by Hayley Long
If anything, the glamorous new shade of red lipstick actually made her look a little meaner. But then, just as I was starting to feel really edgy, she did a big syrupy over-smiley smile and said, ‘And make sure you have a lovely time!’
‘Mmm,’ I said and picking up my bag, I hurried Gareth through the door.
Once we were safely outside, Gareth said, ‘What was all that about?’
‘What was what about?’ I asked.
Gareth wrinkled up his nose. ‘All that woman tension. The atmosphere in there was horrible.’
I wrinkled up my own nose and said, ‘My mum’s got a new boyfriend.’ In this context, the word boyfriend sounded really wrong coming from my mouth. Plain wrong. It felt wrong too. It was like saying something dodgy like breaststroke or cockroach. I didn’t like it.
‘So?’ said Gareth.
‘So!’ I said. ‘So! So it’s only the exact same bloke who cautioned me after that whole shoe shop catastrophe!’
‘Oh,’ said Gareth. And then he said, ‘So?’
I stopped walking and looked at him in disbelief. ‘So!’ I said. ‘So! So I’ve already got one uptight law-enforcer in my face. I don’t need another one, thank you very much. It’ll be like living inside an episode of The Bill.’
Gareth shrugged and put his arm around me. ‘So what’s he said to you then?’
‘Well . . .’ I said, slightly surprised by the question. ‘Nothing yet. But he’s bound to say something sly, isn’t he?’
‘Is he? I doubt it.’ Gareth let his arm fall and looked puzzled. We’d slowed to a stop and tiny flakes of snow I’d not even noticed falling began to settle on our clothes, making us look like the BEFORE photo on a dandruff advertisement. Gareth shivered and added, ‘He’s hardly going to give you a hard time if he wants to impress your mum.’
‘It’s easy for you to say,’ I said. ‘You’re not the one who has to put up with him sniffing around.’
Gareth adjusted his scarf so that it was covering his ears. He’d come out without a coat on and I think he was regretting it. He does own a coat but he tends not to wear it because he reckons that it makes him look like the chubby bloke out of Take That. Wrapping his arms tightly around himself, he said, ‘I’m not being funny, Lottie, but the crux of the matter is that at the end of the day when all’s said and done, it’s not exactly you he’s sniffing around, is it? It’s your mum.’
‘Urggghhhh,’ I said. ‘Don’t be tasteless!’
Gareth flapped his elbows and blew a flake of snow off the end of his nose. Then he shivered again and said, ‘I say what I see, babe. And it’s not Coach Jenkins speaking now, it’s Gareth David Lloyd George Stingecombe. And from where I stand, I don’t see what the problem is. So chill out a bit, babe.’ He stamped his feet impatiently on the pavement. ‘Now, are you coming or what?’
I stood there,
completely stunned.
Gareth said, ‘It’s nippy noodles standing here and I’m getting soaked. So I’ll see you there, shall I?’ And with that, he began walking down the street without me.
For a moment, I remained where I was, frozen to the pavement, watching him walk further and further ahead. But then, just as soon as I’d got to grips with the astonishing and impressive revelation that Gareth has not one but three middle names, I made a mental note to chill out and hurried through the darkness and snow to catch him up.
The Ponty-Carlo Picture House is one of my favourite places in the whole world. As cinemas go, it’s not immediately obvious why I love it so much. I don’t think I can even explain it properly myself. The whole place stinks like a school gym and the films that are on offer have been knocking about for so long that we’ve usually already seen them on pirate DVD. In the foyer, a scary old woman with peroxide hair sells us crumbly chocolate bars, which are a month or two past their sell-by date, and bucket-sized cups of unspecified cola. Whatever that cola is, it definitely isn’t Coke and it definitely isn’t Pepsi either. Everyone calls the old woman Pat Mumble because her name is Pat and she mumbles, and everyone says her teeth are wooden because they are brown and her breath smells of furniture polish. But so long as we give her the right change and say please and thank you, I don’t think she actually cares. And we all do say please and thank you to Pat Mumble because otherwise she comes out from behind her sweet counter and has a massive mumbling go at us.
