Let's Get Lost (6 page)

The two bright spots on my storm cloudy horizon were that when I got back from the café, the supermarket shop had been a surprising success and the kitchen was awash with food products.

Including a veritable hoard of junk food. According to my infallible intel, once Dad had got back from disowning me he’d let Felix put anything he wanted in the trolley. Talk about inconsistent parenting.

And the other bright spot was that Dad wasn’t talking to me. Which suited me just fine. It was all, “Felix will you tell your sister that her ratty tennis shoes are not an ornamental feature and she’s to remove them from the hall at once?” and “Felix, please let your sister know that she’s not to use my bottle of 2000

Pavie Decesse St. Emilion in her spaghetti Bolognese.”

I could have joined in. But there wasn’t anything I wanted to say to him. And it meant that it gave me a Get Out of Jail Free card to sneak the odd twenty out of his wallet because what was he going to do?

“Felix will you ask your sister if she’s been stealing money from me?” I think not.

We’d managed to go a whole week without even exchanging pleasantries about the weather, and by Friday evening I was congratulating myself on a job well done, as I finished up this kick-ass chili, which had everything in it except raspberries, which were for dessert. And then the phone rang.

Felix was already halfway there when I yanked him back by his belt and, from the unearthly yowling noise he made, I think I managed to give him the mother of all wedgies.

“Get off me!”

“Step away from the phone, then,” I said warningly, not like I was expecting a call from anyone special.

Just someone who’d probably given my iPod to one of his loser friends.

I picked up the phone with one hand and shoved Felix as far away as I could with the other.

“Hello?” It was probably one of Dad’s students quaking in their boots about some late deadline request that he was going to get all pissy about—they were the only people who ever rang. Certainly wasn’t going to be . . .

“Isabel? It’s Smith. We need to meet, don’t we?”

“Oh, hey, yeah.” God, just kill me now.

He snickered softly. “You’re doing that monosyllabic thing again.”

I glared at Felix, who was leaning against the fridge and mouthing “Who is it?” at me, like the phone ringing was some big event.

“Hang on,” I muttered, and then put my hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s for me. Go away now!”

“But, Is . . .”

“Just fuck off.”

Felix gave me the finger as he sidled out of the room, and I put the phone back to my ear. “You still there?”

“Yeah.” He sounded like he was waiting for me to get to the point.

“How’s my iPod? Is it still in one piece?”

There was this tense silence. I could actually feel my blood pressure start to rise.

“Yeah, about that. Does it generally do that weird thing when you try and pause it so
—
”

“What weird thing?” I didn’t know my voice could get so shrill
—
all the dogs in the neighborhood must have been going into a complete frenzy. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“Isabel. Isabel. I’m joking,” he said very gently. “It was a joke.”

“I knew that,” I huffed. Like, what? He thought I didn’t have a sense of humor. “I was laughing on the inside. Kind of.”

“So, anyway, do you want to meet up tonight?”

I tried out this sigh, which was meant to convey the message that I was a busy girl with a packed social schedule who couldn’t commit to times and places just like that. “Well, I’m meant to be going to The Cellar with my friends,” I said vaguely. “And I have this whole dinner thing first.”

He didn’t reply at first, and I could hear a muffled sound in the background, like he was talking to someone, before his voice came back, just a little distracted. “Cool. That’s where my friends are gonna be, too. Does eight sound okay?”

It wasn’t okay. I didn’t want him anywhere near the Trio of Evil, but I suddenly became aware of this determined sizzling noise. “I have to go,” I yelped, all my attention now firmly focused on the stove. “See you at eight.”

I didn’t wait to hear his response, just clicked the phone off and rushed to the saucepan.

The rice was simmering away gently, and I was mentally discarding one outfit after another as I shoved green leafy stuff into a salad bowl, when Dad and Felix appeared, even though one of them hadn’t officially been invited to dinner.

Dad gave the bowl of chili a wary look as I put it down on the table. But he didn’t say anything, and I got another plate out of the cupboard and placed it in front of him.

We had to listen to this really long-winded account of the diorama of a veldt that Felix was making for geography, and Dad was smiling and nodding and offering his services and his atlases, and Jesus, you’d think he was down to the final five for Father of the Year or something.

