2
I have worked in The Ship and Crown – or The Ship as it is more commonly known – pub for a couple of months now. My shift starts at 7 p.m. and what to wear is always an issue. I get the dregs of pints sloshed all over me as I put the glasses in the dishwasher, and by about 10 p.m. everyone is so hammered that I get all sorts spilt on me as I have to make my way through them all to get to the tables, so black usually hides that the best. I never wear short skirts – not any more – not just because drunk men can’t help themselves and someone always puts their hand up it, but also because I had a terrible incident with a piece of toilet paper one night. I unexpectedly got my period so went to the loo and folded some loo roll up to put in my knickers. There I was just happily serving pints when I realised it had fallen out. There was basically a bright-red papier mâché of my labia on the floor behind the bar. I couldn’t pick it up because if I bent down everyone would have seen my bloody knickers. So I kicked it under the fridge, and I very much suspect that it’s still there. Since then, no skirts at work. It’s just too complicated. I also have a few body issues I need to factor into my outfit choices at the moment. My legs are as skinny as ever, but my belly is getting flabbier.
I find the more layers I wear the less self-conscious I feel. When you spend Saturday nights weaving in and amongst drunk men in a pub you get touched around your waist a lot. I don’t like it. Although it’s gentle, there is always something presumptuous in the way they do it. It isn’t really about helping me get past or asking me to get out of their way – it’s about sex. I find that if you make eye contact with a man, and hold it just that little bit too long, then he will think you fancy him and suddenly he is everywhere you go. The drunker he gets, the more he looks, the more he presumes your accidental eye contact was intentional. You have to really watch yourself around drunk men when you work in a pub – they are fun and everything, but it’s annoying when they get the wrong idea. They don’t leave you alone all night after that. When I am drunk too I don’t mind so much, but when I am sober and working it’s just a pain in the arse.
By nine thirty the pub is completely full and Flo is sitting at the end of the bar in her usual spot, wedged into a corner and on her own. Most people know she is a friend of mine so it isn’t too lonely for her. Also, she turned eighteen in December so there is no issue with her looking suspicious. Sometimes she gets chatting to other punters, but mostly she sits there drinking the drinks I sneak her and waits for me to finish so we can go to The Monkey. Sneaking her drinks is easy. I pour an extra shot of vodka every time I serve someone a big round. I leave it next to the soft-drink gun, then Flo orders a Coke from me, I pour it into the glass with vodka in it and just charge her for the Coke. It’s flawless. The only problem is that Flo can’t take her drink, so if she has too much she often falls off her chair. One time I even had to carry her out at the end of the night. I told my boss, Dave, I thought her drink had been spiked, she was that bad. So now I pace what I give Flo, and sometimes if I think she has had too much, I give her a shot of water instead of vodka and she never knows the difference. I, on the other hand, can handle my drink. So I keep a bottle of vodka in the cellar for when I have to change barrels and get new bottles of spirits. Needless to say, by the time my shift is over at midnight Flo and I are usually pretty wasted. And that is great, because the major perk of working in a pub is that you get on the guest list of The Monkey nightclub.
‘We’ve been working tonight,’ I say to Max the big, scary bouncer. Who I snogged last New Year’s Eve but who refuses to acknowledge it now.
‘Your mate is too drunk,’ he says, looking at Flo, who isn’t doing too badly, but one eye is definitely starting to droop.
‘She’s fine. It was just a busy night in the pub. We’re tired, right, Flo?’ I subtly elbow her in the ribs and she perks up.
‘No, I’m not drunk. Just overworked and underpaid,’ she says in a weird cockney accent that comes out of nowhere.
‘I’m getting you a Red Bull,’ I tell her, as we go down the stairs and into the club.
