A flicker of annoyance passes across Vix’s face. ‘Your mum’s cool, Sky. A bit out there and eccentric, but she’s sweet.’
‘Yeah, I know. Sometimes,’ I say, guiltily. I suddenly see things through Vix’s eyes. Here I am slagging Mum off, but I’m lucky to have her. Vix’s mum is ill a lot. She can’t go out much or take Vix anywhere. Vix has to do a lot of the work around her house too. It’s probably why she’s more serious and grown up than me or Rosie.
‘Anyway,’ says Rosie. ‘You won’t know what he’s like until you meet him. So where do we start?’
‘The internet,’ I say. ‘Where else?’
All three of us crowd around my PC. I have butterflies. Maybe, in just a few clicks, I’ll be able to track down my dad. I wonder why I’ve never thought to look him up before. It’s such an obvious thing to do.
‘Do you think he might be on Facebook?’ says Vix.
‘God, I hope not. He’s way too old,’ I say. Mum has been threatening to join up for months, not because she wants to spy on me, like most mums would, but because she likes my friends and wants to keep in touch with them. I’ve told her that if she does join I won’t let her friend me. ‘Worth a try though . . .’
‘What’s his name then?’ Rosie already has her hands poised above the keyboard.
‘Connor Carter.’
‘Cool name,’ says Vix.
‘Yeah, way better than Smith.’
‘Or Buttery,’ says Rosie, although, secretly, I think she likes her weird name. ‘OK . . . C-O-N-N-O-R C-A-R-T-E-R . . . Is that right?’
I nod and she presses return.
‘God, Sky, there are hundreds of them! It must be a really popular name.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘I guess we’d better trawl through them all then. Shouldn’t take too long; with the ones that have pictures it should be obvious.’
It’s a dead end. Even though half the men on Facebook seem to be called Connor Carter, not one of them could be my father. I guess that would have been too easy. He doesn’t have a MySpace page either, or appear to belong to any social networking sites. That’s what comes of being old, I suppose.
‘What next?’ says Rosie. ‘Shall we just Google him?’
I frown. ‘I guess. God, it would have been so much easier if my mum would help. She must know the names of the bands he was in. Try, Connor Carter, music or something. Or Connor Carter, musician.’
‘OK,’ says Rosie. ‘Here goes . . .’ She presses return and, in an instant, there’s a long list of suggested links which may, or may not, feature my dad. We scroll down the pages, working our way through them, ignoring the ones which definitely aren’t him (about college kids in America, for example) and clicking on the ones that just might be. It’s a frustrating process: Dad seems to have left as little trace on the internet as he has in my life.
I’m almost ready to admit defeat when we find something.
‘Look!’ says Vix. ‘Is that him?’ She points her finger at a link about some gig, somewhere, which lists one Connor Carter among the musicians playing.
‘Go on! Click on it!’
The band – featuring Connor Carter on violin – was called The Four Horsemen. The gig was at a venue in South London. It was five years ago.
‘It’s something, I suppose,’ says Vix. ‘Let’s bookmark it.’
‘OK.’ I feel flat. This is going to be harder than I imagined. ‘Is there anything else?’
Our search reveals a few more Four Horsemen gigs, with no photos and no further details. And then, about three years ago, the trail dries up. ‘The Four Horseman must have split,’ I say. ‘Oh well, it was worth a shot.’
Vix puts her arm on my shoulder. ‘Never mind, hon. There must be another way.’
Rosie looks thoughtful. Then she practically leaps into the air. ‘I know!’ she says, sounding extremely pleased with herself. ‘I’ve got an ace idea. Why don’t we go to Dot’s Music Shop and ask there? It’s just up the road, on St Pancras Way. Rufus Justice told me about it! It’s where all the musicians in Camden get their guitar strings and their music and stuff. It’s been there for years. If your dad ever lived and played in Camden, they’re bound to know about him!’
