Though it took me quite a while to hear it, ’cause even after I’d got Tash’s text and Alice B. Lovely said we’d have to make a move, Mrs Kosma had seemed determined to find ways to keep us all trapped in her living room. As we were gathering up our stuff (jackets and school bags and pet carriers) she was still trying to show us her wedding photos; the cosy cardies she’d knitted for her grandchildren in scorching Cyprus; the tiny sweet Greek pastries she loves (“Would the bird like to try a little baklava?”).
But as soon as we escaped up to our flat, I left Alice B. Lovely to register with the online supermarket site, and Stan to play with Buddy, and shot into my bedroom.
Hunched on my duvet, I took a deep breath and called her.
“Tash, it’s me,” I said nervously, as soon as she answered her phone. “I got your text. Thanks.”
“That’s OK,” Tash answered, sounding a little nervous herself.
(Weird. She seemed to be panting and snuffling.)
“Are you all right?” I asked, slightly freaked out.
“WOOF!”
“Sorry, Edie – down, Max! Down! Oh, don’t lick my face right after you’ve eaten your tea! Yeuch!! Hold on … I’m going to put him outside my room.”
There was more panting, some clunking, footsteps and a muffled “Ha-wooOOoo!”
I was pretty glad of the dumb dogness going on, to tell you the truth – it burst the balloon of awkwardness I think we both felt.
“Hi, I’m back!”
“Good. Great. Um…” I hadn’t been sure what to say next.
Luckily, Tash had been thinking of quite a lot to say, so I mostly just listened.
Which was the painful bit.
“You were really angry with me today, weren’t you?” she began.
“Well, yeah.”
“Did you think I was siding with Dionne and her friends?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I thought so, but I wasn’t, y’know. Just ’cause I didn’t side with you, doesn’t mean I sided with them.”
I frowned at the walls of my fearsomely yellow room, struggling to make sense of what she was saying.
“It’s just that I got so mad at you, the way you always want to argue.”
Me? I thought in shock. But I hated people who argued! It was number one in my “Things I Hate” Top Ten!
Wait a minute. She was talking about me never backing down, wasn’t she? But hey, just ’cause I don’t like to back down, it doesn’t mean I’m actually arguing with someone. Right?
(Though, uh, I guess it could come across that way.)
“And you’re always winding people up. It wasn’t just Dionne and her mates yesterday. You do it to everyone. Even the teachers, sometimes. You’ve done it with every nanny as well. I mean, yeah, now and then the wind-ups can be a little bit funny –”
The time Wendi (nanny number whatever) fell for my ‘“hundred per cent true fact” about how keeping your mobile wrapped in cling film reduced the risk of radiation was pretty funny. It took about five phone calls with her shouting, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!! CAN YOU SPEAK UP?” for the truth to dawn.
“– but most of the time it just comes across as mean!”
Mean?
Me?
It was the most hurtful word that anyone could say to me, especially my best friend.
I couldn’t speak for a second. Not because I was confused or shocked this time, but because the tears were rolling down my cheeks and I worried that if I tried to say anything in my defence, it would come out as hiccupped sobs.
“Edie?” Tash muttered my name.
I heard her, but my watery eyes were fixed on the bedroom door, which had opened ever so slightly.
A tiny head was peering round it.
No, it wasn’t Stan, it was somebody, something, much smaller.
“Hello!” squawked Buddy, hopping through the gap and looking at me quizzically.
“Edie?” Tash repeated, as Buddy flap-flapped on to my knee and stared his beady eyes into mine, all the time tilting and dipping his head.
I stroked the smooth, shiny black feathers of his neck and back and felt instantly soothed. Enough not to choke on my tears if I talked.
“But I’m not mean like Dionne and her mates!” I tried to defend myself. “Don’t you remember that time when we started school? How they walked past us when somebody was asking what the ‘P’ stood for in my name? And one of them said ‘Pathetic.’”