The Monkey is cool and we come here most Saturday nights after I finish work. The DJ plays the same music every night and the same people are always there. I guess that is to be expected on a small island, but a new face stands out a mile and sexy people get pounced on so it’s a bit of a meat market sometimes, and there aren’t many rules as to how far people can go. The club is divided in half by a dance floor with a narrow walkway down one side and a sofa along the wall. A few weeks ago a couple were going for it in front of everyone on the dance floor and people were walking past the whole time. The guy had his hand down the girl’s pants. A few people took photos and Flo and I were staring in disbelief. I’m all for snogging in public, but they were practically shagging. We even saw the top of her pubes, but she was so drunk she didn’t seem to care. When the guy decided he was finished and stood up, she rolled off the sofa onto the floor and lay there for about three minutes before finding the strength to get herself up, by which time the audience had dispersed and everyone was back to dancing. Flo and I went over to see if she needed a hand, but all she said was, ‘Why would I need your help?’ To which I said, ‘Um, I dunno. Because you just got fingered in a nightclub and the guy who did it is now over there grinding someone else?’ But she seemed nonplussed and stumbled to the toilets, where I presume she threw up. But that’s The Monkey for you. A meat market that is open until 2 a.m., plays cheesy pop music and turns a blind eye to public displays of foreplay. I love it.
As we get to the bar the Spice Girls’ ‘Who Do You Think You Are’ comes on and Flo and I give up on getting a drink and run to the dance floor. We love the Spice Girls so much, and every time we hear one of their songs we have a rule to stop whatever it is we are doing and dance. ‘You’re the shy one!’ I shout in Flo’s ear. ‘Shy Spice!’ She shrugs her shoulders as if accepting it.
‘You’re the naughty one!’ she shouts back. ‘Bloody Naughty Spice!’
We let rip on the dance floor. Jumping around like our lives depend on it. I love it when Flo gets like this – she abandons all inhibition and just goes for it. It’s the mix of booze, the Spice Girls and the fact that it’s quite dark in The Monkey. I watch her, aware not to make her feel self-conscious. She is so beautiful, a surprisingly funky dancer and sexy too. Her body is gorgeous, but you would never notice it under the clothes she wears. She is much thinner than me, with big boobs, long legs, gorgeous long brown hair. The only problem with Flo is that she doesn’t see herself the way she should. She is racked with insecurity, and it holds her back every day. But in other ways she is the strongest person I know, the most grounded. She would be the best person in the world if she just had a bit of faith in herself.
I jump closer to her and lean forward, and she leans back and we start a rock-and-roll-type move, singing along. We know all the words. I throw my hands in the air one more time and, as the disco lights shine directly into my face, I spot him. Dean Mathews. About twenty-five. Tall, handsome and intriguing. He is a writer for the Guernsey Globe – he wears blazers and neck scarves. He has floppy curly hair and when I think about having babies when I am older, I think of him being the dad. He comes into the pub and I see him around all the time. But we have never actually spoken.
I stare at him, trying to get him to make eye contact. Flo is now going crazy to ‘Let Me Be Your Fantasy’, and I am in a bubble. I keep looking at Dean. Right now, having a man think I want him by catching his eye is fine by me. I want him to know I want him, and I want him to want me back. I hold my gaze firm on his face. After a few seconds he feels it and looks over. He turns slightly so he is facing me head on and he watches me dance. Wow, that was easy. Now I need to keep his interest. So, like Madonna in the ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ video when she dances around in those black pedal pushers and strapless top, I break into that routine. Flo and I learned it a few months ago and this feels like as good a time as any to do it. He watches me as I prance around doing my best to keep the eye contact going throughout. The routine doesn’t quite fit to the music but the song couldn’t be more perfect. I want to be his fantasy. I lose myself in it, I let the music take me. He watches me the whole time. I feel so sexy. When the song ends I stop dancing, look to Flo, who is totally lost in the music, and decide to go over to him. How will he ever be the father of my children if I don’t go over and say hi? As I push my way through the dancers I stop when out of nowhere Dean turns around and Meg Lloyd swoops in. They hug, then turn to the bar and order a drink.
Shit.
That was not supposed to happen.
‘I LOVE THIS ONE!’ screams Flo in my ear as she bounces up behind me, unaware of what I have just been through. I stand still, deflated, gutted.
‘What’s wrong?‘ Flo asks me, slowing down a little. ‘What’s the matter?’
I take a few seconds to collect myself.
‘We need to learn some new dance routines,’ I say. ‘Let’s get that drink.’
I wake up fully clothed on top of the covers and my brain feels like it’s about to explode. I bash my hand around looking for my glass of water, but instead of the hard, flat surface of my bedside table my fingers fall into a wet, squishy orifice.
‘Get the hell out of my mouth!’ yells Renée as she thumps me on the chest.
‘Sorry! I thought you were a table. I forgot I was here. Please, get me water.’
