I stood still, clutching the stupid banana. ‘Bananas are considered monkey food, but monkeys actually get severe tummy upsets if they eat lots of bananas,’ I gabbled, trying to distract her. I launched into a ludicrous riff on bananas, from their excellent potassium content to their role in slapstick comedy, while Mum made us a cup of tea. Then she sat down at the table and beckoned me to join her. I still kept up the banana-gabble, picking off all the stringy bits and whittling it with a knife, turning it into a long white woman.
‘Look, don’t mess about with it, eat it! That bunch cost ninety-nine pee. It’s meant to nourish you. It’s not blooming playdough,’ said Mum.
I put down the banana and knife. Mum didn’t sound cross, exactly. She would be extremely cross if she knew I’d bunked off school. She couldn’t know. So what was this all about? I took a quick peep at her. She was glancing at me equally furtively. We both giggled uneasily. Mum was bright-eyed and very pink, as if a fresh wind was blowing through the kitchen.
‘I’m thinking of going out Sunday morning, Syl,’ she said in a sudden blurt. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. You can have a lie-in and then go round to Carl’s. And I was wondering if it would be OK for you to have Sunday lunch there too.’ Jules says it’s fine with her. She’s doing a roast so there’ll be heaps for everyone.’
‘So where are you going, Mum?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘I thought I might go swimming,’ said Mum.
I stared at her. I’d never known Mum go swimming in her life before. I didn’t even think she had a swimming costume. The whole world was going crazy. First Carl wanted to go bowling, now Mum wanted to go swimming. Was Lucy going to take up lap dancing? Would Miranda join the church choir?
‘Can you swim, Mum?’ I said.
‘Yes. Well. I used to be able to. I can do breast stroke OK.’
Mum did little swimming movements with her hands. She looked nervous. I imagined her, pale and podgy, being splashed by a lot of screaming kids.
‘I’ll come with you, Mum. What’s this swimming idea then? Do you want to get fit or something?’
‘No, it’s … “or something’’,’ said Mum. ‘I’m not going to the local baths, it’s this club up in London. Well, I think I am. Maybe it’s a totally ludicrous idea and I’ll give up on it altogether.’ She put her hands over her face, shaking her head. ‘I think I’ve gone a bit mad. I know I’m acting crazy. I just can’t help it though. I’m so sick of being sensible.’ She made an odd little noise. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying.
‘Mum?’ I gently prised her hands away from her face.
She smiled at me, though her eyes were wet. ‘The thing is, Sylvie, I’m seeing this man on Sunday.’
‘Goodness!’ I said. ‘Why? Who is it? Some guy at work?’
‘Do me a favour! They’re all young enough to be my sons! No, this guy – look, swear not to tell anyone, not even Carl?’
‘OK.’
‘I haven’t actually met him yet but I talk to him on the Internet.’
‘Mum!’
‘Don’t look so shocked. It’s not like one of those weird chat rooms. It’s a website called “Not Waving But Drowning’’. I read about it somewhere and then I looked it up. It’s a kind of humorous helpline thing.’
‘About drowning? You’re not going swimming!’
‘No, no, silly! It’s based on that Stevie Smith poem, “Not Waving But Drowning’’. It’s always been one of my favourites – it’s quietly desperate in a funny sort of way and I suppose there have been times when I’ve felt quietly desperate too. I’m fed up at work, I hate having to have lodgers in the house, even poor Miss Miles, I hate never going out, I just do the chores and slump in front of the television. I’ve felt like my whole life’s over and I’m not yet forty.’ Mum took a deep breath. ‘Sooo, it was strangely comforting accessing this website and finding hundreds of other people just as desperate as me. More so. Some of their stories would break your heart.’
‘If they’re true,’ I said.
Mum blinked. ‘Well. Yes. I suppose there’s always a risk some are making it all up. But some – well, you seriously couldn’t imagine such situations!’
‘What have you got yourself into, Mum?’
‘Nothing! I’ve just made contact with a few people. We have a little chat on-line, that’s all. Some can be a bit tedious but some are a real laugh. There’s this one guy, Gerry, who’s really sweet, and he’s especially good at sending himself up. We sort of hit it off right from the start. You know the way you’re immediately on the same wavelength?’ Mum looked at me eagerly, eyes shining.
