by Sue Limb
‘Who? You never told me!’ Chloe’s eyes flared.
‘We can pick him up,’ said Beast, with a naughty grin. ‘If your heart’s set on him, why not? The more the merrier! We could drop in at Pasquale on the way home! Who is the geezer?’
‘Nobody you know,’ I said airily. ‘He’s at St Kenneth’s.’
‘What! A posh git?’ Beast laughed a wheezy, horribly attractive laugh. ‘I say, Donut old boy, bring the Rolls round. And don’t forget the bacon!’ Donut and Chloe laughed with passionate abandon. I didn’t find the situation remotely funny.
‘Who is it?’ asked Chloe. ‘Who’s this mysterious toff you’ve got lined up, then?’ She also laughed a wheezy laugh, as if she was copying Beast’s.
‘I’ll tell you, if you promise not to reveal his identity,’ I said. I placed my lips to Chloe’s ear and shielded my mouth with my hand.
‘If you want to go mad and put yourself at the mercy of these Neanderthals, fine. But count me out. Oh, and the boyfriend’s Prince Michael of Spamelot.’
Chloe lurched away from me and started to look cross and tearful. Beast watched her like a hawk, and then turned his eyes on me.
‘OK, then,’ she said, with just the hint of a tremble. ‘You go back to the concert, and I’ll go home.’
‘We have to talk about that phone call just now,’ I said. ‘We got an answer to our ad. I said we could do the interview at your place tomorrow at two. OK?’
‘Fine, fine,’ said Chloe, flapping her hand as if what I was saying was an irritating fly. I could tell she wasn’t really listening. There was a slightly stressy atmosphere.
I managed to wriggle out of the lift back to the concert. Chloe was bundled into Donut’s old heap and they tootled off. I saw her face at the window: pale, pissed-off and accusing. From her point of view, I’d abandoned her.
From my point of view, she’d abandoned me. I hobbled down the road towards the Toilethead concert. My shoes were starting to pinch me. I took them off and walked barefoot. It started to rain.
As I reached the venue, I realised I didn’t want to go back there anyway. There was no Prince Michael of Spamelot, there was no Chloe; what was the point of piling back into that smelly crowd? I hesitated, and decided to get a taxi home. I just had to call home first, to make sure it was OK to pay on arrival. I knew Mum and Dad wouldn’t mind.
Just as I was getting my mobile out, it rang. My sister, Tamsin! Major delight! She’d be able to put all my troubles in perspective and give me tons of mature and insightful tips on how to handle Chloe’s sudden madness. And I had to tell her that Oliver had spoken to me! She’d be thrilled to smithereens!
‘Tam, you legend!’ I yelled. ‘How’s uni? What’s going on?’ She usually had some bizarre but stylish pranks to report.
‘Uhhh, hi!’ she said. She sounded a bit down. ‘Yeah, well … you know. Problems, problems.’
‘What problems?’ I asked. ‘Presumably it’s lurve?’ Hastily I racked my brains for the name of her latest beloved. Tamsin tends to flit from one flirtation to the next. Then I remembered. It was some research guy called Tom. She’d been quite smitten. In fact, she hadn’t rung me for a couple of weeks.
‘No,’ said Tamsin. She sounded evasive. Kind of mysterious. ‘It’s nothing to do with relationships. Well, not directly. Look, Zoe, can you come up for a couple of days?’
‘How about tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘Oh, no, wait, I’m babysitting.’
‘Tomorrow’s no good anyway,’ said Tamsin. ‘I’ve got an essay crisis. If I’m late with this one Gina will take out a contract on me.’
It’s odd how, when you’re at uni, you address your teachers by their Christian names but they’re still kind of frightening and stuff.
‘Next weekend, then?’ I asked. Tamsin did not reply. In the background I could hear the melancholy wail of a police siren. It made it all so much more depressing and film noir.
‘It’s ages till next weekend,’ said Tamsin edgily. ‘I need to see you, like, right away.’
‘Look, I’ll come next Sunday, right? Next Saturday’s the Earthquake Ball. I’ll come up the day after. Just look after yourself till then and give yourself lots of treats,’ I told her maternally. ‘Make yourself a cup of hot choc. Watch your Bridget Jones DVD. You know that always cheers you up.’