“Edie!” Tash said in surprise. “I can’t believe you’re still going on about that! I told you at the time, they heard someone say ‘What does ‘P’ stand for?’ and just made some stupid throwaway comment. They didn’t know anyone was talking about your name.”
“But…” I began, trying to think of a reply. Buddy nuzzled my fingers to carry on with their stroking.
“And face it, you’ve said and done a whole bunch of meaner things, Edie Henderson! What about the time you booed that Year-Seven boy when he parped all the wrong notes on his trumpet during assembly?”
But wasn’t that just funny? Everyone had laughed.
“Or the time you told that poor student teacher Miss Kaye that she looked just like a model with her new haircut?”
Gulp. She’d looked more like horse with her new haircut, as everyone but poor Miss Kaye knew.
“Or last week, when you were so sarcastic to that author?”
Yeah, maybe.
“Or the way you’ve tricked and tortured every single nanny you’ve ever had?”
Guilty.
“And the dirty looks you’re always shooting at Dionne, Cara and Holly … no wonder they’re really wary of you!”
I froze then.
Did I really do that? But didn’t they sneer at Alice B. Lovely and how she dressed? Though I suppose they didn’t know I’d overheard. And I hadn’t said very nice things about Alice B. Lovely’s style to Tash. Never mind slagging off Dionne and co’s alien lobster claws.
Suddenly, as sure as Buddy was a magpie, I knew I was a mean girl.
I was mean and sarcastic and spiky.
Had I always been mean and sarcastic and spiky, or had it just crept up on me?
It had become worse, I guess, as the arguing and the dark silences had happened at home. It’s hard to be glittery inside when your life feels rough as sandpaper.
But was I stuck this way for ever?
Was I Edith P-for-Pathetic Henderson after all?
Miserably, I let the phone drop on to the duvet, half-heartedly pressing the speaker button on the way.
“Edie?” Tash’s voice blasted out urgently as she listened to my silence. “Please … I’m not saying this to hurt you. I just – I just needed you to think about how you’re coming across to people. I hate it when you’re like that ’cause I know you’re not deep down.”
Actually, I’d been stuck in gloomsville for so long, I wasn’t sure I knew what I was like deep down.
“Smile, sweetie! Smile!” squawked Buddy, breaking my mood.
“Ppfft!” I snorted out loud.
“Edie? What was that? Was that the magpie talking? Can you get him to do it again?”
“I don’t know!” I laughed, as Buddy hopped and danced, delighted to see my reaction, I think.
“WOOF!”
“Oh, no … Max has just shoved his way back in. Hold o—”
“WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!!” came Max’s bark, loud and insistent.
“WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!” squawked Buddy.
Tears suddenly spilled down my cheeks, but not ’cause I was sad.
And I couldn’t speak, but not ’cause I was angry, or hurt.
Alice B. Lovely and Stan, hearing the laughing (from me, and from Tash at the other end of the phone) and the woofing (a symphony of dog and bird) had come peeking in my room, to see w
hat was going on.
We had a four-way, two-pet conversation after that, with Alice B. Lovely and Stan clambering on to the bed with me and Buddy, and all of us raiding the EMRGIZEE CHOCLIT supply.
And as we hung out there together, I realized that the pain of the truth was just part of my happiness blip.
The blip was over, and it was time to shake off the brittle shell I’d built around me. Time to show off my soft centre, as gooey and mushy as the chunk of caramel bar that I went on to find cached under my pillow in the morning.
(Who knew that soft centre was there? Alice B. Lovely, probably…)
“Edie! Why are you down there?” says Stan now, appearing at the doorway of the balcony.
“Hiding from someone who’s not a duck,” I tell him, grinning. “And what are you doing with a half a tree?”
Stan is holding a very large branch that is taller than him in his arms. Last I knew, he and Alice B. Lovely had gone out for a little walk, and it seems they’ve brought back a souvenir.
“We’re making a perch for Buddy, for when he comes here to Dad’s,” he explains.
And last I knew of Buddy, he was in the bathroom, happily washing and preening in the inch of cold bathwater Stan had run for him.
