‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Eggs. Do you want some yoghurt now? Anyway, George and I talked things through at length—’
‘While we were sitting here at home wondering what the hell had happened to you. Why didn’t you phone?’ Dad demands.
‘Because I didn’t think it would look particularly professional if I said “Excuse me, I have to phone my husband to stop him worrying about me”,’ says Anna. She folds her arms and faces Dad. ‘I’m sorry you and Ellie got worried but I feel I behaved perfectly responsibly. I don’t see why you have to give me the third degree now. I thought you’d be thrilled for me. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for. I was so envious when Sara started designing her clothes. I felt I’d wasted all my art school training. You’ve no idea what it’s been like never having a job.’
‘I thought you were happy looking after me and Ellie and Eggs,’ says Dad.
‘I am happy – but I don’t see why I can’t have a career as well, especially now Eggs has begun school.’
‘And now George really wants Anna-jumpers?’ I say.
‘He got me to sketch some of the ones I’ve made already. Of course some of the characters have their own trademark so we can’t use them – but I roughed out some new animal ones for him, pigs and piglets in little stripy shirts, a funny cow milkman driving an orange milkcart, a granny sheep knitting a jumper, a chicken painting a Fabergé-type egg. He wants all those designs properly drawn out with the knitting instructions and the jumpers knitted up, of course. He says I can use a professional knitter or two if I don’t have time myself, as it’s obviously the designs that are important. Then we’ve talked about sweaters in football colours and a set of weather jumpers, a light silky cotton jersey with a sun, a thick double-knit sweater with a snowman, a rainbow-striped sweater with the sun on one side and raindrops on the other. It was weird, once I got started I couldn’t stop, all these ideas came tumbling out – and you’ll never guess, he’s paying me five hundred pounds per design, can you imagine, and that’s just for starters, there might be all sorts of spin-offs—’
Anna seems spinning herself, circling way above our heads. Dad is staring at her as if any minute now she’ll whizz out of the window and up into the wide blue yonder.
I can’t concentrate at school. I’ve got one word whirling round every little squiggle and twist of my brain. R-U-S-S-E-L-L. I wonder if he’s thinking about me???
I think about him particularly hard in the last double lesson, ART. We’ve got this new young ultra hip Art teacher, Mr Windsor. I like him a lot and I love all the stuff he tells us about the history of art and women painters and the changing ways women have been portrayed. I normally hang on to his every word and try to impress him, but his voice today is like background buzz on a radio. I can’t even get interested when he shows us some Blake watercolours and Picasso paintings of mythical creatures. Magda and Nadine like the Blake triple Hecate of three young women huddled together. Mr Windsor says she’s a goddess of the Underworld, and then he flashes lots more Greek gods at us and amuses us with muses.
‘Now, I want you all to draw yourselves as a mythical creature. Be as inventive as possible,’ says Mr Windsor, handing out paper. ‘You can use black ink and watercolour, like little Blakelets, or paint like Picasso.’
Magda and Nadine want to sellotape our papers together and do a joint Hecate.
‘We can all draw her together,’ says Magda.
‘Ellie can do the bodies as she’s the best at drawing and then we’ll each do our own heads,’ says Nadine. ‘You sit in the middle, Ellie, right?’
I hesitate. I don’t really want to join up with Magda and Nadine and do the Hecate. I rather fancy the muse theme.
‘Ellie?’ Magda’s staring at me.
‘Ellie?’ Nadine’s staring at me too.
They’re both looking bewildered.
I feel mean. I don’t want to hurt their feelings.
‘Right, right, who’s got some sellotape then?’ I say quickly.
Luckily Mr Windsor isn’t keen on mutual effort art either.
‘No, you three. I know you’re inseparable, but I’d sooner you each made a solo attempt,’ he says.
I pretend to be disappointed like Nadine and Magda, and settle down to my muse. I get so caught up in it that I don’t chatter to the others. I don’t even look to see what they are doing. Mr Windsor comes and has a wander round just before the bell goes to see how our paintings are progressing.
‘I like it, Nadine,’ he says, laughing.
