The Manifesto on How to be Interesting

by Holly Bourne

Bree squeezed his hand back. Hard. Then dropped it to go discover the treasure.

  It was like a literary equivalent of pornography. Everything she saw made her happy. There were original printed works of Shakespeare, an important ancient document called the Magna Carta, which she pretended to know about to impress Logan, and handwritten song lyrics penned by John Lennon himself. She spent an age in front of each exhibit, her breath steaming up the glass as she lost herself in the history. She imagined all the different people who’d held these artefacts before, what their lives were like, what had been happening to them.

  Logan trailed after her, smiling. “You enjoying yourself?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Loads.”

  “I’ve saved the best till last.” He held out his hand. She took it tentatively and he guided her past more exhibits before stopping in front of a central glass case. “It’s Jane Austen’s writing desk,” he said, stepping back to give her a better look. “And her teenage diary as well.”

  He may as well have said: Here is everything. I am perfect for you.

  “No way.” Bree pressed her entire face against the glass. “How did they even get this?”

  “Family donation.”

  “You mean Jane Austen has descendants that breathe the very same air as us?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so…but she never had kids obviously, so I wonder how it passed down the line. Maybe it was…”

  Bree had stopped listening. She and the desk were having a moment. She smushed her forehead against the glass to get as close as possible.

  Jane Austen wrote at this very desk.

  Jane Austen.

  Bree’s ultimate idol in the universe.

  She took in the dark wood, the little nooks and crannies where Jane may have stored ink, or parchment, or whatever she used back then. Her very own skilled fingers had touched it. If there wasn’t glass separating them, Bree could have touched the very same spots.

  The diary was displayed next to the desk, sprawled open at a random page. Her handwriting. Jane Austen’s actual handwriting was there – right in front of her. Bree closed her eyes briefly and imagined how that page had once been blank. How it had been just moseying about in the nineteenth century waiting to be doodled on, or ripped out for someone to jot down a phone number…not that they had phone numbers in those days. Yet, one day, Jane Austen had sat down and filled that page with her thoughts and feelings, and history was made. Neither Jane nor the page had known that – in a couple of hundreds of years’ time – Bree would be looking at that very entry. She thought of her own faithful laptop computer. Would some mixed-up girl, someday, hundreds of years in the future, smush their face into a museum exhibit to look at Bree’s stuff? She could only wish.

  She sighed and Logan looked at her.

  “You okay? I think I lost you for a moment there.”

  “I’m so okay. God, though, it was so much more romantic back then, wasn’t it?”

  He looked confused. “What? Falling in love? I don’t think Jane had a very romantic life.”

  Bree shook her head. “No. Not falling in love. Writing. Writing’s much more romantic when it’s pen and ink and paper. It’s…” She searched for the word. “More timeless. And worthwhile.” She gestured towards the desk. “Think about it. There are so many words gushing out into the universe these days. All digitally. All in Comic Sans or Times New Roman. Silly websites. Stupid news stories digitally uploaded to a 24-hour-channel. Where’s all this writing going? Who’s keeping a note of it all? Who’s in charge of deciding what’s worthwhile and what isn’t? But back then…” She closed her eyes again and pictured her idea of the olden days, which, funnily enough, looked a lot like the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice. “Back then, if someone wanted to write something they had to buy paper. Buy it! And ink. And a pen. And they couldn’t waste too many sheets cos it was expensive. So when people wrote, they wrote because it was worthwhile…not just because they had some half-baked idea and they wanted to pointlessly prove their existence by sharing it on some bloody social networking site.”

  She stopped herself and was about to get embarrassed and defensive when she caught how Logan was looking at her.

  He was really looking at her.

  His face was transfixed, like she was some kind of magical ranting fairy who’d bewitched him with her whingeing. His smile was lazy. All his hair had fallen into his eyes and he’d not bothered to scrape it back. She felt naked.

  “What?” she said, all self-conscious.

  He still didn’t answer.

  “What is it?”

  He half-shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me,” she insisted.

  He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.

  “It’s just sometimes I forget you’re only seventeen. And, well…” He stared at her again. “I really need to remind myself sometimes before…” He trailed off.

  Her heart warmed up like it’d been shoved into a microwave, and the heat spread down to her stomach. “Before what?”

  Logan took a step towards her boldly, like he’d made a decision.

  “Before I kiss you again.”

  He leaned his head in and Bree moved to meet him, enjoying that sweet anticipatory relief that comes just before a delicious kiss. Every centimetre of her skin tingled.

  But the kiss didn’t arrive.

  She was expecting his warm lips and instead got an angry elbow jolt. She looked behind her.

  “Hey.”

  An angry old lady wielding an overpriced gift shop copy of Sense and Sensibility pushed past and evilled her. “Sorry. I’m just trying to get closer to Jane’s desk,” the woman barked at them, clearly not sorry at all.

  They’d been standing in front of it all this time. Bree shook herself back to reality to see that their romantic encounter had created a disgruntled queue behind them. They both went red. Logan coughed and stepped away.

  “Erm, yeah, sorry, we didn’t mean to hog the exhibit.”

