by Kate Gordon
But it was all pretending. Viggo is gone. “Congo” is gone and I’m back to being stupid, immature, worthless Connie again.
Viggo is gone.
Viggo is gone.
Viggo is gone.
My chest begins to heave with silent sobs.
I lie down on the carpet, curling my fingers through the shaggy pile and I weep. I weep for a year of being utterly, all-consumingly in love with the best, most clever, most articulate, most perfect person I’ve ever known—a person who made me feel like I was worth something. Like I was the sort of girl someone like that would want to be with.
Like I wasn’t a freak.
Like I wasn’t the girl the boys thought was one of them, because my best friend is a boy and because I don’t wear dresses and heels and listen to Ed Sheeran and squeal like a toddler whenever someone mentions whatever inane YouTuber is flavour of the month.
Like I was worth loving.
Because I know he loved me, even if he never said it in so many words. He must have loved me, to stay with me for a whole year.
He must have loved me to help me so much, with my clothing choices and food and what music I should be listening to. He helped me improve my general knowledge! He loaned me books. He spent hours sitting with me, watching political documentaries he’d already seen before. He must have loved me, to have done all that.
And he trusted me to do things for him that he didn’t trust anyone else to do. Like research for his speeches, and making his breakfast and taking notes for him in meetings.
He trusted me. He loved me.
And I’ve thrown it all away. Because of one stupid decision and a few stupid words at a party. I just had to do it, didn’t I? I just had to wreck everything.
I hit the sides of my head. “I just had to—”
“Had to what?”
His voice is gentle.
“Had to what, Connie-girl?”
His hand is soft on my tear-soaked hair.
“Here. Get up. Take this.”
He passes me a tissue, from his pocket.
I sniff. “Is it clean?”
I meet his eyes. They are so full of pity. “It’s clean, Connie. Blow your nose and give me a hug, okay?”
Through a massive nose-blow that would be embarrassing if I did it in front of anyone but Jed (I shudder at what Viggo would make of it), I say, “Who are you and what have you done with my hard-ass best friend?”
“Shut up and hug me,” he grumbles. His cheeks have turned pink. “Don’t tell me you don’t need one.”
“I can’t tell you that, because it’s not true,” I admit. I fall into his arms.
It feels good.
“Are you ready to talk?” he asks. “I’ll even ignore the fact you didn’t bring me a clean shirt. I found one of your dad’s that wasn’t too hideous, by the way.” He points down at one of Dad’s old eighties cricket tee-shirts. It has a picture of Merv Hughes on it.
“Howzat,” Jed says.
“That’s the least hideous one you could find?” I wrinkle my nose.
Jed shrugs. “It was at the front of the wardrobe. I didn’t want to go rifling around. Never know what you’ll find at the back of an accountant’s cupboard!”
“It’s my dad,” I point out.
Jed grins. “You’re right. The worst I would have found is a stack of nineteen-eighty-five Money magazines or a talking Boonie doll.” His face turns serious. “Do you want to keep doing this, Connie? Talking about Viggo? And the adventures … We don’t even have to start. The spiders were more than enough. We can totes stop there.”
I shake my head. “No, I want to. I just had a … moment. I’ll be fine. The next memory is a nice one, anyway.”
“Will that make you feel good or bad?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. But I think I have to feel it all—good and bad. It might be the only way I can get over him.”
“I’ll get comfortable then.” Jed puts a pillow behind his back and leans on the side of my bed. Then he snaps his fingers. “Oh, wait. We’re forgetting something.”
Just at that moment, Beezus pushes his way into the room.
Yes, he knows how to open my bedroom door. Ferret MENSA in on speed dial …
“There’s the little champ!” Jed says, smiling.
“You don’t hate him?” I ask.
Jed shakes his head. “No. We made up. Besides, I know this little fuzzy, fangy thing is your other best friend, so he should probably be here to hear some of these memories, too.”