I stop and peer at Nadine’s painting. She’s drawn herself as a mermaid, her long black hair discreetly veiling her bare top, her jade-green tail wittily tattooed with little navy sailors and anchors and ships.
‘What do you think of mine, Mr Windsor?’ Magda asks eagerly, looking up at him and batting her eyelashes. She flirts with any guy, great or small, old or young, gross or gorgeous, but she’s always thought Mr Windsor seriously special.
He looks at her painting – and then looks at her like she’s seriously special too. I crane my neck to see it properly. I know Nadine is nearly as good at art as me but Magda’s only fair-to-middling. Her drawing isn’t that good, I suppose – it’s just the idea. She’s drawn herself as a phoenix, with a fluffy head of feathers just like her own flame-red curls and she’s flying right out of a fire.
‘What a great idea, Magda,’ says Mr Windsor. ‘I’m truly impressed. You two didn’t just copy an idea like most of the others. You invented your own. We’ll have both of these up on the wall. Now, Ellie, let’s see what you’ve been up to.’
He stands behind me and is quiet for rather longer than usual.
‘How strange,’ he says at last.
‘Strange?’ says Magda, coming over to have a look. ‘Oh, Ellie, it’s ever so good. I wish I could draw like that.’
‘You look just like you – and the artist looks just like a certain boy we all know,’ says Nadine, giving me a nudge.
‘Don’t you like Ellie’s painting, Mr Windsor?’ says Magda. ‘I wish I could draw like her.’
‘It’s . . . interesting,’ says Mr Windsor.
He looks closely at my picture of me posing self-consciously while Russell sketches me. It’s very similar to the Picasso he showed us but his model was naked and I’m obviously not going to portray myself without a stitch on. Come to think of it, the artist was naked too, but I’m certainly not drawing Russell starkers. I suddenly wonder what he looks like bare and start blushing.
‘Why did you draw yourself as a muse, Ellie?’ Mr Windsor asks.
I wonder what he’s getting at? Does he think I’m pathetic for imagining I could ever be a muse figure? Perhaps he thinks it deeply sad that a plump plain girl like me could ever inspire anyone to create worthwhile art?
‘I know muses are meant to be kind of beautiful,’ I mumble. ‘It was just a bit of . . . artistic licence.’
‘Muses can look any way you want them – but you’re the artist. You should be the one clutching the paintbrush, not the model staring into space empty-handed.’
I think he’s paying me a compliment. I suddenly slot back into my senses. I turn my paper over and for the ten minutes left of the lesson I do a quick sketch of Magda and Nadine and me as Hecate – me wearing my glasses and looking earnest, Magda with her head on one side in a flirty fashion and Nadine gazing dreamily into the distance. Magda and Nadine have a happy giggle and Mr Windsor grins.
‘We’ll put that one on the wall, OK?’ he says, as the bell goes. ‘Hometime! Off you go, girls.’
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I can’t WAIT to see Russell. Nadine’s eager to be off too but Magda’s hanging about, watching as Mr Windsor gathers up his stuff and fumbles for his car keys.
‘Oh sweet! I like your Teletubby key-ring, Mr Windsor!’ she says. ‘Tinky-Winky! Whoops, where’s your handbag?’
‘You’re a cheeky girl, Magda. It’s a good job I’m such a laid-back, tolerant teacher,’ says Mr Windsor, tr
ying to shoo her out of the classroom.
‘You’re not like a teacher at all. Well, not like Mr Prescott and Mr Daleford and Mr Pargiter. I can’t imagine them with Teletubby key-rings.’
‘It’s not exactly the coolest of icons,’ says Mr Windsor.
‘Are they your favourite telly programme then, Mr Windsor? Do you watch it again and again?’ Magda asks.
‘I’m telling you again and again – it’s time to go home.’
‘You’re quoting that little Andy Pandy now. My nan used to watch him,’ says Magda. ‘And my mum loved the Clangers. Do you have little kids who like the Teletubbies then, Mr Windsor?’
‘Little kids! I’m not even married. Now, buzz off the lot of you.’
Magda buzzes at last. She practically skips out of the art room and out into the playground.
‘Did you hear that, you two! He’s not married!’
‘Magda! Are you crazy?’
‘Magda, you can’t go after Mr Windsor!’
