by Sue Limb
Eventually we arrived. I jumped down on to the platform and immediately saw Tamsin waiting for me. She looked just fabulous. Excuse me for a few years while I describe her outfit. It started up top with a wonderful sort of fascinator thing with fuchsia feathers on her head.
Her face, was, as usual, beyond beautiful. She looked a bit pale and anxious, but that only added to her charm. Tamsin’s face is made for melodrama. She does good tragedy. When my face is sad, I look like a very stale cheese sandwich. She’s dramatic. She’s a legend. And those cheekbones! Her mum could have been Madonna.
Her jacket was small and black, with a nipped-in waist and jet beading on the lapel. One of her vintage collection. Then there was her dress. It was sublime. It kind of billowed. It was silk, with a pattern of pink strawberries and black and grey leaves. Her shoes were high-heeled, black and drop-dead elegant. Her bag was to die for.
I bounded towards her like a wacky chimp in a tea advert. I felt thrilled and proud that she was my sister, but simultaneously ashamed that I was dressed like a sporty Neanderthal. Tamsin didn’t seem to notice, though. She sort of collapsed into our hug like somebody falling downstairs.
Luckily I was feeling particularly strong and chunky, and as we linked arms and walked out of the station she still seemed to be leaning quite heavily on me. Was she ill? Drunk? Or was it just the shoes?
‘There’s the bus,’ said Tamsin, and we crossed the road and got on. We paid our fares and sat downstairs. Tamsin held on tight to my arm. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she said. She sighed.
‘So what’s the problem, then, Tam?’ I asked cheerily. I was trying to look as if I could sort anything out, no problem. Unwanted pregnancy? I could arrange for it to be adopted by a film star. Men behaving badly? I could put them in their place with a single flash of my terrible eyes.
‘Not on the bus,’ whispered Tamsin. She looked around furtively. What did she need to look furtive about? I was the one who was bunking off school. In fact – oh God, I’d almost forgot! If I was going to stay the night here with Tamsin, I must remember to ring home and tell them I was staying over at Chloe’s.
I hoped and prayed they would be cool about my ‘staying over at Chloe’s’. We didn’t often stay over on weekdays. I’d have to tell them we were working on something. I know! I’d tell them we were working on an assembly.
Oh God! I’d also have to get in touch with Chloe and make sure she’d got my text and was all set to back me up. ‘Please, GA,’ I whispered to my sadly overworked guardian angel, ‘don’t let my parents ring Chloe’s landline for any reason.’ The rest of my day was balanced on a high wire of deception. And Tamsin thought she’d got problems.
We got off the bus in the town centre and walked a few hundred metres to Waveney Wessex College. Tamsin’s room is up on the top floor. I hadn’t been there since the previous term. I could hardly believe my eyes. Her room had had the mother of all makeovers.
The bed was covered with a lustrous ruby and silver throw, and there was a huge lamp made out of a Chinese jar. A vast bunch of lilies exploded from a clear glass vase the size of a wardrobe, their heavy scent suggesting a five-star hotel by a Swiss lake or something.
A mobile depicting wacky Victorian gentlemen riding old-fashioned bicycles whirled and turned above the bed. (Frankly, I thought Tamsin’s taste had slipped slightly when it came to the mobile, but let that pass.)
One whole wall was covered with the most enormous blow-up picture of Marlene Dietrich, Tamsin’s major icon from the era of early cinema. I think Marlene’s legs were even longer in this picture than life size. Hanging from a hatstand by the door was a collection of beautiful hats and scarves, many glittering with sequins.
‘Wow,’ I gasped. ‘This is amaaaaaazing, Tam! It’s totally fantastic! I adore it!’ Tamsin pulled a funny kind of face, kicked off her shoes and filled the kettle at her washbasin. ‘And you look fabulous, too. These shoes!’ I picked one up and cradled it as one might hold a holy relic. ‘They are pure, pure Hollywood. Or do I mean Paris?’
Tamsin said nothing. She switched on the kettle, turned to me, gave a weird, downbeat little shrug and said ‘Tea or coffee? Or instant hot chocolate?’
‘Whatever you’re having,’ I said.
‘I’m drinking jasmine tea at the moment,’ said Tamsin, reaching for an exquisite little teapot on the shelf.
‘Jasmine tea?’ I had just about heard of it.