‘Mum, you’ve never even met, you said.’
‘Well, that’s it. We’re going to meet on Sunday and go swimming. I know it’s a bit of a weird place for a first date.’
I couldn’t help wincing.
‘Don’t be like that, Sylvie.’
‘I’m not like anything, Mum. I’m just worried about you. I’m scared you might get hurt. He could literally hurt you. What if he’s some raving nutter with a knife?’
‘I don’t think that’s very likely.’
‘He could drag you down a dark alley and rape you.’
‘Oh, Sylvie, don’t be silly. And that’s especially not likely. I don’t think he could drag me anywhere. You see, the thing is, Gerry’s got this disability.’
‘Oh God.’ I knew it was awful of me but I immediately imagined two heads and no arms and legs.
Mum frowned at me. ‘He had a stroke two years ago—’
‘Is he old?’
‘No, just a few years older than me. He was a builder, with a wife and two kids. He worked really hard, he did well, set up his own building company, bought the big house, posh car, had the fancy lifestyle. Then he got this pretty young girlfriend—’
‘Mum!’
‘I know, he’s not proud of it at all. Anyway, he went off with the girlfriend and two months later he had a massive stroke. His whole life fell apart. The girlfriend left, the wife didn’t want to take him back, he was in hospital and then spent three months in a stroke unit. He’s OK now though. He’s just left with a weakness down his right side, so he walks with a pronounced limp, but apart from that he’s fine. Well, so he says. He’s very into keeping as fit as possible and he goes swimming a lot at this private London club. He was describing it, all marble pillars, and I said it sounded fantastic so he’s invited me to join him.’
‘Oh, Mum! Are you sure you know what you’re doing? What if he’s seriously creepy?’
‘Well, what’s going to happen to me in a swimming pool? If I don’t like him then we’ll just call it a day. He’s invited me for lunch too, but I can always say no. I want to give it a go though.’
‘Aren’t you scared, going to meet a total stranger?’
‘Of course I am,’ said Mum. ‘Part of me doesn’t believe I’m really doing this. But what the hell, Sylvie. It’s better than being stuck at home feeling sorry for myself.’
‘Well, good for you,’ I said, though it was a struggle to get the words out.
I still thought Mum was mad. Or maybe I just felt unsettled. My mum was going out on a date before I’d ever gone on a date myself. No, wait. Was Friday night’s bowling with Carl a date? Who was Carl really asking out anyway, me or Miranda?
I FELT GUILTY about Lucy, so I bought her a bar of chocolate and a copy of Heat magazine. She thawed considerably. We had a long conversation about the Bear Factory and all the different furry variations and cute outfits on offer. I didn’t tell her that Miranda had treated me to Albert Bear.
Meanwhile Miranda was busy telling everyone that she and I were going bowling with Carl and Football Paul. Lucy couldn’t help overhearing.
‘I’ve known you and Carl since first school! Why are you going bowling with Miranda and not me?’
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t possibly be truthful and tell her that Miranda was much more fun. I tried telling tactful fibs, pretending that I was su
re Lucy would hate bowling, and that this football guy would probably be so boring it would be a penance to be in his company.
I didn’t sound convincing. Lucy iced over like the Alps.
‘Well, if you’d sooner go around with Miranda then that’s fine with me,’ she said.
It obviously wasn’t fine at all. It was very uncomfortable sitting next to her in class when she was barely speaking to me.
Miranda wasn’t very sympathetic. ‘I should think you’d be thrilled to bits not to be friends with that boring old Lucy,’ she said. ‘You should see the way she looks at me now, like I’m some sleazy tart who’s lured you away from the straight and narrow.’
‘Well, you have,’ I said.
We had a silly poking-finger fight. It started to get quite painful. Then Miranda coiled her little finger round mine.
‘Hey hey! We’re best friends now, remember?’
I thought Carl would be very pleased that Miranda was keen to go bowling, but he seemed totally taken aback when I told him.