But we all love the Ponty-Carlo regardless. For a start, it’s fantastically cheap. In fact, it’s the cheapest cinema in the whole of Wales. I know this for a fact because on the wall outside there is a massive orange poster that says:
Mr Wood, my English teacher, told our class that he used to pass this poster every day on his way to school but now he deliberately takes another route. He says his doctor told him he had to because each time he saw that ‘absurd apostrophe’ it gave him chest pains. To be honest, Mr Wood could do with chilling out a bit as well.
But another reason that we all love the Ponty is because it’s ours. Unlike the massive multi-screen complexes that keep sprouting up around the city centre and down the Bay, no one goes to the Ponty other than the people who live within a half-mile radius of it. Nobody else would want to. But we do because it’s just at the end of our high street and, like I said, it’s as cheap as chips. And, to be honest, there isn’t really very much else to do in Whitchurch village of an evening.
When we arrived outside the Ponty’s bright yellow walls, the first thing we noticed was the absence of a queue. Gareth stopped short in the street and said, ‘Crikey! I’d have thought Love, Lies and Secrets would be more of a crowd-puller. The Western Mail described it as the romance of the year. The bloke who does the reviews said it’s guaranteed to put ladies in the loving mood.’ And then Gareth coughed and added, ‘Of course, it ain’t my kind of film but I thought you might like it.’
I looked in at the deserted foyer and said, ‘Maybe we’re late.’
Gareth looked worried and pushed open the door. Inside, had it not been for some carol-singing coal-miners who were blaring too loudly out of a single tinny speaker set high up on the wall, it would have been just as quiet as it looked from outside. Pat Mumble was reading a copy of Celebrity Dirt magazine and looking bored. Next to her, my best friend Goose, dressed in the most atrocious electric blue and yellow uniform I’d ever seen, was playing with her mobile phone and looking even more bored. When she saw us, her face brightened.
‘Lottie!’ she said, loud enough to be heard above a choral Welsh version of Silent Night.
‘Goosey! I said, loud enough to be heard back. And then I gestured towards the solitary speaker and said, ‘What the heck is this horrible music?’
‘The Fron Male Voice Choir,’ replied Goose. ‘Helluva festive. It really puts you in the Christmas mood.’ And then she pointed at me with both index fingers, wiggled her head on her neck and said, ‘Lady Lottie Lala has entered the building!’ After that, she said, ‘Hi, Gareth.’
Gareth said, ‘Hi, Goose,’ and I wiggled my head back at her and said, ‘Missy Goosey Gaga is in the house!’
Goose said, ‘Lady Lottie Hottie—’
Pat Mumble coughed.
Goose sat up straighter, put on her sensible face and said, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yeah, can we have two tickets for Love, Lies and Secrets?’ said Gareth, who seemed a bit embarrassed for some reason.
Pat Mumble crunched on a sweet and said, ‘Mumble mumble mumble Love, Lies and Secrets mumble mumble mumble screaming.’
Me and Gareth both said, ‘Wah?’
Goose, who had been watching with a look of pained concentration on her face as Pat Mumble spoke, lowered her voice and asked, ‘Mumble mumble mumble finished mumble mumble?’
Pat Mumble mumbled something back.
Goose nodded and turned back to us. ‘Love, Lies and Secrets finished this afternoon. The only film we’re showing tonight is And They Died Screaming.’
Gareth’s face fell. ‘I don’t fancy the sound of that.’ Looking arou
nd the empty foyer, he added, ‘Don’t seem like anyone else does either.’
Pat Mumble said, ‘Kids mumble mumble mumble clear off then mumble.’
After a slight delay and more pained concentration, Goose turned red, mumbled something back to Pat Mumble and then said to us, ‘Did you want to see the film or not? It starts in a few minutes.’
‘What’s it about?’ asked Gareth.
‘Er . . . perhaps I can assist?’ A nervous voice behind us caused us to spin round. Dressed in the kind of jumper that should have a Government Nerd Warning stamped on it, Tim, the geeky sixth-former, was hovering awkwardly, half in and half out of a doorway marked Staff Only. I couldn’t help noticing that, instead of the putrid blue and yellow uniform, he was wearing jeans with pleats in them and a hand-knitted jumper that had a pattern of film directors’ clapperboards all over it. In this context, Goose’s uniform suddenly seemed fairly reasonable. Tim was wearing the regulation Ponty-Carlo staff badge though. As he was standing so close, I took the opportunity to read what was on it:
My initial thought was that you don’t tend to meet many people with the surname Overup in Wales. In fact, in my school, I’d say that the distribution of surnames is probably something very close to this:
I’ve definitely never encountered an Overup before.