‘It has flowers in it,’ said Tamsin, handing me a packet of loose tea. I sniffed it. It smelt mysterious and grand. Little dried flowers lay sleeping among the tea leaves.
‘My God, Tam, you live like a freakin’ princess these days,’ I said with a broad grin. ‘How can anything be wrong when you have this kind of lifestyle?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Tamsin. And she went kind of extra, extra pale.
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19
MONDAY 10.55 a.m.
The moment of truth …
‘The thing is …’ Tamsin began. Then my mobile rang. My heart leapt. It was bound to be trouble. Had my truancy been rumbled already? The phone’s caller ID said CHLOE, thank God.
‘Chloe!’ I said, almost shaking with nerves. ‘Whassup?’
‘Where are you?’ asked Chloe. She sounded frantic with worry. I could hear the noise of school mid-morning break in the background, like a riot in the zoo. ‘Are you ill or something?’
My heart missed a beat. I had totally forgotten that if somebody’s absent, and there’s no call from a parent explaining why, the school will ring home and check. This is all because some girl was abducted on the way to school or something really scary. I know it’s for our own protection but it’s a complete pain.
I had to ring the school NOW and pretend to be my mum. No, wait! I could get Tamsin to do it. But first I had to deal with Chloe, and fast.
‘No, listen, I’m with Tamsin.’
‘Tamsin? What? At uni?’
‘Yeah. Just for the one night, OK? Listen, Chloe, you’ve got to do something for me. My parents are gonna think I’m staying over with you.’
‘But I’ve told my parents I’m staying over with you!’ wailed Chloe.
‘Why?’ I was outraged. Here I was on a mercy mission to my suffering if well-dressed sister, and instead of offering support Chloe was making frivolous demands.
‘It’s just something I have to do,’ said Chloe. ‘It’s an overnight thing and it’s massively important. I’ll explain when I see you.’
I just knew it had something to do with Beast. Oh God! I hoped she wasn’t doing anything so rank and tasteless as hopping into bed with him.
‘Why have you gone to see Tamsin?’ demanded Chloe irritably.
‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ I replied snappily. ‘Well, if you’ve said you’re going to be staying over at my place, and I’ve said I’m going to be at your place, let’s hope there aren’t any sudden crises or we’ll be in big trouble. I just hope whatever adventure you’ve got in mind is worth it.’
‘Don’t be so horrible!’ cried Chloe. ‘You have no idea what I’m doing.’
‘It’s something to do with Beast Hawkins, that much is obvious,’ I said. ‘All I can say is, you seem to have entirely lost it since you fell under his spell.’
‘Shut up, Zoe, you’re talking total rubbish! You know nothing! OK? Nothing!’ And Chloe rang off with panache.
We’ve had loads of rows over the years, of course, so normally I would only have been mildly upset. But in my present perilous situation I was terrified. I so needed Chloe on my side, making excuses for me and stitching, if necessary, whole tapestries of inspired lies.
‘Quick!’ I said to Tamsin. ‘I forgot to ring school to say I was ill. You do it – pretend to be Mum.’ I dialled the school number and handed the phone over. Tamsin tried to wave it away, and kind of panicked in a thousand different ways, like a demented wind-up clockwork student, but I thrust the phone into her hand.
�
�Oh, hi …’ she said in a relaxed drawl, just like Mum when she’s got other things on her mind, ‘errrrm, this is Mrs Morris, I’m Zoe Morris’s mother. Sorry I didn’t ring earlier, I’m on a business trip today – uhhh, Zoe’s not well today – she’s got a tummy bug, so she’s staying at home. My husband’s looking after her. He works at home, thank God! Keep them in their place! Ha ha!’
She listened for a moment, said her goodbyes, then rang off. My heart was pounding away like a steam hammer – although I’m not sure exactly what a steam hammer is. Basically it was hammering and I was steaming.
‘What did they say?’ I stammered. ‘I was so sure they were going to say they’d already rung home and Dad had said I’d gone to school as usual, and half the police force of England was already searching for me.’
‘Well, of course, they did say that,’ said Tamsin, stirring the jasmine tea. ‘But I soon put them right.’
‘Do you realise what I’m going through, coming to see you like this?’ I said. I was a bit annoyed that Tamsin had made a joke of it. ‘Truanting, having a row with Chloe … and if Mum and Dad ever find out, I’m dead on a plate with tomato sauce.’
‘Zoe, you are an angel of mercy,’ said Tamsin, pouring the tea. ‘And I just know you’re going to get me out of this jam.’
