disaster awaits at home. Dad’s attempting to cook Thai green curry. Knowing him, it’ll end up purple and taste of meatballs.”
“Mmm, delicious.”
“Not all of us are lucky enough to have a dad who’s good with a wooden spoon.” I pick up my bag and head out, hovering in the doorway.
“See you tomorrow,” Finn says, lying back on his bed.