Drama Queen Page 7

  ‘All change,’ he repeated. I got off and watched as he made his way over to a café called ‘Muggins’ which had a row of jolly mugs with faces painted on them displayed in the window.

  I was at a total loss as to how to start my search. How could I tell if Henry lived here or not? There wasn’t a house in sight. I made for the mall anyway. Hey, there were some quite cool shops inside. Before I knew it I was deep into an intensive window-shop. I was even tempted into one or two boutiques and had tried on three summer tops, five pairs of trainers and some rather dodgy bell-bottoms before I came face to face with a post office. Which reminded me why I was in Forest Vale in the first place. I was meant to be looking for Henry, wasn’t I?

  I pushed open the door and found a long row of people patiently queueing in a roped-off area. The post people themselves were protected from their customers by a security glass window. You weren’t allowed to get to them until a bossy electronic voice told you which window was free. Everyone ahead of me seemed to be relicensing cars, or applying for pensions or doing something that took for ever. I stood there reading the various excruciatingly boring post office notices while an impatient shuffling queue built up behind me.

  Thankfully at that point my mobile rang.

  ‘Hi! Where are you?’ It was Clare.

  ‘Errm…’ I didn’t exactly feel like explaining to her that I was in a post office queue on some sad, mad, wild goose chase for a guy I didn’t even know, so I countered with, ‘Where are you?’

  It worked. ‘Don’t ask! I’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half and I’ve drunk three cappuccinos and it’s cost a bomb and—’

  ‘You’re in Costa’s?’

  ‘Errm. I just thought. I mean, you did say Cedric hung out here.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I thought fast. ‘Look, you’re probably too early. Stay where you are. He could well turn up.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I hung up and called Cedric straightaway. ‘Hi. How’s things. What are you up to?’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Making up a catalogue on my laptop. Means I should be able to locate any track within—’

  (Was that sad or what?) ‘Listen,’ I interrupted. ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll be right up.’

  ‘No … listen, I’m not at home. I’m at Costa’s. You know, the new coffee bar in the high street.’

  ‘Right. When?’

  ‘Soon as you can make it.’

  ‘Well, I guess I could finish this later …’

  ‘Great!’

  At that point the electronic voice announced: ‘Cashier number six, please.’

  ‘ What’s that?’ asked Cedric.

  ‘My mobile’s playing up,’ I said, and rang off. When I reached the counter my particular post person was a female. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  Painfully aware that mine was a totally ridiculous request, I took the card out of my bag and passed it through the opening in her window. ‘Please could you tell me whether or not this card was posted here?’

  She held the postmark under her lamp and then confirmed that it was indeed posted in a postbox in the ‘vicinity’.

  ‘Do you know which one?’

  She frowned and disappeared into the back, returning with a ledger. After huffing and faffing and running her finger down several columns she announced that the box in question was on the outskirts of the precinct, and gave me directions as to how to find it.

  Searching my way through the maze of brightly lit shops, I at last emerged from the mall and tracked down box GRNWD 34X standing like a lone red dalek in a corner of a windblown square.

  I’d found it. Brilliant!

  I loitered beside it. There wasn’t a soul in sight. There was nothing in the square apart from an overfilled rubbish bin, a lamppost and a stark concrete bench. But there was a street that led off it which looked more hopeful. It was flanked by rows of brand new town houses. There was not a movement in any of them. No one walked their dog. There wasn’t even a stray cat. I went back to the square and sat down on the bench. This was really depressing. As squares go this one must be the most boring one in Britain. Short of taking up residence beside the postbox and cross-questioning every male that came within a certain radius, I was no further on.

  That’s when my mobile rang again. It was Clare. ‘He still hasn’t turned up.’

  ‘Hasn’t he?’

  ‘I think I’ll go home now.’

  ‘No don’t… I mean another ten minutes or so won’t make any difference.’

  No sooner had I rung off than I had Cedric on the line. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At Costa’s. And you’re not.’

  ‘You can’t be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Errm, isn’t anyone else there?’ I asked. (What on earth had happened to Clare?)

  ‘Loads of people.’

  ‘Look, wait right there. OK?’

  I rang Clare again. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I left. I was feeling really stupid sitting all on my own.’

  ‘But he’s there now. Go back.’

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked.

  (Tricky question.) ‘Look, do as I say. I just know, OK?’ I rang off. I stared at the phone. Oh well, I guessed they’d sort themselves out somehow.

  But what about Henry? I took the envelope out of my bag and stared at it for inspiration. If this were a true forensic investigation the handwriting would be a key issue. There was something oddly familiar about it. But maybe I’d looked at it so many times it had kind of imprinted itself on my memory. It was black, written, I reckoned, with a medium roller ball, which narrowed down the possible users to around half the population of the developed world.

  But I still had the card to go on. It was more than likely bought in the mall. I made my way back inside and soon spotted a shop which sold gift wrap and greetings cards. It had rack upon rack of cards for every occasion. I worked my way through hazy landscapes and cartoon cats, bald men with jokey speech bubbles, fawning teddy bears, pipes and golf clubs and vintage cars, right down to cards with ‘Congratulations on passing your driving test’ before I found a section entitled: ‘No message’. There, squashed under a random selection of fat ladies, I found it. Exactly the same card: ‘To someone special’. I was so surprised that I actually took the card up to the counter and bought it.