‘I’m sick of Bridget Jones,’ sighed Tamsin. Sick of Bridget Jones? Tamsin must be seriously depressed. ‘I’ve just got to find a way out,’ she went on, in a funny kind of flat voice, as if she was almost talking to herself. ‘I’m just going to walk and walk all night in the rain …’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ I said. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold and get mugged, raped and murdered.’
‘No, no, I’ll be fine,’ said Tamsin in a faraway voice.
‘Now listen, Tam,’ I said urgently. I was earning a gold star for motherliness. ‘If you do that, I won’t be able to sleep all night. I’ll tell Mum and Dad, and they’ll go mad with worry.’
‘Don’t you DARE mention anything about this to Mum and Dad!’ snapped Tamsin, suddenly wide awake and right in my ear. ‘Promise me you won’t say anything at all! Don’t even mention my name!’
‘OK, OK,’ I said, rattled. Why wouldn’t she tell me what was bothering her? It sounded really serious: she didn’t want Mum and Dad to know. I was starting to feel sick with worry.
‘Where are you now?’ I asked. ‘Right now?’
‘Uhhh …’ There was a strange blast of sound. I think it was Tamsin blowing her nose. ‘Down by the river.’
My blood ran cold. The river! Please, God, don’t let her throw herself in, I prayed.
‘Listen to me, Tam!’ I yelled. ‘Go back to college and go round and see Parvati. She’ll look after you.’
‘Parv’s got glandular fever,’ sighed Tamsin. ‘She’s gone home.’
‘Well, somebody else, then,’ I went on. ‘Emma. Laura. Jemima.’
Tamsin’s only reply was another huge sigh, then suddenly the phone went dead. I tried to ring back but got through to her voicemail.
‘Call me back,’ I said. ‘Any hour of the night and day. Go back to college now and have a cheese sandwich. You know it makes sense. Love you!’
Phew! So much for my big sister being wise and composed and putting everything into perspective for me. I leaned thoughtfully against the wall of the leisure centre and put my shoes back on. This evening seemed endless, and my heart was heavy as lead.
‘Hey! Zoe!’ I looked round and saw two familiar figures: one small and pixie-like, the other looming large with flicked-up fair hair and an earring. Toby and Fergus. They glared grumpily at the night sky.
‘Hi, guys!’ I said. ‘Share a taxi home?’
‘Sure,’ said Toby. ‘Where’s Chloe?’
‘She pulled,’ I said grimly.
‘Oooo, nice!’ said Toby. ‘Anyone we know?’
‘Only Beast Hawkins,’ I said. Toby and Fergus looked amazed.
‘He’llHaveMadeHerIntoAPieByNow!’ said Fergus.
‘Almost certainly,’ I said, hailing a passing cab. ‘But that’s not our problem. So: what did you think of the concert?’ I asked as we piled in.
‘ItSucked,’ said Fergus. ‘ToiletheadHaveGoneDownThePan. Appropriately.’
‘Plus we got nul points for seduction,’ said Toby. I stared. Were Toby and Fergus on the pull?
‘Did you have anyone special lined up?’ I enquired.
‘Nope,’ said Fergus. ‘WeWeren’tFussy,BelieveMe. AndWeStillDidn’tScore. AlthoughIDoThinkThatGirl InTheTarpaulinFanciedYou,Tobe.’
‘Yeah,’ said Toby. ‘She was gagging for it. But she was covered with lovebites and smelt like a chicken farm, so regrettably I had to suppress my lust.’
‘Hey! Never mind, guys,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow is another day.’ It was kind of weird, imagining little Fergus and camp old Toby actually chatting up girls.
For the rest of the journey I lapsed into a thoughtful kind of trance. I stared out of the taxi windows. The rain was lashin
g down in the dark. It streamed across the glass like tears down somebody’s cheeks. I was anxious about Tamsin. I rang her again, but her phone was switched off.
Once Fergus and Toby had been dropped off and I’d got the taxi to myself, I took out Oliver’s card. It didn’t give his address: just his mobile number and email address. I instantly memorised them, and tucked the card down inside my bra, next to my heart. I would kiss it later (the card, not my bra or heart) once I was alone in my room. I didn’t want the taxi driver to see me actually snogging cardboard.
When I got home, I went straight up to my room, turned on my PC and went online. I did a search on farms for sale. The cheapest I could find was around £450,000. It looked really nice and had two big barns for the pigs that Oliver adored. And the good news was, I would be able to afford it. I just had to babysit for 288 years, first.
.
.
9
SUNDAY 2.00 a.m.