‘I was only suggesting it. I didn’t mean it definitely,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s not such a good idea. I don’t know how Miranda and Paul would get on. I think she’s way too eccentric and gabby and flamboyant for him. He’s basically quite a conventional guy.’
‘So why do you like him so?’ I said, puzzled. ‘You don’t like convention. And you certainly don’t like football.’
‘I don’t like him “so”,’ Carl said crossly. ‘He’s just this guy in my class, that’s all.’
‘OK.’
‘And I truly don’t think it would work, the four of us. We’re all too different. So put Miranda off, OK?’
But the next evening Carl came round to my house, still in his purple grammar uniform. He was usually pin-neat, but not today. His shirt was hanging out, his sweater sleeves rolled up, his regulation black school shoes badly scuffed and laced with bright-red cord. His cheeks were bright red too.
‘Are we still on for Friday night?’ he asked eagerly.
‘You said you didn’t think it was a good idea!’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve changed my mind. I was having this chat with Paul and he was saying all over again that he’d like to go bowling. He said it would be fun to go bowling with a couple of girls and I said, “No problem, I’ll fix it.”’
‘Well, make up your mind, Mr Fixit. Stop blowing hot and cold.’
I couldn’t work it out. Carl seemed really keyed up about Friday night – and yet he hadn’t seemed nervous about going to Miranda’s party last Friday. He’d been totally cool about it. I’d been the one chopping and changing, not sure whether I wanted to go or not.
Miranda was the only one of us totally committed to the bowling date. I couldn’t help letting her think it had been my idea: I’d casually suggested including Football Paul just so she’d be particularly pleased with me. She was pleased too.
‘Mind you, if he turns out to be cute but boring I’ll swap you him for Carl,’ she said mischievously.
I spent more than an hour getting ready after school on Friday, though I ended up wearing exactly the same outfit, my jeans and Mum’s black sweater. It would be too hot again but it seemed more sophisticated than any of my T-shirts. It draped pleasingly over my chest too, making it look as if there were a proper pair of breasts underneath. I wondered if Mum might be planning to wear it for her date on Sunday. I hoped I wouldn’t get it all sweaty under the arms.
I felt a little sweaty when I went to call for Carl. He seemed anxious too, fussing because Jules had thrown out some old army-style sweatshirt he wanted to wear. He was wearing his oldest jeans too, the pair that was torn at one knee and fraying at the ends.
‘So what’s this new look, Scruff Boy?’ I said, ruffling his hair.
‘Get off! I’ve been trying to gel it into place.’
‘I don’t like it gelled. It looks much better all shiny and floppy.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe I’m sick of the little choirboy look.’ Carl raked his hair irritably. ‘Right, shall we go? I’ve got heaps of cash by the way. Tonight’s on me.’
‘Thanks, Carl.’
Jules came to say goodbye. She gave both of us a happy hug. ‘Have fun, darlings,’ she said. ‘Give us a ring if you’re going to be really late.’ She beamed at us both. ‘Happy bowling!’
We set off a little self-consciously.
‘I don’t even know how to bowl,’ I said.
‘Simple. Roll the ball at the pins. That’s basically it.’
‘So why the big deal?’
‘It’s the, like, social occasion, innit?’ said Carl, mock-Cockney. ‘It’s where you hang out with your mates and pull the birds, right?’
‘Well, you’re doing all right, definitely, seeing as you’ve got your mate all lined up and two birds.’
Carl grinned at me and checked his wrist-watch. ‘We’re meeting them outside at seven thirty? We’re going to be ever so early. What do you want to do? We could always go and have a coffee or something.’
‘Or a drink.’
‘Or a meal.’
‘Or go night-clubbing.’
‘Or take the train to the coast.’
‘No, take the plane to …’
‘Paris?’
‘No, Venice. We’ll go to see the glass-blowers on Murano and buy the most beautiful chandelier.’
‘We’ll hang it in the palace and hold a grand ball and dance until the small hours.’
‘And meanwhile Miranda and Paul will be down the bowling alley, rolling the balls at the pins.’
We laughed a little too uproariously. Then we were silent. We could see the alley at the end of the road, its blue and orange neon sign flashing hypnotically. We trudged towards it.