“Where’s the perch going?” asks Tash.
“Beside my bed. We’re going to fasten it from the edge of the top bunk to the curtain rail.”
“Stan, that’s my bed you’re talking about!” I pointed out. “I’m in the top bunk.” (Sadly.)
“You don’t mind swapping, do you, Edie?” says Alice B. Lovely, stepping out on to the balcony holding an iron and some thick fabric.
No, I do not mind swapping. After standing at the top of the world (or at least the multi-storey block on the other side of the park) I’m not scared of heights any more. But I’d be glad to have the bottom bunk, since there’s more room, and less chance of me walloping my forehead against the ceiling on a twice-weekly basis.
“Nope, that’s fine!” I say with a shrug. “Hey, listen, are you planning on trying to iron the branch to the curtain rail? ’Cause I’m no perch expert, but I’m not sure that’s going to work.”
Yeah, I realize that’s still a little sarcastic, I know, but I figure if I go gently, with a smile on my face, then that’s all right.
“I just found this material at home, and some tape that sticks fabric together with heat,” explains Alice B. Lovely. “I’m going to attach it to the curtains in your room, since they’re pretty thin. They must let in so much light. I don’t know how you guys sleep!”
A lot better since you came along, I think, looking up at my fairy godmother, who just happens to be a sixteen-year-old beautiful freak with violet eyes and peacock-coloured lashes (today).
Tick-tock, tick-tock goes my happiness clock.
(It doesn’t get better than this.)
“Oh, by the way, Edie,” says Alice B. Lovely, spotlighting me in her gaze. “You know the gum art show that’s happening at the art gallery this weekend?”
“Your aunt’s show? Yeah, of course,” I say.
“Uh, yes. My aunt’s,” she says, nearly dropping the heavy iron there, as she swaps hands. “Well, I’ve got two tickets for the preview evening, tomorrow. Do you want to come with me?”
(Wow, it does get better!)
“Yes, yes, of course!” I babble. “What time? Is it a sort of party? What do I wear? Do you have to dress up or—”
“DAAAAAAD!” yells Stan, hearing the lock turn in the door from his vantage point.
“Hi, Stan my man!” I hear Dad holler back, as I scrabble to my feet. “Look who I found downstairs!”
Mildly curious, we’re all in the kitchen now, me, Alice B. Lovely, Tash, Stan and his giant branch.
“Oh!” laughs Mum, stepping into the room, followed by Dad. “I wasn’t expecting such a welcoming committee!”
“Mum!” sighs Stan, throwing himself and his branch into a happy hug with her.
She’s wearing her usual navy jacket, but with a big silver rose pinned on the lapel, and she’s matched it up with her jeans. She looks like a smart version of her laid-back old self, instead of a stiff stranger in a suit.
“What are you doing here, Mum?” I ask, scratching my head with confusion. (And very possibly nits.)
“Well, I just had to come and thank you very, very much for the lovely surprise I had when I arrived home tonight!”
The shopping delivery. I’d completely forgotten about it.
“I know you had a bit of help from Alice and Mrs Kosma, but … well, thank you, my darlings.”
Mum holds out an arm, so I can join the group hug alongside Stan and the branch.
“Don’t we have lovely children?” says Mum, turning to smile at Dad.
“Yep, we certainly do!” Dad smiles back, leaning comfortably against the door frame.
My parents.
The soon-to-be-divorced Mr and Mrs Henderson have just smiled at each other.
It really doesn’t get better than this.
And I know who’s behind this minor miracle.
Alice B. Lovely, I might just love you…
There were three steps leading up to the art gallery entrance.
Tap, tip, tap!!
My best black ballet pumps followed in the footsteps of Alice B. Lovely’s antique gold shoes.
A smallish queue of people are ahead of us, waiting to file into the exhibition.
“Good evening, sir. Straight on through, please.”
“Good evening, madam. Here for the preview?”
“Good –”
The man taking tickets in the foyer must have seen plenty of strange and unusual sights here in the art gallery.