“You are a very gracious and magnanimous dude,” I say. “Pity your other best friend isn’t so forgiving.” I mumble the last part.
“Do you ever think maybe he doesn’t have that much to forgive?” Jed says gently.
“You don’t know what I did,” I protest. I take Beezus from Jed’s hands and scratch behind his little ears.
“True. But I know Viggo and I know that he can be a bit … finicky. So maybe if you want to tell me what it was that made him mad …”
“No. We’re not talking about why Viggo and I broke up. That’s the twenty-fifth memory. Now, do you want to hear the fourth one? It has the fifth one tacked on the end too, so it’s a two-for-the-price-of-one deal.”
“You know me. I’m always a sucker for one of those deals,” Jed says. “Do you remember when I got fifteen packets of banana marshmallows, just because there was a ‘buy two, get one free’ offer on at IGA?”
“I remember,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I had to help you eat them when you realised the reason they’d been reduced was that they went out of date the next day. I never want to see another banana marshmallow for the rest of my days. Funnily enough, though, marshmallows feature in this exact Viggo memory.”
“Craziness!”
“Insanity!” I laugh. And I realise in that moment how much I’ve missed hanging out with Jed. I haven’t done it enough this past year.
He makes me laugh. Viggo made me feel many things, but he didn’t often make me laugh. He’s a very serious person. That’s why he’s such a high achiever.
That, and the fact that he spends most of his waking hours studying, or preparing or just, generally, improving himself.
Which is what he was doing that Friday night, when I turned up on his doorstep.
Wearing another one of Emily’s dresses.
Ten
Memory 4
“You look … well, shall I say, very greatly improved,” Viggo said.
I stepped through his front door. My elbow bumped a little on his arm. “Sorry.”
“Never mind.” He smiled warmly. “I barely felt it. I work out a lot.”
I laughed. He didn’t. I stopped laughing quickly. What had I done wrong? It was a joke, wasn’t it?
But then he smiled again and it was okay. It was better than okay. “You can give it a rub, if you like.”
I reached out and tentatively patted Viggo’s shirt. It was a nice shirt. It was pale mauve, and made from stiff, perfectly ironed linen. He’d matched it with a darker purple tie, and beige chinos.
He was definitely not dressed for a night in.
So maybe, just maybe …
Maybe this was actually a date!
I had dared to hope, spurred on by Emily. It seemed ridiculous to me that someone like Viggo would look twice at someone like me.
But maybe …
“Come in, won’t you?” Viggo said, ushering me inside.
I caught him casting a quizzical look at my bag.
“What?” I asked. “I know it doesn’t exactly go with the dress—” I was wearing a knee-length pink one this time, with a flouncy skirt. “But it’s my favourite. From the markets. Handmade and everything.” I showed him the hand-sewn patches with orang-utans and trees on them. “Limited … edition.” My voice dried up as I noticed he didn’t look all that impressed.
“Oh, no, it’s not the bag itself.” Viggo opened one of the hallway doors on to a sitting room filled with books. We walked inside and he m
otioned for me to take a seat. “Although, it is … unconventional. I was just thinking it looked rather empty. Where are your books?”
“My … what?” I sat down on the tasteful black leather couch, a sinking feeling in my belly.
Books? No, I didn’t have books in my bag. I had one book—a new Joshua Santospirito graphic novel. I also had my mobile, my Walkman (a joke present from Jed that I actually loved), my sketchpad and pens, a couple of mixed tapes Jed made me to go with the Walkman, and half a packet of Minties.
Because Em had led me to believe there might be kissing.
There is, usually, call for mints on dates. Or so I’d been led to believe.
You didn’t usually need books on a date though, did you?
I was really, really, really wishing now that I hadn’t spaced out during our phone conversation. I really wanted to know what I was actually doing at Viggo MacDuff’s house.
“Your books,” Viggo said. “You know, for our study session?”
“Study session!”
