by Fiona Gibson
“Sixteen.”
“Does your mum know you smoke?” Damn, why had she asked such a juvenile question? So many aspects of being young involved trying to act older than you really were—being cool and knowing when you were floundering inside. It was hugely stressful.
“Yeah, she gets on at me a bit,” Zoë said, twirling the unlit cigarette between her fingers, “but she’s not really bothered. Doesn’t get that involved. Especially now she’s going out with your dad.”
Hannah cringed inwardly. “Is it…serious, d’you think?”
“Reckon so. It’s all, ‘Max this, Max that.’ God, it’s freezing out here—want to come round to my place?” Zoë swiveled round to face her. She had vibrant blue eyes, plump, glossy lips and a husky voice that hinted at mischief. Her fair hair fell around her face from a messy centre parting.
“Won’t they worry—” Hannah began.
“Mum’ll figure out where we’ve gone. She’ll be cool. You coming or what?” Zoë sprang up from the step. A strip of perfectly flat, tanned tummy appeared between her T-shirt and jeans.
“What, just us?” Hannah asked.
“Why not?”
“I saw you in the kitchen. I thought you were with a friend.”
Zoë rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, her,” she muttered. “Some tedious girl my Mum lined up for me to be friends with. I choose my own friends, okay? Come on, let’s go.”
Hannah had never seen a bedroom like Zoë’s. The walls were cream, the enormous bed shrouded by a fluffy white throw and a neat line of cushions in varying shades of putty and plum. One of the pillows was a sausage shape and looked hard as a rock. Hannah wondered if Zoë used it for sleeping—it would crick her neck, surely?—or if it was just for decoration. “It’s gorgeous,” she said, gazing around her. Zoë smiled but said nothing, as if not wishing to distract her new companion from her appraisal of the décor.
The walls were bare apart from three gold-painted capital letters which spelt “ZOË”. Where had she got an e with the dots, Hannah wondered? Perhaps it been carved especially for her. She did strike Hannah as the sort of girl to whom people gave specially made things. The floorboards were painted off-white, and three shelves housed perfectly aligned CDs. There were no books that Hannah could see. She realized she was trying to breathe in a quiet, tidy manner.
“Is it always as neat as this?” she asked, picturing her own room with clothes strewn all over the floor and drawings pinned haphazardly onto the grubby walls.
“Mum does it,” Zoë said, flopping on to the bed. “She’s a perfectionist. Tidiness freak. Bleaches coffee cups, disinfects the phone, that kind of mental behavior. Sick really. We have a cleaner of course, but she only comes three times a week and lounges about reading Mum’s mags. I’ve caught her.” A smile zapped across Zoë’s face. “Here, sit on the bed, get comfy. You’re making me nervous.”
Hannah perched next to Zoë, wondering what to do next. “I like this color,” she ventured, indicating the walls. “It’s kind of peaceful.”
“Thanks. I chose it—it’s called calico.”
Hannah didn’t know what to say about calico. She focused her gaze on a Cosmo magazine on the floor. It was still wrapped in cellophane with a free polka-dot makeup bag. “Don’t you think they’re crap?” Zoë asked.
“What?”
“Those mags. All these free gifts—just bribes, aren’t they? It’s the same old shit inside—how to be orgasmic, make him die for you. Stuff you’ve read a million times over.”
“Yeah,” agreed Hannah, although she’d only ever managed one hasty flip through Cosmo. Amy’s mum had left a bedraggled copy on the side of the bath, that night of the vodka and orange. Hannah had managed to read roughly one third of an article entitled “The Only Sex Advice You’ll Ever Need,” her eyes skidding over phrases like deep satisfaction and erogenous hotspots before Amy had started banging on the door, saying she was desperate and if Hannah didn’t hurry up she’d have to pee in the garden.
“It’s Mum’s,” Zoë added. “She buys every magazine known to woman—files them in her office. They’re like her gods. ‘Oh, I worship thee at the altar of Cosmopolitan…’” She laughed throatily and unbuckled her sandals, kicking them off the edge of the bed.
