by Joanna Nadin
I laugh, letting her undress me. “This is my uniform,” I protest.
“I don’t mean that,” she says.
And I know what she’s talking about. Even out of school, I dress to disappear. Shapeless jumpers. Jeans. Faded T-shirts. Until now.
She smiles, pulls the black silk down over my head. Zips it up. Dressing me like a doll. Then her smile drops. “Oh, God, Jude.”
“What?” I’m worried now. Worried that I was wrong. That I can’t pull it off.
But she’s shaking her head. “Look.”
She spins me around to see what she’s done. To see her staggering genius. I look. I’m in this sixties A-line number, hair pulled back, feet pushed into patent heels.
“Why, Miss Polmear,” Stella breathes, “you really are beautiful.” And I laugh. And Stella puts her arms around me. And we look at the reflection in the mirror. At this new person standing there. She is strange and strong and beautiful. And she is me.
The dress costs thirty pounds. Stella lends me the money.
“You can owe me,” she says.
I’m not sure I want to owe Stella anything. But I want the dress. Have to have it. “I’ll pay you back,” I say. And I will. I still have birthday money from Gran left over in my account.
I go to unzip it. But Stella has other ideas. “Keep it on,” she says. “You’ll need it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out.”
“You’ll be fine,” Stella says. “You look old. At least twenty.” But my heart still pounds when we walk into the pub.
“Just look bored,” she instructs. “And hold these. Put them on the bar.” She hands me her Marlboro Reds.
I do as I’m told. I fumble, though, dropping the packet on the floor. Cigarettes roll across the tiles. But the barman doesn’t miss a beat when I ask for a vodka and tonic. A thrill surges through me. I’m drunk before it even touches my lips.
“Over there,” Stella says, nodding to the corner.
We sit down in a booth, away from the stares and leers of the men with their pints and Racing Times.
“Hardly Soho, is it?” she says. “But it’ll do.”
“Yeah,” I say. Like I’d know. I take a gulp of vodka. It stings my throat, but then quinine sweetness takes over.
Stella picks up her cigarettes. Pulls one out and lights it. “So, million-dollar question.” She pauses, punctuating her sentence with a purposeful drag. “Would you rather be deaf or blind?”
“Um. I don’t know.” And I’m thinking, What would Stella say? I pick one. “Deaf?”
Bingo.
“Me too.” She exhales, the smoke curling toward me. I breathe it in, wondering if it will make me feel different. High.
She cocks her head. “Want to know why?”
I nod.
“I could still see to do my makeup. Deaf people always dress better than blind ones.” I start. Something I once thought, then hated myself for. And she knows it. She meets my eyes. A look of recognition. Of power.
Then it’s gone. She smiles. “And I’d never have to listen to bloody Radio 2 again. Jesus, what is with Tom and that station?”
I smile. “I know. Awful, isn’t it?”
She laughs. “Your turn.”
I take another mouthful of vodka. Let the heat run down my throat and into my stomach, into my blood. “OK,” I say, playing her at her own game. “Midget or giant?”
Four hours later, I stagger down the steps of the bus, my legs heavy, my uniform in a ball in my bag. Ed is there, in the shelter, waiting to go God knows where. Where is there to go around here, anyway?
For a second he doesn’t recognize me. I am a stranger. Then he sees who it is inside the disguise. “Jude? Where’d you get that?” He is looking at my dress, cut low over my breasts.
Self-consciousness seeps back into my veins, cold and sobering. “Why? Don’t you like it?”
“No . . . I do. It’s just . . . different.”
I am relieved. Grasping at approval. Though Stella wouldn’t give a damn what anyone else thought.
“Where’ve you been?” he asks.
“Cornish Arms. End of exams thing.” Like it’s nothing.
But Ed knows better. “Who with?”
“With whom,” I retort. Then quieter, “No one you’d know,” I lie.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Yeah. So? You drink.” He does. They all do. Up on the Point. Beer and cider and stuff. But not vodka. Not Ed.
“I’m eighteen.”
“What, and I’m a baby?”
