Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles (20 page)

Saturday 22 March (or rather, very early on Sunday 23 March)

My bedroom floor, 4 a.m.

A dispassionate account
of the worst day of my life. (Yes, even worse than Monday.)

Mother wanted to know why I wasn’t at the chemist’s. told her Mr Leakey didn’t really need me any more and how, what with SATs coming up, I felt it best to concentrate on my studies. She accepted this without comment. In fact, there was a little flicker on her face which I read as a dawning suspicion that maybe some mothers might have insisted I gave the job up anyway.

She said, ‘So, are you going to study now?’

I said I was and, when they were all dressed, she took Cyril and Marie off swimming.

Peace. But then I started missing William and feeling bored. I can’t remember what I used to do on Saturdays before the chemist’s.

I went round to Delilah’s.

It had been playing on my mind that today was the day of the party. I wondered how prepared she was, mentally and physically, for the ordeal that was about to befall her. It was like knowing an accident was going to happen, a terrible pile-up on the motorway, and being powerless to do anything to stop it.

She and her friend Sam were sitting wrapped in towels at the kitchen table doing their toenails. Sam’s were candy pink, Delilah’s liquorice black. They had cotton wool between their toes, and on top of the varnish they were placing nail-stickers in the shapes of hearts and flowers. The sink was piled with plates. They’d only been on their own a few hours and they already seemed to have got through most of the crockery. On the table was the remains of their breakfast: a carton of orange juice and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.

I asked if they were ready for the evening. Delilah rolled her eyes and said no, they had so much to do. ‘I mean, we’ve done our nails, but we’ve got our legs and underarms, and our tans to put on. I don’t know what to wear yet. I’m either going to go kind of punk-rock-chick glamour, with that new drop-waisted skirt I’ve got. You know, with the pink trim? Or I’m going to really downplay and wear jeans with my fishnet popsocks and those silver sandals? Sam’s thinking the same, aren’t you, Sam?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What are you going to wear, Connie? Wellies or those burgundy peep-toe sandals.’ She and Sam giggled.

‘Ha. Ha,’ I said. ‘Very funny.’

‘We’re going to set up the bathroom like a spa. I’ve got all Mum’s Clarins moisturizing stuff lined up ready. And our hair… I’m thinking little bunches. And we’re going to do our make-up really properly, you know, take time over it?’

‘I see.’ I looked up the steps into the back sitting room, at all the blond wood and white upholstery and freshly plumped cushions. ‘Do you want me to help clear some furniture?’

Delilah made a vague gesture with her hand. ‘Do you think we need to?’

I tried to keep the anguish out of my voice. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s all right. Sam and I will do it later. I thought we’d close the double doors between the two sitting rooms and have music and dancing in the back room, with the stairs down to the kitchen, where the drink will be, and move the sofas and chairs into the other, where we can turn the lights down really low for anyone who wants –’ she and Sam giggled – ‘a bit of time out.’

‘And have you bought the booze?’

‘Yeah,’ she said vaguely again. ‘Sorted.’

‘And the music… ?’

‘My brother’s doing it,’ explained Sam. ‘He’s only twelve, but he really knows his stuff and he’s got an iPod.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ I said.

‘And Will’s on the door. If you see him, will you remind him?’

‘I will if I do,’ I said, knowing I wouldn’t. ‘So I’ll be round at what time?’

Delilah mock-panicked, making startled eyes at the clock. ‘The invitation said 8 p.m., so any time about then. Or drop round later if you like.’

‘What about the carpets?’ I said. ‘Shall we try and cover them?’

Delilah looked hassled. ‘Don’t nag. There’s shampoo under the sink if we need it.’

I left. I’d done my best.

When I got back into our house, the rest of the day
dragged
. I was so bored I felt like throwing myself out of the window just to see something happen. Messy, but at least
interesting
. I couldn’t ring Julie because she was with Ade. I couldn’t call on William because he hated me. I couldn’t go to the high street in case I saw John. And I couldn’t go anywhere near Delilah because of the ‘spa’. I know what a spa within twenty paces of Delilah means: orange-and-oatmeal face packs.

