One More Little Problem

by Vanessa Curtis

  And then I dial Fran.

  Chapter Eight

  Fran’s mother answers the phone in a yummy-mummy voice.

  ‘Good morning, Fenella Benson speaking?’

  This throws me into a complete panic.

  ‘Erm, hello, Mrs Benson,’ I start.

  Then I stop.

  Fran’s probably told her mother all about our argument except that she’ll have twisted it round to make me out as some sort of demented lunatic who got locked up in a house for mad teenagers. She’s not really nasty, Fran, but I really hacked her off the last time we met.

  Mrs Benson was always a bit funny about my little problem.

  She allowed me to take my own shining plates and cutlery to her house and used to say that it was OK to be a ‘bit different’.

  Whenever she said this she refused to look me in the eye.

  ‘Never mind,’ I squeak. ‘Market research. I’ll call back later.’

  I throw the receiver down and wipe my sweaty palms on a brand new tissue from the box by the bed.

  This is ridiculous. If I can’t even speak to Fran’s mother what will I be like when I finally speak to Fran?

  Caro’s up by midday and ferreting about in the fridge.

  ‘Don’t you ever go shopping?’ is her charming way of greeting me.

  I pull my purse out from my jeans and hand Caro a note.

  ‘Here,’ I say. ‘Go and get fish and chips for all of us. And don’t let them wrap mine in newspaper. Can’t eat anything that’s been touched by ink.’

  Caro scowls and rolls her eyes but she snatches the money. She bangs out of the back door, her iPod blaring as usual, and stomps off down the gravel at the side of the house.

  ‘Yes, very mature!’ I say.

  I sit down at the kitchen table.

  It’s very quiet.

  No idea when Dad will be back but I really hope he manages to avoid the pub on the way home.

  I’ve got breakfast dishes to wash up and nothing else to do except to see who emailed me that new message on mysortaspace.com but just thinking about it and the way that I’ve ignored the first email from Alessandro is making me feel kind of sick and guilty and like doing a hundred jumps on the stairs so I try to get that thought out of my mind.

  Maybe I could do some – gulp – schoolwork?

  I do thirty-one jumps on the bottom stairs, thirty-one on the top, grab my school bag and come down again doing the same number of jumps on the way back.

  I spread out all my nice new exercise books on the disinfected table.

  I’m just opening up a thick geography reference book with a sigh of relief when the phone cuts into my thoughts with a shrill ring.

  I’m expecting it to be Heather, so I answer the phone in a silly voice.

  ‘House of Homework,’ I say. ‘Zelah Green speaking from the Rainforests of Brazil.’

  There’s a short silence and a tiny intake of breath.

  I catch my own.

  I recognise that breath.

  It’s Fran.

  I’d like to sit down but I’m in the hall and there’s no chair so I sit on the floor and lean my back against the wall for support, hoping that there’s nothing horrible which will stick to the back of my T-shirt.

  Caro has this vile habit of picking her nose or her nails and sticking the gross end result on any passing blank surface.

  My breath’s coming out in big gulping bursts and my heart is hammering and missing beats and flopping about in a stupid way.

  ‘My mum said that some strange girl rang up pretending to be market research,’ says Fran. ‘So I thought it must be you.’

  Great.

  So I’m now known as ‘the strange girl’ in the Benson household.

  ‘Yeah, it was me actually,’ I say. ‘Nothing urgent or anything. You didn’t really need to call back.’

  There’s another tense silence.

  ‘OK then,’ says Fran. ‘Nice talking to you. Bye.’

  She’s about to hang up when I picture the email lying in wait for me on Heather’s computer and shout ‘NO! Don’t hang up!’ in a really uncool kind of way.

  Fran stays on the line. I can sense her amusement. She must be loving this. Me about to ask her a favour. Even though it was her who let me down and took away her friendship just when I needed it the most.

  I decide to adopt a less desperate tone.

  ‘Right, I’ll get to the point,’ I say. ‘I kind of got involved in this website thingy. Mysortaspace.com. You might have heard of it?’