Renée rolls over onto her side and falls to the floor, landing on all fours. I can’t move to watch, but I hear her crawl over to her dressing table, pick up a glass and crawl back with it.
‘Thanks. I can’t believe you managed that.’
‘I barely remember doing it,’ she says as she buries her head into her pillow and makes whimpering noises.
‘I am going to die,’ I tell her.
‘I think I’m already dead,’ she replies.
We lie still for another three minutes until Renée falls out of bed again. This time I make out the word ‘bacon’ as she heads for the door.
I lie on her bed trying to focus on the ceiling. As I start to make out the details of the light I feel that I might actually survive the day.
‘Can I borrow some clothes?’ I shout after her. She mumbles a yes.
Somehow I manage to get to the wardrobe. As I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I wonder if going to church for the first time looking like a stop-out with a hangover is such a good idea. I riffle through Renée’s wardrobe and find a black knee-length skirt and a black shirt. I have never seen her wear either of them. I wore black boots last night so all in all, the outfit works fine. I go into the bathroom where I have a wee, tie back my hair, splash my face with cold water and clean my teeth with Renée’s toothbrush. I am going to be OK. I can do this, I think. I follow the smell of bacon downstairs.
‘Why have you dressed like you’re going to a funeral?’ says Renée from the floor, where she is lying. Her aunty Jo smiles at me as she offers me a bacon sandwich. I take it.
‘I need to look smart. I’m going to church,’ I say, expecting to be laughed at. Instead Renée drops her head back to the floor.
‘Well, don’t forget to thank God for bacon,’ she says, her mouth full.
‘You could come with me?’
‘The place would blow up if I walked in the door. It’s a certain kind of life you live when you never have to worry about what your mother would say,’ Renée says, giving me a painful-looking wink.
‘Well, your aunty says you should pull yourself together and go and get ready for the car boot sale. Come on, up,’ says Jo, physically trying to get Renée upright.
‘Bye then,’ I say as I leave. ‘Thanks for the bacon, Jo.’
‘Tell him I’ll see him soon,’ shouts Renée’s nana after me.
Who?
After having to get off the bus at Trinity Square so that I could puke in a bin, the ten-minute walk to Town Square does me good, and by the time I get there I feel a lot better. There are quite a few people standing outside, all dressed in their Sunday best. The church looks very different to how it usually does on the days when the shops are open. Usually it’s Guernsey’s dodgiest inhabitants hanging around there; today it looks like Guernsey’s finest. I excuse myself as I walk through them all, head into the church, take a Book of Common Prayer from a lady who is handing them out, and take a seat on a pew reasonably near to the back. I am aware that my breath smells of booze.
No one is talking now, apart from some children. But even they seem to know to keep the volume down as people all around us are on their knees telling God whatever it is that is on their mind.
There is a clarity here that comes from being surrounded by people you know believe in the afterlife. I don’t feel silly for believing that Dad is out there somewhere when I am in here. But thinking of him in heaven doesn’t make me any less aware of the fact that he isn’t on earth. When people die they disappear from your life, we all know that. And that is what families are for, they’re the ones who gather round you and help you not forget that person. They’re the ones who help you keep their memory alive. But not my family. Mum almost refuses to mention him, and Abi was only four when he died, so she only remembers him a little. I try to tell her about him, and teach her about who he was, but he’s just a distant memory now. Mum hasn’t helped me with that.
Sometimes I wonder if me trying to make Abi remember him is cruel. Why do I try so hard to give her a person to miss, to be sad about? Maybe it’s a good thing that over time she won’t remember him at all. How can you spend a lifetime being sad about someone you barely knew?
The things I remember make it impossible to forget him. I remember how his cuddles felt, I remember the feeling of his lips on my cheek when he kissed it. I remember the details of his voice so acutely that when I go to bed at night I can make him whisper in my ear. I remember the taste of his dinners, his terrible jokes, the way he danced to ABBA. I remember him telling me I was his favourite person in the world, and that he would always have my back. And I knew that no matter what happened in the rest of my life, I would never need more than that love from my dad. And when he died it vanished, and so did my safety net. And ever since, even though I have Renée, I have felt a bit lost. And I don’t feel like I am allowed to feel like that any more, not still, not nearly three years later. So I hide it all and I say I’m fine, and I look for things to take my mind off him, like tapestry or life-saving. And I just try really, really hard to keep his memory alive in my head. The only place he still exists. Apart from here, maybe.