Then he looked up at me and said quietly, “Felix, will you tell your sister to stop playing with her food and actually eat it,” and we were right back on track.

Felix thought about it for a nanosecond. “Isabel, stop playing with your food and actually eat it,” he parroted back gleefully, and when Dad wasn’t looking, I managed to whap the back of his hand with the serving spoon. He had no sibling loyalty, the little sod.

The minute that Felix finally stopped shoveling food into his mouth, I leaped up.

“You can clear the table, that’s fair, right?” I told him. “There’s raspberries in the fridge for dessert.”

They were still in the kitchen when I came downstairs twenty minutes later. After much deliberation, I

was wearing a little pink summer dress with a sweetheart neckline and a scalloped hem that was far too winsome without adding jeans and a stompy pair of boots for extra edge. The ensemble didn’t exactly scream über sophistication, but I’d pinned this DIY construction-paper corsage I’d made in art class to my shoulder and concentrated on my makeup.

There’s this trick to looking older, and it’s not about piling it on so you end up resembling a teen whore.

’Cause older girls have got over the novelty of wearing makeup and they have, like, these little signature things they do. After I’d put on enough concealer so that I didn’t appear to have bruises anymore, I stroked a sliver of shimmery green powder just above and below my eyes in this casual, “oh, I really don’t bother with too many products” way. Then I slicked on some Stila Cleopatra lipstick from my last little crime spree in Boots and gave up doing anything with my hair. Really. I just shoved Felix’s beanie on my head. It was a look. I think.

I almost got to the front door undetected, even had my jacket on, but I had to stop and retrace my steps to the kitchen, where the iPod was perched on the table. Felix and Dad were dioramaing and I could just tiptoe in and snatch . . .

“Where do you think you’re going?”

I shoved the iPod into my pocket. “Oh, so you’re actually talking to me now, are you?”

Felix rolled his eyes and made a zipping gesture across his mouth, but he could just piss off.

Dad gave me a smile that was entirely devoid of humor. “Actually, Isabel, I asked a question that I’d like you to answer.”

“Out, I’m going out,” I called over my shoulder, beetling toward the front door before we could get into the details. “And the others are sleeping over, so don’t barge into my room without knocking in the morning.”

“Come back here immediately.” His voice got louder with every word, so I knew he was on his feet and about to get all judge, jury, and executioner on my arse.

I whirled around. “No! Don’t even think about it,” I hissed as he took two more steps nearer to me. “I’m going out, and there’s not a single thing you can do about it. You lay one finger on me and I’ll totally—”

He stopped my invective mid-flow by suddenly leaning his forehead against the banisters, hands clutching at the wood like it was a life raft. He looked, I don’t know, defeated, which I guess meant I’d won.

But as I slammed the door so hard behind me that the glass in the panel rattled, the funny thing was that I didn’t feel like a winner.

6

I had to run all the way to The Cellar so I’d only be a little bit late, as opposed to spectacularly late. It started to rain as I sprinted down Trafalgar Street, skidding on the slicked pavement and only slowing down as I hit Gloucester Place, so I didn’t get too out of breath.

I could see Smith waiting outside the steps that led down to the club; he was all hunched up as the rain came down faster. I picked up my pace as I saw him squint at his watch and tried to think of some excuse for being late that didn’t involve Part 317 of the ongoing row with my paternal signifier.

When he saw me coming across the road, he lifted up his hand and smiled, like he was pleased to see me. Or pleased to get his iPod back. Or relieved that soon he’d be inside where it was toasty warm and there were no raindrops dripping down his back. Or none of the above.

“Hey,” he called. “I was just about to give up on you.”

“I had this thing,” I said, just a mite tetchily. “I’m sure I told you I had a thing.”

“I thought this was the thing you had,” he protested as I reached his side. He leaned forward, head down, like he was about to kiss me on the cheek, which threw me, so I took a hasty step backward because he was taller and leaner and actually better looking if you got used to the nose, which I didn’t think I ever would, and smelled much nicer than I remembered. I needed a second to just take it all in.