Hannah had never met anyone of her age who wore high sandals with jeans. Their straps looked like orange spaghetti. “Where’s her office?” she asked.
“Upstairs. She pretends she’s doing paperwork but really she’s hiding from me and Dylan. Did you meet my weirdo creep little brother yet?”
“No, I—”
“Well, you will. Take no notice of him. Want to try my new body oil?” Zoë bounded off the bed. “It’s grapefruit and lime flower. Meant to awaken your inner temptress or something. Here, roll up your sleeve.”
Zoë snatched a curvaceous glass bottle from the dressing table. Obediently, Hannah pushed up her sleeve. The oil felt expensive as Zoë rubbed it in; almost precious. “Got a boyfriend?” Zoë asked.
“No,” Hannah said, then heard herself adding, “There’s this boy, he’s a bit older than me. Ollie, goes to theater workshop. We’re just friends really—nothing happened for ages—but last time I saw him he kissed me.”
“So, are you going out?”
Hannah glanced down at Cosmo as if it might throw up some kind of answer. “I think I’ve blown it. I was supposed to see him tonight—he’s having a party—but Mum forced me to come here and I don’t have his number or address and I only ever see him at theater—”
“Hey,” Zoë said gently, “things could be worse. If you’d gone to his party you’d never have met me.”
Hannah mustered a smile. “Now he’ll think I’ve stood him up.”
“When d’you see him usually?”
“Mondays after school.”
“Only two days ’til Monday. There are loads of other Mondays, Han. You’ve probably got, um, about eight million more Mondays in your life. It’s good not to make yourself too available.” Put that way, it made perfect sense. Why hadn’t Hannah thought of it like that? He’d be waiting for her, wondering why she hadn’t shown up, which would make him want her even more.
And so the hours passed, with Hannah feeling so right in the calico room with Zoë and her Stila makeup and knack for saying the right thing. She found herself spilling out all the Ollie stuff. She even told Zoë how gutted she’d been when her dad had moved out of the old house, leaving her worry dolls trapped under the floor. She wasn’t even embarrassed when her bag fell off Zoë’s bed and her inhaler rolled out. All Zoë said was, “Better put it back in your bag, ’cause you don’t want to lose that, do you?”
Hannah was opening up to this exotic stranger who wore orange sandals with jeans, and it felt so good.
15
Veronica stood in Max’s bedroom doorway. “Don’t you think it went well?” she asked.
She was naked. Her entire body looked oiled, or possibly varnished. What kind of stuff did she slather all over herself? Max wondered. He shifted position in bed. “It was okay,” he said.
“Only okay?” She sashayed toward him, tugged back the duvet playfully and slithered in beside him. It was roasting in here. Sweat was prickling Max’s entire body; he’d have to adjust the central heating. He hoped she wouldn’t notice how clammy he was. “Well?” Veronica prompted him.
“It’s weird, hosting a party,” Max said, tugging the duvet back up. “You can’t relax when you’re worried about everyone having a good time.”
“Aren’t you silly?” she teased him. “Of course everyone had a good time. They’re not strangers, are they? They’re our friends.”
They lay on their sides, facing each other but not touching. Max glanced up at the ripped paper shade. It was crazy, really. He’d spent thousands on the kitchen—way more than he’d intended, with Veronica helping him to choose units; he had to admit she had impeccable taste. All that expense and effort and he hadn’t got around to replacing a lampshade. He ha
dn’t even intended for this big room to be his bedroom until Veronica had waltzed in and insisted that he couldn’t let it “go to waste,” as she’d put it. “They’re your friends,” he said. “It’s not as if I really know them.”
“Don’t you like meeting new people?” She reached out and whirled a finger across his chest.
“Of course I do. I’d just have liked some of my friends to be there. Andy, Pete, Gary—friends from the shop and my cycling club.”
“I don’t believe in mixing different groups,” Veronica said. “It can be awkward, you know? Throwing people together from different, um, backgrounds.”
“You mean my friends are common?” Max felt irked, although he couldn’t fully pinpoint why.
The chest-whirling stopped. “Of course not. I’m sure they’re absolutely lovely. I’d love to meet them—why don’t we ask them round for a little drinks party sometime?”