‘Why not? How old do you think he is? Only twenty-something. That’s not really old, is it?’
‘You are crazy!’
‘Anyway, I’ve got to run,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m seeing Russell at McDonald’s and I can’t bear to be late or he’ll think I’ve stood him up.’
‘Oh dear, I’m starting to feel a bit left out here,’ says Nadine. ‘First there’s you blowing hot and cold over this Russell, Ellie, and now Magda suddenly gone totally bananas over Mr Windsor. I’m the only sane one left.’
‘Cheek! Look at the way you were with Liam!’ I say. Nadine flinches a little. I bite my lip, wishing I hadn’t said it.
‘Sorry, Nadine,’ I say guiltily, giving her hand a squeeze.
‘That creep Liam is history,’ says Magda firmly.
But there at the school gate is Liam himself.
He’s standing looking our way, ultra cool in his black clothes, his hair flopping sexily forward, his dark eyes gleaming.
Nadine is always pale but now she goes so white I’m scared she’s going to faint. She takes one wobbly step, then I grab her by the elbow, Magda the other.
‘There, Nadine. Don’t worry. We’ve got you,’ I say.
‘The cheek of that creep!’ says Magda.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Nadine whispers.
‘He shouldn’t be allowed to hang round our school,’ I say indignantly. ‘We ought to tell Mrs Henderson.’
‘Yeah, you know what a fierce feminist she is. She’d take aim with her hockey stick and give him a swift crack right where it hurts,’ says Magda, chuckling.
Nadine certainly isn’t laughing.
‘Do you think he wants to talk to me?’ she says.
‘Well, you’re not talking to him!’ says Magda. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll walk you straight past him.’
‘Don’t even glance in his direction,’ I say.
But Nadine can’t seem to take her eyes off him.
‘You don’t want to see him, do you?’ I say.
‘Oh God, Nadine, think about the way he treated you. The way he treats all the girls he’s been out with,’ says Magda.
‘I know,’ says Nadine. ‘OK. We’ll walk straight past. Quick!’
We start walking across the playground. Nearer and nearer. Liam is looking straight at us. His blue eyes are boring right into Nadine.
‘Take no notice, no matter what he says,’ Magda hisses.
‘Remember Claudie? Don’t even think about him. He’s not worth it, worth it, worth it,’ I sing softly.
Nadine takes a deep breath and walks on. She doesn’t make a sound but her lips are moving. I think she’s muttering Claudie’s song under her breath.
We draw close, swinging sideways out the gate, the three of us marching in unison, like we’re joined at the hips, a walking manifestation of Hecate.
‘Hi, Nadine,’ says Liam. He ignores Magda and me, like we’re Nadine’s walking sticks. We do our best to prop her up.
She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even glance in his direction. We walk her past him and hurry her up the road.
‘He’s still staring after us,’ says Magda.
‘Let’s hurry!’
We practically sprint to the corner. Magda peers back breathlessly.
‘It’s OK, he’s still standing outside school. The nerve! Mind you, I do get what you saw in him, Nadine. He’s gorgeous. Look at his bum in those jeans!’
‘Magda, stop being ridiculous,’ I snap.
Nadine still says nothing.
‘Naddie? Are you all right?’
She gives a little nod.
‘You don’t still have a thing about him, do you?’
‘He’s history, like Claudie sings,’ Nadine insists.
‘Isn’t it good my dad got tickets,’ says Magda, quickly steering the subject away from Liam. ‘They were very nearly sold out too. It’s on the 29th. That’s the Friday night. We’ll have a great girly night out.’
‘Yeah, it’ll be fantastic. I can’t wait,’ I say.
‘Claudie wouldn’t waste her time on any guy who used her,’ Nadine mutters.
‘Too right she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t waste her time.’ The word ‘time’ makes me glance at my watch. ‘Oh help! I can’t be late. Look, I have to charge off to McDonald’s to see Russell. Is that OK?’
‘Don’t worry, Ellie. I’ll go back to Nadine’s with her,’ says Magda. ‘We can do our homework together, right, Naddie?’
‘Oh no, it’s Maths! Can I copy off you two tomorrow morning before school?’ I beg.