  It was like reality had grown a humongous hand and was tapping Bree on the shoulder with it.

  He was married. He was her teacher. It was wrong. So very wrong.

  Even Jane Austen must have thought so. If she’d agreed with it all, her spirit would’ve no doubt let them snog each other senseless in front of her writing desk. But she obviously didn’t approve if she’d sent a narky OAP in to break things up.

  They stood, both determinedly looking at the carpet, as the line of people trickled past them, taking their own turns with Jane’s desk.

  “So, what next?” Mr Fellows asked, all formal.

  “I’m not sure, sir.” She deliberately emphasized the “sir”, though she wasn’t sure why. “It’s you who planned this trip.”

  He looked at his watch. “Well, er, it’s still quite early, but we can head back home if you like. My…umm…wife won’t be expecting me back until seven though.”

  The word “wife” hit her like a bullet. She supposed it was just that – a verbal bullet. Payback for the “sir”. She couldn’t leave it like this though, not after it had been going so brilliantly. She racked her brain for something to do. Something unkissy. She remembered something.

  “I know somewhere we can go. I don’t think it’s too far away.”

  He looked dubious – somehow their mutual trust had vanished. It felt awful.

  “Really? Where?”

  “It’s free.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there.” Her attempt to make things jokey again instantly face-planted, but she persevered nonetheless. “You’ll like it, honestly.”

  “Alright then.”

  They rode the Tube in more silence. Each stop punctuated the awkwardness, making the situation feel even more screwed up. But Bree hoped that getting away from the scene of the non-kiss might make things normal again. Well, as normal as a teacher and student playing hooky to go stare at some dead woman’s writing desk can be.

  �
�We’re here.” She strode out of the carriage, leaving him to follow. They emerged into weak sunlight shining directly into their eyes – the sort of low winter sun that painted everything gold. Bree already felt better. Mr Fellows looked around him – taking in the tourists, the pigeons, and Nelson’s Column.

  “Trafalgar Square? What are we doing here?”

  She pointed over the heads of about ten thousand tourists photographing the fountain to the grand staircase of the National Gallery.

  “We’re going there.”

  He followed her finger. “The National Gallery?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re into art?”

  “No. Not usually. But probably the only painting I care about in the whole world is in that gallery.”

  And for the first time since the Jane Austen desk incident, he smiled. “Now I’m intrigued.”

  She smiled back. “Well, let’s go in and satisfy your curiosity.”

  They made their way past huddled groups of tourists, not even glancing up at Nelson’s Column as only London-regulars could, and climbed the ornate staircase. The moment they entered the gallery, the hustle and bustle of the city was replaced with whispers. The air was cool. Bree hadn’t been there in years and had forgotten how beautiful the entrance hall was. She crossed the turquoise mosaic floor and stared up at the glass domed ceiling. It was stunning.

  She felt Logan by her side.

  “Whoa, that’s pretty.”

  “It is indeed.”

  “So where’s this favourite painting of yours?”

  “Erm. Straight ahead, maybe?”

  “You don’t know? I thought it was your favourite painting in the world.”

  “I can look at it online whenever I want.”

  He smiled again. “That is so sad.”

  chapter thirty-six

  They got a bit lost. Bree ended up having to ask directions and the gallery guy looked a bit surprised at her request.

  “Erm, that painting?” He scratched his head. “Room Five, I think.”

  She followed the signs and, soon, there it was. In a small red room with nobody else in there. Bree sat down right in front of it and grinned when she saw the look on Logan’s face.

  “This?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s grotesque! What? I’m so confused.”

  “It’s called The Ugly Duchess.”

  “It’s a bloke in a dress.”

  “It’s not a bloke, look, she’s got boobs.”

  Logan wrinkled his nose. “Ergh. I missed those. They’re like shrivelled balloons. It’s horrific.”

  Bree watched all the emotions play out on his face, still smiling, before turning her attention back to the painting. She’d never really “got” art and how people could “get lost” in paintings. She’d often thought people only pretended enthusiasm to make themselves appear more cultured and interesting. But, with this one, she got it. Just staring into the brushstrokes coaxed her mind into a quiet spot it very rarely visited. She examined the duchess’s wrinkled face, her intricate headdress and the small red flower she clutched in her hand like her life depended on it.

  Who were you? Bree thought.

  Logan sat next to her, a bit too close.

  “Okay. So it’s…different…but why is this your favourite painting? It’s not exactly easy on the eye.”

  “That’s what I like about it.”

  “Why?”

  Bree thought back to the day she first saw this painting and all the thoughts she’d had, right on this very bench, all those years ago.

  “How many portraits of pretty blonde women with their perfect boobs out did we walk past to get to this room?”

  “I dunno. Every other painting, I guess.”

  “That’s exactly why I like this one. She’s gross. Horrendous to look at. Her breasts are all deflated, her face is like a nightmare, she makes you recoil. And yet…somebody, somewhere, a long, long time ago, thought this woman was worth the time – the days – needed to paint her picture. To make her place in the world more permanent.”

  “Why?”

  She moved even closer to him on the bench. “That’s precisely why I like it. I don’t know. But she obviously had some story to tell.”

