Girls, Guilty But Somehow Glorious

by Sue Limb

  ‘Bummer!’ said Donut, and sighed unpleasantly.

  Suddenly we arrived at the hospital. We drove right up to casualty and helped Chloe out. Then we went inside and registered. Chloe was hanging on to Beast all the time, even though I was there and quite willing to support her. She clearly fancied him like hell. I was disgusted with her – or would be, once I was sure she’d escaped serious injury.

  .

  .

  7

  SATURDAY 10.28 p.m.

  Heart stopping-moment in casualty

  We sat in a corner of casualty. Chloe sat between me and Beast. He had his arm round her shoulders. I thought this was a bit of a liberty. So I threw my arm round her shoulders, too. That meant, however, that what I’d done was throw my arm round his arm. He peeped at me behind her back and winked. My God! What a two-timer! He was already flirting with her best friend, literally behind her back!

  I had other, more pressing problems: Donut was sitting next to me and his huge thigh was pressing sideways against mine. It wasn’t all that different from being snuggled by a fat dog wearing denim. I wriggled grumpily.

  ‘Shove up a bit, can’t you?’ I said.

  ‘Sorry, babe,’ said Donut. ‘Crowded in here, innit?’

  It was. People were pouring in all the time. Guys with bleeding heads, women with dodgy collarbones, an old lady with a black eye. They all looked worse than Chloe. I wondered how long it would be before she gave up, admitted she was the least hurt of anybody there, and limped off home.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a laughing baby. People looked round. Oh no! It was my phone! I have a laughing baby ringtone. I regret it sometimes. I dived into my bag and grabbed it. A number I didn’t recognise showed on the display.

  ‘Hello?’ I said. On all sides, people were watching.

  ‘Hi,’ said a deep sexy male voice. ‘Could I speak to Jane Elliott, please?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Wrong number.’ Thank God. I didn’t fancy taking a phone call here.

  ‘Uh, wait,’ said the voice. ‘Is that Africa?’ For a split second my memory banks tried to warn me that I ought to know what the guy was talking about. But I was so aware of all the strangers watching and listening that I couldn’t concentrate.

  ‘No?’ I shook my head sarcastically as if I was being called by a retard. ‘It’s England? I think you must have a wrong number.’

  ‘Sorry. I was hoping to speak to Africa Stevens or Jane Elliott about an advert – some kind of weekend project. My name’s Matthew Kesterton.’

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry! Of course!’ My heart almost leapt out of my mouth and impaled itself on one of the coathooks by the door. My alias was so damn subtle, I’d completely forgotten it! For an instant there I hadn’t even remembered that Chloe was Africa! I was so distracted by all this Beast and hospital stuff, our ad had gone completely out of my head. I felt myself blushing furiously, and struggled to my feet.

  ‘Just a second, sorry …’ I said. ‘I do remember something about this. I’m not Jane, but I could take a message for her, or even maybe …’ I weaved my way towards the exit.

  My mind was racing. What could I say and not sound a total imbecile? Matthew certainly had a charismatic voice, and I didn’t want to alienate him totally before we’d even had a chance to inspect him.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said, as I reached the relative privacy of the corridor. ‘I’m Jane’s aunt, and I’m in a hospital casualty department. There’s been a bit of an accident, and I seem to have picked up Jane’s phone by mistake. Wait – she’s round here somewhere – there she is! Jane!’ I called out to myself, hoping no one was watching. The corridor was semi-deserted, thank God.

  ‘There’s a call for you, Jane,’ I said to myself. ‘I seem to have picked up your phone …’ Then I did a bit of dramatic rustling, swapped the phone to my other hand, dug deep and produced a different voice.

  ‘Hi!’ I said. ‘This is Jane!’ I should never have gone squeaky. I sounded like a demented glove puppet on a children’s TV show from the 1960s.

  ‘Sorry to ring at an inconvenient time,’ said Matthew. ‘I hope nobody’s seriously hurt?’

  ‘Oh no!’ I squeaked. ‘It’s OK! It’s my Aunt Lizzie’s friend Bertie.’ Where in the world did that name come from? ‘He fell off a ladder. He was painting her ceiling. He thinks he might have broken his ankle.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Matthew. ‘I’m really sorry.’ He was so sympathetic and polite, bless him! Lavishing all his concern on a Bertie who never existed! ‘Can he move his foot at all?’ asked Matthew. I was getting a bit irritated now. Did Matthew have to pry quite so much into the personal medical records of somebody? Even if that somebody was fictitious?

