Drama Queen Read online

My mind was racing. What about Mr Williams? The real Henry? The Henry who’d sent the card. He was after my mum. Mr Williams who I saw nearly every day of the week, in his saggy sports jacket and down-at-heel Hush Puppies. Mr Williams wanted to marry my mother? It couldn’t be true. Could it?

  It was difficult to keep him in my sightlines. There was a constant stream of people coming between us. Everyone wanted to go up and congratulate him. But in the brief glimpses I had, he didn’t seem to be suffering from unrequited love. On the contrary, he was standing with a glass of wine in his hand being extremely jovial. And Mum was now carrying plates round, helping to serve the food. She was smiling. She certainly didn’t seem to be fading away from love sickness. In fact, she seemed unusually happy.

  Mum = Mr Williams No way!

  Delectable Henry came back with our drinks at that point, so I decided to put the whole thing to the back of my mind until later. It was quite a good party actually. There were far too many people and no way near enough to drink or eat. But someone put some music on and turned the lights down and I spent quite some time dancing. Mainly with Henry as a matter of fact. And he said he’d like to see me again. And that maybe we could meet up for a film or something next Saturday.

  To which I could only think:

  H = J Perfect Match!

  Or to simplify even further:

  J H

  So really everything had turned out absolutely PERFECT.

  Except …

  There was one thing haunting me. I still had the problem of the purple envelope. I couldn’t get it out of my mind until I’d destroyed it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dad didn’t want to spend long at the party because Mandy was feeling tired. She dropped us off at Dad’s place. I got out and waited tactfully by the lift while they said goodnight.

  Dad had made a real effort to make me feel welcome. He’d cleared out his photographic gear from the spare room and even put a couple of pictures on the wall for me. He said he’d make us both frothy cocoa like he used to when I was little. I sat in the kitchen and watched while he made the milk bubble up in the saucepan. I could tell he was waiting for me to say something about Mandy, about the baby, about the divorce, but the words kind of stuck in my throat.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ he commented. ‘I’m tired too.’

  ‘Yes, course you are, Poppet. Been a long day. Plenty of time tomorrow, eh?’ He handed me a mug of cocoa.

  ‘Thanks. Do you mind if I take it to my room?’

  ‘Course not.’ He gave me a big hug. ‘Sleep tight.’

  ‘You too.’

  But I didn’t sleep tight. I tossed and turned in the narrow put-you-up. I couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Visions of the purple envelope kept zooming round my mind. Every time I was about to drop off to sleep it would swing round again – and again and again – taunting me.

  I got up eventually and crept into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Dawn was already breaking. The sky was all peachy-golden. It was going to be a fine day. What if Mum woke early? What if she went into my room while I wasn’t there? I could imagine her now, looking in my drawer for something – socks or whatever, she was always borrowing mine. And finding the envelope. She might be there right now. I could picture her, taking out the card, groping for her glasses …I had to get home to stop her.

  Without bothering about the tea, I slipped into my room and dressed. The trains started running at about seven on a Sunday, I could easily be back home before Mum was up. I found a biro and a slip of paper and left Dad a hurried note to the effect that I’d be back for brunch.

  The station was deserted on a Sunday morning. I was the only person waiting for the train. It seemed to take ages to come. My stomach was churning. All I could think of was destroying the card.

  At last the train arrived. Within fifteen minutes I had got out at our station. I made my way through the deserted streets and ran up the steps into Rosemount. As quietly as I could, I let myself in through our front door feeling like a criminal. I slipped into my room. Bag stirred on the bed and looked at me sleepily but mercifully didn’t miaow. Sliding open my drawer I took out the purple envelope and drew out the card. ‘To someone special.’ That was so naff. I opened it and shuddered as I read the verses.

  In life as in art

  You’ve stolen my heart …

  Mr Williams and my mum – no way! With determination I tore the card into the tiniest pieces.

  Now what? I stared at the pieces guiltily. This was like disposing of a body. I couldn’t simply put them in the bin for fear of Mum finding them. And I couldn’t burn them for fear of the smoke alarm going off. So I put the pieces in an envelope and stowed it in the bottom of my backpack to dispose of later.

  Bag leaped down from the bed and started winding himself round my legs. I picked him up and carried him back. I lay down burying my nose in his soft fur. He purred delightedly and kneaded the covers with his paws. I lay there stroking him. And I started thinking about Mum. Now she and Dad were getting divorced, she’d be all on her own when I left home. I mean, I couldn’t stay for ever. I’d leave Bag with her, I resolved. But cats didn’t live that long. She might never meet another man who’d fall in love with her. And she’d get older and sadder. When she was too old to go out to work she’d be marooned here in the flat. I imagined her shuffling around in terrible slippers. What if the lift broke down …?

  And then I thought maybe Mr Williams wasn’t that bad. I remembered how he’d been nice about my Tess of the D’Urbervilles chapter. ‘My most talented pupil’ he’d called me. Then another echo of his voice went through my mind: ‘Just for the record, Jessica, there is no “c” in plonker.’ But actually, that was quite cool of him, when you came to think about it.

  And then I started feeling really, really guilty. Maybe I shouldn’t have torn up the card. It wasn’t addressed to me, it was to Mum. Oh, why had I ever opened the envelope? If I’d just thrown it in my bin and forgotten about it no one would’ve been the wiser.

  Eventually, I got off the bed and stomped over to my backpack. I took out the envelope with the pieces in it and found a roll of sellotape in my drawer. I’d really made a good job of tearing it up. It took ages to stick it back together again. When I’d finished, it looked like crazy-paving.

  I could hear movements from Mum’s room. I strained my ears. She must have gone into the kitchen to make tea. There was nothing else for it. It was confession time. With resolution, I took a deep breath and picked up the card. Mum didn’t expect me to be at home and I didn’t want to give her a fright, so before I went into the kitchen I coughed loudly. Then I opened the door.

  But she wasn’t the one who got the fright. I was. Because standing in the kitchen holding a tray with two mugs of tea on it – wearing Mum’s towelling robe – was …Mr Williams.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Well, what more can I say? Nothing had gone quite the way I’d wanted it. Or to sum up:

  Mum + (amo + cs + nt) > Dad + (ow bb) Mega Mismatch

  Because:

  Mandy + (bbr + fmfd) = Dad + (HD + bl) Match

  And:

  Mismatch

  Because:

  MrW – (p + r + b) + (trv + mts + coc) = Mum – (w + w) + OUEc – (hc + h) + (dd + fc) Match

  And:

  Cedric + (cd + DJ + j) = Clare + (db + tb + J) Match

  But!

  Henry + (sbe+fb+nsl+hcb+pfi+cli + lt) = Jessica + (nsbdh + ll + st + nfj + nbTs + dn) Match!!!!!!!!!

  Or to simplify:

  Mum Mr Williams Dad Mandy Cedric Clare

  (Only most unfortunately I now realised: Jekyll Hyde. Which left Roz. But I was working on that …)

  BUT most importantly of all:

  Jessica Henry!

  By the Same Author

  Meet Holly, daughter of a

  mega-star pop idol.

  She just wants to be normal. Is that so much to ask?

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  From freak-show loser to neurosis-free

  genius … Read Minerva Clark Gets

  a Clue to discover the benefits of

  (accidental) electrocution!

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  First published in Great Britain in 2004 by

  Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square,

  London, WC1B 3DP

  This electronic edition published in August 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © Chloë Rayban 2004

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

  A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4088 3456 5

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