A dangerous breakfast looms …
I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned. I counted sheep – our sheep, on our farm, me and Oliver. My brain was absolutely raging. I didn’t know whether to obsess about Oliver, worry about Tamsin and Chloe, or wonder how on earth we were going to interview Matthew for the ‘life coach’ job. Every half hour, I checked my mobile. I even rang Tamsin at 2 a.m., I was so worried about her. Her mobile was still switched off.
Finally I fell asleep. But then, horrid dreams had me in their spell. I was chased through deserted streets. My legs wouldn’t move. Men with paper bags over their faces loomed out of alleyways, begging and clutching at me. Then I was at a funeral, but I wasn’t sure if it was Chloe’s or Tamsin’s. Then a live frog jumped out of my pocket. Then a pterodactyl crapped on my head. It would have been less exhausting to stay awake.
Eventually I woke up, dragged a few clothes on and lurched downstairs. My mum, looking elegant in her kimono, was sipping coffee and reading the style section of the Sunday newspaper. Dad was making scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.
‘How was the concert last night, darling?’ enquired Mum, offering me her smooth and fragrant cheek to kiss.
‘Oh, cool,’ I replied. Parents must never know if an event is a total nightmare, because they might not let you go next time. ‘Can we sell this house and go and live on a farm?’ My parents looked startled.
‘A farm?’ said Dad, still stirring the eggs. ‘I thought teenagers liked towns.’
‘Not all teenagers,’ I said. ‘Actually I’m thinking of becoming a vet.’
My parents exchanged what I believe is known as a Significant Glance. Mum put the newspaper aside.
‘But you hate science,’ she said. ‘Especially biology. You said so only last week.’
‘That’s because I’d bombed in that test,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’ve changed my mind. Can we sell this house and go to live on a farm? Can we sort it all out before the summer holidays?’
‘Count me out,’ said Mum. ‘With my hay fever? Are you mad?’
‘Count me out as well,’ said Dad playfully. ‘I’m frightened of cows.’
‘Seriously, Zoe,’ said Mum, pouring more coffee, ‘farming is a profession. Well, a calling, almost. You need specialist skills. You need to be the outdoor type. Well, look at us.’ She shrugged, and looked at Dad. He was holding a wooden spoon and wearing a pinny decorated with fluffy clouds. ‘And anyway, farms cost a fortune. Our little house isn’t worth anything. You couldn’t even get a single cow into our front garden.’
‘Not unless you folded it up and ironed it,’ said Dad eagerly. He likes ironing.
‘But farms have hundreds of acres,’ said Mum. ‘Land costs money. We could never afford it, even if we wanted to.’
‘And we don’t want to,’ said Dad. ‘So that’s that. Next question?’
I made myself a cup of tea.
‘Next question,’ I said eventually, tucking into a piece of toast, ‘Did Tamsin ring you last night?’
‘No,’ said Mum. ‘Why? Is something wrong?’ She went pale.
It’s no use trying to keep anything from Mum. She may look like a jet-setting businesswoman on the surface, with her sleek suits and her state-of-the-art laptop, but underneath she’s some kind of Stone Age ape-mother, defending her babies from the sabre-tooth tiger. She’s also a tiny bit psychic, but unfortunately it doesn’t work when it comes to the lottery.
‘She rang me on my mobe last night,’ I said. ‘She’s fine. I just wondered if she’d rung you as well.’ I smiled brightly.
Mum flew to the phone and dialled Tamsin’s mobile. I just went on eating my toast. Dad and I rolled our eyes at each other.
‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’ he asked, in a mock polite voice, like somebody on a train you’ve never met before.
‘Homework and babysitting,’ I said. ‘In other words, fabulous excitement from beginning to end.’
‘What homework?’ he asked. He’s always hoping it will be something he can help me with.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘Just Hitler, you know. The rise of Hitler.’
‘Hitler again!’ groaned Dad. ‘You seem to do nothing but Hitler! What is wrong with the exam boards?’
Meanwhile Mum got through to Tamsin’s voicemail. ‘Hi, darling!’ she trilled in a light-hearted voice. ‘How is everything? Hope you’re OK, and if you’re feeling a bit tired, don’t forget we’d love to have you home for a day or two and give you lots of TLC.’
‘And toast!’ said Dad.