  ‘Yes, he can move it,’ I said, so squeakily my throat literally hurt. ‘To be honest, I think it’s just sprained. We can talk about the project, no problem.’ No problem apart from ruptured vocal cords, anyway.

  ‘So this project,’ said Matthew. ‘What is it, exactly?’

  At this point I realised that Chloe and I had given no thought whatever to the fictitious ‘project’ we were going to be pretending to interview the guys about. For an instant I was tempted to shriek an insane noise down the phone or run into the nearest loo and hurl it down the toilet. But Matthew’s sexy voice kept me focused – just.

  ‘It’s to do with, well, uhhhh,’ (I was thinking on my feet, now) ‘did you see that programme called The Life Laundry?’

  ‘No,’ said Matthew. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No, no,’ I insisted. ‘It was about, you know, helping people to reorganise their lives, y’know? That’s what this project’s all about.’

  ‘What’s the rate of pay?’ Matthew asked – rather cheekily, I thought. Though I suppose if I was applying for a job it would be uppermost in my mind.

  ‘Uhhh, £5.60 per hour,’ I said. There was a silence. Matthew was evidently disappointed. I didn’t want him to be put off. ‘That’s the starting wage, obviously, but you know, it could go up.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Matthew. He was sounding slightly less than thrilled. I had to keep him interested.

  ‘Look, can you come for an interview?’ I asked.

  ‘When?’ enquired Matthew.

  ‘Well, how about – tomorrow afternoon?’ I was flying by the seat of my pants here.

  ‘What time?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘Well, could you make, say 2 p.m.?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Matthew. I loved the way he said sure. The guy was just dripping testosterone, you could tell. I gave him Chloe’s address, because I knew that tomorrow afternoon my parents were going to be hanging about and doing things at home.

  I didn’t want my dad Trying to Be Amusing or my mum hovering nearby with a Terribly Concerned look on her face while we were trying to conduct a serious interview. Also we hadn’t told them about the ad, and I just knew my mum would disapprove. Quite apart from the fact that I would have to be a squeaky Jane for interview purposes, and Chloe was going to have to become Africa.

  It would be much easier to do it at Chloe’s. Her dad’s always in Dubai, and we could easily get rid of her mum for a few hours by telling her a strange star had appeared in the east, or something.

  ‘OK,’ said Matthew with thrilling briskness. ‘I’ll be there.’

  Seconds after I rang off, Donut appeared. He seemed even more repulsive after my conversation with Matthew.

  ‘Your mate’s thirsty,’ said Donut, approaching the drinks machine. I inspected the merchandise.

  ‘I’ll get her a sports drink,’ suggested Donut. ‘Give ’er a bit of a hit, like. High energy.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Chloe only drinks water or juice.’

  Donut laughed in a jeering kind of way. I selected still mineral water and put the money in the machine.

  ‘What’s yer name again?’ enquired Donut with graceful etiquette.

  ‘Zoe,’ I said. ‘Zoe …’ Wait! I so didn’t want to reveal my true identity, but my recent experie
nce of aliases had left me somewhat bruised and tired.

  All the same, it was essential Donut didn’t know my real name. I had to think of a fictional surname, but my brain kind of jammed and I could only think of Hitler. Even someone as stupid as Donut might smell a rat if I said I was called Zoe Hitler. ‘Zoe … Berlin.’ It was the names-as-geography thing again. I’d finally succumbed to it.

  ‘Cool, so, uh – whatyer doin’ tomorrow night, Zoe?’ asked Donut, looming over me like some enchanted wardrobe.

  ‘Babysitting,’ I said firmly.

  ‘For your little bruvvers again?’

  ‘No – the people down the road.’ This was true. I had to babysit tomorrow for the terrifying Norman twins. My heart sank at the thought. Being stuck in casualty, chatted up by a hideous hulk was bad enough, but it was as nothing compared to the torment routinely dished out by the dreaded Normans.

  ‘Where d’you live?’ asked Donut. It was absolutely vital I didn’t reveal my real address. I just knew he’d be round there, parking his heap of metal and slouching menacingly up the path to our helpless, innocent house.