‘What jam?’ I asked, feeling suddenly hungry. I’d been too nervous to eat breakfast and now my tummy suddenly went WORRAWORRAWORRAWORRA just like Tigger in The House at Pooh Corner. ‘Can I have some toast? I’m starving.’
‘Just let me fill you in first,’ said Tamsin. She sat forward and kind of held her head in her hands as if it might explode. It was scary. ‘I’ve spent my whole loan for the rest of the term,’ she said. ‘I’ve got totally into debt. I won’t be able to pay my college bills.’
‘Is that all?’ I was amazed. It was only money trouble. ‘Why don’t you just ask Mum and Dad to give you a bit more?’
Tamsin sighed, and poured the tea. ‘The thing is,’ she went on, ‘I made a bargain with Mum and Dad before I left for uni not to get into debt. So to keep from getting overdrawn at the bank, I’ve been borrowing from my friends. But now they’re getting hard up and they want their money back.’
‘Harsh!’ I sighed. ‘But what can I do?’ It seemed hopeless.
‘Well,’ said Tam, and she blushed deeply. Her face went almost puce. ‘What I was thinking … well, it is a terrible cheek I know, but I was hoping … I was hoping you could do me a bit of a loan. How much have you got in your savings account?’ she asked, urgently. I was startled.
‘Uhhh, about £137,’ I said hesitantly. ‘You know, I’m saving up for our Newquay trip this summer. With Chloe and Toby and Fergus and everybody.’
‘Well, that £137 would be fine, for a start,’ said Tamsin, looking embarrassed and ashamed. ‘I’m so sorry, Zoe. I’m so, so sorry …’
‘It’s all right,’ I said, though I did feel majorly shocked.
‘And then I was wondering if you could possibly have a whip-round among your friends,’ Tam went on. ‘I’d pay them back as soon as my next student loan cheque comes in. It’s only a couple of months. And I’m going to get a job in the Easter hols, so I’ll be able to pay everybody a bit back even earlier.’
I was stunned. Tamsin wanted me to go round collecting cash from my friends! How could I ever do that?
‘You could pretend you were doing a sponsored thing for charity,’ said Tamsin, looking faintly giddy and sick with guilt.
I was really shocked. I mean, I was sorry for Tamsin, but she had got herself into this jam by spending money on fab clothes and interior decor. You could hardly compare that with starving children in Africa. I didn’t dare say anything, though, because she looked so depressed. She got up and walked to the window, looked out, and sighed.
‘I hate myself,’ she said. ‘I’ve even thought of dealing drugs as a way of getting money.’
‘Tamsin!’ I shouted, leaping up. ‘NEVER say anything like that again! Don’t worry about a thing. It’ll be easy-peasy. I know heaps of people with loads of money.’ I didn’t, of course. ‘Toby and Fergus are saving up for Newquay too, and so’s Chloe. Between us we probably have about £600.’ I put my arm around Tamsin and smiled reassuringly.
At the thought of the £600 Tamsin began to look a bit more cheerful. We had an enormous hug. She squeezed me tight and tears ran down her cheeks.
‘You’re an angel, Zoe,’ she said in a snuffly, sobbing kind of voice. ‘I hate myself for asking you to do this. I’ll pay everybody back ages and ages before your trip to Newquay.’
‘Of course you will,’ I beamed. ‘No problem! Now please may I have some toast?’
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20
MONDAY 11.38 a.m.
A new life beckons …
‘Never mind toast!’ said Tamsin. ‘I’m taking you out for a pizza in the rooftop cafe, and then we’ll do the new Orlando Bloom movie, OK?’
‘Tamsin,’ I said patiently, feeling very old, ‘this is all going to cost, right? Why don’t we just stay here and have some toast? Your room is heaps nicer than the rooftop cafe anyway. Last time we went there we were ignored by that waitress with the sneery lip, remember?’
‘Oh.’ Tamsin looked a bit sad. ‘Yeah. Right.’
‘It’s a new era, OK?’ I reckoned she needed a stiff pep talk if we were ever going to get her new life off the ground. And if I was ever going to get my money back. ‘It’s called poverty chic.’ The ghost of a smile crossed Tamsin’s face as she got four slices of bread.
‘I have to take them down to the kitchenette,’ she said. ‘We’re not allowed toasters in our rooms, remember?’
