Watching You, Watching Me (Back-2-Back, Book 2) Page 7

  Rosie didn’t seem to notice any of it. She headed up the street with a look of determination on her face. It was a warm day and the shops had wheeled out sprawling racks of vibrant clothing across the pavement. I kept losing sight of her between the ranks of vivid lycra garments. But I kept doggedly on and we were soon in the market itself.

  I caught up with Rosie searching through a load of second-hand black leather. I scanned the nearby stalls for something that looked remotely possible for me to wear. Apart from the leather, it all looked like club wear, ultra-short and ultra-bright, cut for maximum body exposure. Mum would have a fit if I brought home anything like that.

  ‘Hey! This is cool,’ said Rosie, who had rejected the leather and was now holding up a shiny black dress that looked as if it was made of vinyl. It had laces down the back and slits up the sides which laced up too.

  ‘Where on earth would you wear it?’

  ‘It’ll be brilliant for parties and clubs and … I’m trying it,’ she said. She disappeared behind a screened-off changing area that was rigged up between two stalls.

  Rosie’s muffled voice came from behind the drapes. ‘Hey, grab something and come and change too. I need your opinion.’

  I selected a shiny orange mini-dress and joined her. Rosie was half-in and half-out of the dress. I laced up the back for her and she did a twirl.

  ‘How do I look?’

  I tried to be positive. But the dress really didn’t fit. I mean, she was practically bursting out of the top and the shiny fabric made her tummy look as if it bulged.

  ‘Ummm. I think maybe its a bit on the skimpy side,’ I said diplomatically.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I look a fright. See if they’ve got a bigger size.’

  They hadn’t. I relayed the news to Rosie. The guy says it’s the last one. He says this dress is really hot. D’you think he means stolen?’

  ‘“Hot” as in “cool”, stupid,’ said Rosie. ‘Say, why don’t you try it?’

  ‘Me? Where on earth am I going to wear it?’

  ‘You never know. Go on! Just see what it looks like on! What’ve you got to lose?’

  I climbed out of my jeans and slid the dress over my head.

  A weird reflection greeted me. It looked like dressing-up clothes. The dress stood stiff and shiny with pallid bits of me showing through from in between the laces. I was all legs — legs which disappeared into a pair of baggy socks and my worn trainers.

  ‘You need heels,’ said Rosie. ‘Maybe boots. Boots with heels. Hang on, I’ll borrow some.’

  She slid her clothes back on and disappeared out of the booth. A few minutes later she reappeared carrying a pair of long black suede boots.

  The boots made a considerable improvement.

  ‘Stunning!’ said Rosie.

  ‘Do you honestly think so?’

  ‘Look, just imagine you’re all made up and you’ve done something with your hair …’

  Rosie held my hair up behind my head and made me do a kind of Spice Girl pout into the mirror. And then I did suddenly imagine myself — or rather a new cool confident version of me, appearing through the halflight of some club. Wicked music would be playing and I’d catch sight of Matt and he’d turn and for a moment he’d be totally knocked out. It would take another minute or two for him to recognise me and then he’d say: ‘Hi … Wow — you look so … I mean, look … Do you want to dance? Can I buy you a drink?’

  And then this vision faded and was replaced by my mother’s reaction. Her face was a picture. ‘Black vinyl, Natasha! What has got into you these days?’ But this dress was the kind of thing that Matt’s girlfriend wore. And she was the kind of girl he wanted to hang out with. Oh indecision!

  ‘Tasha! Are you listening to me?’ Rosie was standing with her hands on her hips looking impatient. ‘We haven’t got all day. Are you going to buy it, or what?’

  ‘How much is it?’ I asked, half-praying that it would be well outside my budget. Rosie scooped out the price tag from the back. It wasn’t. It was less than the price of a new pair of Levis. Maybe I could make up for it by buying a second-hand pair.

  So I counted out the money, wondering wildly how long it would be before I regretted this purchase. The guy who ran the stall said, ‘Yo — watch how you go now — have a funky time.’

  ‘Yeah, well thanks — maybe.’

