Kiss (4 page)

‘Not if it’s all bunched up at the waist. You don’t want to look as if you’ve tried too hard. Just wear your jeans and a T-shirt and you’ll look fine.’ Carl gave my hand a quick squeeze. I clung to his fingers.

‘Are you teasing me, Carl? Are we really going?’

‘Yep, why not? Everyone’s telling us to grow up and socialize and party like everyone else, so we’ll try it out, eh? Don’t worry. If it’s a total bore or dead scary or whatever we’ll just stay for one drink and then come straight home again.’

‘Carl … I hope you don’t mind, but I kind of told Miranda you’re my boyfriend.’

‘Well, I am, aren’t I?’ said Carl.

His blond hair fell forward over his brow like the Glass Boy’s on the shelf. He smiled at me, his brown eyes shining. All the dangling crystals glittered in the late sunlight, casting rainbow reflections across the hut. I felt dazzled with happiness.

I ran home to try on all my clothes and experiment with hairstyles for the party. I met up with Miss Miles on the stairs. Miss Miles is our lodger. She’s an old lady who will never wear purple like the poem. She has several beige knitted suits and cardigans, and thick beige stockings which always loop around her ankles, Nora Batty-style. She has her hair dyed a blondy beige colour and rubs beige foundation over her wrinkly face. Her spare beige bra and big knickers drip on the towel rail once a week, evidence that she is totally colour co-ordinated.

‘You look full of the joys of spring today, Sylvie,’ she said.

‘I’m going to a party,’ I said.

‘Ooh, lovely! I hope you get lots of ice cream and jelly and birthday cake.’

‘Er – yes,’ I said, dodging round her. She seems to think I’m about six years old.

‘What colour is your party frock?’ she called after me.

‘I haven’t really got one,’ I said, going into my little bedroom.

Mum used to sleep in Miss Miles’s room when Dad was around. She’s moved into the little bedroom now. I got the box room. It wasn’t much bigger than a cupboard. I had a mirror, but I had to stand on my bed to see what I looked like all over.

I didn’t think much of myself in any of my clothes. I was still experimenting when Mum came home from work.

‘What are you up to, Sylvie?’ she said, putting her head round the door. ‘Hey, I hope you’re not thinking of going out like that – that skirt’s much too short.’

‘I know. And it bunches up at the waist, just like Carl said. And I don’t look sexy, I look
stupid
,’ I said, pulling it off in despair.

‘I don’t think I want you looking sexy,’ said Mum.

‘Carl says just wear jeans but you can’t wear jeans to a party. It would be different if they were
designer
.’

‘Don’t start. They’re Tesco’s finest – what more could a girl wish for? And what party? You haven’t said anything about a party.’

‘Because I’ve only just got asked. It’s tonight,
at Miranda’s. She this girl in Year Nine, the other class.’

‘What sort of party is it? And how are you going to get home? I’m knackered, Sylvie. I don’t want to stay up late to come and pick you up. I just want to have a bath and go to bed straight after supper.’

‘Carl’s going too, so his mum or dad will pick us up, no problem,’ I said.

‘
Carl
’s going? What is this party, then? Why didn’t you tell me about it earlier?’

‘I told you, I didn’t
know
about it earlier. Oh, Mum, don’t fuss. Look, you were the one who said it was time I grew up. Miranda and her friends are
ever
so grown up.’

‘Yes, that’s what I’m worried about. There’s a happy medium. This party – Miranda’s parents will be there, won’t they?’

‘Of course.’

‘And there won’t be any alcohol?’

‘As if!’ I said firmly. ‘Mum, I’ll be fine. And I’ll have Carl to look after me. I
can
go, can’t I? It’s just that Miranda isn’t the sort of girl who asks you twice.’

‘Whereabouts does she live?’

‘Lark Drive.’

Mum raised her eyebrows. ‘Then she’s dead posh,’ she said. ‘Those houses cost a fortune. Maybe you shouldn’t wear your jeans.’

‘Well, what
should
I wear?’ I said, standing there, still in my bra and knickers. I didn’t really need a bra at all yet but I wasn’t going to
be the only girl in my class who didn’t wear one.

‘God knows,’ said Mum. She giggled. ‘A tiara and evening frock?’

‘Oh, ha-ha.’