  There’s a small splutter of amusement from Fran.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard of it. It’s full of people who haven’t got any mates.’

  I see red, which is really annoying as red stresses me out big-style.

  ‘Fran,’ I say. ‘I didn’t ring you so that you could bitch about me. I rang because I, er,’ – here I clear my throat and count to five – ‘I kind of need your help. Girl stuff. Because you’re good at it,’ I add, hoping that a bit of flattery might work wonders.

  I wait for the response. I’m pretty sure it’s going to be rude and sarcastic.

  While I wait I twist around to check there’s nothing stuck on my back.

  Fran puts her hand over the receiver at the other end. I hear a muffled conversation with her mother who is making indignant protests in the background interspersed with clanking and kettle-boiling noises.

  ‘In your own time, Fran,’ I mutter, but I make sure she can’t hear me.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Dad’s car pull up outside and Dad getting his briefcase out of the back seat.

  My heart starts to hammer all over again. He’s got to get this job! He’s just got to. For all our sakes . . .

  ‘I said, what sort of girl stuff?’ Fran is saying.

  I snap back to the present moment.

  ‘You know – just STUFF,’ I say. ‘Thing is, I don’t really know yet. I’ve kind of heard from this boy. But it’s complicated. And I can’t talk to Dad because he’s got a job interview and he’s rubbish at talking about that kind of thing anyway.’

  There’s another little giggle of amusement.

  ‘Your dad?’ says Fran. ‘He’s actually got a job interview?’

  Fran was around when Dad began his horrible descent into a booze-addicted lovesick unemployed nightmare.

  ‘Yes,’ I snap. ‘Look – either you’ll come round here or you won’t. Which is it going to be?’

  My change of mood must have hit home. Fran’s next comment is delivered in a meek sort of whisper.

  ‘OK, I’ll come round,’ she says. ‘This afternoon?’

  We agree a time and then Dad’s walking in to give me a big virtual hug and Caro’s coming in with the fish and chips and just to make me feel even more rubbish, everything gets back to its nightmare crazy chaotic self.

  *

  Caro’s managed to get all the wrong stuff from the fish and chip shop so Dad ends up with a battered sausage when he wanted cod and I end up with plaice even though I prefer haddock and Caro inspects her steak and kidney pie with a puzzled expression, says, ‘Oh well,’ and eats it as if it’s the last piece of food on earth and she’s a starving explorer, the sole survivor of a nuclear bomb left combing the earth for unexpected bits of hot junk food.

  Dad hasn’t said much about his interview.

  ‘Went OK, I think,’ is his only comment.

  After lunch he goes upstairs, changes out of the smart suit and gets back into his red shirt, old brown trousers and gardening shoes.

  He wanders off down the garden with a happy look on his face.

  I sigh. Somehow it’s hard to imagine Dad back in control of a classroom being enthusiastic about Shakespeare and Chaucer again.

  I’m just wondering whether there are any good vegetable scenes in Shakespeare when Caro says she’s got a piece of artwork to do upstairs and it’s true that she’s really good at art and it helps her cope with her self-harming business so I let her off the
washing-up and do it myself as usual but I’m a bit nervous that she might be using the art as an excuse for doing something else, something that involves blood (major Dirt Alert and Germ Alert).

  I’m all nervous and distracted and have to wash one plate three times because I fail to notice there’s a big lump of gluey fish stuck to the bottom.

  I keep one eye on the clock as I scrub and scour in my yellow rubber gloves.

  Three hours.

  Three hours until Fran.

  Chapter Nine

  At half three Caro’s still upstairs and Dad is still down the bottom of the garden. I can see big clods of earth flying up into the air and smoke coming out of his incinerator.

  I think about Caro – about how I had this stupid idea that she and I would become great friends after Forest Hill House and that we’d hang out and go to gigs and meet lots of cool and exciting new people, but all that’s happened is that she’s pissed me off and made the house full of even more Dirt Alert and Germ Alert than it was before.

  And that’s saying something.

  I’m missing Sol too.

  It’s getting a bit lonely on Planet Zelah at the moment.

