Mates, Dates and Sizzling Summers

by Hopkins, Cathy

  ‘Has he got a name yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Call him Nigel.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ollie. ‘Nigel the nerd.’

  ‘And call the Casanova one Max. I always think that’s such a suave name and no doubt your Casanova sub-personality is very suave.’

  Ollie frowned. ‘OK, or maybe just plain Casanova and then there’s no confusion. But . . . hhhmm. I might be giving away too much of myself here. Letting you know all my secrets. Come on, then. What about you? Tell me some of yours before I tell you any more of mine.’

  ‘OK. I also have about eight so far. “Obedient Daughter”. My mum and dad are pretty strict so I guess I’m a bit of a goodie-two-shoes type when I’m at home, you know, to keep the peace . . .’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Just that: Goody Two Shoes. It used to be on my e-mail address.’

  ‘Used to be? What is it now?’

  ‘Er . . . oh, I can’t remember.’ I felt embarrassed to tell him in case he thought I was a bighead.

  ‘Oh, come on. Mine is superstud@fastmail.org.’

  I laughed. ‘OK. My mates made me change it. So now it’s Babe With Brains.’

  Ollie gave me a long look. ‘Suits you,’ he said.

  I felt myself getting hot around the back of my neck. It was very unsettling when he looked at me like that. Made my stomach lurch, but not in an unpleasant way.

  ‘With my mates, I reckon I’m just TJ,’ I continued. ‘I think I’m the most myself with them . . . Um, but I play football and can be a demon on the pitch if I want to be. I’m also arm-wrestling champion. So there’s her, the sporty one, Awesome-Arm Annie. Who else? There’s the bookworm part of me who reads a lot, but she’s probably the same as Goody Two Shoes.’

  ‘What about with boys? Are you the female equivalent of Casanova?’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Me? Oh no. No way. I turn into Noola the alien girl if ever I see a boy I fancy. My brain turns to mush and I talk gibberish.’

  He laughed. ‘Noola, huh?’

  I couldn’t believe that I’d told him about Noola and it was only the second time we’d met. I always thought people would think I was mad, but then Ollie had read Leila’s book and come up with a whole crowd of his own personalities. If I was mad, so was he.

  Ollie stuck out his bottom lip and pouted. ‘So that means you don’t fancy me. You’re talking to me pretty normally.’ He reached out and put his hand over mine. ‘Noola, Noola don’t you like me?’

  I laughed. ‘Niwingee, blerggghhhh, ehweh . . . See, that’s what she sounds like. Like an alien on helium. Nihih. Ug.’

  Ollie grinned. ‘She likes me. Noola likes me. Thank God! So who else is in there?’

  I decided not to tell him about the next one I’d put on my list. I called her Lola. She’s the girl who came out when I was with Luke de Biasi. Passionate. Romantic. I didn’t want to tell Ollie about her in case he asked when I’d discovered her.

  ‘I can’t tell you all of them,’ I said. ‘As then you would know everything about me and so I’d have to kill you, and that would be a shame seeing as we’ve only just met.’

  Ollie laughed. ‘I’m glad I came tonight. It’s been good seeing you again.’

  ‘Nihih. Ug,’ I said, and he grinned even more.

  ‘Noola’s back,’ he said.

  When we left the café, it was still drizzling so we ducked into a shop entrance where I called Mum on my mobile and Ollie called a cab to take him back to his school. As we waited, I wondered if he would try to kiss me or not.

  I didn’t have to wonder for long.

  I was looking in the shop window at the display of shoes when he put his arms round my waist and then turned me to face him. Then he pulled me close and nuzzled into my neck.

  ‘Your hair smells nice,’ he murmured. ‘Clean. Like apples.’

  ‘Unuh . . . apple shampoo.’

  Then he nibbled on my ear lobe. It felt delicious. He turned my face up to his and gave me a kiss. Not a long one, but not short either. It was nice, gentle. He pulled away and I opened my eyes to look at him. He pulled me close again and this time gave me a deeper kiss. I felt my toes curl up and then had a sudden panic. What if Mum drove up and saw us? She’d have a fit if she caught me snogging my face off in the middle of Muswell Hill.

  I pulled back. ‘Er . . . Mum . . . er, be here . . .’