“No. It’s just that I’m not used to you . . . like this.” He is silent for a while. I can hear the blood rushing to my head. I feel dizzy.
“You look good, though,” he concludes.
I feel my stomach turning. “Got to go.” I stumble out of the bus shelter and up the street, drawing in deep lungfuls of air to stop the vomit rising. Can’t be sick with air in your lungs. One of Alfie’s facts. I make it back to the post office, thanking God it’s early closing. Dad and Alfie are in the kitchen, door shut. I run up the stairs to the bathroom and stick my head under the tap, the cold water running down my cheeks in rivulets. I gulp it down. Got to sober up.
An hour later, I’m sitting at the table, pushing frozen fish pie and tinned sweet corn around my plate. Dad is watching me. Wondering if I’ve got an eating disorder, probably. Another anorexic casualty from Duchy.
“Guess what?” says Alfie.
“What?” I sigh.
“The till was short today. Mrs. Hickman might have stolen —”
“Alfie!” Dad snaps.
“What? She might have.”
“Mrs. Hickman didn’t steal anything. It’s a mistake. That’s all.” I can feel Dad’s eyes on my dress. I think of Stella. Then immediately feel guilty. Stella hasn’t even been in the shop. And she wouldn’t. And Mrs. Hickman is always getting change wrong.
“So, Jude. Going to tell me what you’re wearing?”
“A dress,” I say out loud. And in my head, Duh.
“New, though. Where’d you get the money?”
I look at him. Trying to see inside, like she can with me. “Are you accusing me of stealing?”
“No. I just asked. It’s not like you to buy stuff like that, is it?”
“I’ve got money. From Gran.” I stab a sweet-corn kernel with my fork.
But he won’t give up. “So, who’d you go with? Shopping, I mean.”
And for one minute I want to tell him. Because I know he wants me to have a friend. But not one like her. And I remember last time. Dad shouting. Telling her to go away.
“No one,” I say. “Just me.”
I fork a prawn and put it into my mouth. Willing it to stay down. Waiting for him to challenge me. But the phone rings and I’m saved. Maybe my fairy godmother does exist after all.
“We’ll talk about this later.” He goes into the hallway, taking his glass with him.
“Whatever,” I say, and push my plate away.
“Dad, Jude whatevered you!”
“Shut up, Alfie.” I kick at his legs.
But he’s too fast. My foot arcs into nothing.
He is staring at me still. Fascinated. Thinking.
“Were you with Stella?” he asks.
I look at him blankly. How does he know? Then I remember. I told him she was back, that day in the dunes. I nod.
His face lights up with the lie I have told. “But you said you were on your own.”
“You wouldn’t understand.” I push a kernel across the table and watch it roll silently onto the floor. “He wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t like her. She did some stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Just stuff . . .” So much stuff. And I shouldn’t tell him. But I want someone to know who she is. How incredible she is. Why I want her, need her. “Like . . . she painted the toilet red.”
“Really?”
I nod. She did. And the bath. One Sunday when Dad was in
the top field with a calving. Stella was delighted. Said it was like peeing into blood. But Dad went spare. Made me scrape it all off.
“What else, what else?”
But I don’t answer. I’m listening to Dad on the phone, talking about shop awnings. God, the glamour of it. And I think about London and Stella kissing that guy outside the Rocket. And I remember Mum telling me she once kissed some pop star at the Palais. Because she could. And I want to get out of this town, out of this life, like never before. The need is overwhelming.
THE LETTER arrives on Saturday. Exams over, the long summer stretches out before me. I’m behind the till, making minimum wage, Stella sitting beside me, flicking through Vogue and passing judgment on society.
The cowbells tinkle. Stella looks up.
“Oh, my God. What does she think she’s wearing!” she whispers.
It’s Mrs. Penleaze. Forty-something. No makeup. Hair scraped back in a lank ponytail. Anorak, despite the heat, and flowery skirt.
“She looks like a bag lady.”