My second thought was something far more wondrous. I’m a person who has always had a fascination with backward names. As it happens, my own backward name is very boring and, when said aloud, quite displeasing to the ear. Sggib Eitoll. Or Sggib Ettolrahc to people who aren’t close personal friends. Some people, however, have very interesting backward names. It took me about four seconds to work out that Tim Overup is definitely one of them. In fact, Tim Overup has the funniest and most fantastically brilliant backward name I’ve ever come across in my entire life! And I don’t say that lightly because one of Goose’s former lovers was Neil Adam the Mad Alien. But Tim’s name is even better! I almost howled out loud on the spot. Thankfully, I didn’t though. I have got some manners.
Tim Overup pushed a stray piece of gingery hair away from his eyes and, flashing a nervous grin, said, ‘I . . . um . . . heard your deliberations as to whether or not you should see tonight’s feature. Well . . . um . . . having myself been the individual solely responsible for arranging the screening of this . . . er . . . film, I might be able to . . . er . . . help you make up your mind.’
‘Oh,’ said Gareth. ‘Cheers, mate. What’s it about?’
Tim rubbed his elbow and frowned thoughtfully. ‘I . . . um . . . suppose one is obliged to categorize it as horror but this does seem to . . . er . . . rather underplay the art house influences of its production.’ He paused for a moment to blow his nose on a gigantic handkerchief, which he’d pulled out of a pocket in his jeans. Then, after carefully tucking the hanky away again, he added, ‘Its director, Attila Nagy, is very much at the forefront of . . . um . . . European new wave cinema. You’ll find as you watch it . . . if indeed you choose to watch it . . . that he likes to use the camera just as a writer would use a pen and . . . um . . . this allows the film to sort of write itself . . . organically . . . if you know what I mean?’
I didn’t. Judging by the look of confusion on Gareth’s face, I don’t think Gareth did either. I looked at Pat Mumble. She was crunching sweets on her wooden teeth and reading Celebrity Dirt magazine again. Only Goose looked like she had any clue what Tim was on about. To my surprise, she was nodding enthusiastically.
Tim continued. ‘The overall effect is one of a terrifyingly deranged stream of consciousness.’
Goose was nodding so hard in agreement that I thought her head might fall off. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously, and addressing her directly, I said, ‘Stream of what?’
‘Stream of consciousness,’ said Goose, without a second’s hesitation. ‘It’s an uninterrupted artistic outpouring designed to convey the raw experience of the artist or artistic creation.’
‘Oh,’ I said. And then I shut my mouth.
Gareth said, ‘Is it scary though?’
Gareth doesn’t like scary films. The last time we saw a horror film together, he had to leave the cinema early so that he could be sick. To be fair though, this probably had less to do with the film and more to do with the fact that he’d eaten a gigantic bucket of toffee popcorn, a bag of chocolate peanuts and a choc ice before the film had even started. And then I’d completely pushed him over the edge by trying to touch his nudger while we were in the dark. I WON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN.
Tim put his head on one side. ‘Is it scary? Um . . . yes, yes. But it’s . . . um . . . intelligent psychological terror rather than . . . um . . . mindless wanton violence. And it’s only a certificate twelve but . . . of course, if you have an . . . um . . . nervous disposition then . . .’
‘OK. Thanks, mate,’ said Gareth hurriedly, and then turning back to Goose, he said, ‘We’ll have two tickets for this screaming thing then, please.’ And then to Pat Mumble he said, ‘And two regular colas, a regular toffee popcorn and a bar of out-of-date chocolate.’ Slapping his stomach he grinned and added, ‘Don’t wanna be overdoing it, do I?’
Goose thumped a rubber stamp into an inkpad and then stamped the backs of our hands with the Ponty-Carlo logo. It looks like this.