I had a best dress, a terrible velvety pinafore thing, but it was old now, and I looked about five in it anyway.

In the end I took Carl’s advice and wore my jeans and a v-necked black sweater of Mum’s. The wool made my skin itch and it was going to be too hot for a party but it looked more sophisticated than my own T-shirts. I privately stuffed paper tissues in my bra to give me a little shape.

I brushed my hair out but I still looked lamentably little-girly. I tried copying Miranda’s elaborate hairstyle, experimenting with beads and bits of thread. I wasn’t sure it looked any better.

‘Is that the latest style for long hair?’ Mum said doubtfully. ‘I could twirl it up in a bun thing for you if you like.’

‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘Miranda has her hair like this. Sort of.’

‘You seem very keen on this Miranda all of a sudden,’ Mum said. ‘Write down her full address then. Oh God, I don’t know whether I should let you go, not when we don’t even know them. Maybe I’d better ring Miranda’s mother and just check up on this party situation.’

‘Don’t, Mum! I’ll die of embarrassment. They
all think I’m a total baby already. They laugh at me and call me the Titch.’

‘That’s not very nice of them,’ said Mum. ‘Do they tease you a lot?’

‘Well, a bit. But it’s OK. I’m kind of used to it.’

Mum sighed. ‘I don’t know. It used to be so lovely when you were back in first school and everyone was so friendly and all the mums knew each other. I suppose middle school was OK, but now the high seems so big and scary. They’ve lost that special atmosphere. I’m not happy with it as a school. And yet there’s Carl at the grammar and Jules doesn’t think he’s happy there either. She thinks
he
’s maybe being teased now.’

‘She said. But he’s fine, Mum. We’re both fine.’

Mum suddenly gave me a hug. ‘I know you are,’ she said, nuzzling her head against mine.

‘Mind my hair, Mum!’

‘OK, OK. Sorry! Oh, Sylvie, fancy you going off to a proper party. You will be sensible, won’t you?’

‘
Yes
, Mum.’

‘Yes, I know you will. Take no notice. I’m just being daft.’ Mum rubbed her forehead the way she always does when she’s tired.

‘Jules or Mick will come and collect us, right, so you can go to bed early,’ I said.

‘Yeah, like I’m going to be able to sleep before you’re back!’ said Mum.

It was weird saying goodbye to her. She was eating her supper on a tray, watching
Coronation Street
.

‘You have fun, darling,’ she said. She looked at her microwaved pasta and the television, shaking her head. ‘I seem to have turned into a sad old woman,’ she said. She lowered her voice. ‘I’ll turn into Miss Miles if I don’t watch out. Oh dear, I wish
I
had a party to go to.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ I said, suddenly feeling awful.

‘Forget I said that. I’m just feeling stupidly sorry for myself. Go on, off you go. You look lovely, darling. Enjoy yourself.’

JULES DROVE US
to Lark Drive, positively burbling with excitement.

‘It’s no big deal, Mum,’ said Carl. ‘You’re acting like we’ve been invited to hang out with the Geldof girls. It’s just a little suburban party. Relax!’

Carl certainly looked relaxed in his white T-shirt and blue jeans, totally cool and understated, but he was jiggling his leg up and down, always a sign he was tense. I felt a wave of love for him because he was going to Miranda’s party for my sake. I reached out and gave his hand a grateful squeeze. Both our palms were clammy and damp.

Even Jules looked nervous when she turned into Lark Drive. It was well-lit with lampposts, all in a fancy repro-Victorian design. Each
house was set back from the road in its own grounds. Some were big red-brick villas with gables and turrets and towers.

‘Cor, lummy,’ said Jules in mock-cockney. ‘You’re partying with the posh nobs tonight.’

‘Miranda can’t live in one of these houses!’ I said.

My heart started thudding. Maybe she was playing a joke on me. Yes, of course. She didn’t really want to invite me to her party and meet my boyfriend. She just wanted to make a fool of me, pretending she lived in one of these extraordinary mansions. She was probably killing herself laughing now, imagining me trailing up and down Lark Drive looking for a non-existent party.

‘I’ve made a mistake, Jules,’ I said, nearly in tears. ‘Let’s go back home.’

Carl edged closer to me. ‘Hey, it’s OK. Don’t worry, I’m here.’

