Drama Queen Page 3

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I walked across the common with him.’

  Clare’s eyes widened. ‘Re-ally! Where is he?’ She looked as if she was going to make a dive for the door.

  ‘Cool it. He’ll be miles off by now. He was on his bike.’

  ‘So. What’s he like?’

  ‘Male and around our age,’ I started, noncommitally. It seemed such a pity to disillusion her.

  ‘Fit?’ she prompted.

  I was just about to raise my eyebrows to heaven and give her a cruel but accurate lowdown, when I paused. A thought had struck me. I mean, if Clare was that desperate. Cedric, minus Lycra cycle shorts and dreadful haircut, might just equal Clare, minus saggy anorak and railway tracks.

  Ce – (Lcs + dh) = Cl – (sa + rt) Just maybe

  ‘Erm. He’s called Cedric,’ I started.

  ‘Well, that’s not his fault.’

  I dredged my mind for the positives. ‘He’s quite tall. Nice brown eyes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  I was faltering now. ‘Must be pretty fit. He’s really into cycling. It’s a racing bike.’

  ‘Cool!’ She’d moved on to testing the free perfume samplers. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, holding out a wrist to me.

  ‘Well, if you want to smell like a fruit salad, it’s your affair.’

  That was the start of the Clare = Cedric experiment. It may seem a little callous to be using my own best friend as a guinea pig, but since it was all in the cause of science I reckoned I was justified. If it worked, she’d end up with a boyfriend, which is what she wanted. And if it didn’t, nothing would’ve changed.

  We continued on our way down the high street doing our usual Saturday morning window-shop. We always had this competition to see which of us could spot the most naff fashion object. Clare won with a crochet top which had plastic appliqué flowers on it. In fact, it was so naff it was almost cool.

  I ended up by buying what my weekly allowance ran to, which was a special offer of really good hair conditioner from Superdrug. I left Clare arguing with the assistant as to whether or not their cosmetics had been tested on animals and headed for the park to meet Dad.

  The church clock was striking two when I arrived, so I was fifteen minutes late – but Dad was always late anyway. I was already ravenous so I bought myself a bag of Monster Munch at the kiosk and sat on a park bench eating them by the pond. Mums and dads were bringing toddlers to feed the ducks. A boy and girl stood entwined at the water’s edge. A pair of swans glided by in the distance. Swans mate for life, you know. I’d learned that in junior school Nature Study. In fact, today, everyone looked incredibly ‘couply’.

  I had plenty of time to observe the local scenery because Dad was late. Really late. I tried dialling up his mobile but, as usual, it went straight to his voicemail – he must have forgotten to charge it. Before he arrived I’d been to the refreshment kiosk three times and bought a muesli bar, a packet of crisps, and a packet of Werthers and demolished the lot. I’d even got to the point of wondering whether, for once in his life, he’d been on time and arrived as arranged at quarter to two and, not finding me there, had gone off. But then I caught sight of his familiar figure hurrying through the park gates.

  ‘Hello,’ he waved enthusiastically, scarf blowing in the wind, jacket undone, his hair blown back showing his bald bit. ‘Bit late, sorry. Got held up,’ he panted, hugging me to him. He felt round and warm and smelt of beer. I noticed that he hadn’t ironed his shirt. The collar was all rucked up. I felt a wave of pity. He needed someone to look after him. I often dreamed that one day, maybe, when I’d finished school, I could share a flat with him. But then that would be so unfair on Mum. ‘Cos she needed me too. More, maybe.

  ‘Had to meet a chap about a bike,’ he explained.

  ‘A bike?’

  ‘Motorbike. A Harley. Vintage. But only done ‘bout fifty k.’

  ‘But I thought you were getting a car.’

  ‘Ah yes. But you see, I’ve always promised myself,’ said Dad.

  So I said, ‘Cool.’ And left it at that.

  ‘Fancy something to eat?’

  ‘Not wildly hungry really.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘Not bothered if you’re not. Hey, I bought you something.’ He handed me a plastic bag. ‘House-warming pressie.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I would’ve wrapped it, but …’ It was a battered supermarket bag, already used. Obviously something from a charity shop. I looked inside.