I mooched. I tried on clothes. I got cross with Marie for playing her recorder too loud. I buried my face in the cat’s fur and then kicked him off the bed for dribbling. I sat on the roof and listened to the traffic, smiling, snarled, circling the suburbs forever. I changed my mind and went downstairs to go to Delilah’s. Changed my mind again and went to the fridge. I ate a rice cake. And then another. I watched the news. I told Mother, who was off out, that she looked lovely, and made a face behind her back. I hugged Jack. He was on his own for once, having split up from Dawn. (Dawn has finally broken.) And then I said, ‘Get off,’ and went back upstairs. And at eight o’clock, finally, I dressed (pink ra-ra skirt, denim jacket, red baseball boots), said goodnight, promised not to be late, laughed at Jack’s ‘ring me if you need a lift home’ jokes, and left for the party.

Delilah opened the door. Her face fell when she saw me. ‘No one’s here,’ she squealed. ‘I can’t bear it. It’s all a failure. I’m a social disaster. I wish I was dead.’

She had obviously opted for rock-chick. She was wearing a black halterneck top, decorated with a diamanté heart, which showed off her soft golden shoulders, and a black skirt with a jagged hem, which hid her curvaceous tummy. On her legs were large-scale fishnets (the sort of net you’d need to catch a shark in rather than a sardine) and a pair of black biker boots with buckles. She had heavy kohl round her eyes and shiny crimson lipgloss that made her mouth look enormous. Delicate diamond pendants glinted from her ears.

‘You look amazing,’ I said.

‘Do you like my earrings?’ she hissed. ‘They’re real diamonds. They’re Mum’s.’

We went into the front half of the sitting room, where the light was dimmed and music was playing. It was empty of furniture except for a couple of chairs, with girls on them, and a side table in the window, behind which crouched a small kid with two gold pendants round his neck (one in the style of a cross), voluminous jogging pants and a cap at an angle. He was standing, fiddling with an iPod in one hand and making flicking hand movements – fingers stuck together in twos – with the other. He looked about ten except that he had a bum-fluff moustache.

‘That’s Sam’s brother,’ Delilah told me. ‘He wants to be a DJ…’

‘… When he grows up,’ I said.

‘Ssh.’ She gave me a look. ‘He comes with an iPod, so shut it.’

‘How can he afford an iPod at his age?’

‘He has two buses and a train to get to school. His parents feel sorry for him. Also, according to Sam, they’re so relieved to find he’s got an
interest
.’

I laughed, though Delilah didn’t, and lifted my hand in the direction of Sam, who was sitting on one of the chairs, her fingers tugging at the smallest denim miniskirt I’d ever seen. She looked like she was shivering under her tiny camisole. She sent me a weak smile back. Her face looked spottier than usual. I wondered if the orange-and-oatmeal face pack had given her a rash. Standing next to her were two girls in bomber jackets and hoop earrings who were laughing hysterically while banging their hips together self-consciously in – sort of – time to the music.

Delilah shouted at me to come and get a drink. I followed her to the kitchen, where the table was laid out with plastic cups, a washing-up basin full of a mysterious dark-red potion, bobbing with bits of apple and orange, a few bottles of beer, some baguettes and, touchingly, half a Brie.

‘You’ve got the cheese in, then?’ I said, trying to conceal a smile. Marcus and Tanya always provided half a Brie along with the Pimm’s at their summer party.

‘Soaks up the booze,’ she said. ‘We don’t want people getting too drunk.’

She ladled me a cup of the dark-red brew, which I took a quick sip of. It tasted astringent, half smoky, half sweet, with a vicious undercurrent that caught the throat. I coughed. ‘God. What’s in it?’

