When Toby came back with the food she’d made a start on sorting out the hangers into sizes. “Eloise is trying to bury me down here for the rest of the day,” she told him sheepishly. “I must be totally useless.”
“No you’re not,” said Toby, handing her a paper bag. “You’re just new. I started on Thursday, and in two days I’ve learnt where they keep the hangers. Big deal.”
“Thanks for this,” said Jo, opening her sandwich. “How much do I owe you?”
Toby looked at the ceiling. “Um…” Then he looked at Jo. “Can’t remember. Pay me some other time.”
He opened his own sandwich. “Come on, we can eat and work at the same time. We’ll clear this in a couple of hours.”
“Eloise’ll think I’m Superwoman,” said Jo.
“Maybe you are, but you just don’t know it.”
Jo watched him while he pulled hangers out of the box, his sandwich in his other hand. He was definitely the Good-Looking Boy she’d labelled him as at the interview. Separately, his features may have been relatively ordinary – thin lips that didn’t show his teeth much when he talked, a high-bridged nose, far apart eyes of an indeterminate colour – but together, in Jo’s eyes, they made something amazing.
He had the kind of hair that curls on the top and is straight at the sides. He was tall, but not so tall that he had to stoop to speak to her, and when he stood with his feet together there was a space between his thighs. Pascale wouldn’t even go to a movie unless the actor in it had that all-important space.
“I like these T-shirts,” he said. “I’m going to buy two.”
“Less twenty percent, of course.”
“Of course. And I’ve got my eye on a pair of jeans a customer returned, but Gordon doesn’t think he’ll put back on the rail. Might get them really cheap.”
Jo had finished her sandwich. She began to take T-shirts out of bags. “You like clothes, don’t you?”
“And you don’t?” His eyes looked amused, but interested. Closer up, she saw that they were greyish blue, with flecks of darker grey.
“Yes, I suppose I do. But usually, you know, boys…”
“Everyone I know likes clothes,” he said decisively. “Here, I’ve sorted all the men’s hangers. You get the XLs out of the bags, and I’ll hang them up.”
They worked in silence for a few minutes. Jo knew Toby was looking at her every now and then, as he turned between the boxes and the rails. She was glad she’d washed her hair, because he was looking down on the top of her head as she sat on the floor among the polythene bags. She wanted him to approve of her appearance, since he was a boy and she was a girl and there was no way round that situation. But she wasn’t sure if she wanted him actually to think beyond that, and consider her. If he did, he might be disappointed.
“How old are you, Jo?” he asked her conversationally. “Seventeen?”
“Sixteen,” she said, undoing another bag. “I’m just doing my GCSEs.”
“Oh. You seem…I mean, I’m eighteen.”
Jo handed him the T-shirt, considering him in the light of the Upper Sixth Form boys at school, who would be his age. “I would put you at older,” she said, “if that’s not an insult.”
“It’s a compliment!” he said, smiling a small, no-teeth-showing smile. He hung up the T-shirt and pondered, fiddling with his hair. “I can’t remember what it felt like to be sixteen. It’s been a long two years, one way and another.”
Jo took in breath to ask him what he meant, but was stopped by a noise from the doorway. Gordon stood there, one hand on his hip, the other holding the stockroom key card. “So this is where you’re hiding! Tobe, it’s like Harrods sale up there, and I’ve got a lunch appointment.” His gaze landed on Jo. “Are you all right, darling?” Then he looked at Toby again. “Come on, you. I haven’t got all day.”
Toby gave the finger to Gordon’s retreating back view. Jo smiled. “Thanks for your help.”
“That’s OK.” Suddenly, he bent down and, producing a pen from the pocket of his jeans, took her hand and wrote a number on the back of it. “See you later. Happy hanging.”
When he’d gone Jo stared at the number. She couldn’t stop herself grinning. Toby was eighteen, and worked for his living, and had given her his phone number. How sad did Pascale’s little drama over Ed and Tom look now?
Chapter Three
“Jo, darling…”
“Don’t call me darling.”