“I had a dinner thing, too.” It was like I’d become Miss Inarticulate 2006.

“You’re doing the monosyllable thing again,” he teased, like we were friends who had an in-joke about my inability to string a coherent sentence together.

“Well, yeah, I do that. A lot.” I shut my eyes in despair, and when I opened them, he was gesturing down the steps.

“Look,” he shouted over the rain, which was starting to upgrade to a full-on gale. “Do you want to go in?

I’ve got a spare plus-one.”

I peered at the shadowy depths of the entrance to see if my least favorite doorman was lurking, all ready to mock my attempts to pass as an eighteen-year-old. He didn’t seem to be on duty.

“I was meant to meet my friends . . . yeah, whatever . . . okay.”

The Trio of Evil could fend for themselves, I thought as I followed Smith down the steps and let him pull the door open for me. There was a mousy girl standing there, holding a clipboard with a sheet of names on it, who didn’t look like she was going to give me any trouble.

“I’m on Duckie’s guest list. Smith, no, just Smith, and I’ve got a plus-one.”

I stood there with my hands in my pockets and tried hard to look nonchalant, as if it was my right, nay my privilege, to be the plus-one for the achingly hip boy in the achingly hip, retro trackie top, who was on the guest list for the most achingly hip local band. I wasn’t convinced that it was working too well and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bouncer bearing down on me.

I quickly shifted so I had my back to him, but he’d obviously read up on sneaky behavior exhibited by obviously underage girls.

“How old are you?” he bellowed at me from across the foyer.

“I’m eighteen!” I said, like it was so painfully obvious that he must need glasses. I had signature eye shadow for crying out loud!

“What’s your date of birth?” he shouted in my face, like that was going to outfox me.

I didn’t try anything fancy, just stuck two years on the original date. “August 8, 1987. And my star sign’s Leo,” I added helpfully because, yeah, it seemed like a really good idea to antagonize the angry man.

He didn’t believe me, I could tell. He was examining me intently as if I had the year of my birth etched into my skin with a laser.

“You don’t look eighteen,” he announced eventually. “You look about fifteen, tops, if you ask me.”

I didn’t even have to fake my indignation. “I am
not
fifteen.”

“ID,” he said blankly, holding out his hand.

“Why do you always pick on me?”

“ID,” he repeated, and I was already fumbling in my pockets in the vain hope that I’d have some kind of legally binding document in there that would exonerate me.

Instead, I got Smith’s arm suddenly curling around my shoulders. “She’s with me,” he told the age Nazi.

“Is there a problem, Frank?”

Of course, he
would
know the bouncer and be doing some idiotic knuckle-bumping thing with him, when a simple handshake would do.

“No problem, dude. Just that your girlfriend’s under eighteen and she’s not coming in.”

“I am not his girlfriend,” I said scathingly, which got me another bewildered blue-plate special from Smith. “We’re just . . . like, whatever. And I am eighteen.”

His arm tightened around me and I tried to smile in a mature manner. “Look, she’s eighteen. Take it from me.”

There was one fraught moment of possibility, then Frank the wanker gave a bark of laughter. “Is that what she told you? Yeah, right. Look, go in, but if I see her drinking anything alcoholic, I’m chucking you both out.”

Smith was all big with the thank-yous, like he’d granted us some amazing favor, but I just turned on my heel and stalked inside.

“God, I get that all the time,” I backtracked when Smith caught up with me. “It’s so embarrassing.”

“Yeah, it must be.” He nodded, then paused. “You are eighteen, aren’t you?”

“Oh, don’t you start,” I whined. “I’m eighteen, just drop it. Please . . .”

He held his hands out in front of him. “I’m dropping it.”

“Good.”

We elbowed our way through the crowd, and I didn’t know why they were so high and mighty about who they let in because the place is a total pit. All low ceilings and sticky walls that left this black gunk clinging to you. The air was thick with this damp fug and everything smelled hot and smoky, like there was a weird chemical being pumped into the atmosphere—it made me tense and excited at the same time. I could feel something slowly unfurling at the base of my spine and floating its tendrils through my body so that when Smith took my hand and tugged me toward a group of people sitting in the last booth along the back wall, my fingers tingled again.