‘That’s a great idea!’ I say, excited again. ‘Let’s check it out on Saturday.’
ich and I are in Strada, an Italian restaurant on Parkway. It’s not the most romantic place in the world (all the tables are close together), but the food is tasty and at least it’s a proper restaurant. Rich has never taken me to a proper restaurant before, only to KFC or to Burger King. I have a sneaking suspicion that tonight might have been his mum’s idea, but I’m not going to ask because I’d rather not know. Sometimes, I get the feeling Rich’s mum likes me more than he does.
Rich didn’t remember that our anniversary was coming up – I had to tell him – but Rosie says boys never do remember that kind of detail so, for once, I shouldn’t hold it against him. And, although six months is ages, it’s not strictly an anniversary, just a half one, so he might not have realised its significance. It doesn’t matter now; he agreed to go out for dinner to celebrate and even said he’d pay. I think he’s trying to make things better between us.
I check my watch. Nine p.m. Six months ago, at precisely this time, we were at Jessica Carrington’s fourteenth birthday party, snogging each other’s faces off, and I had never felt so happy. I wonder if I should mention it? Jog Rich’s memory? Maybe it would make the atmosphere between us more romantic. I glance at him; he has chocolate sauce stuck in the crevices at the corners of his mouth. I think better of it. Tonight things are . . . different. But at least we’re out together, just the two of us, without his mates.
It’s been an OK evening, I guess. We’ve talked a bit, although not about anything important, like how my hunt for Dad is going. He hasn’t asked. We’ve eaten garlic bread and pizza and now Rich is working his way through a chocolate pudding, while I sip mint tea. ‘So,’ he’s saying, ‘we’re playing them next week and if I score then I might be captain. Cool, eh?’
‘Yeah . . . sure . . . That’s great . . .’
He’s rambling on about how he’s better playing on the left side, and I have no idea what he’s talking about. I can’t concentrate. A woman has just walked into the restaurant and sat down at the table opposite. All I can do is stare at her profile. I’m transfixed. She has the most enormous, hooked nose that I’ve ever seen. It’s quite astonishingly big. Wow! I can’t take my eyes off it. I really don’t understand how she can dare to go out in public with a nose like that. Unless . . . I look to her side. No, there’s no sign of a white stick or a guide dog. She must know what’s protruding from the middle of her face. But she seems oblivious to it, smiling and chatting with her friend, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. She has made-up eyes and glossy hair, and she’s wearing a lovely tan leather jacket and silk scarf, so she clearly cares about her appearance. So why hasn’t she got rid of that nose? She must be at least thirty. Doesn’t she mind it? Has she just got used to it?
‘Rich . . .’ I begin, cautiously. He’s already told me he’s fed up with me going on about my nose and I’ve managed to avoid the subject all night, so far. But now I can’t help myself. ‘Is my nose as big as hers?’ I nod towards the woman, as subtly as I can.
‘Sorry? What?’
I lower my voice, to make sure she can’t hear me. ‘I asked you if my nose is as big as that woman’s. Her, over there, with the blond hair.’
‘Eh?’ He sighs. ‘I was talking about the match. I knew you weren’t listening.’
‘I was listening, honestly. I just got distracted, sorry. So is it?’
‘What?’
‘As big? Or bigger even? Just tell me quickly.’
He sighs again and, a bit too obviously, cranes his neck so he can see the woman. Then he tuts. ‘Don’t be stupid, Sky. Your nose is nothing like hers. No way. Don’t start on about your nose again.’
‘Really? Did you look properly? Are you sa
ying mine isn’t that big?’
‘Course not.’
I feel reassured for a second, but then I start to doubt him. ‘Hmm. I bet people tell her that too, all the time.’
He shrugs. ‘Yeah, well she looks like she isn’t bothered about her nose. So nor should you be. Anyway, as I was saying, if I play down the left I reckon I should be a dead cert to score next week . . .’
Maybe she’s not bothered about her nose because she’s clocked me and she knows that hers isn’t as big as mine. Do people stare at my profile in restaurants and pity me too? Oh my God, is that what she’s talking with her friend about? Is that why she’s smiling and laughing? Is she wondering how Rich could possibly fancy me? I scan the room for noses. It’s amazing how many shapes and sizes they come in, from wide, squishy ones, to long ones with square nostrils, to baby ones that are so cute and perfectly defined that they look like they’ve been stolen from dolls’ heads. Is mine the biggest in the whole room? In the whole of Camden? In the whole of Britain?
