Kiss (29 page)

Miranda seemed to have a great deal of space already. I thought about my own tiny box room at home. I could touch both side walls when I was lying in bed. I thought of Mum squashed
into the small bedroom so she could charge Miss Miles that bit extra for her big room. We could all do with high ceilings and shiny new furniture and any kind of view, not just the similar shabby semis opposite.

‘What sort of a bedroom have you got, Miranda?’

‘Oh, that’s so boring too. It’s all deep purple and bead curtains and velvet cushions and fancy glass mirrors,’ said Miranda, shuddering. ‘I thought it divinely decadent when I was, like,
eleven
. I keep nagging to get it all redecorated.’

I thought it sounded divine, full stop. ‘Can I see it?’ I asked as we got to her front door.

‘Sure,’ she said, twisting the key. ‘Funny. It’s not double-locked.’

She stepped inside, into the beautiful cream hall, the stained glass in the door panels casting lozenges of red and blue and green on the pale carpet.

‘Come on, then,’ she said, starting up the stairs.

Then she stopped, so abruptly that I bumped into her.

‘What?’

‘Ssh! Listen,’ she said.

We stood still. There was a sound upstairs, a little gasp, two voices whispering.

‘Is it burglars?’ I mouthed. ‘Oh God, should we dial nine-nine-nine?’

‘No, we don’t want the real police. We want
the
moral
police to come and give my mother a good bashing with their truncheons,’ said Miranda, not bothering to keep her voice down. ‘Yoga class! Well, she’s up there in her bedroom with someone. I’m sure they’re simply trying out the lotus position together –
not
.’

‘You mean—’

‘Yes. Honestly! I wonder who it is
this
time,’ said Miranda.

‘Miranda? Is that you, darling? I’ll be down in a minute, sweetheart.’

‘Darling! Sweetheart!’ Miranda muttered. She marched back down the hall. ‘I’m not going to wait to find out.’

She darted into the living room, grabbed a bottle of vodka from the drinks tray and then went to the front door.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely not,’ said Miranda, slamming the door hard behind us.

‘Will you tell your dad?’ I asked.

‘I might,’ said Miranda. ‘But then again, he has girlfriends, I know he does.’

‘So did my dad,’ I said.

‘But your mother left him,’ said Miranda, taking a swig out of the vodka bottle straight away.

‘Actually, he left her.’

‘So, that’s men for you. I bet
your
mum doesn’t have boyfriends. I bet she does real mumsie things like cooking and cleaning and fusses around you and kisses you goodnight.’

‘She does. But she
has
got a boyfriend, actually.’

‘She has?’ Miranda looked surprised. ‘You’ve never mentioned him.’

‘I’ve only just met him.’

‘What’s he like?’

I shrugged. ‘OK, I suppose. You know. A bit dull and boring. My mum keeps on about how funny he is but I can’t see it myself.’

‘I bet your mum doesn’t sleep with him though.’

‘Well. He spent the night at our place.’

‘And you don’t mind?’

‘I didn’t really think about it. I was at the hospital with Carl. I was too busy worrying about him.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll fix things for Carl,’ said Miranda.

‘How?’

‘You’ll see.’ Miranda took another swig of vodka.

A passing woman frowned at her. ‘You shouldn’t be doing that,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell your mother.’

‘Yeah, tell her. Like she’ll care,’ said Miranda. She took a longer swig.

‘Miranda! Come
on
!’ I dragged her away down the street. ‘Let’s go to the park where no one can see us. I wish we’d bought that picnic – I’m starving.’

Miranda bought us large 99 ice creams from the van at the park gates. She sprinkled hers with vodka.

‘Mmm, yummy! Maybe I’ll start marketing my own alcoholic ice cream,’ she said, licking enthusiastically.

‘You’re turning into an alcoholic,’ I said. ‘Do you drink like this on your own?’

‘Sometimes. When I’m feeling fed up.’

‘I don’t get you. Why should
you
ever feel fed up? You’ve got everything.’

‘Money,’ said Miranda, walking towards the children’s playground. ‘Possessions. That’s about it.’

‘Looks. Personality.’

‘Yeah. Well. Maybe.’

‘So lucky lucky you! Don’t start a poor-little-me rich girl rant, please.’

‘Oh shut up, Titchy Face,’ said Miranda, sprinkling more vodka on her ice cream. She licked again. ‘Oh double yum. Mmm. No, more like double yuck, it’s gone all
oily
. Maybe it’s not such a good idea.’