  I could do with a friend or two. Or even just one.

  I’m in the lounge trying not to look out of the window for Fran but failing.

  Every time a blue car goes past my heart thuds and leaps and then when it fails to slow down I get a little mixed pang of relief and disappointment.

  ‘Get a grip!’ I say to myself. ‘She might be horrid again. This could be a major disaster.’

  In some ways today has already been a bit of a disaster. I’ve quadrupled most of my rituals and even now I’m prodding bits of dirt out from underneath my fingernails with shudders of repulsion.

  Will I ever be free of my OCD?

  Stella, the therapist in the lovely clean white coat at the day centre where I go once a fortnight for treatment, thinks that I will be.

  I’m not so sure.

  ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ she says when I complain that it’s taking too long to get better.

  It’s a stupid saying, anyway. Rome was built in about a million years and I can’t wait that long to get a cure.

  When I say that to Stella she just laughs and flashes her small white teeth.

  Stella is the cleanest person on the planet.

  I love her.

  There’s a roar and a screech and Mrs Benson’s high blue estate car skids to a halt just past our house.

  Great. She’s already forgotten where I live. Well, I suppose it has been a while since she dropped Fran off here.

  To my surprise Mrs Benson gets out of the driving seat in her padded green jacket and Wellington boots (useful when you live in Acton) and locks the car door. Followed by Fran, she troops down our front path and raps hard on the door.

  I go to let them in with a tight feeling in my chest.

  Before I can open my mouth Mrs Benson has pushed past me and is standing in our gloomy hall.

  Fran follows her with a small, tight smile.

  ‘Right. Hello, Zelah,’ says Mrs Benson in her clipped, professional tone. ‘I’ve brought Fran, seeing as she says it’s so important. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear exactly what it is you are planning to do with her.’

  Put like that it sounds as if I’m planning to chop Fran into little bits and boil her up in a cauldron.

  That’s more something that Caro would do.

  I swallow hard and invite them into the kitchen.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ I say, trying to remember my manners.

  ‘No, thank you,’ says Mrs Benson. Somehow she makes it sound as if I’ve just offered her a head-slap with a wet cod.

  She gestures at the empty chair for me to sit down.

  ‘How long since you left the institution?’ she says.

  I give her a blank stare.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, as the penny drops. ‘You mean Forest Hill? It wasn’t exactly an institution . . .’

  ‘Yes, well, whatever it was, it was obvious to us that you needed a lot of treatment for your problems,’ says Mrs Benson.

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.

  Is this the same woman who smiled at me and let me stay the night and said she was glad that Fran had such a lovely best friend?

  I sit up, very straight.

  Fran is flushing scarlet at her mother’s words.

  ‘It needed to be said, darling,’ says Mrs Benson, ignoring her daughter’s squirming embarrassment. ‘I’m only looking out for your safety.’

  Safety?

  What on earth has Fran been telling her mother? That I’ve morphed into a crazed axe-murderer? (Unlikely, given my well-known hatred of blood and bits of dirty wood.)

  There’s a sheen of sweat on Fran’s smooth tanned face and her dark eyes look scared and helpless.

  ‘Mum,’ she says, ‘why don’t you pick me up in a couple of hours? I’ll be fine. Honestly.’

  With a show of great reluctance Mrs Benson glares at me, stares down the garden at the messy vision once known as my father and looks around the kitchen with distaste.

  I suppose it could have been worse.

  She could have met the other member of our crazy household at the moment.

  Thank goodness she didn’t have to . . .

  ‘Hi,’ says Caro, strolling into the kitchen with a huge piece of cardboard under one arm. She casts a mocking eye over Mrs Benson’s Barbour jacket and country boots.

  ‘Jeez,’ she splutters. ‘Didn’t realise you had to get around Acton by horse.’

  Mrs Benson is rendered speechless with horror, as so often happens when people meet Caro for the first, or even the tenth, time.

  She gets up.

  ‘I’ll come back at half past five, not a moment later,’ she says to Fran as she stalks out of the kitchen. ‘It’s pony club tonight, remember?’