‘You could always ask Russell for help,’ says Magda. ‘Seeing as he’s the seriously brainy type.’
I’m not so sure I appreciate this remark. I like it that Russell’s clever. It’s a huge bonus he’s so gifted at art too. But I wish Magda thought he was gorgeous like Liam.
Do I think Russell is gorgeous? I try to conjure him up in my mind as I rush off towards the town centre. It’s weird, I’ve thought about him constantly all day and yet now when I’m about to meet him I can’t really think what he looks like. I just keep seeing my own portrait of him instead.
Then I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window and I start to worry what I look like. If only I’d thought to bring some other clothes with me to school. I look so stupid in my horrible old school uniform. The skirt’s so short and my legs are so fat. My hair’s standing on end like I’m Shock-Headed Peter and I’ve got yoghurt slurp all down my school sweater. I put down my schoolbag, struggle out of my blazer, and start pulling my sweater over my head. There’s a chorus of piercing wolf whistles from a stupid little gang of Year Seven Allen’s boys.
I stand my ground and sigh disdainfully, even though I can feel myself going red.
‘Hey, girlie, all your blouse is undone – you can see your whatsits!’ one yells.
I struggle. I know it’s a joke. But I can’t be sure. What if . . . ?
I look down. My blouse is buttoned. They all shriek with laughter. I say farewell to dignity, make a very rude gesture at them, grab my gear and hurry on. I’m not at all sure about wearing the blouse without the sweater. The buttons do come undone sometimes. It’s too tight so that it bunches across my chest. It doesn’t look remotely inviting, it just looks like I’ve got a couple of unwieldy bags of sugar stuffed down my shirt front. What if I’ve got all sweaty with the rush and the hassle with Allen’s idiots? If only I’d taken my deodorant to school. Oh God, if only I could rewind and start again – but I really need to fast forward because the journey’s taking longer than I thought.
Maybe he’ll give up on me or think that Dad never passed on the letter? Maybe I almost wish Dad hadn’t given me the letter. What’s the matter with me? I’ve been looking forward to seeing Russell all day but now I’m dreading it! My hands are clammy, my blouse is sticking to me, my tongue is tingling, my tummy’s clenched. I’m dying to go to the loo and my brain is going bleep bleep bleep. I can’t think. What shall I say when I see him?
Hello, Russ
ell. Hi there. Fancy seeing you. Sorry I’m late. Remember me? Hallo hallo hallo. Knock knock, who’s there?
Oh God, I’m really going crazy. I’m going into the Flowerfields Centre, it’s just down the escalator and I’m outside McDonald’s and bang bang bang my heart beats because I can see him there, peering all round, looking for someone, looking for me.
He sees me and starts waving – so eagerly he knocks his cup of coffee flying. I go up to him, grab a couple of paper napkins and get mopping.
‘Typical!’ says Russell. ‘I was sitting here practising the coolest way of saying hello and then I see you and spill my coffee all over myself. Not exactly the coolest action in the world.’
‘It’s possibly the hottest way of saying hello,’ I say, discarding one soggy napkin and starting with the next. He’s got coffee all in his lap too but I can’t really dab at his trousers.
‘Good job it’s lukewarm because I’ve been here ages,’ says Russell.
‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late. Did you think I wasn’t coming?’
‘I wasn’t sure. Your dad was really mad at me at first but he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d hang on to my letter. Though I didn’t know if you’d want to come. You must feel I’m totally pathetic – not allowed out by my stupid father. Talk about humiliating.’
Russell raises his eyebrows in mock despair and mops his sketchbook dry.
‘The coffee hasn’t gone on your sketchbook, has it?’
‘I don’t think so. Maybe it’s added a sepia tint or two! I didn’t have it open. I didn’t want to look too posey, sketching again, even though it’s what I like to do best. Well, second best.’
‘So what’s best best then?’ I ask.
‘Kissing you,’ says Russell.
We both blush violently.
‘I’ll get you a coffee – and me a replacement,’ says Russell. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
We end up sharing French fries, taking turns chip by chip.
‘I can’t get over you practically combing the neighbourhood for me,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry, it was a kind of desperate needy thing to do.’