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as falsely exaggerated to him as it did to me. It was a flowery pink quilted box with partitions inside. The sort of thing I hadn’t liked since I was six, practically.

  ‘For your dressing table, for hairgrips and stuff, you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘So! What shall we do?’

  I shrugged. ‘Up to you. How about a film?’ (We nearly always went to the cinema when we met up.)

  ‘Want to see the bike? Check it out. Go to a film after?’

  ‘Why not?’

  We took the tube to somewhere miles out. But it gave us a chance to chat. I told him about Cedric’s battle with the lift. And I was on the point of telling him about my scientific love theory. But something stopped me. If it was going to work on him, the less he knew the better.

  The bike was in a run-down dealer’s yard under some archways beneath a railway line. We dragged a man covered in grease out from under a car and Dad told him ‘Mac’ had sent him about the Harley. The man said it was out the back.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit, you know, old for a bike?’ I suggested, as the thought sunk in that this was yet another nail in the coffin of our family life. I mean, you couldn’t get three on a motorbike.

  ‘No, no way.’

  The bike was in a lock-up garage under wraps. The man took them off as if he was unveiling a work of art. Personally, I thought the bike had seen better days. It had a gash in the seat that had been sellotaped over. Dad brushed this off as a mere detail.

  ‘We can redo the leatherwork,’ said the man, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

  Dad was leaning over the bike inspecting the underside. I could tell he was trying to sound knowledgeable as he reeled off questions.

  ‘Could you start her up?’ he asked. The bike made a very loud engine noise. ‘Might have to take a look at the silencer,’ he commented in an undertone to me. ‘Can I take her for a spin?’

  The man gave Dad a very straight look. He could obviously tell that Dad’s lunch had been a liquid one. ‘You got insurance?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Got the papers on you?’

  ‘Not on me, no.’

  ‘Sorry, then. No can do. Come back another time.’

  ‘What? But we’ve come all this way. Mac said—’

  ‘How’s about you come back a bit earlier in the day next time.’

  Dad got his drift. He was flushing up. I could see the warning signs. At any moment there was likely to be a nasty row.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We haven’t got time, really. If we want to catch an early film we’d better get a move on.’ I led him away still remonstrating about the inefficiency of some people. But personally I was relieved the guy wouldn’t let him ride the bike.

  ‘What did you think of it, eh?’ started Dad when we were back on the tube.

  ‘I’d hoped you might get a car, something I could learn on, when the time came,’ I started.

  ‘You can learn on your mother’s car.’

  Mum’s car was on its last legs and had really dodgy gears that even she found difficult. ‘Mum’s car will be at the wreckers by then.’

  ‘Well, maybe she’ll have a new one by the time you start.’

  ‘That bike smelt a bit when he started it up,’ I commented.

  ‘That’s ‘cos it’s been off the road. A good run’d fix that. Damned annoying not being able to
take it out.’ He was flushing angrily again.

  I changed the subject. ‘What film shall we see?’

  ‘Your treat. You choose.’ He always said that.

  I’d wanted to go to the latest romcom but I hesitated. There was no time like the present. If I wanted to change a few things about Dad, I might as well begin right away.

  ‘There’s a French film on at the Virgin. Everyone’s raving about it.’

  ‘Subtitles?’ He sounded doubtful.

  ‘I don’t think there’s much dialogue, actually.’

  ‘Well, if it’s what you’d like, Poppet.’

  Predictably, Dad slept through most of the film. I kept on having to nudge him because he was snoring, and he’d sit up and pretend to start watching again.

  As we walked back up the high street from the cinema, Dad took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

  ‘I thought you’d given up.’

  ‘I have, practically.’

  ‘You’re impossible.’

  I’d promised Mum I’d be back by eight. Dad saw me to my bus stop and waited with me. The bus took ages. There was a gym opposite the bus stop. It had pictures of fit blokes pumping iron on the posters outside. I couldn’t help being struck by the contrast with Dad.