Jed is holding his sides, chortling. I whack him on the arm. “Thanks very much for your sympathy and compassion!” I cry. “It was mortifying! Here was I all dressed up in this horrible pink confection of Emily’s, and Viggo thought I was there to help him catch up on Of Mice and Men.”
“And this was before you realised Viggo dresses in a shirt and tie—”
“All the time,” I finish, wincing. “Except for bed, when he wears—”
“Blue striped pyjamas,” we say in unison.
“He has seven pairs.” Jed shakes his head. “From Harrods. So is that the end of that memory? It was kind of short.”
“I split it into two parts,” I explain, stretching my arms over my head. I’m still holding Beeezus and she makes a funny little “eep” noise. “The bad part and the good part.”
Jed yawns. “It’s, what, one-thirty in the morning? Unless the good part is really freaking good, I’m going to fall asleep right here. Are there zombies or Martian warships or evil, tentacled overlords, or …”
I laugh and shake my head. “No. They come later. But there is Bach and stinky cheese …”
“Can I just curl up in your beanbag and catch forty winks?” Jed asks, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll just tell this one to Beezus.”
Eleven
Memory 5
“I was very much hoping to come up to speed with what I’ve missed in English during the first few months of term,” Viggo said, rubbing his perfectly smooth, tanned forehead. “You know, when I was travelling around Europe as part of my prize for winning the Prime Minister’s History Awards for my work on the building of the English Houses of Parliament?”
“I know,” I said meekly.
“You don’t have any of your notes with you?” he asked as he poured me a glass of something whiffy from an expensive-looking bottle.
“I don’t, it’s true,” I said. “I am an idiot.” I took the glass even though I’d only ever drunk wine once before, at a dinner party with my parents. It came from a cask and tasted like Beezus’s breath.
“Now, Constance.” Viggo smiled. “I wasn’t chastising you. I was simply pointing out that, as you don’t have your notes on you, there’s no point framing this as a study session any longer. We should instead simply enjoy one another’s company. Play some music, drink a glass of 2012 Moorilla cloth label—only a glass, mind, as we are underage.” Viggo flashed me a grin and I realised this time he was making a joke. I laughed obligingly. Viggo trying to be funny was kind of cute.
“I’ve prepared a cheese plate, too. I’ll get that soon. I just need to have a think about how we can best confront this change in circumstances.”
I looked at my feet, ashamed of myself. “I’m really so sorry,” I mumbled. “I can go.”
“Oh, you being here is not inconvenient in the slightest. I had nothing scheduled for this time aside from the study session. It’s simply inconvenient that I won’t have the benefit of your vast experience to assist me attain a level playing field with my scholarly peers. I am behind in all my subjects because of my study trip, and I am doing my best to catch up. And English is … it’s the subject I find myself least engaged with.”
“Really?” I asked, taking a tiny sip of the wine. It wasn’t as bad as I expected. Kind of … smoky. And a bit, almost, flowery. Sort of. With, kind of, cinnamon or something.
“Light, isn’t it?” Viggo said. “Fresh and light and …” He sniffed his glass. “Just a hint of blackberry.”
“Just what I was thinking,” I lied. “Um, but you were saying? About not being great at English? That seems strange, because you speak so well.”
“Oh, I can do all the grammar and spelling and punctuation and whatnot.” Viggo waved a hand. “It’s the creative business, and the analysis of metaphors and similes and that sort of thing. I suppose I prefer things to be more explicit. Factual. I’m not well versed in imagery and I find saying one thing and meaning another … pointless. Just say what you mean. You understand?”
I nodded, even though I didn’t agree with Viggo at all. I love poetry and symbolism and playing around with language. I love the beauty of a well-crafted sentence; I admire the skill needed to choose the perfect combination of words. And metaphors and similes and analogies? When they’re done well, they are … exciting.
But I nodded. Because I wanted to agree with Viggo. I wanted Viggo to think I wasn’t a total idiot.
I wanted Viggo to like me.