She threw her ice cream into a rubbish bin and sat down on a swing, stuffing the vodka bottle into her blazer pocket. She started swinging violently, kicking hard with her mad boots, her skirt flying up, showing holes of white flesh in her black tights.

‘I look like a Dalmatian,’ she said, plucking at them. She put her head right back so that her hair nearly swept the ground. ‘Hey, come and swing, Sylvie.’

‘Carl and I used to come here when we were
little,’ I said, standing on the swing beside her and jerking it into action. ‘We’d pretend the swings were our magic horses. Mine was a black filly with a white star on her forehead and Carl’s was a pure white stallion. We’d gallop for miles through the air, racing each other. Then when we were tired and dizzy we’d set up home on that twirly roundabout thing. We played that it had real rooms, one for each section, and we’d squash up between the metal bars pretending we were in the kitchen making our food, and then we’d climb over into the dining room and make out we were eating it, and we’d watch television in the living room, humming all our favourite theme tunes, then use the computer in the study, tapping our fingers in the air, then we’d go to the bathroom and wash, and finally we’d go to the bedroom and curl up together in our tiny bed.’ I stopped swinging. ‘It was so real. It was as if we were really doing it, even though we were making it all up. I thought it
would
all be real one day. Carl and I would be sweethearts all through school and then we’d go to art college together and we’d share a little flat, and it wouldn’t matter even if it was as pokey as our roundabout house, just so long as we could be together. Then one day we’d get married. I even had my dress planned. Not a white meringue. I thought I’d have something soft and silky and simple with high-heeled glass slippers like Cinderella, only you can’t really get glass shoes, can you? And I can’t really marry Carl now, only
I still can’t get my head around it because it’s what I’ve been planning for so long and it’s what I’ve always wanted and I always thought it was what he wanted too.’ My voice cracked and I started crying.

‘Sylvie?’ Miranda sat up, groaning. ‘Oh God, I feel sick. Don’t cry. Look, maybe you still
will
marry him.’

‘You mean he might just be going through a phase, like Jules said?’

‘I don’t know. I think we can all fall in love with anyone. And even if Carl stays gay he does love you, Sylvie.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘
Yes!
You never know, you could still get married, and even if you don’t have sex you could still have a lot of fun together. You’d probably be very happy together, unlike nearly all the other married couples in the world. Oh God, I seriously think I
am
going to puke.’

She heaved herself off the swing and staggered to the wastebin. I held her hair back for her while she was sick. She made a horrible retching noise and groaned and grunted. I’d have wanted to die with embarrassment, but once she’d finished she wiped her mouth and then grinned at me.

‘Thanks, Sylvie. This is what best friends are for, eh? Stopping you getting sick all over your hair!’

‘Any time,’ I said.

She reached for the bottle of vodka.

‘For God’s sake, don’t drink any more! That’s
why
you were sick!’

‘No, it was because I was swinging too much. I need to wash my mouth out with something.’ She took a mouthful, but then shuddered and spat it out. ‘Maybe
not
such a good idea. Have you got any gum? I really have to clean my teeth.’ She checked her watch. ‘I suppose we’ve just about got time to get back to my place. Though you’re nearer the park. Can I clean my teeth at your place? Or do you think we’ll discover
your
mother in bed with her boyfriend?’

‘Oh God, I hope not.’

‘No, I know! We’ll walk in on little Miss Lodger Lady having it off with
her
boyfriend.’

‘Oh, don’t be so mean! Poor Miss Miles,’ I said, but I couldn’t help snorting with laughter.

It was even harder to keep a straight face when we got home and encountered Miss Miles peeping out of her room
in her kimono
!

‘Oh, girls, you startled me,’ she said. ‘You’ve caught me out!’

We goggled at her.

‘I was just having forty winks on my bed after lunch. Tut tut. You’ll think me such a dozy old soul.’

‘Not at all, Miss Miles,’ I said warmly, pulling Miranda into my bedroom.

We collapsed inside, hands over our mouths, eyes streaming. When I stopped giggling I glanced round my bedroom anxiously. It looked even smaller and shabbier with Miranda
sprawled all over the bed. She’d kicked off her witchy boots and they lay toes up on my grubby fake-fur rug. She wrapped herself in my old duvet cover. It had a faded pattern of fat teddy bears, all gurning with alarming cheeriness. Miranda imitated their expression and then sucked in her cheeks.

‘Yuck, I
so
need to clean my teeth. Can I be really gross and borrow your toothbrush, Sylvie?’