Can he see me?
I smile, just in case.
Then someone taps me on the shoulder and I jump so badly I nearly have a heart attack myself. It’s Kerry from school, sitting in the pew behind me. Her freckles look particularly brown and she is wearing a pale blue, long-sleeved dress.
‘Hey,’ she says cheekily. ‘Come to church to find me, did you?’
‘No,’ I say abruptly. ‘I am here for the service.’
She shuffles round and sits next to me on my pew. I don’t want her to. I was looking forward to doing this on my own, having the space to work out if this is for me or not. I enjoy the way I can think here, I don’t want someone chatting over my thoughts or pushing me into anything too religious. I suddenly feel like I shouldn’t be here. Dad, I think. Make her leave me alone.
She doesn’t go away.
‘Thanks so much for helping me at school the other day,’ she says. She seems a lot more confident here than she did there.
‘I didn’t do anything. I thought you might have hurt yourself when you fell, that’s all.’
‘Well, thanks anyway. And thanks for not kicking me while I was down. I am used to it, but very few people at school have much sympathy for us “Jesus freaks”. Is your church closed?’ she asks.
‘Closed?’
‘Is that why you are here? Because your church is having refurbishments?’
‘No. I don’t have a church. It’s my first time.’
‘Wow, you’re a virgin?’
I feel myself flush. It’s a new thing that my face has started doing since I got to the grammar. If anyone says the slightest thing that embarrasses me, or sometimes even if a teacher just speaks to me in front of the class, my face explodes with red. I feel the blotches start in hot patches on my neck and then immediately creep up my face. The heat is instant, like someone has tipped my head to the side, poured boiling water into my ear and put a plug in like a hot-water bottle. I can do nothing to stop it, I just have to breathe steadily to try to control my thumping heart and not touch my face. And here I am now, in church, fluorescent and drenched in sweat in seconds because someone just asked me that question. I make a weird croaky sound instead of words.
‘Oh, no,’ Kerry says, looking quite embarrassed herself. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I mean a church virgin. It’s what my friends and I call people who come for the first time.’
The plug is gently removed from my ear, and the water pours out. We share an awkward laugh.
‘I have a bit of a complex about that, obviously,’ I say, blowing on my palms to dry them.
‘Well, you’re in good company here. There are loads of virgins at church.’
The organ starts playing and a vicar walks down the aisle.
‘Chat after?’ says Kerry, hopping back to the pew behind me.
‘Sure.’
After we sing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ – I feel proud that I know the words – the vicar does a sermon about how people will love you, and you will love them, but you can never rely fully on another person because their own life will always be their priority. He then tells us that we are all God’s priority, and that we can rely on him completely. God will never have something more important to do than take care of us. He tells us that if we commit fully to God, he will commit fully to us. ‘Have realistic expectations of those with whom you surround yourself,’ he says. ‘But know that God is the only one you can ever really rely on.’
I was expecting to find the sermon boring, but it isn’t. What he says is what I need to hear – it helps me understand the meaning of what God could do for me. It gives me the feeling that I could actually connect with Him, and not just the idea of Him.
At the end, as Kerry and I step outside, the day seems brighter, crisper. Maybe it’s just the impact of being inside for over an hour, but I feel spritely, energised. Really glad I came to church.
‘It doesn’t have to just be Sundays,’ says Kerry, pulling on her coat. ‘If you think this is for you, there’s a small group of us who meet on Thursday nights at one of our houses. We pray together, read from the Bible. You are welcome to join if you want to.’
‘Maybe,’ I say doubtfully. Praying in a group? I mean, I know that’s essentially what church is, but in someone’s living room? That sounds odd.
‘It’s a bit like a book club I guess, but we only study one book.’ She laughs. ‘What the vicar said was true – God is the only one who will never let you down. Hopefully our group will make you feel the same way about us, though. We’re friends and we share our experience of God. It’s nice. It would be nice to get to know you better too. Oh look, there are the guys.’
She waves frantically at three other people, two boys and a girl. The two boys couldn’t look more different. One is tall and skinny and looks about twenty-four, the other is short and stocky and I think I recognise him from school. The girl is plump and looks like she is probably part of a drama club; they always wear black T-shirts, DM boots and look like they never brush their hair.