“Why not?” Tess removed her sunglasses and looked at Jo accusingly. “You’re my precious only daughter, aren’t you?”
“I just hate it, that’s why not.” Jo, who was sitting in the swing seat, braced her feet against the table, pushed off and swung as violently as she could. “Gay Gordon at work calls everyone darling. It’s meaningless.”
“I agree,” said Trevor. “I never use it myself.”
“We’d noticed.” Tess waved away the smoke from his cigarette. “You call your only child ‘Jo-girl’. And must you blow smoke all over her?”
“She’s used to it,” returned Trevor, glancing at Jo out of the corners of his eyes. Jo knew he was about to say that it was Tess who had left him, and he could do what he bloody well liked now she’d gone. She had to stop him. They were here to discuss Mord Davies’s business venture, and that was all.
“Anyway,” she said quickly to her mother, “what were you going to say, when you called me darling?”
Tess frowned. Her hair, darker than Jo’s but just as flat, was parted in the centre and drawn into a chignon. She called it her Charlotte Brontë look, though Jo could never fathom why anyone would want to look like a woman who had lived when hairstyles were at their most unflattering in the whole of history. The sunshine, which had brought out the garden furniture, also shone on Tess’s fake tan, strappy dress and pink sandals. Not very Charlotte Brontë.
“Can’t remember,” Tess said at last. She put her sunglasses back on and sipped her drink, but then she took them off again. “Oh, I know! I was going to ask you about school.”
Jo took the paper umbrella Tess always put in soft drinks out of her Coke and dropped it on the table. “What about school? I thought we were going to talk about Trevor’s new business.”
“Trevor and Mordecai!” said Tess, smiling. “You know what everyone’ll think, don’t you? Two men running a bed and breakfast?”
“You know what a bigoted craphead you sound, don’t you?” said Trevor. He picked up the paper umbrella. “I’ll use this for an ashtray, since your parents haven’t thought to provide me with one.”
Oh God, thought Jo.
Tess had gone a bit pink, and her nostrils twitched. She turned exaggeratedly to Jo. “What I wanted to ask,” she said testily, “is about your plans for next year. A Levels?”
“Give me a break, will you?” sighed Jo. “I haven’t even finished my GCSEs.”
“I know that, but shouldn’t you have decided by now what subjects you want to continue? Have you spoken to the teachers about it?”
“No.” Jo swung the seat again. “In fact…” She paused, and swung it again. “I’m not sure that I want to stay on at school at all.”
Tess slammed her fist down on the table, so unexpectedly that Jo spilt some Coke on her T-shirt. “I knew this would happen!”
“Oh, calm down, will you?” said Trevor wearily. “Get off the stage, for Christ’s sake.”
Tess looked at him with her eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Mr Responsible Parent. I turn my back for five minutes and you’ve messed everything up!” She sat back and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “And now you’ve given me a headache.”
“Well, you’ve given me a bum-ache,” said Trevor. He flicked some ash into the makeshift ashtray, not looking at Tess or Jo.
Tess had her hand over her face. There was petulance, but no real anger in her voice. “It’s up to me to do what’s best for Jo,” she said, “because you’re clearly incapable of it.”
“Why did you walk out on her, then?” r
etorted Trevor.
“I didn’t walk out on her. I walked out on you. And I wish I’d done it years ago!”
Jo leaned forward. “I’m here, remember? I’m listening to this!”
Tess took her hand away from her face. Her mouth had collapsed into a tight line, so that her lipstick was almost invisible. “We know that, darling,” she said to Jo, though she was still looking at Trevor. “But there’s no need for you to feel bad. This isn’t about you. It’s between me and your father.”
“It is about me!” The back of Jo’s neck felt sweaty. Impatiently, she swept her pony-tail up onto the top of her head and held it there with one hand. “It’s my decision whether I want to do A Levels, isn’t it?”
Trevor tried to say something, but Jo wouldn’t let him. “Look,” she said to Tess, “you can’t make me into the person you want, whatever that is, by trying to control me and then taking it out on Trevor because I don’t do what you want!”