“Maybe,” Max said warily. Housewarming parties, drinks parties: these social gatherings weren’t his scene at all. As for that food—the miniature sausage and mash and all that—what was that all about? What had he been thinking, blowing all that money on caterers and their stupid miniature food? What was wrong with crisps, for God’s sake? He’d liked to know what the guys from the club would have made of those mounds of spaghetti.
Yet maybe this was what people expected at parties. Max was out of touch; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to one. He’d certainly never been to a do with Jane and his new girlfriend in the same room. He’d wanted Jane to come, yet when she’d arrived in that lovely purple skirt and those sexy high shoes, he knew he’d made a mistake. He wasn’t used to seeing her dressed up like that. The whole scenario had unnerved him.
“You know it’s important to me,” Veronica murmured, “to network and find an investor. It’s not just my job, Max. It’s my life.”
He nodded and reached out to stroke her hair. “I know it is.” He’d been wrong to dismiss her as a flaky airhead. These past few weeks she’d worked into the night, sourcing suppliers and researching obscure aphrodisiacs. He’d popped round to see her one evening. Zoë had sent him upstairs to her office. There’d been a little jar of reddish powder on her desk; its label had read Yohimbe Bark. “Try it,” Veronica had said, dipping her finger into the jar and offering it for him to lick. He’d felt ludicrous, sucking her finger like that. The powder had tasted like soil.
“Anyway,” Veronica added, “Jane and Hannah were there.”
And I barely spoke to them, Max thought. An image of Jane looking marooned in his living room flashed into his mind. “Perhaps,” he said, “I’m not a party person.”
“I think you are,” she murmured, her hand traveling south now, sending ripples right through him. “You were fantastic, Max. Everyone had fun. I’m sure Simon or Tony will be able to tie down an investor.” She flashed her teeth at him. “That is, if I want them to.”
“What do you mean?”
Her hand hovered between his legs. “I’ve been mulling things over. You’re thinking of opening another shop, aren’t you? Looking at premises and whatnot?”
“Uh-huh…”
“Why not save yourself all the hassle and stress?”
“I don’t follow,” Max said.
“Invest in my range instead. I’ve come up with a name, did I tell you? I’d been thinking Veronica Fox Loving Foods but it hardly trips off the tongue, does it?”
Her fingers fluttered around his groin. “No,” Max croaked.
“So I’ve come up with FoxLove. Capital L in the middle. Don’t you think it’s perfect?”
Max swallowed and nodded.
“You could be part of it,” she continued. “We could be partners—as well as other things of course.” She giggled. “You could invest in me.”
With that, she started kissing his chest, her soft lips traveling down and down until she’d slithered right under the duvet and the only word Max could utter was, “Yes.”
16
Jane was astounded at how seamlessly Zoë had slotted into Hannah’s life. She had never known her to fling herself into a friendship with such abandon; at least not since she’d been scooped up by Amy and Rachel at five years old. The two of them were upstairs in Hannah’s room now, snorting with laughter. Jane was relieved that she’d remembered how to enjoy herself. It was almost like having the old Hannah back.
Three weeks had passed since the party when she’d finally returned from Veronica’s house with startling blue shadow smeared over her lids and smelling distinctly of grapefruit. Jane had been perturbed about the two of them arranging to meet again—it felt too close, too entwined—but had given herself a stern, silent talking to. What did it matter that Zoë happened to be Veronica’s daughter? It was time Jane accepted that she and Max had moved on. Look at his life now: granite worktops, cashmere knitwear, not to mention new girlfriend. These were extremely adult, moving-on things. Being cool about Hannah and Zoë’s friendship would, Jane felt, prove her to be equally grown-up, even if she didn’t own a curvaceous fridge.
Since that night, Zoë had given Hannah several gifts: a bottle of chocolate truffle bath deluxe bath foam, a Bourjois blusher, a packet of powdery leaves to sweep over her face and blot shine. Hannah had started to look very matte. She had also—encouraged, Jane suspected, by Zoë—allowed her plum wash-in color to fade out.