She padded along the landing to the bathroom. I fussed around my bedroom, hiding old socks and underwear in my wardrobe, stashing a sheaf of Glassworld jottings in an ancient pink Barbie suitcase, and rearranging my bookshelves, tucking old Flower Fairy and Little Bear books behind all my teenage titles in case she thought me retarded.

Miranda smelled strongly of Colgate and my mum’s best Boudoir perfume when she came back.

‘Do I look a bit better?’ she said, striking a pose. ‘I couldn’t find any make-up in the bathroom. Can I use some of yours, Sylvie?’

‘Sure,’ I said anxiously. I ferreted in my drawer for my make-up bag. It was embarrassingly frugal – natural foundation, two pale lipsticks and one waterproof mascara.

Miranda’s lip curled. ‘How am I meant to look beautiful, babes?’

She improvised, using my pinkest lipstick as rouge for her cheeks and commandeering my
deep-red felt pen for lipstick. She outlined her eyes with the black felt pen and gave her lashes three coats of mascara. Then she brushed out her hair and retied it into two little decorative plaits, the rest hanging loose and glossy down her back.

‘You look lovely,’ I said.

‘Yes, I do,’ she said, smiling at herself in my looking glass. ‘OK, Sylvie, you get tarted up too.’

‘Mmm, bit of a waste of effort for me,’ I said.

‘No, no, come here. Let me have a go,’ said Miranda, sitting me down on the bed.

‘Don’t put too much on. I’ll just end up looking like a clown,’ I said.

‘Have faith, little chum,’ she said.

She did her best. She used my felt tips again, but the softer shades, peach for my lips and grey for my eyes. Then she restyled my hair, back-combing it on top so that it couldn’t go into its little-girly parting.

I peered at myself in the mirror. ‘I look … OK,’ I said. I was secretly thrilled.

‘You look flipping fantastic,’ said Miranda. ‘
Almost
as gorgeous as me. Maybe I’ll be one of those makeover women on television. I’ve improved you one hundred per cent. Now, get out of that manky uniform and put your jeans on. I’ll need to change too. I’ll have to borrow something of yours.’

‘But it won’t fit you.’

‘Yes it
will
. Granted, you’re a little matchstick
but I’m not Elephant Woman, you know. I’ll squeeze into something.’

Squeeze was the operative word. Miranda tried on several T-shirts but could barely tug them over her breasts. Then she picked out the blue sleeveless vest top of my pyjamas. It always looked totally little-girly on me. It looked incredible on Miranda, the straps tight on her plump white shoulders, the lace edging straining over her cleavage, clinging to her curves.

‘This will do,’ she said complacently. ‘Now, your jeans are going to be useless on me. What about a skirt?’

She wanted something short and tight. They were all
too
short and
way
too tight on Miranda. She couldn’t even get them zipped up.

‘Haven’t you got anything with an elasticated waist?’ she said crossly.

She flipped through the few clothes in my wardrobe, making disparaging remarks.

‘Look, I’m not running a dress shop,’ I said.

‘Hey, what about this?’

She pulled out my old purple gypsy skirt. It came down almost to my ankles but it swayed round Miranda’s knees, somehow looking just the right sexy length. The waistband stretched to its limit, just fitting.

‘Tra-la!’ said Miranda, wiggling her hips so that the lacy hem of the skirt flew out. ‘
Now
I’m looking good.’

‘Yes, you are,’ I said, sighing.

‘Right, we’re ready!’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’ll have to get a move on.’ She picked up the vodka again.

‘Miranda!’

‘Just one more weeny swig for courage!’

‘Why? What are you going to do?’

‘We’re going to Kingsmere Grammar.’

‘Oh no we’re not!’

‘Yes we
are
! Don’t pull that silly face at me. We
have
to go, for Carl’s sake. Don’t you want to help him?’

‘Yes, of course, but—’

‘This will work. Trust me!’

I didn’t trust her at all, but I went with her all the same. She wouldn’t tell me what she was intending to do.

‘I don’t
know
yet. We’ll just have to see how it goes. How they’re all reacting to Carl. Maybe he was exaggerating a bit before.’

‘Carl doesn’t exaggerate,’ I said.

We saw that for ourselves. We got to Kingsmere just as their bell went for the end of afternoon school. There was a pause for a minute, then boys started to stream out, a purple army, running, shouting, shoving, cheeky little Year Sevens with piping voices, great loping sixth formers, and all the years in between. The Year Nines came out last, when we were beginning to think we’d missed them. Carl was there at the front, his head up, whistling as if he was strolling down a deserted country lane, though all the boys
were baying at his heels, shouting insults.