We went down to the kitchenette. It was windowless and hideous with notices everywhere. PLACE RUBBISH IN BINS DO NOT LEAVE ON FLOOR, said one notice. CLEAR UP AFTER YOURSELFS, said another. Some clever dick had corrected YOURSELFS to YOURSELVES.
‘I hate that,’ said Tamsin. ‘The cleaner can’t help having poor English. She’s from Gdansk.’ Tamsin wiped all the work surfaces energetically, even though we were only using the toaster. Then she swept the floor.
‘Why don’t you get a job as a cleaner?’ I said. ‘That would bring in a few quid. Plus tips.’
‘Cleaners don’t get tips,’ said Tamsin. ‘I might get a job as a waitress. They get tips. And I could develop a sneery lip.’
The toast popped up and we carried it back to her room. It smelt great. It was cosy to be having toast with Tamsin. But there was an atmosphere of crisis all the same. It wasn’t like my previous visits to her at uni: festive and carefree. Her huge debt hung over us like a black cloud.
And beyond that, my anxiety about truanting rumbled and flashed quietly but ominously, like a thunderstorm getting closer.
We had peanut butter on the toast, and the last of the cheese. Then we drank two glasses of the designer water from her little student fridge.
‘This is the last of the bottled water,’ I said sternly. ‘We who practise poverty chic drink only water from the tap.’
Tamsin pulled a face. ‘The tap water round here is disgusting,’ she said. ‘You can taste the chlorine.’
‘Dad says you should only start to worry if you can’t taste the chlorine,’ I reminded her. ‘That’s when the microbes strike. Anyway, you can get those water filter jugs.’
‘I wonder how much they cost?’ mused Tamsin.
We shared her last wizened apple. Part of it was brown.
‘I’m getting a bit tired of poverty chic already,’ said Tamsin.
‘No!’ I cried, alarmed. ‘Bad girl, Tamsin!’ Sometimes I talk to her as if she’s a dog. ‘Poverty chic is only just beginning. Stop focusing on the poverty. Concentrate on the chic.’
‘I’m not quite sure where the chic bit comes in,’ frowned Tamsin.
‘We wear simple clothes in black or white or grey,’ I said. ‘Like in an old film with Greta Garbo. We wear no make-up.’
‘No make-up!?’ screeched
Tamsin. I have counted her lipsticks, and there are over fifty.
‘OK, we only wear make-up at the weekends,’ I said. ‘And we don’t buy any more make-up until the last of the old make-up is finished.’
‘We only shop at charity shops?’ said Tamsin, trying to get into this thing.
‘No!’ I cried. ‘You really don’t get it, do you? We don’t shop.’
‘We don’t shop?’ Tamsin looked truly flabbergasted. It was as if somebody had told her that the sun will not rise tomorrow.
‘There are other things,’ I said.
‘What?’ Tamsin looked blank. ‘What?’
‘We walk and run,’ I said sternly. ‘We drink lots of water. We eat raw fruit and veg – and protein. We lose loads of weight, and start to look fabulous.’
Tamsin looked at me rather critically, with narrowed eyes. I was on tricky ground here.
‘How much do you weigh at the moment, Zoe?’ she asked. ‘If you don’t mind my asking?’
‘It’s a secret,’ I said. ‘But by next month I’ll be way thinner, thanks to poverty chic.’
‘There’s no need for you to go through all this poverty chic business,’ said Tamsin. ‘I’m the one with the massive financial probs.’
‘Uh, sorry?’ I said. ‘I thought the idea was that I give you a loan – and get all my friends to as well?’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Tamsin. She looked sick with guilt.
‘Right!’ I said. ‘Let’s go for a walk, and every time we pass a guy, we give him marks for sex appeal. That costs nothing.’
‘Great idea!’ Tamsin jumped up and grabbed her coat.
It was a sparkly day. There was the faintest hint of spring in the air. She took my arm, and we walked through the streets of the old town, with their pretty spires and courtyards. Then we walked down to the river.
Tamsin asked me what was going on in my life, and I told her about our fruitless quest to find beaux to escort us to the Earthquake Ball next Saturday, and our disastrous interviews with Matthew and Scott. When I got to the bit about the outbreak of farting, Tam laughed out loud. It was a lovely sound. I realised it was the first time she’d laughed since I’d arrived. Poor Tamsin! She’d really got herself into a miserable trap with this money thing. I was determined to rescue her.