‘Guys, this is Flo. It’s her first time today and I just invited her to Bible group on Thursday,’ Kerry says. ‘Flo, this is Sandra, Matt … and Gordon.’ They all nod enthusiastically and the older one, Gordon, reaches out to shake my hand. He is tall and skinny, with a rock-and-roll T-shirt on.
‘Looking forward to having you in the Bible group, Flo,’ he says. ‘It will be good for us to have a new energy in the group.’
‘Well, if it’s energy thatcha need, it’s what I got,’ I say to the Record Breakers theme tune. I am trying to sound confident and upbeat, but I immediately hate myself for sounding like such a prat. What’s worse is that nobody even laughs, which obviously makes me feel even more of a prat. Renée would be on the floor after that.
I think about what Kerry said. A group of friends to share this with might be really nice. Maybe I don’t have to do this on my own. Like the vicar said, I need to fully embrace God for him to fully embrace me, and these guys have obviously nailed it. They could teach me how. God might be the only person I can rely on when school finishes, the only thing I can take with me wherever I go.
‘All right,’ I tell them. ‘I’d love to come. Thanks.’
‘Great, see you Thursday then,’ says Kerry, writing down an address in a notebook and ripping it out for me. ‘Seven until 9 p.m. So happy you’re coming!’
‘Come on, Nana. Let’s go and get a burger,’ I say, rolling out of the back of Aunty Jo’s car when we arrive at L’Ancresse, where about twenty-five other cars are lined up with their boots open.
‘It’s ten o’clock in the morning. You had your second bacon sandwich half an hour ago. Are you serious?’ questions Aunty Jo.
I am deadly serious. I don’t know what it is about hangovers that means my stomach loses the capacity to feel full, but I need to keep consuming or I might collapse. I lead Nana by the elbow and steer her to the burger van. She stands and watches me eat my body weight in beef, ketchup and bread, all the while telling me that it is important for me to breathe into my food.
By the time we get back to Aunty Jo she has organised all of our bits and bobs in the boot of the car, put a little deck chair out for Nana and is pouring cups of tea from a flask for us all.
‘Sit here until you get too cold, Mum,’ she says. ‘Then you can sit in the car with the heating on.’ She turns to me and says, ‘She could sit out all night in that fur coat of hers. It’s either warm blood or the fact she can’t remember from second to second that she is freezing. In case it’s the latter, keep your eye on her. If her lips go blue we will get her in.’ Aunty Jo stuffs a blanket around Nana’s legs and carries on arranging things. It’s surprisingly chilly for April.
There is everything. Old clothes, books, kitchen things. ‘A lot of this was left in the house before we moved in,’ Aunty Jo tells me, passing me a kettle that’s so black on the bottom I wonder why anyone would buy it. She whacks a sticker on it that says £1 and tells me to put it to the front.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, pulling a picture frame out of a bag. There is a picture of her and Uncle Andrew in it.
‘Oh, that. Take the picture out and put it in the bin. We could get a tenner for that frame, it’s solid silver.’
I do as she says, but carefully. As the photo comes out a key falls to the ground. On the back of the photo is some writing. Two Peas in a Pod, The Crane 1984 – our honeymoon. Room 341.
‘What does the “Two Peas” mean?’ I ask her, mesmerised by how happy they look in the photo.
‘It’s what I used to call us, because I thought we were so similar. Like two peas in a pod. But it was all wrong.’
‘What do you mean? How could being the same be all wrong?’
‘Because we weren’t similar at all, we were completely different,’ says Aunty Jo. ‘But I changed myself to try to be like him so he would love me. I never trusted that he loved me so I tried to be someone I wasn’t, someone like him. That didn’t excite him, so hate became the only way to get passion into the marriage.’ She pulls a cable from a bag and seems upset when there is nothing attached to the end of it. ‘So he started to hate me.’
I can’t imagine anyone hating Aunty Jo. She is the best person in the world.
‘Do you believe that everyone has one person they are supposed to be with for life?’ I ask her. ‘It feels like such an impossible thing. Men and women are so different.’