  Caro sniggers.

  Mrs Benson leaves a pungent whiff of wet dog and wax jacket behind her. Yuk.

  I open the window and cough out of it a few times in order to aerate my lungs.

  I notice that Fran has pulled her bag a bit closer and is eyeing Caro with a nervous expression. Well, Caro is wearing a Marilyn Manson T-shirt and black combats with silver safety pins all up the sides, matching the one hanging through her eyebrow.

  ‘All right,’ says Caro. ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Fran, right?’

  Fran wriggles on her chair and nods.

  ‘How did you know?’ she says.

  Caro laughs. It is not a friendly sound.

  ‘OCD here told me all about you,’ she says.

  ‘It wasn’t all my fault,’ Fran is saying to Caro. ‘Zelah was getting a bit much to handle with her rituals.’

  Caro raises one pierced eyebrow, sits down opposite Fran and gives her a long, hard stare.

  ‘That so?’ she says.

  Uh-oh. I recognise the signs of a major Caro temper-fest about to strike.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Anyone like some cake?’ There’s none of my lemon cake left but I’m desperate to avert the impending hurricane.

  ‘Sod the sodding cake,’ says Caro, turning to Fran. ‘Let me tell you something, little girl.’

  Fran makes an indignant little-girl squeal of protest. She’s only one year younger than Caro but she does look a lot more innocent when you compare her pink dress, neat brown plaits and shoes with little flowers to Caro’s big black baggy outfit.

  ‘Anybody who upsets my best mate OCD here,’ and Caro tilts her blonde head towards me with a sharp gesture, ‘has me to reckon with. OK?’

  Fran turns pale and then flushes pink.

  This is a total nightmare. And since when did Caro become my best friend? ‘That’s enough,’ I say. The iron in my voice takes us all by surprise. ‘Leave Fran alone. She’s come to help me with something.’

  ‘Oh, have I?’ mutters Fran. ‘That’s news to me. I haven’t actually agree
d to do anything yet.’

  She looks at my gritted teeth and hands-on-hips posture and shuts up.

  ‘I’ll give you my blue sparkly earrings,’ I say. Fran always used to stare at them with longing when she thought I wasn’t looking.

  ‘Done,’ says Fran.

  ‘Yeah, excuse me interrupting your business transactions but I’ll have that cake now,’ says Caro. She manages to make it sound as if she’s doing me a massive favour by suggesting this.

  Oh great. I’m going to have to demonstrate some more OCD weirdness now.

  I scrabble around the bottom of the cake tin with my rubber gloves to avoid contamination by old sponge and find an ancient Battenberg. I cut two slices for Fran and Caro (I don’t do out-of-date cake – major Germ Alert) and we sit in silence.

  The girls make a great play of separating the pink and yellow squares and peeling off long sticky strips of marzipan. It’s like watching a children’s television presenter trying to make something, except without the happy smiles and silly music.

  I check my watch. We’ve already wasted loads of time arguing so I take Fran upstairs and leave Caro smoking and casting the evil eye at Fran’s neat departing bottom in its flowery dress.

  Fran struts out of the kitchen with her nose stuck in the air.

  *

  Fran waits for me while I do my jumps on the stairs.

  I can see her biting her tongue and trying to be patient.

  It’s all a bit awkward.

  And sad.

  We used to chat away without pausing for breath in the back of the biology lesson, collecting detentions like Smarties. When we weren’t chatting we were texting and when we weren’t texting we were either on the phone every evening catching up on gossip or emailing each other in the dead of night.

  How can five years of chatting turn into this awkward moment of tension on the staircase?

  But that’s what’s happened.

  She follows me into my bedroom, glancing around at the gleaming white walls and bleached-white pillowcases, sniffing the sterilised air.

  ‘Still got the OCD, then?’ is all she says, but it’s enough.

  I flush and look down at my silver flip-flops.

  ‘Never mind that,’ I say. ‘I need your advice please. I’ve got this email from a boy and I don’t know whether to reply to it or not.’