  ‘No prob,’ he said, and reached down and held my hand. ‘And hello Goody Two Shoes. Nice to meet you. Can’t have Mum catch you mid-snog. And on a school night too!’

  I laughed. He was right. Goody Two Shoes had taken over. I hoped he didn’t think I was acting childishly or anything. But he was still holding my hand so maybe he didn’t mind too much.

  ‘So which of your sub-personalities kissed me?’ I asked.

  ‘All of them. They all fancy you!’

  I laughed. ‘Kissed by eight guys all at the same time. Now that has to be a record. But hey, I don’t know all of them yet.’

  ‘Next time,’ he said. ‘That is, can we do this again?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. I remembered what Nesta had said about there being a time to be cool and a time to say, “Hello sailor, mine’s a Diet Coke”. This wasn’t the time to be cool.

  ‘Maybe Saturday?’ asked Ollie.

  ‘Oh. Can’t. I’m going to be decorating . . .’ I started to say then began to laugh, ‘but please don’t feel that you have to read a book about interior design and come along and help.’

  He laughed too. ‘But that’s just what I had in mind. I like surprising girls.’

  Hmm, I thought. He likes surprising girls. Does that mean that he does this sort of thing a lot?

  Just at that moment, his cab drew up and honked.

  ‘I’ll call you Saturday,’ he said. ‘And maybe we can find some more characters lurking within.’

  ‘Deal,’ I said, although secretly I thought no way was I telling him about all the people that live in my head. I’d never see him again if I revealed how mad I really am.

  Amazing, I thought, as I watched him drive off in the taxi. A date with Ollie Axford. Me. And I’ve been kissed by him. And all his sub-personalities. It had been a great evening and we’d had a real laugh. He could probably have anyone, I thought. I wonder what on earth he sees in me.

  TJ’s Sub-personalities (SPs)

  Goody Two Shoes: good girl, does her homework, is punctual, sensible and polite.

  Awesome-Arm Annie, the Female Wrestler: football and arm-wrestling champion, a fighter, tomboy, swears like a trooper and will take anyone on.

  Noola the Alien: the brainless dribbler I become when I meet cute boys – but she’s appearing less often.

  Lola: likes all the girlie stuff, perfume, a bit of make-up and boys. Loves Luke de Biasi.

  Alice (after Alice in Wonderland): endlessly curious, likes to read about other people’s lives and experiences in books, also likes to write, to go to galleries and exhibitions and experience everything that life can offer.

  Beryl the Bag Lady: I like to be her on the weekend and slob around in old tracksuits with no make-up. Nesta has a fit if I become Beryl when she’s around. Probably not one to mention to Ollie as I know that she’s not my most attractive self.

  Cassandra, the Prophetess of Doom: miserable old cow who lives at the back of my head. Always moaning – you’ll never make it as a writer, you’re not good enough, no boy will ever fancy you, you’re too boring, you haven’t got what it takes, loser. (I’d like to shoot Cassandra, but seeing as she is part of me, that’s probably not a very good idea.)

  Minnie the Mouse: very timid, hates confrontation and will run away and hide rather than face up to an argument or a difficult situation.

  Sometimes one of the sub-personalities is more predominant, and sometimes they all talk at the same time. And debate things. And argue. It can get very tiresome having so many people living in my head.

  ‘Out of ten?’ asked Nesta the next morning after I’d told
the girls about my unexpected evening with Ollie. Of course they wanted all the details right down to how he rated as a kisser.

  ‘Nine and a half,’ I replied as we hurried along the corridor into school assembly with a swarm of other chattering girls. ‘It was lovely but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ asked Izzie. ‘Onion breath? Mouth too closed? Too open? Tongue like a wet fish? Teeth like piano keys?’

  ‘Errghh, Izzie,’ said Lucy. ‘Who have you been kissing lately?’

  ‘No one,’ she groaned. ‘That’s why I can’t remember a good kiss.’

  ‘It wasn’t like any of that,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. It was lovely, but . . . it was as if he’d read how to do it right, you know? Or like he’d had a lot of practice. It was nice, though. I’m not complaining.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Nesta. ‘I’ve been kissed by boys like that. Little bit textbook. Like kissing by numbers. What you really want is someone to be so overwhelmed by their attraction to you they just seize you and go for it but without suffocating you or banging noses . . .’