‘What about hers?’ I gesture towards another woman, who has a slightly beaky nose.
Rich barely glances at her. ‘Jeez, Sky, this is really boring now. No, your nose isn’t like hers. You’ve got a different shaped face.’
‘Different . . . God, that’s just a diplomatic way of saying my nose is as big as hers, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s just completely different.’
‘Different in a . . . bigger way?’
He looks really annoyed now. To tell the truth, I’m starting to annoy myself. ‘I can’t win, can I?’ he says. ‘If I tell you your nose isn’t as big, you think that I’m lying. But if I say it’s the same size or bigger, you’ll hate me and get even more paranoid and fixated. Please stop asking me.’
We sit in silence for a minute, staring sulkily at each other over the candle. At least I know the answer now: my nose is just as big as the other woman’s. And I can’t trust Rich to give me a straight answer.
‘Last question, I promise,’ I say, hesitantly. I really can’t stop until I know the answer. ‘Then I’ll shut up about it . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘Would you fancy me more if I had a smaller nose?’
Rich rolls his eyes. ‘Sky, I never even noticed your nose until you started going on and on about it when you got home from Goa. I’ve always thought you were really pretty. But talking about your nose all the time, acting paranoid and insecure like you are, is a total turn-off. I’ve had enough now. It’s dead boring. It’s making you dead boring. So, if you really hate your nose that much, then why don’t you stop moaning about it and do something – like get it fixed – instead?’
It couldn’t hurt more if he’d punched me right on the nose. ‘Fine!’ I spit, no longer caring if anyone can hear me. I feel upset and angry but, most of all, I feel vindicated. Rich wouldn’t have told me to do something about my nose if he didn’t think I needed to, would he? As soon as I get home I’m going to start looking into plastic surgery. ‘Do you know what?’ I say. I make it sound like a threat. ‘Maybe I will.’
set my alarm early on Saturday morning, even though I’ve barely slept. Today is an important day and my usual weekend lie-in can wait until tomorrow. Later, I’m meeting Rosie and Vix to go to Dot’s Music Shop. But first, I have something else to do, something that can’t wait.
My doctor’s surgery is in a swanky, modern health centre just off Kentish Town Road, about ten minutes’ walk from my flat. I’ve never been here alone before, and I feel nervous as I walk through the sliding doors. I don’t like doctors’ surgeries; they’re full of sick people. Not that I’ve been here more than a handful of times. Mum prefers to take us to the homeopathic doctor, or the Chinese medicine place on Camden High Street. She says modern drugs are full of toxins and make you sicker than you were to start with.
I march up to the reception desk, trying to look both confident and wan at the same time. Which isn’t easy, especially with the amount of bronzer I’ve applied to my nose to shade it. The receptionist is staring at a computer screen and barely glances at me. ‘Can I see a doctor please? Now?’ I ask.
‘Do you have an appointment? Saturday mornings are by appointment only.’
‘No. Erm... The thing is, I couldn’t call from home and I don’t have any credit on my phone.’
‘What’s the problem? Is it an emergency?’
‘I’d rather not say. Yes, it’s sort of an emergency.’ After I came home from the restaurant last night, I did lots of reading on the internet and, while I know they probably can’t give me a nose job here and now, in my local GP’s surgery, I also know that the sooner I get this started, the better.
‘Name?’ she barks. ‘Address? Date of birth?’
‘Er . . .’ I’m flustered. ‘Sky Smith. Er, 2B Verlaine Court, Paradise Avenue. Fourteenth of January. Er, I’m fourteen. Nearly fifteen.’
‘Right. I’ve found your notes. OK. You can see Dr Buttery. There’s a couple of people ahead of you.’
‘Oh,’ I say, disappointed. I really don’t want to see Rosie’s mum. ‘Can’t I see someone else?’
‘Nah, sorry. She’s the only doctor on duty today. Like I said, it’s appointment only. I can make you an appointment with your own GP for another day – say, next Wednesday?’
‘No . . . I’ve got school . . . I can’t wait till then.’