  ‘Where are you off to now?’ I asked. I wondered what he did all that time in that grotty flat of his. It couldn’t be much fun living alone.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Saturday night. Might go down the pub.’

  (Might! I thought to myself.) ‘Don’t you ever do anything else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I wish you’d do something more active, that’s all.’

  ‘More active? What, for instance?’

  I indicated the fit blokes on the poster. ‘Look at those guys. You should get toned up a bit. You could join a gym.’

  Dad shrugged. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  My bus drew into sight at that moment. ‘Well, don’t…’ I was going to say, don’t drink too much. But I knew that made him mad. And probably had the opposite effect.

  ‘Don’t what?’ he asked with a frown.

  ‘Look after yourself, Dad.’

  He got what I meant. ‘Sure. I will, Poppet. You look after yourself, too. Straight home now.’

  Mum had washed her hair and was in her towelling robe drying it when I got home.

  ‘Haven’t done much about supper. Hope your dad gave you a good lunch,’ she said between blasts of the hairdryer.

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, he did.’ (Why did I always have to cover up for him?)

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Umm. The Steak House,’ I said, coming up with the most plausible lie.

  ‘Mmm lovely. What did you have?’

  ‘Steak and chips …’

  ‘And garnish?’ (Garnish was one of our private jokes.)

  ‘Two battered onion rings, a half tomato with fine herbs and three radish flowers.’

  ‘Classic. Nice pudding?’

  ‘Oh, apple pie and ice-cream.’ Before she had a chance to interrogate further, I asked, ‘Shall I blow-dry the back for you?’

  ‘Would you? Then I’ll make us a poached egg each.’

  ‘Can I have two?’

  ‘Of course. What film did you see?’

  ‘Etienne. At the Virgin.’

  ‘Really? What did your dad think of it?’

  ‘He’s not a total philistine, you know.’

  ‘I never said he was.’

  Over supper she asked me how I thought Dad was. I had a sudden picture of him, arriving late across the park, red in the face from drinking as usual. He was still smoking. And he had to do something about his weight.

  ‘He’s thinking of buying a motorbike,’ I replied.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Second-hand. Quite old, but it’s a Harley-Davidson.’

  ‘He’s mad. Typical. So dangerous. I’ll have to talk to him about it.’ She stacked up our plates noisily in the bowl. I could tell she was really annoyed.

  I watched her as she leaned over the sink. She’d stayed really slim. And with her hair just washed and shiny like it was now, you’d think from the back she was quite young. She must’ve looked like that when Dad first met her.

  They’d met at a party. Mum was doing this course in social work – that’s how she’d got the job she had now, in welfare. Or as Dad called it: ‘Giving handouts to losers’. Dad worked in leisurewear wholesale. I don’t know what he did exactly, but he was always boasting about these brilliant deals he’d made, which Mum called: ‘Third World exploitation’. But in spite of their differences they’d fallen in love and got married and had a child – me. True love is meant to last for ever isn’t it? So since theirs didn’t, weren’t they really in love after all?

  That’s when I thought of my theory again. If Dad and Mum had been a perfect match once, they must have changed. But not changed completely. They were still basically the same people. In order to get them back together again I didn’t have to do that much. All I needed to do was substitute a few variables.

  Currently Dad + beer belly + red face was not really a match for Mum + shiny hair + slim figure. In fact:

  D + (bb + rf) < M + (sh + sf) Mismatch!

  That’s when I decided to start work on Dad.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Sunday, I was busy doing an English essay on one of our set texts – a play called Pygmalion. It was by someone called Bernard Shaw and was based on a classical myth about a king who fell in love with a statue which was transformed into a real person – his ideal woman. Or, as Clare put it more succinctly – it was basically My Fair Lady without the music.

  Anyway, I reckoned there was something wrong with the play. Or to be more exact, about the ending. The play was about the relationship between this Professor – Higgins – and a girl who was a flower-seller, called Eliza. He was rich, famous, awesomely clever and incredibly posh and she was young and beautiful but had absolutely no class whatsoever. Or, to express it scientifically:

  H + (r + f + ac + ip) > E + (y + b) – c Disaster!