  ‘You mean like William did that day he kissed you for the first time?’ asked Lucy. ‘We all saw you. It was très passionata’.

  ‘Très is French and passionata is Italian,’ said Izzie, in an attempt to copy our language teacher’s posh voice. ‘At least, I think it is, so you are mixing your languages, young lady.’

  ‘So?’ said Lucy. ‘It shows that I am multilingual.’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t think you’re meant to speak them all in the same sentence,’ said Izzie.

  ‘Says who?’ said Lucy. ‘Anyway, I like to be different.’

  Très passionata. Muchos fabos. That was how Luke kissed me and I kissed him back on the one and only time that we snogged, I thought, though I didn’t say that to the girls. I didn’t want to let on how much I still thought about him. Kissing him had been like melting into a huge vat of marshmallow and chocolate. Perfect. Perfect.

  We took our places in our class line-up in the hall and everyone fell silent as Mrs Allen, our headmistress, stood up and began the announcements. Shame we don’t do lessons on the art of snogging – it would be very useful, I thought, as Mrs Allen droned on, and I imagined a new timetable: art, history and snog technique. Preferably being taught by members of our favourite boy band, brought in especially for the day. Now that would be an education.

  ‘So can you take me to Homebase?’ I asked Mum when I got in from school. She was in the kitchen, stirring a pan of soup on the stove. The aroma of onions and garlic filled the air.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve got to go back to the surgery after I’ve done this,’ she said as she indicated the soup. ‘Dr Plewes has some virus thing so I said I’d do her evening shift for her. Can’t it wait until tomorrow after school?’

  ‘Got a meeting for the mag,’ I said. (I work as editor for our school magazine, For Real, along with Emma Ford from Year Eleven.)

  ‘Saturday morning?’

  ‘That’s when I was hoping to start. See, Nesta, Lucy and Izzie have promised that they would come over first thing and I said that I’d have the paint by then. And I’ve got footie practice in the afternoon. What’s Dad doing? Is he home yet?’

  Mum jerked her chin towards the living room. ‘He’s having a snooze,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t feeling too great when he got in. Might be a touch of hayfever at this time of year. I’ve had a lot of people coming in complaining of it and it can make some people feel quite poorly. He doesn’t feel like much supper, so I thought I’d do something light like chicken soup.’

  I went through to where Dad was sitting in his armchair with his eyes closed, listening to some piano concerto on a classical music station on the radio.

  I went over to him and put my hand on his arm. ‘Hey Dad . . .’

  ‘Umph . . .’ he started as he awoke. ‘Wha . . .?’

  ‘Can you take me to Homebase?’

  He rubbed his eyes wearily and glanced at his watch. ‘What, now? No. I don’t think so.’ And he settled into his chair, laid his head back and closed his eyes again.

  ‘Ohhh, Dad, pleeeease . . .’

  ‘Go away. I’m sleeping.’

  ‘But Dad . . . I really need to go now and Mum can’t take me and it will only take us half an hour and I won’t be able to carry it all on the bus. I know exactly the paint I want and Mum did promise I could do my room and you won’t have to do any of the painting because my mates are all going to do that. All you have to do is take me to Homebase and then you can come back and lie in that chair all night and I’ll make you a cup of tea and I won’t bother you for another moment. I promise.’

  Dad opened his eyes and frowned at me. ‘God, what a nuisance you are. Like a bee buzzing around in a closed room. Can’t a man get even five minutes rest in his own home?’

  ‘Course he can,’ I said. ‘Only later.’ Dad’s not as bad-tempered as he sometimes sounds. He likes to stomp about and huff and puff, but underneath it all he’s a softie.

  He got up and stretched. ‘Come on, then. You’ve woken me up now. Let’s get it over with.’

  Mum came into the room behind us. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Richard?’ she asked. ‘You’re looking a little grey still. How’s the head?’

  ‘Well, I was all right,’ he said, ‘until this nuisance woke me up with her one of her endless demands.’

  Mum went over to Dad and put her hand on his forehead. ‘I don’t know. I think you should maybe go to bed. TJ’s paint can wait for another time.’

  ‘Ohhhhhhhhh Muuuuuuuuuuum . . .’ I began. ‘He said he would . . .’

  Dad threw his hands in the air. ‘See what I mean? No rest. I’ll go to bed when we get back. That’s if she’s not got another list of things that have to be done right away.’