I let out a snigger and Mrs. Penleaze looks at me, frowning. I turn it into a cough and smile at her, elbowing Stella to shut her up. Mrs. Penleaze goes back to her agonizing decision between baked beans and Spaghetti Hoops.
“Go on. Take a risk. Get the hoops,” whispers Stella again.
“God, Stella. Pack it in.”
“Well. Anyone would think she was on Deal or No Deal the way she’s dragging it out. It’s not like it’s a life-changing decision.”
“Maybe it is for her,” I say. “Maybe she’s never had spaghetti before.”
Stella flashes me a lipstick smile. And I know what she is going to say. “OK. Dare.”
“No way.” I shake my head.
“Yes way. I dare you to say something about that skirt.”
I sigh. “Good or bad?”
“Whatever. Just say something.”
Mrs. Penleaze comes to the counter with the beans and a Western Daily. Total, £1.10. I don’t need to look at the price tags. Know what everything costs. The thought saddens and sickens me.
She hands over some coins. Stella elbows me.
I can’t say anything bad. Just can’t. But I have to say something. What comes out is, “That’s a lovely skirt.” It’s pathetic, and I know it. And so does Stella. But I have done the dare, and that’s what matters.
Mrs. Penleaze looks down, confused.
“Oh . . . um . . . thank you, Jude.”
“It’s a . . . er . . . bold choice. Suits you.” I drop ten pence into her hand and slam the till drawer shut.
“So. Tell your dad hello.” She tries out a smile.
“I will. Call again soon.” I am choking down the laughter.
“Have a nice day,” adds Stella. Perfect all-American service with a smile.
The door closes and Stella and I shriek.
“You’ve probably made her day,” says Stella. “I bet she hasn’t had a compliment for years. Poor cow. Not that she deserves one in that getup.”
“Not as bad as Mr. Penleaze, though. Have you seen his ears?”
“God. Imagine them in bed,” ponders Stella.
“That’s gross, Stella. I don’t want to.”
“Oh, Janet,” she pants. “I love you, Janet. Do it to me, Janet!”
“Shut up!”
“You’re right. They probably don’t bother. Just pick each other’s corns or something.”
“Stop it now.” I hit her with a copy of Cosmopolitan, but she still has Vogue. Twice as heavy.
The cowbells go again. We stop and look up. I’m praying it’s not Mrs. Applegate, all Barbour jacket and Hunters, fighting a losing battle against the scales. Or Mental Nigel, who comes in for sweets and magazines. Playboy and penny chews. Stella would have a field day. But it’s neither. It’s the postman. How stupid is that? That the post gets delivered here. To a post office. They should drop it off when they open up the mailbox in the morning or something. Different jobs, Jude, Dad says. But it still seems dumb to me.
“All right, Jude?” The postman nods. “One for you here.” He hands over a stack of envelopes. Bills. Except for one. Thick, white vellum, A4 size, logo printed on the top left-hand corner. The Lab. My legs feel weak. And I’m not sure if it’s because I’m scared that I haven’t gotten an audition or scared that I have.
“I hope it’s good news. Anyway, best be off. No rest for the wicked, eh?” He laughs, a throaty, guttural sound. “See you later, love.”
But I am still staring at the envelope.
“Earth to Jude . . .” he says.
“What?” I look up. He’s smiling at me, waiting. “Oh, right. Yeah . . . See you . . . Thanks.”
“Another world,” he mutters as he leaves.
The envelope feels hot in my hand. Dangerous. Life-changing. The opposite of Mrs. Penleaze’s beans.
“Jesus! Would you just open it, Jude?”
But I can’t. Not in front of Stella. I don’t want her to see if I don’t get in. Don’t want to be a nobody in front of her.
“Well, if you won’t . . .” Stella snatches the envelope from me.
“Give it back. It’s private.”
She tuts. “What do you mean, private? I tell you everything.”
“Stella! Come on, give it back.”
She’s holding it above her head. “You didn’t say, ‘Simon says.’ ”
“What?”
Stella raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, for . . . Simon says, ‘Give it back.’ ”
“Only if you open it now.”
“OK . . . God!”