  So, after a long and painful process of giving her a total makeover and transforming her into exactly what he wanted, i.e. young, beautiful, speaking posh and stylishly dressed:

  H + (r + f + ac + ip) = E + (y + b + sp + sd) Start buying confetti?

  No way. He dumped her. What a let down! The play would have been so much better if they’d got together at the end.

  Anyway. I was busy rewriting the end for Mr Shaw:

  After the ball

  Higgins: Eliza, be a doll and fetch my slippers.

  Eliza: Oh, Professor. Let me massage your feet for you.

  Higgins: Ooh, that’s lovely …

  I was just getting to the good bit when the doorbell rang. When I opened the door there was a woman standing outside who said, ‘Hello. Is your mother in?’

  I disentangled Mum from the vacuum and brought her to the door. There was a lot of nattering about us being new and who she was, which ended with, ‘We wondered if you’d like to come down for a coffee? At number seven.’

  (Number seven. This must be Cedric’s mother!)

  ‘Oh, how kind,’ said Mum, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She ignored my warning glare and replied, ‘We’d love to. When … now?’

  ‘As soon as you like.’

  ‘I’m doing my homework,’ I mouthed to Mum from behind the door.

  ‘Well, you can always finish it later, can’t you?’ Mum said.

  Cedric’s mum’s flat smelt of floor polish and block air-fresheners. Cedric’s bike was propped up in the hall on a kind of mat thing which was obviously custom-made for it. We were ushered into an icy drawing room. A proper tea set was laid with a plate of those assorted multicoloured biscuits that come in gift tins.

  ‘My son, Cedric, will join us in a minute. He’s just come in from a cycle ride.’ There was the sound of a shower running.

  There followed one of those excruciating conver
sations which are all questions and answers, in which we learned that:

  1) Cedric’s dad, Mr Jackson, like mine, was absent.

  2) Cedric went to Cranshaw High – the private boys’ school up on the common.

  3) Cedric was destined to be a lawyer.

  4) Cedric was in training for the school’s cycle team.

  5) Cedric was obviously spoilt rotten by his mum.

  At which point the subject of our conversation entered the room. His hair was wet from the shower, which had somewhat tamed the tidal wave. It was now neatly parted and smarmed down flat on his head. He took one look at me and flushed scarlet.

  ‘Oh, why didn’t you put on your nice new jumper?’ said his mum.

  Cedric ignored this and went and sat on a chair as far away as possible from the table.

  ‘Aren’t you going to pass the biscuits round, Cedric?’ asked Mrs Jackson.

  Mum’s eyes met mine and communicated a silent ‘poor boy’ to me.

  ‘This is Jessica … ‘ said his mother.

  ‘We already met,’ said Cedric.

  ‘Yes. Yesterday,’ I said. ‘In the lift …’ I immediately wished I hadn’t mentioned the lift. ‘When I was going shopping,’ I ended lamely.

  Mum and Mrs Jackson continued to talk about the building and its plumbing and the frequency of such things as rubbish collections. Riveting stuff. Cedric and I sat like two lemons in total silence.

  ‘Cedric, why don’t you show Jessica your record collection?’ asked his mum. (Record collection? Vinyl? Pl-ease!)

  ‘‘Cos just maybe she’s not into ‘jungle’,’ said Cedric in a tired voice. (He was so right.)

  ‘No really, I can’t stop,’ I said. ‘I ought to be getting back. I’ve still got stacks of homework to do.’

  ‘Cedric does all his on Friday night so that he has the whole weekend free,’ said Mrs Jackson.

  (I was about to say that I might have something else to do on a Friday night, but thought better of it.)

  ‘What a good idea,’ agreed Mum, but gave me a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Well, thank you for the coffee …’ I said, backing towards the door.

  ‘Won’t you have another biscuit?’ asked his mother in a last-ditch attempt to keep me there.