  I grinned up at him. ‘Nope. Just the paint. Thanks, Dad. You’re a star.’

  ‘I’ll wait here and you go and get what you want,’ said Dad, and he took a seat in a quiet corner opposite the checkout. Mum had been right, he didn’t look too bright, and for a moment I felt my conscience twinge about dragging him out.

  ‘Won’t be a mo,’ I said. I knew exactly the colours I wanted: Indian sunset, which was a mustard yellow, and Brick Lane, which was a lovely brick red. I’d seen the colour combination in the Beautiful Homes magazine that Nesta had brought round and thought it looked fantastic. I’d tried the sample pots of both of them and in all lights, morning and evening, the patches I’d painted looked warm and rich. Once I’d got all my nick-nacks and Indian artefacts in, the overall look was going to be amazing.

  I picked out the paints that I needed and took them back to Dad. He got out his wallet and handed me a twenty pound note. ‘You go and pay,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’

  ‘Oh . . . Um. It’s a bit more than that,’ I said.

  ‘How much?’ said Dad, rooting round in his pocket. ‘I’ve got some spare change in here somewhere.’

  I took the seat next to him for a moment. ‘Dad, this isn’t any old paint. It’s made by a company who specialise in recreating colours from old buildings and dynasties in the past. They’re designed to have depth on the walls and capture the changing light.’

  Dad snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, TJ, you sound like an advert. Don’t be so gullible. I’d have thought you’d have known better than to fall for tosh like that. Depth. Dynasties. Rubbish. Paint is paint. Designer paint? Whatever next?’ He pointed at a stand displaying a special offer on huge tubs of white emulsion. ‘Look over there. Get some of that. A lick of that will brighten your room and you’ll have money to spare.’

  ‘But, Dad, you don’t understand. I’m going for a particular look . . .’

  Dad rolled his eyes. ‘And what, pray, is that?’

  ‘Eastern. All the spice colours that they use in places like India, Thailand . . .’

  ‘And what would you want to paint your room in spice colours for? Because you’ve been taken in by some silly promotion t
hat says that this is the next best thing, the trend, the fashion . . .’

  Oh here we go, I thought, lecture time. Dad likes nothing better than to get on his high horse sometimes and let everyone know exactly what he thinks about the state of the world.

  ‘I’d have thought a girl with your intelligence would have seen through all of that. Nope. Plain white. Can’t go wrong with it. And it’s cheap.’

  I sighed. ‘Look, Dad, I haven’t been taken in by anything and I don’t want my room to look all white and clinical like a hospital ward. And it’s not really designer paint, well, not exactly. You’re just out of touch with what it all costs. Interiors and gardens are what people are into these days. Making their home space the best they can. And I’ve done my homework. I’ve been experimenting with sample pots and the colours I’ve chosen really do look good. You’ll see. But if you really think it’s all too expensive then I’ll pay you back half out of my next few weeks’ pocket money.’

  Dad wasn’t really listening. ‘Waste of money . . .’ he grunted.

  I had to make him understand.

  ‘No, Dad, it’s not a waste of money. This is really important to me. You don’t realise sometimes how embarrassing it is when people come over to our house. It’s like . . . so last century . . .’

  Wrong thing to say.

  ‘If you are spending time with people who judge a person by such trivialities as what colour their bedroom is, then I pity you, Theresa Watts.’

  ‘No. They’re not like that. Don’t judge them. You don’t understand. Oh . . . sometimes I wish . . . I wish I had a different father. One who understood or at least tried to!’

  ‘Theresa!’ said Dad. ‘Don’t you speak to me like that. You’ll be sent straight to your room when we get back and no seeing those friends of yours for a week.’

  But it was as if a dam had burst inside of me and I couldn’t stop the torrent that came out. I felt like he was treating me like an eight-year-old. ‘But it’s true. And you’re so unwelcoming. I hate having mates over when you’re in. I can’t enjoy it for fear that you’re going to blast through the door at any moment and make me look like an idiot by turfing them out, or telling them to keep the noise down like we’re a bunch of kids. Ever wondered why my mates don’t hang out much at our house and we always go somewhere else? It’s because of you . . .’ I suddenly got a feeling that I might have gone too far. I glanced up at him.