  Rosie tried to talk me into buying the boots as well, but they would have totally cleaned me out.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon searching for an outfit for Rosie. In the end she settled on a mini skirt and a turquoise top with a see-thru cut-out midriff. It wasn’t half as outrageous as the dress I’d bought. I realised with a sinking feeling that it’d probably be out of fashion before I’d have the chance to wear it.

  We were just leaving the market when Rosie stopped in her tracks. She grabbed my arm. ‘Ssshhh! Look over there!’ she said.

  ‘What?’ By the look on her face she’d seen half of Boyzone crossing the street.

  I followed her gaze. There, deep in conversation with a very dubious looking ragga, was Matt.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ whispered Rosie.

  I pulled her back so that we were screened by part of a stall.

  ‘I don’t know … Don’t let him see we’ve spotted him.’

  The ragga was shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. He pointed in the direction of another guy in a stained T-shirt who was handing out flyers. Matt went up to him and he shook his head as well, but pointed up the street to where there was a group of guys hanging around a fast food stall.

  We watched as he made off in their direction. He was carrying some sort of odd case in his hand — square-ish, bigger than a briefcase.

  One of the guys in the group split off at that point and walked with Matt to the corner of the road and they disappeared together down a tacky alleyway.

  We stared after them. I think we were both thinking the same thing but neither of us wanted to admit it.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Rosie. ‘Loads of people come up here on a Saturday — just for a look around.’

  ‘Umm, sure, like us,’ I agreed.

  I guess I was a bit quiet on the way home. Rosie kept up a kind of one-sided conversation about where and when she was going to wear her new outfit and what she should have on her feet and whether heels would look tarty with a skirt that short and then she launched into a verbal guided tour of her wardrobe. I just answered with ‘mmm’ and ‘uh-uh’ in the appropriate places. In fact, I think I came out with an ‘mmm’ that should’ve been an ‘uh-uh’ at some point and she looked at me really oddly and said, ‘Tash — you’re not listening, are you?’

  I wasn’t. I was trying to sort something out in my mind. It was about Matt and whether or not he had being buying dodgy stuff up in the market. Hash maybe, or Es. It wouldn’t have been hard stuff, I just knew he wasn’t into anything like that. But everyone knows that in the club scene and the dance scene — the kind of world Matt was in — Es are part of the culture.

  Dad and Mum had given me this big serious talk about drugs once. As if I was in danger of being corrupted by pushers or something. I never went near people like that. I’d been a bit defensive at the time and even challenged Dad on what he might have smoked in the past. And he’d back-tracked and Mum had changed the subject really obviously. And I realised that here was one of those grey areas where I was really going to have to make my mind up for myself.

  It had never seemed like a problem before. There are a few people at school who think they’re being really cool when they boast about how they’ve got totally out of it over the weekend. But I’ve always been really dismissive of them. I’m dead set against anything like that. Once, I’d said straight out in front of a whole group of them that I would never, absolutely never, take an E. They’d all laughed at me and said I didn’t know what I was talking about — as if I was a kid or something.

  But if Matt was into that scene, I realised that the difference betwee
n my attitude and his would put up an impenetrable wall between us. I would be on one side of it and he would be on the other. And unless one of us changed pretty radically, there was no way we could get together — ever.

  It was pretty depressing actually. So, that’s why I was so quiet.

  Chapter Twelve

  Weeks went by and I never met Matt face to face. I’d catch tantalising glimpses of him rollerblading back from college or fooling around with those wild-looking friends of his in the street. He’d started to live a super-cool nocturnal life. I’d got to recognise the approach of their clapped-out van by the sound of its engine and the funky throb of music from its hi-fi. It would turn up at around midnight or so and there’d be shouts up to Matt. They were there now as a matter of fact.

  ‘Hey, man. Where are you?’

  I crept to my window and saw him lean out. He was caught in the light from the street-lamps down below. He was just so fit.