‘No, I’ve just realized, Miranda’s playing a joke on me. I bet there isn’t even a number ninety-four. I’m such an
idiot
,’ I wailed.

‘The houses aren’t quite so grand this end,’ said Jules as we drove past several square modern houses with mock Regency pillars. ‘There’s certainly a hotch-potch of styles! That’s ninety, ninety-two – oh look! It’s the white house at the end!’

It wasn’t Victorian, it wasn’t new, it wasn’t mock anything, it was utterly different from all the other houses in the road, a large white
1920s house with a flat roof and stained-glass windows. It was gently floodlit so it glowed like a great moon.

‘Oh, wow, look at the Art Deco glass!’ said Carl.

‘Look at the Art Deco
everything
!’ said Jules. ‘It’s so beautiful. I’m sure I’ve seen it featured in one of those glossy home magazines. So can your Miranda really live here?’

‘No way,’ I said. ‘I’ve led us all on a wild-goose chase. I’m sorry.’

‘We’ll go and knock on the door and see,’ said Carl.

‘No!’ I said. ‘Well, OK, but they won’t even have heard of her, I’ll bet.’

Carl and I got out of the car. Jules got out too, tucking her wild hair behind her ears. She rubbed at a paint stain on her trousers and sighed.

‘Oh, well. Pretend I’m simply your chauffeur, kids,’ she said.

We went through the white gate and walked up the York-stone path, looking up at the house as reverently as if it was a cathedral. Carl gazed at the stained glass, transfixed by the pink flowers, the blue butterflies, the glowing sun with spreading rays.

Jules pressed the doorbell timidly. ‘Did that work? Did you hear it ring?’

We waited. Nothing happened. Jules tried again, pressing firmly this time. The bell rang immediately, making us all jump. Then the
door opened and there was Miranda herself.

‘Hi,’ she said casually.

She didn’t
look
casual. She was wearing a black lace long-sleeved top, a tight skirt and her pointy boots. She had a black velvet ribbon round her white neck, heavy black eye make-up and dark red lipstick. She looked fantastic.

‘Hello,’ I said, my voice quavery. ‘Er, this is Carl and Jules, his mum. Um. Is the party still on?’

‘Sure,’ said Miranda. ‘Come in, all of you.’

‘Well, I’m just delivering them,’ said Jules.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to stop for a drink?’ said Miranda.

‘No, no,’ said Jules. ‘So, when should I come and collect Sylvie and Carl?’

Miranda shrugged. ‘Whenever.’

‘About … eleven?’ Jules suggested tentatively.

‘Fine,’ said Miranda. ‘Or later.’

We nodded at Jules and then followed Miranda indoors. Well,
I
followed Miranda. Carl was looking at the windows close up, very gently fingering the lead and stroking the glossy glass.

‘Carl!’ I hissed.

Miranda stopped, her head on one side. Her eyes were screwed up, looking at Carl. ‘You like the windows? Come and see the ones in the conservatory.’

We walked along the hall, through a huge quarry-tiled kitchen with a dresser full of matching china, all stylized orange flowers, and
then into a glass room of green palms and great fans of fern, with pink and purple orchids everywhere. The conservatory had a frieze of stained glass running right round it, wonderful flowers and plants in rich crimsons and chrome yellows and jade green. The French windows were stained glass too, with birds in each panel – bluebirds, canaries, finches, magpies, parrots.

Carl stood on tiptoe, as if he was going to fly like a bird himself. I worried that he looked a little
too
enchanted. I didn’t want Miranda to think him totally weird. But it was OK. She was smiling at him.

‘Great, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘The flowers are original nineteen twenties,’ said Carl. ‘But the birds?’

‘They’re new. Ish. There used to be flowers in the door panes but there was a little accident. I slammed straight through them. I was riding this go-cart, you see, and I didn’t quite get to grips with the steering. So there I was, spouting blood like a scarlet fountain and my dad was just going “Oh God, my stained-glass window!”’

‘Quite right too,’ said Carl. ‘It’s much easier to mend you than a beautiful original window.’

Miranda laughed. ‘Yeah. So he was going to get the door glass replaced at great expense and I was losing my allowance for the rest of my life, but then he saw these modern birds in the stained-glass guy’s studio and that was it, he had to have them – at even greater expense.’