  The girl at the check-out had been giving me evil glances while I was shuffling through her display racks (and I wasn’t making them that untidy). ‘Found what you were looking for, then?’ she asked.

  I nodded. She didn’t look as if she was in a helpful mood, but I asked anyway, ‘You wouldn’t happen to remember who last bought a card like this, would you?’

  She looked at me as if I’d gone stark raving bonkers. ‘If I could remember everyone who bought a card in this shop, I’d be doing something better than working here, I can tell you.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s what I thought. Thanks anyway.’

  I then concentrated my attention on her roller balls and, while she had her back turned, I surreptitiously tested several black ones against Henry’s handwriting. The third was a perfect match. So I bought that too.

  I retraced my steps to the postbox (still no one there). It was at that point that my mobile rang again.

  It was Cedric. ‘You did say the new place in the high street?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘The one in the bookshop?’

  ‘In the bookshop? No. That’s not Costa’s.’

  ‘That explains it then. Why you’re not here.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ I said weakly, and rang off.

  I rang Clare. ‘Look, I’ve had an idea. If he’s not in Costa’s, why don’t you try the new coffee shop in Bookfest?’

  ‘If I drink another coffee I’ll puke,
’ said Clare. ‘I’m going home.’ And she rang off. She sounded really fed up.

  I sank down on the bench again. It had turned into a nightmare of a day. And I was still no further on with my search for Henry. My eye rested on the pub sign opposite. ‘The Jolly Sailor.’ The sailor on the sign was grinning at me most unsympathetically. I put my tongue out at him.

  But why hadn’t I thought of it before? Pubs were the haunt of single males, weren’t they? I’m tall for my age and could easily get away with going into a bar alone. I made my way across to it. I pushed open the door and paused. That was odd. There was a poster on the wall for The Lansdowne Players – in fact, for the play Mum was in, ‘Eight into Six Won’t Go’ by George Williams. They were certainly doing a lot of publicity.

  I forged my way into the haze of smoke and stale beer. The room was crowded with blokes, any one of whom could have been Henry. I made my way over to the bar, trying to look as tall and confident as possible. I ordered a Coke and a packet of crisps. The barman looked at me suspiciously but didn’t ask for ID.

  ‘Will that be all, Miss?’

  ‘Erm…I just wondered if you knew of anyone called Henry who comes in here?’

  ‘Henry who?’

  ‘I don’t know his surname.’

  ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What age?’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘Bit of a mystery man, eh?’

  ‘I know he’s single,’ I said.

  ‘Blind date, is it?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  He gazed at me, polishing a glass as he did so. ‘Henry … Henry …’ he said, racking his brain. He turned to the crowd of drinkers. ‘Young lady here is looking for a bloke called Henry?’

  This was greeted by a load of guffawing and and offers. But when they’d calmed down they helpfully suggested possibilities. There was Henry Jones who turned out to be in his nineties. Henry Wilson, but he’d moved. At last, we wittled them down to a Henry who sounded a likely candidate. He was young, single and local, and studying something to do with film lighting at tech – pretty cool. The man was just writing the address for me on my clipboard, when I heard the bar door swing open behind me.

  A horribly familiar voice exclaimed, ‘Jessica Mayhew. What are you doing here?’

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. I swung round. It was Mr Williams, of all people. He was looking at me as if I was a delinquent. He obviously had the impression that I generally spent my time hanging around in bars.

  ‘Mr Williams … hello. What are you doing here?’

  ‘This is my local. I live round here. But I didn’t expect to find one of my students in it.’

  I stared into my Coke. He was bound to tell Mum. ‘Please, Mr Williams, I can explain everything.’

  ‘Explain away, Jessica.’

  ‘You see, it’s for my geography project,’ I started, indicating my clipboard.

  He didn’t look convinced. ‘A geography project in a pub?’

  ‘It’s a study of forenames in the outer city suburbs,’ I explained. ‘You won’t tell my mother I was in here, will you?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I think maybe we could keep this between ourselves. As long as it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘Oh, it won’t.’

  ‘Want another Coke?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘OK, I’m going into town. I’ll give you a lift.’

  Chapter Nine

  When we arrived at Rosemount Mr Williams said, ‘Is your mother in?’

  I looked up. I could see the tell-tale light shining through our front window. The last thing I wanted was for him to come up and to have to explain everything.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I lied.

  ‘Well, go straight up then,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Williams. Thanks for the lift.’

  I found Mum spread out on the kitchen table with her laptop plugged into the kettle socket. Which meant a cup of tea was out of the question. Obviously, she was deep into one of her OU essays. The kitchen looked ominously food-free.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Doing research for my geography project.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, I forgot.’

  ‘What’s for supper?’

  ‘Supper? Oh … What’s the time?’

  ‘Seven-thirty.’