  What sort of address should I invent? Should I go for somewhere posh, so he’d feel intimidated and back off in case my dad, Lord Berlin, horsewhipped him? But if I was posh, he might be even more turned on. He might think, Hmmmm. Pull this little darlin’ and you’re laughing, mate. Skiing holidays, Porsche, the lot.

  On the other hand, if I invented a life of picturesque poverty he might think that because I was trailer trash, he could do what he liked with me and nobody would care. Or even worse, he might make it his mission to rescue me from the mean streets and come round with charitable bags of hamburgers and his mum’s cast-off clothing.

  ‘I live …’ I hesitated. I was hopelessly poised between the devil and the deep blue sea. ‘I live in … Blue Street.’

  ‘Blue Street?’ frowned Donut. ‘Where the ’ell’s that?’

  ‘It’s in Devilsham,’ I said. ‘A bit out of town. Over towards Deeping. In fact, we live on a farm. Way out in the sticks.’

  ‘A country girl, eh?’ said Donut, horribly charmed by my ludicrous lies. ‘Got any haystacks where you live?’ I would have backed off, but the wall was behind me. ‘Tell you what,’ said Donut tenderly, ‘you’re a well fit bird. Fantastic earrings.’ And he lifted a podgy finger and touched my sacred hoop earrings! Earrings given me last Christmas by my sacred sister, Tamsin, reading social sciences at Waveney Wessex College!

  I edged sideways to get away from the podgy finger, and then to my utter astonishment, a face appeared behind him. A pale face. A handsome face. A haunted face. It was Oliver Wyatt! Strolling down the corridor towards us and carrying, bizarrely, a bunch of lilies. Our eyes locked. My heart reared up like a demented humpbacked whale, butted me ferociously in the tonsils, then plunged back with a thunderous lunge towards the deep blue sea, which lay somewhere in the region of my pelvic bones.

  Oliver Wyatt looked at me with perfect indifference, because, of course, he had absolutely no idea who I was. He did, however, recognise Donut’s back, and tapped on the thuggish shoulder with magnificent, imperious disdain.

  ‘Donut!’ he said. Donut turned round – still, catastrophically, holding on to my earring. Oh no! Oliver was going to assume I was some kind of trashy hanger-on of Donut! I had to make it clear that for him to fondle my earrings was completely out of order.

  ‘I hate them!’ I said treacherously (and quite painfully), tearing off my earrings. ‘They’re so not me! You can have them if you like! Give them to your girlfriend!’ OK, it was obvious. But I was desperate. So desperate, my words had come out in a horrible chavvy shriek.

  Oliver looked down at me with mild astonishment, as if I had picked my nose or possibly hawked and spat on the hospital floor.

  ‘Nah, leave it!’ said Donut cheerily, refusing the earrings. He noticed I was staring at Oliver with foolish longing. If only Oliver would swoop down and rescue me right now! Was his white horse tied up in the hospital car park? It was time for him to act, dammit!

  ‘This is …’ Donut struggled to remember my name. ‘Jade Burley.’

  ‘Jade Burley?’ I snapped. ‘I’m Zoe Morris, you idiot!’ I shot Donut a contemptuous glance and turned to Oliver. ‘What’s your name, in case he gets it wrong?’ I enquired, in what I hoped was an arch, witty and sophisticated manner.

  ‘Sir George Plunkett,’ said Oliver. Donut laughed a horrid snorting laugh.

  ‘He isn’t!’ chortled Donut. ‘He’s Olly Wyatt, innit? Who’s the flowers for, Olly? Some fit bird havin’ your baby or summink?’

  Oliver looked offended and slightly embarrassed. ‘My mother’s just had an operation,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Her mate’s bust her ankle,’ said Donut, indicating the nearby casualty ward with an oafish toss of the head. Oliver frowned slightly and looked sympathetic.

  ‘Hope it’s OK,’ he said to me. For an instant he looked right down into my face. His eyes were deepest brown. It was as if a chocolate fountain was raining down on me.

  ‘Oh, she’ll be OK,’ I said. ‘Chloe’s just got weak ankles. I hope your mum gets better soon.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said Oliver. ‘So – Donut. Are you coming to the Next Big Thing tomorrow?’ The Next Big Thing is an annual party, just for the sixth form.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Donut. He looked down at me. ‘Are you comin’, darlin’? Or are you gonna be tied up milking the pigs?’

  ‘I can’t come,’ I said, with what I hoped was waspish distaste. ‘I’m not in the sixth form.’