Delilah giggled. I caught her glance towards a black garbage sack in the corner, with some bottles sticking out. ‘Don’t ask,’ she said. ‘Sam and I have been experimenting. Call it the Delilah Bite.’

I took another sip. ‘Ow.’

She laughed. Then the doorbell went and she scampered off to answer it. There was a burst of giggles. I could see down the hall that another gaggle of girls had arrived, all with side partings and long blonde hair that looked like it had been ironed. Delilah brought them down to the kitchen, where they poured cups of punch and giggled some more. I realized there were about fifteen girls here now, to one pre-pubescent boy. Perhaps I’d been wrong to worry. Perhaps this was as bad as it was going to get. Then the doorbell went again. Delilah squawked and disappeared. This time I followed her up and reached the hall as she opened the door to William.

He seemed taken aback by Delilah’s appearance. He’d been leaning against the door frame, with that I’m-too-cool-for-this-life expression he sometimes gets, and I’m sure he swayed in shock. ‘Hi,’ he said, staring at her, as if that was all he could manage.

She giggled. ‘You might have smartened up for me a bit, Will.’ He was wearing several faded T-shirts in layers, an inside-out hooded top and his Adidas trainers. ‘Is that bike oil on your jeans?’

He bent down to look and she tapped his nose on the way up. ‘Made you look, made you stare, made you lose your underwear!’ (We’d all notice if that happened. His pants were sticking out of his trousers, as usual.)

He crooked his arm round her neck, twisting her round and pretending to strangle her.

‘Help!’ she cried. ‘Con.’

He couldn’t pretend I wasn’t there any more. He dropped his arm. ‘Hi, Connie,’ he said, not looking at me.

‘Hi,’ I said, looking away too.

I think she took him down to the kitchen then to ‘meet some of the girls’, but I went the other way into the wide open space of the sitting room, where I watched the joined-at-the-hip disco divas lark around, and made desultory conversation with Sam. She told me she was in love with Charlie from Busted, that he was a dark, deep soul stuck in a business that didn’t understand him. Her brother came over and, in a voice that kept jumping between treble and base, said Charlie from Busted had no true musical integrity and wouldn’t last. And she said what did he know, he didn’t understand, he didn’t recognize true talent when he saw it. ‘Twerp,’ she added as he headed back to his iPod.

I can’t remember much more about the early part of the evening, except that it was cold – Delilah opened the back door when people started smoking – and that I wandered back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room, avoiding William and trying to look as if I was having a nice time. A few more people arrived – a couple of lads in dark-blue jeans and zip-up jumpers from the youth club, more girls in various states of undress from the high school. One of the boys in a zip-up jumper tried to make conversation with me. Turns out he wasn’t from the youth club but had met Delilah when she was on holiday in the Isle of Wight. His name was Cal. He asked me questions about school and Delilah. He said, ‘Constance is a lovely name.’ I told him it was French and that I loved France. He said he did too. French bread. French cheese. I was quite enjoying myself until he added, ‘French kissing.’ I was so embarrassed I had to walk off.

William took up position on the door at about 9 p.m. I don’t know what his brief was. It’s not as if there was a guest list or anything. I think it just made him feel important.

It got louder – a couple of drinks got spilt, someone went upstairs and unravelled a loo roll on the banisters. Someone else, in search of attention, got locked in the bathroom. There was a huddle in the ‘quiet’ (i.e. snogging) room and a waft of smoke in the doorway. A cigarette was stubbed out on the kitchen floor. But these were all isolated incidents, identifiable, controlled. The cigarette burn was small and close to the sink. So when Delilah came up to me when I was in the kitchen picking at the Brie and yelled, ‘Ashtrays! Have you got any ashtrays next door? There’s ash being dropped all over the floor!’ I didn’t panic unduly. I felt we’d encompassed the worst. That Delilah, as usual, had got away with it. No gatecrashers. No mass descent. And I said I’d go and get some, relieved to escape from my own social embarrassment, to give my face a break from its false, I’m-quite-happy-on-my-own smile.