They’re just usually on the walls, I suppose, not standing right in front of him.
“– evening, girls,” he manages to say with the merest of surprised pauses, then immediately regains his composure. “The show is in the main hall, and the cloakroom is on the left.”
No wonder he lost his professional cool just there; Alice B. Lovely has really outdone herself tonight.
After taking care of me (nit shampoo, intensive conditioner, tangles slowly-and-sometimes-painfully untangled, faint hint of glitter on my cheekbones) she’d disappeared into the bathroom looking like her usual crazily retro self and returned as a swan.
A staggeringly gorgeous vintage swan princess.
“Whoooahhh!” Stan gasped, holding up Arthur for a better look. (Arthur was lonely tonight … Alice B. Lovely left Buddy at home, since we were going out.)
“Do you like it?” Alice B. Lovely asked sweetly. Twinkling diamanté stickers – same as the ones on her library Post-it note – winged out gracefully from the outer corners of her eyes.
“You look astounding, Alice!” Mum said, as she plonked her big work bag on the sofa beside me. “Where did you get that dress?”
“It’s an old petticoat, actually,” says Alice B. Lovely. “Victorian, I think. It’s just something I found in a jumble sale. That’s where I get most of my clothes.”
The petticoat hung like a sleeveless white shift dress, with a delicate piece of lace edging the bottom of it. Her tights were white with silvery sparkles, mismatched with her old favourite gold shoes. Over her shoulders was draped a white, silky fringed shawl, hanging as straight and shimmering as her long fair hair.
But it was her eyes, her Snow-Queen eyes, that you couldn’t stop looking at.
“It’s like they’re covered in ice!” Stan had said, breathless with wonder, as he came for a closer look at her frost-tipped white lashes.
“They go beautifully with your contact lenses!” said Mum admiringly.
Alice B. Lovely was gazing at us all today with the palest-of-pale blue eyes, the piercing colour of a husky’s.
“You have quite a c
ollection of eye fashion, don’t you?” Mum smiled. “Are they very expensive to buy?”
“Not really; I order them over the internet. There are lots of sites that sell them,” Alice B. Lovely answered, hugging a mesmerized Stan to her. “I just save up my evening babysitting money – and now what I earn from this job – to pay for them.”
“How do you fix them on?” asked Stan.
“Glue. Well, just for the eyelashes, not the contacts,” she explained, with one of her harp-in-the-room gentle laughs.
It was funny, even though she’d happily revealed the secrets of her fairy-tale look, it still didn’t take away from the fact that she was like something out of a storybook.
And here I was with her at the art gallery now, in my skinny grey jeans, matching top and cardie and Gap hoodie. It was as if I was a mouseling that had been transformed into Cinderella’s human servant on the night of the ball.
“What’s a cloakroom again?” I check with Alice B. Lovely, recalling what the guy on the door had just said.
“Where you can leave your coats and bags,” she says, as she glides along the wide shiny corridor.
“So is that what we should do?” I check, wriggling out of my fleecy hoodie.
Alice B. Lovely almost trips up in mid-glide.
“Uh, no … you don’t have to put your stuff in there,” she says, sounding distracted, as if something has ruffled her swan feathers.
Right. I guess she is only wearing the shawl and carrying the tiniest old lady pearly handbag in the crook of her arm.
My hoodie feels pretty hot in here, actually, but I can just carry it. (Yes, I admit I’m too shy to go to the cloakroom on my own.)
“Are you OK?” I check with her.
Alice B. Lovely is tip-tapping along towards the main exhibition room again, but seems to be blinking her frost-framed eyes an awful lot.
“Yes, I’m good. It’s going to be amazing, seeing this show before anyone else, isn’t it?”
“Definitely,” I nod.
For a second I think about asking her how she got the tickets, but by now I assume she can do just about anything. She has almost magical powers.
Powers that make cross parents happy; sad boys glad; gloomy girls laugh; locked doors open to the sky.
Life According To...Alice B. Lovely Page 12