  ‘Oh dear. I had this deadline …’

  ‘Which means that you forgot to shop.’

  ‘Maybe you could pop out and …’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘The deli’s open.’

  ‘They charge a fortune.’

  ‘There are some eggs, I think.’

  ‘OK, that’ll do. I’ll make us an omelette.’

  I slopped around with eggs and the whisk while Mum tapped away frantically at her keyboard. It wasn’t fair. Other people’s mums made meals. In the old days, before she went out to work, she used to do her essays during the day. Now, what with her job and her OU course and her drama group, I was lucky if I got fed at all. If only we could be a proper family again.

  I glanced at Mum. She was wearing that saggy cardie as usual. And those terrible leggings. And her glasses had slipped down on her nose. Love goddess NOT. Perhaps I could get her to stop wearing her specs. She didn’t really need them. Well, perhaps for reading. But she could see perfectly well without them for most things. And once the specs were off I could maybe get her to use some eye make-up. She had nice eyes – she ought to make the most of them.

  It was parents’ evening at school the coming Thursday. And it occurred to me that it was the one time when Mum and Dad actually had to meet up. This would be a good opportunity to raise Mum’s profile in Dad’s eyes. But how? Should I burn the saggy cardie? Could I force her into heels?

  I decided to try the slow drip-feed brain-washing approach. While clearing up the meal later that night, I mentioned, ‘You know it’s parent-teacher night on Thursday?’

  ‘Is it? Again?’

  ‘I put it in your diary.’ She was getting incredibly forgetful these days.

  ‘Oh right. Better remind your father.’

  ‘I already have.’

  There was a pause while she filled the washing-up bowl with new water.

  ‘What were you thinking of wearing?’ I asked.

  ‘No idea. Why?’

  ‘It’d be nice if you could look nice, that’s all.’

  ‘Can’t you think of a more inspired adjective?’

  ‘Well, other people’s mothers make an effort.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  On Monday I happened to be taking a short cut home through Braithwaites, our local department store, when I was approached by a girl handing out leaflets for a ‘Free Skincare and Make-up Consultation’. They were giving away a load of cosmetics if you took it up. And it was a really expensive brand. Cool! I headed over to the counter to check it out.

  Under a banner saying: ‘Colour your World’, a woman in a crisp white overall had a customer pinned down on a swivel chair. I hovered. She was going the whole hog with the blusher …

  As she turned to load her brush with more powder she caught sight of me. ‘Can I help you?’

  Suddenly, I was terribly aware of standing there in my school uniform. The whole place felt all glossy and perfumy and her counter was covered with photos of perfectly made-up models who all seemed to be staring disdainfully at me – in fact, straight at my shiny nose. I could feel my open pores gaping like craters.

  ‘Umm … could I book a consultation, please?’

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she said with a frown. She returned to her client and started telling her how wonderful she looked. The lady who’d been given the make-over seemed really pleased with the end result – at any rate, she was flourishing her credit card. I watched as a carrier was filled with mega-bucks worth of glossy packages.

  The consultant then set about tidying up her brushes, totally ignorin
g me. I think she hoped I was going to give up and walk away, which was understandable. Currently dressed, I didn’t look like the kind of person she’d want to have associated with her brand.

  I coughed politely.

  ‘So what can I do for you?’ she said with a forced smile.

  ‘I’d like a consultation, please.’

  ‘I really don’t know if I can fit you in.’

  ‘It’s not for me. It’s for my mother.’

  This seemed to have a reassuring effect on her. ‘Oh, that’s nice. Surprise treat, is it?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  She brought out her appointments book. After a bit of haggling about times. I managed to book Mum in for the last session of the actual day on which we were due to have our parent-teacher meeting. Nice one.

  I thought I’d be up against some resistance when I mentioned the make-over to Mum.

  ‘Thursday. But that’s the night we’ve got to be at school,’ she pointed out.

  ‘It’s late night shopping at Braithwaites. You’ve got time for the make-over first.’

  ‘Oh yes, I suppose I have,’ she said, looking vague. And then she smiled. ‘Why not?’

  That Thursday evening when I got home from school, I found Mum had made an effort. She’d put on her new cream polo sweater and her one pair of trousers that actually fitted, with boots that had enough heel to give her some height. She came to look at her reflection in the long hall mirror. She’d had a haircut that day and her hair was all smooth and blow-dried and shiny. In fact, she looked pretty good.

  ‘Oh, I don’t really want to bother with this stupid make-over,’ she said.

  ‘But you have to. I’ve booked it. Look, it says you have to ring to cancel the appointment. It’s too late now.’ I wasn’t going to let her back out while I was doing so well.

  So we drove to Braithwaites. I practically frogmarched her to the make-over counter. The consultation started with a question and answer session. Mum kept on giving me these ‘looks’ over the woman’s shoulder. It seemed Mum didn’t cleanse, she didn’t tone and she’d never used a night cream. The woman seemed surprised that Mum still had a face. When it came to ‘analysing your make-up routine’ it was even more humiliating. Mum had no idea of her skin type, she didn’t know what her skin tone was and she’d last bought a lipstick five years ago.