  “You think she was interesting in some way other than the way she looked?”

  She looked at him. “Exactly.”

  They sat there for a while, just looking.

  “Bree?”

  “Yes?”

  “I like that this is your favourite painting…”

  “But…?”

  “But…well, you wouldn’t put it on your bedroom wall, would you?”

  She laughed. “No. I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  “Bree?” His voice sounded a bit nervous.

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you so obsessed with people being interesting?”

  That was a question and a half. She felt herself get ruffled and defensive, her skin itching the way it always did when someone hit a bit too close to her private thoughts. This was Logan though…

  “What do you mean?” She stalled for time.

  “Well, this painting, and all the new things you’re doing at school. Why? Why aren’t you happy just being you?”

  Bree stopped looking at the painting and instead assessed her feet.

  “I want to be a good writer. And you’re the one who said I had to lead a more interesting life.”

  He looked worried. “I think you took what I said too literally, Bree. I never told you to change who you are.”

  “I want to be a writer, more than anything,” she protested. “And you were right, I didn’t have anything to write about. But now I do.”

  His eyebrows furrowed together in concern. “What? What are you writing?”

  She considered telling him about the blog. About the rules. But the words got wedged somewhere inside her before they were even near to her throat. Much as she had fallen for him, this…thing, whatever it was she was doing, it was just for her.

  “Nothing. Just, you know, scribbling in my diary. The normal sort of crap seventeen-year-olds write about.”

  “I’m sure it’s not crap.”

  “What if I told you I was writing The Pier sequel?”

  He spluttered with laughter despite himself.

  “See!”

  “Sorry, Bree. Honestly, I’m sure whatever you’re working on is brilliant.”

  She looked back at The Ugly Duchess. “I dunno. Life is so bloody hard. I don’t want the whole struggle to be pointless. If I’m going to get crap thrown at me from great heights my whole life, well, I want to damn well make sure I leave a mark on this world in exchange for all the misery. I need to be interesting, Logan, I need to be someone. Because…otherwise…I’m just sad and lonely and confused and it’s all for nothing. And she” – she gestured towards the painting – “she might have been a total minger, but she was interesting enough for someone to paint her. And now, here she is, hanging on a wall in the National Gallery. She probably had a horrible, lonely life and has been dead for hundreds of years, but now, technically, she’s immortal.”

  Bree finished her speech with a tight voice. Logan was quiet for a moment, before cautiously putting his arm around her.

  “It gets better, Bree. Life, I mean. You will never be more miserable than you are aged seventeen. Not because life itself gets easier – it’s always going to be hard in some way. But you know yourself better, and you don’t care what people think as much.”

  She shrugged him off, not wanting to get confused again by the will-they-won’t-theyness between them. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. I hated school. I don’t think there are enough adjectives in the English dictionary to describe how awful I felt throughout adolescence. But now…” He tailed off.

  “Now you’re so happy that you’ve pulled a sickie from work and lied to your wife so you can spend the day in London with a teenager?” she finished for him.

 
Well, someone had to say it. Eventually.

  He didn’t stand up to leave, not like she thought he would. He just shook his head a bit.

  “I’m not sure what we’re doing, Bree. But I know that, so far, we’ve not done anything wrong.”

  So far…

  “All I know is that, for some reason, we need to see a bit of each other at the moment. For both of us. I’ve had such a great day.”

  She looked over at him and nuzzled her head into his neck to try and get him to put his arm back round her.

  “Really?”

  He grinned and obliged. “Really.”

  Their intent attention on The Ugly Duchess meant all the silly tourists crowded round them, queuing to get close, and taking pictures on their phones – tricked into thinking it was The Mona Lisa or something. Bree’s elbow got jostled by one enthusiastic American wearing not one but two bumbags.

  “Ouch.”

  Logan manoeuvred her more into him so she was out of the way of the stampede.

  “Have you had enough time with her? Maybe we could grab some food?”

  “That sounds great.”

  And, getting their elbows out ready to fend off sightseers, they barged their way out of the room.

  The next hour was spent stuffing their faces with afternoon tea in a place Logan knew. Bree happily sampled every flavour of teeny tiny sandwich, all the scones, and the two types of clotted cream on offer. Although nothing would ever compare to the joy of a strawberry Pop-Tart.

  They waddled out, feeling pretty sick, into London rush-hour traffic and tried to navigate their way to Victoria station in a sugar-induced haze. The entire city appeared to be heading in the opposite direction from them so it was like swimming upstream in an endless torrent of grey suits and glazed-over eyes. They were banged into and jerked about by seemingly everyone – too busy being busy and important for manners. In the end, Bree turned it into a game, and yelled “I’M THE SALMON, I’M THE SALMON” whenever they accidently stepped into another crowd of incoming walking traffic. Logan took it a step further, adding a fish face and flapping his body about limply, while the swarms of people rushed past, deliberately ignoring their attempts at humour. Exhausted by giggling, fish impressions, and the day in general, they collapsed onto their train and rode home quietly. Bree leaned on his shoulder as she watched the grey buildings whizz past and turn back into meadows and mansions.