  ‘Wait …’ Oliver’s eyes had turned in my direction. ‘Pigs … ?’

  ‘Jade lives on a farm,’ said Donut, putting on a stupid yokel voice. ‘’Er’s a milkmaid or summat.’

  ‘Really?’ said Oliver, staring at me with something approaching fascination. ‘You live on a farm, Jade?’

  ‘Zoe,’ I said. Although why I wanted him to get my name right, in the midst of so many lies, I really can’t say. ‘Well … yeah.’

  ‘What livestock have you got?’ asked Oliver.

  A random menagerie of weird animals stampeded through my brain. Antelopes, giraffes, the snow leopard.

  ‘Oh, the usual,’ I said. ‘You know. Pigs, cows, sheep and stuff.’

  ‘Really?’ Oliver looked more and more interested. ‘A mixed farm? Is it organic, by any chance?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ I had a feeling this would turn Oliver on even more. ‘Organic as it gets. Dung everywhere.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Oliver. ‘I’m going to do vet science at college. I’m looking for a farm to work on in the holidays.’ My heart performed a kind of sizzling somersault of horror and delight. Oliver wanted to work on my farm! Except I didn’t have one!

  He reached inside his jacket and fished out a card. He handed it to me. Our fingers briefly touched. I would never wash my hand again.

  ‘That’s my number,’ he said.

  I scrabbled in my bag and gave him my numbers too. My fingers brushed against his again. A thrill ran from my fingertips right down my back. This was weird, magic stuff.

  ‘Ask your dad if he needs extra help in the holidays, and give me a ring?’ he suggested.

  I nodded dumbly.

  Oliver looked eagerly down at me. His eyes were shining. But I knew it was only at the thought of my fabulous pigs. ‘Well,’ said Oliver, with perfect aristocratic grace, ‘got to go. Bye, Jade.’

  ‘Zoe,’ I said. ‘Bye.’

  ‘See you, mate,’ said Donut.

  And Oliver was gone. I wasn’t sure whether it was the worst evening of my life so far, or the best. I’d spoken to Oliver! Actually had a conversation with him! And there was a way to spend the whole of the holidays with him! All I had to do was acquire a farm. I’d certainly have to put in a lot of babysitting over the next few weeks.

  ‘C’mon, then,’ grunted Donut. ‘Your mate’ll be dyin’ of thirst.’

  Good God! Chloe’s dri
nk! I’d almost forgotten Chloe existed. In my imagination I was romping in the hay with Oliver.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Chloe I’d actually spoken to him. But I knew I’d have to wait until after her X-ray. And after we’d managed to get rid of Beast and Donut. If we ever did manage to get rid of them.

  .

  .

  8

  SATURDAY 11.08 p.m.

  Late-night heartache in the rain …

  As I entered the waiting room, Chloe was hopping towards me. She had that intense look on her face which I have come to dread.

  ‘Gimme the water!’ she hissed. ‘I’m parched!’ I handed the bottle over. She unscrewed and swigged.

  ‘It was a rip-off,’ I said. ‘80p. Robbery.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll pay you tomorrow,’ said Chloe. She was suddenly talking differently since she’d met Beast. She sounded somewhere between a cowboy and a gangster. It didn’t suit her. She’s supposed to be nervous and refined like the heroine of a Victorian novel. ‘Listen,’ she said, grabbing my arm. ‘My ankle’s not broken. I can, like, tell.’ In other words, it had stopped hurting. ‘And all these people need a doctor so much more than me!’ she whispered, casting a quick glance round the assembled wounded. ‘So the guys are giving us a lift home.’

  ‘The guys?’ I asked, cocking a sceptical eyebrow. Beast was hovering so close, I couldn’t let rip with my real feelings, which basically would have gone like this: Are you mad? Totally mad? You know that Beast is famously the most depraved animal in the entire sixth form – and you’ve agreed to let his sub-human sidekick drive us home??? So they’ll, like, know exactly where we live???!!!

  I had to find a formula which would let me off the hook, without going into quite so much detail about Beast’s reputation. He was leering at me, only centimetres away, clinging to Chloe’s arm.

  ‘Don’t worry, babe,’ he said. ‘You’ll be safe as houses. Donut was taught to drive by the Queen’s chauffeur’s cousin’s brother-in-law!’

  Chloe laughed: a mad, whirling sort of laugh, as if she was drunk.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I have to go back to the concert. I’d arranged to meet somebody there.’