And I knew, somehow, that Viggo wouldn’t like me so much if I didn’t agree with him.
“Anyway, my point is, if we aren’t to be studying tonight, we should make the best of a bad situation. Or—” He must have caught the hurt look on my face. “Not bad situation, exactly, because, well, I enjoyed your company the other night at Ronaldo’s, so …”
My heart raced.
He enjoyed my company?
That was good, right?
“Thanks, I enjoyed your company too,” I said.
“So we can enjoy each other’s company again tonight! Tell me, do you like Bach?”
“Um—”
“Don’t bother answering.” Viggo stood up, smoothing down his already-smooth trousers. “Everybody likes Bach, of course! I’ll put some on.”
Viggo wandered over to the state-of-the-art sound system in the corner of the room, pressed a few buttons and music filled the room.
He turned, smiling serenely. “Ahh, listen to that,” he purred. “I do love this concerto, don’t you? Don’t answer that. Everyone loves this concerto. Now, Constance, tell me, why do you put those peculiar colours in your hair?”
Twelve
“He said that?”
“You weren’t meant to be listening!” I accused.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. My ‘Tool Radar’ pinged me awake. Viggo really is a complete—”
“No,” I interrupt. “He isn’t a complete whatever-you’re-about-to-say. He just speaks his mind. I respect that. He fights for his right to express his opinion, and he actually has the intelligence to—”
Jed claps his hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry, Princess, but for the time being I’m over hearing about Viggo MacDuff. I think it’s time for an adventure. If you really think you can handle it. And, by the by, the only fighting for a right I want to hear about now is …”
“To party!” we sing together.
After I finish giggling, I say seriously, “We’re not actually going to party, are we? Because I’m not really dressed for it.”
Jed looks at me enigmatically. “We can’t party. We don’t have any bananas!”
“’Always take a banana to a party, Rose. Bananas are good!’” I quote. “Tenth doctor, to Rose Tyler. ‘Girl in the Fireplace’ episode. So where are we going then, Jed, in our banana-less state?”
“We, Connie-girl, are off to find a twenty-four-hour chemist.”
“Dare I ask?”
Jed stands and ta
kes my hand. “You may ask, Connie-girl, but that would spoil the element of surprise. And you know …”
Jed pulls me up and I’m now standing eye-to-eye with him.
There’s a tiny, inexplicable twitch in my belly.
I ignore it.
Jed leans in and whispers in my ear. His breath is warm. “Nobody expects—”
“If you’re going to say ‘The Spanish Inquisition’—”
“I was going to say ‘an army of evil shop dummies’. But yeah, those Spanish dudes too.”
“I expect the Spanish dudes,” I say, pulling back slightly. “But then, I am an ‘expect-the-worst’ kind of girl.”
“You never used to be,” Jed says sadly. “Before you met Viggo MacDuff.”
Thirteen
My hair is blue.
Bright, Cookie Monster blue. And not just streaked with it, either—I’ve done that before. All of it is blue, from the roots to the tips. Every strand.
Blue.
I look like a Muppet has crawled on to my head and died.
“Viggo will hate it,” I moan. “He’ll never get back together with me with my hair like this.”
“And we care … why?”
Jed passes me a chip. We’re sitting on my front step. I have a towel wrapped around my shoulders and we’re letting my hair dry in the cool night air. Jed has cooked bake-in-the-oven fries for breakfast.
At three am.
Apparently the walk to the chemist made him hungry. And I’m not complaining. I’m in the mood for some serious comfort eating. “Why are you being so mean about Viggo now?” I ask. “He’s meant to be your best friend. You were on his side earlier.”
“I was never on his side. I did think maybe there was a tiny chance you’d actually done something not completely awesome to make him leave you—”
“I did,” I protest.
Jed shakes his head. “Sounds like, whatever you did, Viggo deserved it. And besides, he’s actually not all that—”
“Arrrgghh!” I cry. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want you to talk about Viggo!”