‘I think it is good for everyone to have one person they can rely on, no matter what,’ says Aunty Jo. ‘And being different is no bad thing. Men are hard work, though; if you don’t find the right one, you can live a life of misery. You have to find one who accepts you for everything that you are, and not what they would like you to be. And you have to find one who thinks your experience of life is as important as theirs, otherwise you will resent them, and that’s the worst way to be. But I would like to meet someone, and get it right next time.’ Her eyes well up a little. She shakes her face and snaps herself out of it. ‘But I have you and Mum and the geese. What more do I need, really?’ she finishes, managing a smile.
‘Yes, you have us,’ I say, knowing that Nana won’t be around forever and that in six months’ time I will be off to start the next chapter of my life. For the first time I find myself worrying about her. Who will look after Aunty Jo when we have gone?
I hold the photo in my hand and try to imagine who my ‘One’ will be. Will I choose him right? And if I don’t, will I end up alone, or will I just live with someone forever that I find boring and who doesn’t interest me at all? I see both Nana and Aunty Jo and how they married the wrong people. How can you not be angry that you wasted all of that time?
‘Well, I’m glad it didn’t work out, because if it did then God knows where I would be if you hadn’t come home,’ I say, putting my arm around her shoulder and kissing her cheek.
‘Me too,’ she says. ‘And it didn’t kill me, did it? Coping with a bit of heartache is the least I can do.’ She holds a scarf that belonged to Mum. ‘I don’t know what I should keep and what I should get rid of. It seems so strange that this could be worn by someone else, who has no idea that it was hers.’
‘Then let’s keep it,’ I say. ‘Let’s keep everything we have left. Pop threw so much away when she died and he shouldn’t have. We don’t have to look at this every day, but we can keep it. And those dresses in your wardrobe, and her jewellery. Let’s pack it away when we get home, but let’s not sell anything else.’
Aunty Jo agrees. It is strange that she even brought the scarf today, but I think she thought maybe getting rid of stuff was a good idea. It isn’t, though. We have already lost enough.
‘I miss her so much, Renée,’ she says. ‘My darling sister, the poor girl. There was nothing I could do to protect her when she got sick. We looked out for each other all our lives. I felt so useless.’
She is crying now, trying to hide it from Nana who is watching everyone busy around. It’s weird for me when Aunty Jo cries about Mum. It reminds me that she wasn’t just my mum – she was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. It’s as hard for Aunty Jo as it is for me. Maybe harder, I don’t know. She knew her longer than I did.
‘You must call Nell,’ she says abruptly. ‘I know you girls didn’t get on, Renée, but she is your sister. You two don’t realise how precious you are to each other. If I had known I would lose Helen I don’t think I would ever have left Guernsey. It all just feels like such a waste of time now. I left to be with a man who didn’t even want me, and because of that I missed out on the last few years of my sister’s life. You and Nell have to make the most of each other, be friends. No one will ever be to you what your sister can be. One day you will realise how much you love her and you’ll understand why you have to stick together.’
I hug her. Making promises about my relationship with Nell isn’t something I am comfortable with, so I don’t say anything. I don’t know if Nell and I will ever be what Mum and Aunty Jo were.
She pulls herself together, smiles at Nana and passes me a bag of stickers and tells me to make up prices for everything. I stick £40 on the silver photo frame and turn to see if anyone is looking like they might buy something. A lady carrying a basket full of little brown paper bags walks past shouting, ‘Homemade fudge!’ I pretend not to notice, but Nana’s face lights up like she just won a million pounds.
‘You remember what fudge is, don’t you, Mum?’ says Aunty Jo, laughing and handing me a fiver.
Brilliant, I think. I haven’t eaten anything for at least fifteen minutes.
‘So the banana bar symbolises a penis and how the two lesbians in the shop and Jeanette will never marry men?’ asks Meg.
‘Exactly,’ says Mr Frankel. ‘The author is making subtle references to the phallus here, and setting up for the revelation of Jeanette’s sexuality later in the story.’
I watch Meg from across the classroom. All I can think about is her and Dean and how I am determined to find out if he is her boyfriend or not. I’ve asked almost everyone in our year if she is going out with anybody, but no one knows anything about her. Dean had looked so happy to see her that night at The Monkey. I didn’t see them kiss, but they stayed together all night and neither of them spoke to anyone else. They left together about half an hour before the club shut, but I couldn’t tell if they were holding hands or not.