Tess didn’t like this at all. Her face hardened, the muscles in her jaw puckering. “I do not do that, so stop fantasising, you…little girl! What do you know?”
“I know that I can’t stand you telling me what to do as if I were a little girl! Which I’m not!” This was so obvious Jo almost felt silly saying the words. Frustration was turning to anger. Everything – the stupid paper umbrellas, the way Trevor slumped in his chair brushing cigarette ash off his dirty jeans, Tess’s bra straps cutting into her shoulders, the mean, strained expression on her face – was making her angry. “I’m just me! For God’s sake, is that so hard to understand?”
Trevor poured himself another glass of wine and drank it in two gulps. Tess let out one of the “Sshk!” noises that she used to show disgust. Jo knew that they were doing these things because neither of them knew how to answer her.
Jo let go of her hair. Tonight, she decided, she would type ‘Moderate horror’ in the space next to Tess’s name. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Everything about Tess was scary enough to be in a horror film. Her talon nails and salon hair, the light that came into her eyes whenever any object of consumer desire was mentioned, the depth of her snobbishness and the shallowness of her taste. It was all unrelenting, tedious and clichéd, like the very worst straight-to-DVD slasher movie.
“OK, then,” said Trevor at last, holding the wine bottle upside down over his glass. A dribble came out. “Any more wine?” he asked, looking around the garden as if he expected a waiter to cross the lawn with a bottle wrapped in a white napkin.
Tess’s lipstick was visible again, but her expression was still hard-edged. She shrugged, put on her sunglasses and offered Trevor and Jo her profile.
“Anyway, Jo,” went on Trevor in a tolerant voice, “I think you’ve got to understand something too. Tess and I are very concerned about this idea of leaving school. Why exactly don’t you want to stay on? Perhaps if you give us a good enough reason, we’d – ”
“Trevor!” hissed Tess. “leave it for now!”
This was so predictable that Jo almost laughed. “Yeah, Trevor. Only speak when given permission, remember.”
Trevor sat forward suddenly, so that his face was about fifteen centimeters from Jo’s. His eyes looked pink round the edges. She could smell alcohol when he breathed out. “That’s enough!” he told her in a clipped whisper. “Don’t you be so bloody rude.”
Jo stood up. A picture of Toby silently writing his mobile number on her hand came into her head. She wished he could be there, in Granny and Grandad Pratt’s garden, right now. She wanted – she had quite possibly never wanted anything so much – to be with him. Just to be with him, wherever he was.
“I’m going now,” she announced, clenching her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms.
She found herself imagining the little crescent-shaped indentations they would leave. “I was about to talk to you about leaving school, but you can’t be bothered to listen because you’re too busy playing some insane game.”
Trevor pushed back his chair, but Jo held up her hand. “And if you say, ‘I’ll drive you, Jo girl’, I’ll say ‘five glasses of wine, Trevor!’ I’ve got my front door key. I’ll go on the train.”
* * * * * *
On the train Jo thought of crying, so that she could have a little drama-queen moment in public like Pascale would. But she decided against it. She didn’t want to behave like Pascale. Boy magnet Pascale might be, which was useful sometimes, but she had her drawbacks. Ever since Saturday, everything she had said implied that the only reason Toby had been so nice to Jo was that he hadn’t met Pascale…yet. It was inevitable that he would, since anyone could come into the shop. But it was up to Jo to sort out what didn’t happen next.
She took her phone out of her pocket. Two messages waiting. They would be from Holly and Pascale, asking her what was going on tonight. It was a warm evening, and Ed was working at Burgerblitz again. He’d taken on more hours since study leave had started. Jo didn’t look at either of the messages.
Her insides jumped about a little as she scrolled down to Toby’s number. A thousand times this week she’d looked at it, and a thousand times she hadn’t dialled it. Supposing, for a laugh, he’d put someone else’s number on her hand? His girlfriend’s? Never assume a boy hasn’t already got a girlfriend, Pascale was always reminding her. They never throw out dirty water until they’ve got clean. But this time, the thousand-and-first time, Jo had to risk it.