Stella holds it out. I snatch it. Still hot. My fingers are shaking as I run them under the flap and pull out the two stapled sheets.
“What?” Stella demands.
“Wait.” I scan down the page for the bad news. And again to make sure. But it isn’t there. They want to see me.
I look up. “I’ve got an audition.”
“Let me see!”
I hand it over.
“Oh, my God. Look at the date.” She is wide-eyed and helpless with happiness. “It’s in two weeks.”
“I know.” I make a face.
Stella grins. And I laugh, infected with her delight.
She claps her hands to her chest. “O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?”
“Shut up!” I smile. “I’m not doing that, anyway. Too clichéd. And I’m hardly Juliet.”
“Yeah, you are. All innocent . . .” She lingers on the word, savoring it.
“I’m doing Isabella again. Same as the GCSE.”
“A nun! Even better. I bet Mr. Hughes loves that. Imagining you in your penguin outfit. Or out of it . . .”
“God, Stella. Is that all you think about?”
“Yup. Mostly. That and vodka. Decadence is so this year. Says so in the Bible.” She waves Vogue at me. “So, this calls for a party.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I guess? It’s Saturday night. You’re going to drama school.”
“Might be.”
“Bugger might be. You’re going.”
Then it hits me. And it’s like in films when you see the background rushing toward someone. The world is turning around me. I feel the blood drain from my face. This is it. My chance. And I’m terrified and exhilarated. Because it’s everything I’ve wanted for so long. To go somewhere. To be somebody. I want this feeling, this day, to last forever.
“The Point,” she says.
“What?”
“Tonight. Let’s go there, me and you.” Stella has a plan.
“OK . . .” But then I remember something. Heard some kids talking about it in the shop. “No. Wait. We can’t. There’s this party up there.”
“Even better.” She smiles.
“No, but —”
“But nothing. There’ll be vodka, right?”
I nod. And dope, I think. And Emily Applegate and the Plastics. And all those same million reasons why I shouldn’t go. But then I think of Ed.
And I want to tell him. To know what he thinks. To see if he’s pleased for me, proud of me. And I’m high again on possibility. I want to dance, to drink, to kiss someone. Anyone. Maybe.
“Well . . .” Stella drawls, playing it cool. “I think we should grace them with our presence.” Then she shrieks again. And we’re hugging, jumping up and down, shouting. Breathless, I feel more alive than I have ever been.
Then Dad bangs on the wall. We fall apart.
“Shit. Tom,” says Stella. “You’ve got to tell him.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
Stella sighs. “OK. So, gotta go, pussycat.” She takes a packet of Marlboro Reds off the shelf behind her. “Take it out of what you owe me, yeah?”
“OK . . . Wait!” I say. “Pick me up? At eight?”
“Half seven,” she replies. “Then I can help you get ready.”
I feign horror. “Are you saying I can’t get dressed by myself?”
“Yup.”
“Fair point,” I concede. “Half seven, then. Bring makeup.”
“OK. Bring booze.”
I laugh. “See you.”
“Wouldn’t want to be you.”
And she’s gone. I’m alone again. But this time it’s different. Everything is different.
The shop is empty, so I slip out the back, letter dazzling white in my hand. Dad’s in the stockroom, listening to some twangy folk music about shipwrecks and white hares. You should be proud of where you come from, he says. But it’s not where you come from, is it? It’s where you’re going. That’s what matters. London. Johnny Gillespie and the Rocket and a high-class hooker in the basement.
I hear a sound above the fiddles and drums. Talking. Dad’s on the phone. I listen in. Just in case. Once I got lucky. It was a woman. Rachel, she was called. Worked at the wholesaler’s. I met her when she dropped Dad off one day. She wore Mrs. Hickman clothes. Her hair was short. Not even elfin, just short. She smelled of cheap perfume and said she tap-danced. Giggled, like it was exotic, amazing. And I thought of Mum’s hobbies. How they changed by the week. Phases, Dad called them. She would take up yoga, then beekeeping, then Buddhism. Trying everything on for size. Trying to find something that would fill the emptiness.