It’s doing my head in. He was obviously flirting with me that night and he comes into the pub on his own all the time and eyes me up – he can’t be in a relationship. I have such a massive crush on him. I need to know if he is single or not. I have to be brave to find out. I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook.
Hey Meg, how are you? Wanna come to the lay-by with me after English? Renée x
I throw it at her and wait for a response. Even by my standards this is very random and she is fully entitled to ignore it, as we go to the lay-by almost every time after English, so this note is creepy and unnecessary. I watch her read it. She looks at me, nods, then starts to write. A minute or so later she chucks the note back. Mr Frankel turns round seconds later, but Meg seems completely unfazed about the idea of getting caught.
Sure. And are you free Saturday night? Dean asked me to invite you to see the play he has written. There’s a performance of it at the Youth Theatre at 7.
My eyeballs nearly fall out of my head. He asked her to ask me? Did this really just happen? If that wasn’t a lesson in the value of being bold I don’t know what is. I could do a star jump here and now. They are just friends. Breathe, Renée. Oh my goodness, he is so obviously going to be the father of my children. I instantly devise an excuse to get out of work on Saturday night and throw a note back to Meg saying, Cool, yeah. I’d love to, thanks.
I open my copy of Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit and try to focus on what Mr Frankel is saying.
‘A girl is particularly vulnerable when she can’t rely on the support of her mother,’ he says, posing a question to the class about whether the mother’s treatment of Jeanette is cruelty or just tough parenting. But my focus is elsewhere. I spend the rest of the class staring out of the window imagining Dean putting shelves up in the big house we will live in when we get married and have babies.
In the lay-by after class I manage not to fire a load of questions at Meg about Dean. I can wait until Saturday now. I must try to be cool. We stand smoking a fag, listening to Pete and Marcus talking about a girl that Pete claims to have fingered at the weekend whose fanny smelt of blue cheese. It’s so obvious he hasn’t got a clue what he’s talking about.
‘It’s out of order, you know? The way you talk about girls. It’s actually your dicks that smell of cheese, so you can shut up,’ I say.
‘Oooooo, got your period, have you?’ retorts Pete. That classic immature response from a guy when they have no better come-back but to humiliate a girl about her vagina or womb. I can’t wait to leave school and be surrounded by adults so I never have to listen to this crap again.
‘Boys our age have no idea,’ Meg tells me. ‘They’re so immature it’s painful. You don’t get that with older guys, especially the ones who have been in relationships before. They don’t talk about periods like it’s a disability, and they wash their dicks.’ She takes a long, deep tug on her cigarette and stubs it out under her foot. ‘Anyway, I have to go. See you in English on Thursday, and that’s really cool you can make it on Saturday. Dean will be happy.’
She walks away. I want to scream after her, but I manage to contain myself.
I watch her walk. It’s slow, relaxed, almost a swagger. She is probably stoned – she doesn’t hide the fact she likes getting high. One time she came into English, sat next to me and said, ‘I haven’t slept in two days. I’m quite off my face. How are my pupils?’
Her pupils were massive and she looked like she had been attacked, but I told her she looked fine and she still answered every question Mr Frankel asked correctly and had obviously done all of her coursework. I don’t know how she does it.
‘Who is up for chicken?’ bursts Pete, full of confidence and an incessant need to show off.
‘Chicken is stupid,’ I say. ‘What is the point of driving at each other like that? You either pull away and look weak, or you keep going and die. It’s such a stupid game, can’t you just go and get pissed in town instead?’
‘All right, mardy pants,’ says Marcus. ‘You should do it in your car, that would be funny. Actually, there are quite a few things I would like to do in your car. Like shag you.’
‘In your dreams,’ I say, walking off. Is that seriously how he expects to get sex?
I get to my car and throw in my bag. When I put the key in I turn and pump my foot, but nothing. It’s failed again. Having to go back to Pete and Marcus and ask them to bump-start me is mortifying, but needs must.
‘I’ll do it for a squeeze of your tits,’ says Pete.
‘How about you just do it to be nice?’ I say. They both nod and agree that’s reason enough. They are not bad people, just clueless.
As they push my car down the road my engine eventually kicks in and I make it home in one piece, avoiding all major hills so I don’t have to use my brakes. I love my car, but it really is a pile of crap.