“Hello?” Well, it wasn’t a girl. She couldn’t tell if it was him, though.
“Is that Toby? It’s Jo.”
He paused before he spoke. He definitely paused, as if he was thinking, “What the…?” Or maybe he knew more than one girl called Jo. Then he said, “Jo!”
“That’s right.” Her voice was actually shaking. She couldn’t breathe properly. “You gave me your number.”
“How’re you doing?”
“You sound like Joey from Friends.”
“What?”
Shut up, Jo. Not everyone’s as sad as you. “I’m OK. I just wondered…”
“Are you free tonight?” he asked. “Where are you?”
Jo’s breath disappeared completely. But she managed to tell him that she was on the train.
“What station are you getting off at?”
“Kingsgrove.”
“What time will you be there?”
“In about twenty minutes.”
“I’ll meet you there. See ya.”
When he’d hung up Jo sat limply, resting her head against the window, allowing her heartbeat to calm. Never phone a boy, Pascale said. But it had worked, hadn’t it? He’d obviously just been sitting there, wondering what to do with his Wednesday evening, when suddenly the phone rang, and there was the Saturday girl he’d given his number to. What did Pascale know?
She tried to conjure Toby’s face in her memory. She tried to picture the scene in the stockroom. She’d stood there, eating her BLT, with him saying he liked the T-shirts and was going to buy two. She’d tried to watch him without looking as if she was watching him, so she could report accurately to Holly and Pascale.
She could see it all perfectly clearly in her mind’s eye. But oddly, since it was only a few days ago, she couldn’t see Toby’s face. All she could think of was the way he’d filled up the place that would have been empty if he hadn’t been there. Was that what people meant when they talked about someone’s ‘presence’? Or was that just a load of nonsense? But it wasn’t so much what he looked like, it was what he was.
Three minutes from Kingsgrove she remembered that she had a Coke stain on her T-shirt and no make up on, and that her hair was in a pony tail. She shook it out and consulted her reflection in the window. Disaster. She combed it. Worse.
“Would you not do that in public, please? It’s most unhygienic,” said the woman opposite. She was about forty, with diamond rings on her fingers. “I mean, what are you going to do with the hair in the comb? Drop it on the floor, I suppose?”
Jo went pink
. “Sorry.” She put the comb, hair and all, in her pocket. Then the train stopped and she had to get out. She made sure she hit the woman’s shoulder with the corner of her bag, though. “Sorry!” she said again.
She ran along the platform and over the bridge, dodging briefcases and backpacks. Her heart felt as if something were compressing it into the size and consistency of a blob of chewing gum. She put her ticket in the machine, scanning the station entrance. And there he was.
“Hey,” he said cheerfully. “Where do you want to go? Cinema?”
“I haven’t got enough money. I’ve just come from my mum’s, and I had to spend what I had on the train fare.”
“I’ll pay. Or we could just get something to eat. Have you eaten?”
“No. That would be good. But I haven’t got – ”
“I’ll pay, I told you. Do you like curry?”
Throughout this exchange Jo had felt hot and self-conscious. Toby was clean. He was dressed in the Rose and Reed clothes he’d got on discount. He was neatly shaven, and smelled of aftershave or shower gel or something. Her own appearance was gross in comparison. But when she’d called him, she’d just thought she was going to talk to him on the phone.
“Look, I’ll go home first and change, and get some money,” she told him as they came out of the station. “I mean, you paid for my lunch on Saturday. I just live along the road. I won’t be long, I promise.”
Toby leaned on the railing outside the station. “I’ll wait here, shall I? I don’t particularly want to meet your parents right now.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t!” Jo assured him. “I live with my dad, and he’s not in.”
He gave her the kind of look that Jo recognized from a thousand screen close-ups. His mouth and eyes competed with each other for which could look the more amused/sexy/pleased. She could almost hear the director: “Gimme more funny! Gimme more sexy! That’s it, and look pleased at the same time!” Boys were just conceited, everyone knew that. But Toby did look nice, even with The Look all over his face.
Moderate Violence Page 4