  ‘Be down in a minute …’

  I strained my eyes at the van. It had weird psychedelic paintings on the side. Like huge plant-animal things. Except the heads weren’t like plants, they were like car-bonnets with radiator grills like teeth. Weird!

  I held my breath as Matt swung out through the front door dragging his jacket on. A car door slammed and they were off into the night — off to where young people were up and out at this time of the night, where people actually had lives. Unlike me.

  I tried to imagine what it would be like to be Matt’s girl. Out with three guys going to some really cool funky club. Dressed in something short and black and outrageous.

  I’d hidden the dress I’d bought in the market on top of my wardrobe. Mum would have had a fit if she’d known I’d wasted my money like that. But at this moment it was quiet in the house. I could tell everyone was asleep. I dragged over a chair and reached it down. The dress was still inside its carrier, folded and shiny. It had a new smell and a never-been-worn sheen to it. I pulled it out and held it up to myself. The room was in darkness, but the soft halflight from the street gave it a kind of clubby atmosphere. I put a CD on really low and slipped the dress over my head.

  I looked like a different person in the mirror. I could almost imagine creeping out of the house and finding a taxi to take me somewhere with some night life. I’d appear out of the darkness, and by some amazing coincidence come across Matt. I’d give him the surprise of his life — and he’d be really knocked out to see me. And he’d be impressed at how wacky and alternative I looked — just like his friends. And he’d totally reassess what he thought of me. Dream on.

  Downstairs a door opened and I froze. Footsteps could be heard crossing the landing. It was only someone going to the bathroom.

  Regretfully, I slid out of the dress, folded it and hid it away again. It had been a waste of money. By the time my parents considered me old enough to go anywhere worthwhile it would be like years out of date. Crossly, I put my pyjamas back on and climbed into bed. Why was I stuck here at home while everyone else was out having a wild time? It was all so unfair.

  It was that particular time of year I loathed. The nights were drawing in and there was a nip in the air. Summer had turned to autumn. The dark evenings meant my life was more restricted than ever. Gemma and Jamie revelled in it. It was their great chance to rope me into endless board games or trap me as a reluctant audience to their totally obvious and unconvincing magic shows.

  I was starting to pace round the house like a caged animal. As a soon as darkness fell. Mum and Dad wouldn’t let me out on my own. Anywhere I wanted to go, I had to be driven there and collected afterwards.

  Dad even insisted on collecting me from orchestra rehearsals, and these only ended at 6.30 pm. Orchestra had become a bone of contention anyway. We were rehearsing for the School Christmas Charity Concert. This had to rate as the least popular event of the school year. In recent years, literally only parents and friends of the girls who played in the orchestra, or sang in the choir, turned up. After practically every bar, the audience would applaud like mad and you knew it was only because it was their own little darlings playing. They hadn’t even noticed them coming out with all those squeaks and bum notes.

  I’d started to make the first rumblings about leaving the orchestra. Mum was horrified. She couldn’t believe I’d want to drop out after all the effort I’d put in.

  I overheard Mum and Dad talking about it in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s only a phase. They all go through it,’ I heard Dad say.

  But he didn’t realise the truly dire nature of the problem.

  At the last orchestra rehearsal, Mrs Middleborough, our conductor, had tapped her baton on her music stand. After a wait for silence with a patient grin on her face, she said she had an important announcement to make.

  ‘Exciting news, girls. We are planning to jazz up the Christmas Concert!’

  I steeled myself for this one. Knowing Mrs Middleborough’s ‘liberal’ views it was going to be something as thrilling as adding the The Drummer Boy carol or Little Donkey to our standard repertoire. Or maybe the choir’s staggeringly embarrassing unaccompanied barber-shop rendition of O Little Town of Bethlehem. I’d heard them practising — it was ghastly.

  But no — it was worse than that. Much worse.

  ‘We’re going to team up with another school to make it a bigger and more popular event than ever! Mr Phipps, Head of Music at North Thames College has agreed that we can combine with North Thames and give the concert in their brand new theatre.’

  I didn’t believe I was hearing this. It was like some hideous nightmare. I stood there praying that at any moment I’d wake up.