Zoë appeared to be the font of all knowledge in terms of maintaining one’s appearance. “You really should use toe separators,” Jane had heard her announce in the bathroom that morning, in the way that a doctor might retort, “You really must stop smoking.” Jane had stifled a laugh. Of course she was ridiculous—Jane had never met anyone so desperately shallow—but the girl was likeable and charming beyond her years. “Thanks, Jane, that was a delicious lunch,” she’d said that day, when it had been hastily assembled from odds and sods from the fridge.
Zoë had stayed over last night. Jane had become accustomed to her trotting around in her jean-and-sandal ensembles, and those flimsy tops that looked like they’d been constructed from scarves tacked loosely together. She had warmed to the girl, in the way that you might become fond of a friend’s exotic pet that you were looking after while they were on holiday. You might not want one for yourself, but would enjoy its novelty value for a limited period.
“God,” Sally exclaimed. “That girl sounds awful. Completely vacuous and self-obsessed. What the hell does Hannah see in her?”
“Zoë’s just a normal sixteen year-old,” Jane insisted. “It sounds as if her mum’s loaded. I’m sure most girls would blow loads of money on clothes and makeup given the chance.” When the girls had headed out to the shops, Jane met Sally at a new branch of Bella Pizza in the Roman Road. Their pizzas weren’t remotely bella. Jane’s was heaped with fibrous tinned tuna and Sally’s appeared to have been smeared with a thin layer of ketchup.
“Hannah’s not like that,” Sally pointed out.
“I’m not trying to stick up for Zoë and put down Hannah….”
“I know you’re not,” Sally interrupted. “It just sounds unhealthy, the amount of time they’re spending together. It’s almost as if Hannah’s been seduced.”
Jane hacked at her unyielding pizza. “If she didn’t like Zoë she wouldn’t hang out with her. Anyway, as least she’s cheered up. You know, she actually talks to me these days? A few weeks ago she’d hardly look at me. Max was right—it’s been good for her to find a new friend.”
Sally sighed, apparently deciding to change tack. “So it’s still on with Max and that Vanessa?”
“Veronica.”
“Think it’s serious?” Sally asked.
“It’s looking that way.” Jane avoided Sally’s penetrating gaze.
“And what about Hannah’s other friends? She hasn’t ditched them for this bimbo idiot, has she?”
Jane paused. She’d already been accosted by Donna, Amy’s mum, in the Indian grocer’s. “How’s Hannah these days?” she’d asked
tersely. Jane had felt her neck go hot as she’d babbled that Hannah had been terribly busy. She’d realized, as she’d escaped from the shop, that Hannah had subtly let Amy go even before Zoë—a process that had been no more significant than a tree shedding a leaf.
“Girls’ friendships are fickle,” Jane told Sally. “I’ve asked her to call Amy but I can’t keep nagging. She’ll get in touch when she feels like it.”
Sally frowned as she reached for her purse. “And you don’t mind Zoë hanging about at your house?”
“Honestly,” Jane insisted, “she keeps Hannah occupied. She’s really no trouble at all.”
17
Hannah and Zoë stepped out of the chemists and into the bright winter sun. The sky was an impossible blue smudged with flimsy clouds, and their breath came out in pale puffs. Across the street, two men who’d been washing the deli’s windows started waving and whistling. Despite her burning face, Hannah felt a whirl of delight in her stomach. Before she’d met Zoë, men had never acknowledged her presence. They weren’t looking at her, of course—Zoë was the stunning one, the one strangers gawped at—but she was still registering on the periphery.
Hannah strode away from the shop, stopping when Zoë failed to follow her. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get something to drink.”
Zoë smiled. She pulled her hand from her pocket and uncoiled the fingers. “Look,” she said.
“What is it?” Hannah frowned at the golden tube.
“A lipstick, dummy.” Zoë removed its lid. It was an expensive brand: a slick column of candy pink.
“Did you just buy it?”
“No.” Zoë’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I took it.”
“You mean stole it? From in there?”
“Shhh!”
“You shoplifted it?” Hannah glanced anxiously back at the shop. Its windows were crammed with Christmas trees and tinsel; a gaudy, festive mess.