‘Then I’m afraid it’s Dr Buttery, or nothing.’
I nod. ‘OK, I guess.’ Maybe I should just go home and come back another time. Then again, doctors aren’t allowed to judge you, or tell your mum stuff, are they? I don’t want to take the risk, but I can’t face delaying this either. ‘OK, I’ll see her.’
‘Take a seat in the waiting area. We’ll call you when she’s ready.’
I walk to the bench furthest from the other patients, and sit on the edge. There’s a bunch of really old magazines on the table, and I leaf through them, checking out last year’s fashions. Of course, all the models have beautiful, straight noses, just like they do every season. Big, ugly noses are never en vogue (or in Vogue). And it’s not down to airbrushing, whatever Mum says. At the back of one magazine is a directory jam-packed with adverts for plastic surgery clinics. I had no idea there were so many. When I’m sure nobody’s looking, I tear the pages out of the magazine and stuff them into my pocket. Waiting is making me feel agitated. I want to get this over with.
‘Sky Smith . . . Sky Smith . . .’ There’s my name over the tannoy. I feel a pang of nerves and stand up. ‘Please go to room 3B.’
I walk through the waiting area, aware that everyone is watching me, wondering what I’m here for. Some of them must be seeing me in profile. I cringe, and bend my head forward. I’m starting to regret chopping my long hair off now. Having a fringe is the worst thing you can do when you’ve got a big nose. Why didn’t the hairdresser warn me?
1B . . . 2B . . . 3B . . . I take a deep breath and rap on the door. A few seconds pass and then I hear Dr Buttery say, ‘Come in,’ in exactly the same tone she uses when I go round to her house to see Rosie. I peer my head around, then walk in slowly.
She seems surprised to see me. ‘Ah, Sky. I didn’t know you were coming. So what can I do for you?’
I would have thought that was obvious; can’t she tell just by looking at me? Can’t everyone tell?
‘Um, you know, it’s kind of embarrassing. I need . . . I’m not sure where to start. I need help with something. I’ve got to do something about it now . . . I can’t wait any longer.’
She beckons me to sit down and take off my jacket. ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed, Sky, I’m a doctor. Anything you say in here won’t go any further.’
‘I know . . . it’s just . . . you’re Rosie’s mum.’
‘Not at work, I’m not. Here, I’m just Dr Buttery. Right. Good. Well, first of all, Sky, you are under sixteen. I am allowed to see you alone, but I’d rather your mother were here.’
‘Oh no, she wouldn’t come. She doesn’t approve.’
�
��Have you spoken to her about this?’
‘Yes, and she told me not to be so stupid and to forget about it. She said I’m way too young and that if I still want to do it when I’m older, then I can think about it then.’
Dr Buttery frowns. My mum and Rosie’s mum aren’t exactly friends. They’re total opposites. Rosie’s mum is the most sensible woman on the planet and she doesn’t have any time for my mum’s chanting and alternative medicine and herbal remedies. They had an argument once, when Mum said she didn’t want me to get a vaccine at school because she was worried about the side effects. Rosie’s mum said she was being irresponsible. I have a suspicion that Rosie’s mum thinks my mum isn’t a very good mother.
‘That attitude won’t help anyone,’ she says, ‘because you’ll just go ahead and do it anyway, won’t you?’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘I knew a doctor would understand.’
‘OK, well, I’m happy to discuss it with you, as you’re being so sensible. But you are only fourteen. Too young, really.’
‘I know, but it’s been bothering me for ages. I have to do something about it. Promise you won’t tell her?’
‘No, legally I don’t have to. But I’d rather you did.’
‘OK, I promise,’ I say, crossing my fingers to guard against the nose-expanding effects of my lie.
‘Right, so let’s discuss your options. I’d hate for you to get into trouble. I know you have a serious, long-term boyfriend.’
What’s Rich got to do with this? ‘Yes, I do . . . But we’re sort of on the rocks . . . We’ve been arguing a lot. I think it’s partly because of my, er, problem.’
‘Sky, you should never, ever do anything just to keep a boy. It has to be your decision.’
‘Oh, it is. It’s totally my choice.’
Stuck on Me Page 5