  ‘North Thames, of course, are going to bring a rather different aspect to the concert. There’s a steel band and a jazz group and something they call a ‘reggae’ band so I think you’ll agree — it’s going to be a very colourful evening indeed.’

  My head went into a spin. Playing in the orchestra was embarrassing enough. But having to stand up in front of a load of the North Thames cool crowd …

  Her voice broke in on my thoughts.

  ‘And you, Natasha. We are hoping that you will do a solo of the Albinoni piece you’ve been preparing for your exam. Natasha dear … are you listening?’

  ‘Yes Mrs Middleborough.’

  Did Mrs Middleborough realise — had she any conception — of what it would be like to have to stand up and play my oboe (which incidentally makes your face look like a constipated rabbit every time you blow) with all of North Thames looking on?

  I made my way home in the car with Dad, trying to pluck up courage to tell him I was now definitely dropping out of orchestra. As luck would have it, he’d bumped into Mrs Middleborough while I was collecting my things. All the way back he kept up a cheery one-sided dialogue about what a brilliant idea the joint concert was and how Mrs Middleborough had agreed to donate some of the funds to his own pet cause ‘Reclaim the Streets.’ I sat there in silence wondering how on earth I was going to extricate myself.

  I arrived at the house still pondering on different tactics when Jamie met me in the hallway dressed in an old sheet with two eye-holes cut out.

  ‘Woo,’ he said.

  ‘Woo to you too.’

  ‘Cheer up Tasha. Don’t you know what day it is?’

  ‘Wednesday maybe?’

  ‘You can’t’ve forgotten. It’s trick-or-treat tonight.’

  ‘Hallowe’en?’

  I’d hardly registered the swollen pumpkins in the greengrocers and the frieze of black and orange witches in the sweet shop. Surely it couldn’t be Hallowe’en already?

  But sure enough, Mum was in the kitchen struggling over a pumpkin she’d pinioned down on the meat slab. She was alternately jabbing at it with the carving knife and scooping large dollops of flesh out into a bowl. She was on to me immediately, without even looking up. ‘They want to go trick-or-treating and I said there is no way they can go alone. They won’t let me go with them. They want you to.’

&nb
sp; ‘Me? Oh pl-ease.’ I’d had a bad enough day as it was.

  Jamie pulled the sheet off and looked at me in astonishment. ‘Don’t you want to, Tash?’

  ‘Not wildly.’

  ‘You can wear the witch’s hat,’ he said. This was a bribe. We only had one and every year there was an argument over who was going to wear the beastly thing.

  ‘You grow out of trick-or-treating, Jamie. I’m fourteen in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Please,’ Gemma joined in. We don’t want to go with Mum. Only tiny kids go with their mothers. Remember how we all dressed up — you loved it last time.’

  ‘That was last year. Anyway I haven’t got anything to wear.’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ said Gemma.

  ‘I’ll find you something. Something nice,’ said Jamie.

  ‘No, I will,’ said Gemma. They both raced up the stairs to rummage in the dressing-up box.

  Mum looked over at me and frowned. I ignored her and started making tea.

  ‘Aren’t you being a bit selfish? It wouldn’t kill you. Just for half an hour or so.’

  ‘Mum. Don’t nag.’

  ‘I’m making a real mess of this,’ she said, stabbing clumsily at the pumpkin.

  ‘Oh come on, hand it over. You can’t do it with that, you need a smaller knife.’

  ‘Thanks.’ she passed me the pumpkin and a paring knife. ‘Mind you don’t cut yourself.’ She was searching in her bag for the car keys. ‘I’d better get in some supplies of sweets before we get hordes of witches at our door.’

  The front door slammed behind her.

  I cut into the aromatic orange flesh. It was the smell that brought the feeling back. What it had been like at their age. Excited and scared — clutching a bag of goodies in a sticky hand — never sure if a door would be opened by someone friendly or angry — always poised to run away or commit some pathetic act of mini-vandalism. Threats of poisoned sweets and evil householders only added to the excitement. Maybe I was being a bit mean.