‘We don’t have to meet up with them tonight,’ I said. ‘We could just slope off and leave them to it. We don’t have to go off to anywhere exotic. We could simply go home and hide out in the Glass Hut, just being us.’
‘I know. Stop tempting me,’ said Carl.
‘You don’t like bowling, do you?’
‘No. I can’t stand it.’
‘So why did you start all this?’
Carl sighed. ‘I suppose I wanted to impress Paul.’
I was baffled. I’d never known Carl try to impress anyone before. I imagined Paul in my mind, tall and athletic, in football strip, with one of those handsome, chiselled, square-jawed faces. I tried hard but I couldn’t project any expression onto him. He lumbered stiffly through my thoughts like a soldier doll, tanned and plastic and ready for action.
‘Hey, he’s there already! He’s even earlier than us!’ said Carl, suddenly hurrying, almost running.
I squinted at all the guys hanging around outside the bowling alley, lolling against the wall, jumping up and down the steps, sitting on the wall kicking their feet. None was a likely candidate for Football Paul. Then a boy started waving – and Carl waved back.
So this was Paul, this ordinary-looking boy in a hoodie and faded jeans and scuffed trainers. He was a little taller than Carl and a little broader. He had darkish-blond hair, gelled and spiky. He had a few freckles across his nose and cheeks and a grin that showed a lot of his teeth. I couldn’t decide if he was good looking or not. He didn’t seem a patch on Carl.
They were messing around together, Carl and Paul, doing a weird elaboration of a high-five routine, and then playing some crazy kind of kung fu, chopping thin air and making daft sounds. I stared at them. I’d never seen Carl acting the fool like this – he was normally way too cool. He saw me staring.
‘Hey, Paul, this is my friend Sylvie,’ he said.
Why couldn’t he say girlfriend?
‘Hello, Paul,’ I said.
He held out his hand. I thought he was still mucking around kung fu-ing so I kept my own arm pinned to my side. He withdrew his arm, looking disconcerted. He’d simply been trying to shake my hand. I felt awful but it seemed too late to start all over again. I nodded at him instead, smiling manically to show
I wanted to be friends.
‘Where’s Miranda?’ said Paul.
He was eyeing me up and down, obviously hoping Miranda would be more promising.
‘She’s meeting us here. We’re still a bit early,’ I said.
It was torture waiting for Miranda. Carl and Paul and I made stilted three-way conversation for a little while but this soon tailed away into awkward silence. So Carl asked Paul about some match he’d played that afternoon and they were off speaking boring football-lingo. I was surprised that Carl could talk it. He was a little too sycophantic, going on and on about Paul’s astonishingly amazing brilliant performance, like he’d done complicated brain surgery while whistling the Hallelujah chorus. He’d just run around a field kicking a ball, for heaven’s sake. Carl actually used the word ‘awesome’.
I stared at him, wondering if he was actually sending Paul up. No, he seemed serious. I raised one eyebrow at him. He didn’t raise one back. He edged away, practically turning his back on me, standing in a little huddle with Paul, cutting me out. He was treating me the way he treated Lucy. I was so hurt and cross I almost stomped off home by myself, but I felt I had to wait for Miranda.
We all waited and waited and waited.
‘Is this Miranda actually going to turn up?’ Paul said, turning to me.
‘Yes, of course she is,’ I said, though I was starting to wonder myself.
Miranda was ten minutes late.
I checked my mobile for messages. I sent Miranda a text, then another.
Fifteen minutes. Twenty.
I tried ringing her but she was engaged. Maybe she was sitting cosily at home, ringing Alice or Raj or Andy, having sensibly decided to give the bowling date a miss.
Twenty-five minutes.
‘She’s not coming,’ said Paul, frowning. He obviously wasn’t used to being stood up.
‘Is she mucking us about?’ Carl said crossly, glaring at me as if it was somehow my fault.
‘How do I know?’ I said.
I tried giving her one last ring on her mobile – and got through to her.
‘Hi! Why are you phoning? I’m here,’ said Miranda.
Kiss Page 9