‘And Dad says toast!’ said Mum. ‘He sends his love. Ring us when you get a min. Lots and lots and lots of love.’ She put down the phone and sighed anxiously. I prayed that Tamsin’s mobile wasn’t lying at the bottom of the river. ‘Zoe!’ said Mum sharply. ‘Have you tidied your room? I want to take a load of stuff to be recycled. What about those old clothes you were sorting out for the Oxfam shop?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I groaned. ‘I’ll do it today – after my history homework, OK?’
Whenever Mum’s worried about Tam, she has a go at me. It’s not fair, being the young one. You’re still there, in the firing line, after the glamorous firstborns have all gone swanning off to their cool and stylish lives at uni.
With no hens to milk or pigs to scratch, I had little choice but to embark on ‘Hitler’s Rise to Power’. Well, obviously, I did spend half an hour selecting the right colour lipstick, first. One can’t study the Third Reich wearing just any old pink. In the end I selected a kind of bruised 1940s secret sinister pink with brown overtones.
I texted Chloe: DON’T FORGET WE’RE INTERVIEWING SOMEBODY CALLED MATTHEW AT 2 p.m. YOUR PLACE.
There was no reply. Maybe Fergus and Toby were right, and Beast had already made her into a pie. Eventually I really got into Hitler. I had a fantasy that I was a secret agent. I pretended I was a glamorous typist. I had my hair done in two sausages each side of my head, and I wore a figure-hugging satin dress in dove grey. I was blonde, obviously. You had to be blonde, in those days. It was Go Blonde or Be Exterminated, almost. Mind you, sometimes I think life in the twenty-first century’s a bit like that, too.
I wormed my way into his good books by flattering him with witty badinage, as we strolled on the ramparts of his mountain hideaway. That moustache! I would enthuse. I so love the way it’s just as wide as your nose! I was planning to assassinate him with a stiletto hidden in my cleavage, when my mobile phone rang – or rather, laughed. I grabbed it.
‘Hello?’ said a faraway voice. ‘I’m ringing about the advert.’
Oh God! Another one! At least this time I was in private. Because I’d been through such hell with Matthew over the aliases, I decided that if the issue of names came up, I’d quietly ditch Jane and Africa.
‘Oh, right, yes, hello,’ I said briskly. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Scott Nicholls.’ He sounded nervous, but somehow sensitive and intriguing. He sounded dreamy. He sounded like a poet with long curly hair and passionate grey-blue eyes.
‘Rig
ht, Scott,’ I said, ‘We’re starting a life coaching company. We’ll be turning people’s lives around. Giving them, er … control. The work will be varied. And fascinating.’
‘Oh,’ said Scott. ‘Right.’
‘We’re doing some interviews this afternoon, if you could possibly make it?’ I enquired. God, I was so efficient. In part of my brain I’d already convinced myself that I was starting a life coaching company. Never mind Oliver Wyatt – I was rapidly falling in love with myself as a thrusting young executive.
‘Yeah, I could make this afternoon,’ said Scott, evidently postponing his plans to wander pensively by some daffodils. I gave him Chloe’s address and suggested he come at three. It was all fixed.
Amazing! Our ad had only been up for twenty-four hours and already we’d got two candidates, and they both sounded fabulous in their different ways. I wasn’t sure which I preferred. Matthew sounded masterful and macho, as if he would look after me. Scott sounded attractive and vulnerable, as if he would require looking after. Either way, I was game. Chloe and I might have to end up tossing a coin.
My phone laughed again. This time it was Chloe herself. I couldn’t wait to tell her all about Scott and Matthew.
‘God, Zoe!’ she whispered. ‘Sorry I didn’t ring earlier. I lost my phone. I just found it now in Geraint’s basket. I didn’t want to use the landline because I didn’t want Mum to overhear.’
‘Overhear what?’
‘Well, last night Beast said, well … uh, I know it sounds uhhh, a bit over the top, but he said I was beautiful.’
‘Watch out!’ I protested. ‘Beast is bad news. You know that. He’s famously a heartless cad. Frankly I’m amazed you can still speak this morning, after all the heroin sandwiches he must have forced you to eat on the way home last night.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ giggled Chloe. ‘All they did was drive me home, but Beast was whispering these things … we were in the back, and Zoe, he snogged me!’
‘What!?’ I was disgusted, shocked and panicky. ‘What? Really?’
‘Yes! And he asked for my phone number!’
I was worried. Chloe is easily swept off her feet – especially when wearing espadrilles.