I can see now where Tim Overup got the inspiration for his dodgy jumper.
Despite the fact that everyone always asks for a ticket, nobody actually gets given one unless they’ve booked ahead. Goose reckons that this is because the Ponty-Carlo is more environmentally friendly than most other cinemas and is doing its bit to use up less of the world’s paper. This argument would hold up fine if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s actually using up ridiculous and unnecessary quantities of the world’s soap. The Ponty-Carlo’s rubber stamp refuses to shift from the skin until at least five days have passed and half a tonne of soap has been used in the attempt to remove it. Whenever my mum sees this stamp on my hand, she likes to go through this hilarious rigmarole of pretending she doesn’t know what it is. She says, ‘It can’t stand for Police Constable because you aren’t one . . . and it can’t stand for Personal Computer because you aren’t one of those either. I don’t think it means Politically Correct because you aren’t particularly . . . so it must mean Please Clean.’ If there was a law against making boring jokes, my mum would be locked up for life.
As she took our money, Goose said in a low voice, ‘I’ve got to help Tim in the projection room for a bit but sit near the back and I’ll come and join you later on. It’s totally dead in here tonight anyway.’
Pushing open the door to the screen room, it immediately became apparent that Goose was right. It was dead. As Gareth and I headed towards the back, I counted only seven seats that were occupied. To my horror, I noticed that one of these seven occupants was wearing a pair of cyber-goggles around her neck.
‘I don’t chuffing believe it!’ I said, nudging Gareth harder than I’d actually meant to and causing him to spill a few toffee popcorns over the blue and gold carpet. ‘STEVIE WONDER’S DAUGHTER IS HERE!’
‘WHAT? WHERE?’ Gareth abruptly halted and looked wildly around him. ‘Isn’t Stevie Wonder massively famous? What would his daughter be doing at the Ponty-Carlo?’
‘Not that Stevie Wonder,’ I said. ‘I mean the Stevie Wonder who’s going out with my mum.’
For some reason, Gareth couldn’t have heard me properly. His eyes widened in shock and, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper, he said, ‘Your . . . mum . . . is GOING OUT with STEVIE WONDER? I thought you said she was seeing some boring old police bloke? Oh my God, Lottie, that’s immense!’ And then he started waving his elbows about and humming the tune to ‘Thriller’ – even though it was blatantly a song by Michael Jackson. More of our popcorn tumbled to the floor.
I stood in the aisle of the cinema and gave Gareth a hard look. It wasn’t exactly a Stare of Death but it was dangerously close.
‘WHAT?’ said Gareth, raising his box of popcorn up to head he
ight so that he could tip a few in the direction of his mouth. ‘What have I said?’
And then a funny thing happened. Life stepped in and stopped me making a total turnip of myself. Thank God it did! Because I was just on the very brink of a severely stroppy outburst which could have ruined my relationship with Gareth forever. But then the lights dimmed and the curtains that covered the screen jerked backwards. There, in big massive letters, I read the words:
Now, I’ve learned a thing or two about Michelangelo during my art lessons. I happen to know that he painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome and I know that he was also the man who gave the world this:
This is a statue of someone called David. For the sake of modern decency, I have made one very slight but extremely necessary adjustment to Michelangelo’s original masterpiece. Personally, I think David would be relieved. But, naked statues aside, Michelangelo was still an exceptionally clever man. He was a painter, a sculptor, an architect and an engineer. Judging from the title of this film, I’d guess that like me he was also a bit of a philosopher. And even though I’m no genius, it doesn’t take a whole heap of intelligence to work out that Michelangelo considered patience to be a very admirable thing. And suddenly, despite the fact that I was being stalked by an emo in cyber-goggles, and despite even that my mum was probably at that very same second feeding grapes13 to Detective Sergeant Giles of the South Wales Police, I felt a serious and mysterious and delirious rush of intense happiness. Because, right there and then, none of that actually mattered. But what really did matter was the fact that my lovely gorgeous boyfriend wanted to spend his entire Saturday evening with me. Even though I’m an uptight biscuit-brain with high levels of woman tension. And if that doesn’t make Gareth David Lloyd George Stingecombe a totally terrific genius than I really don’t know what does.
