Charlotte Calder is the author of three other novels for teenagers: Settling Storms, Cupid Painted Blind and Surviving Amber. She lives in the central west of New South Wales with her husband and the youngest of their three children.
Also by Charlotte Calder
Settling Storms
Cupid Painted Blind
Surviving Amber
Charlotte Calder
Pan Macmillan Australia
First published 2008 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © 2008 Charlotte Calder
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Calder, Charlotte.
Paper Alice / Charlotte Calder.
Sydney : Pan Macmillan Australia, 2008.
978 0 330 42413 4 (pbk.)
A823.4
Typeset in 12.5/14 pt Bembo by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2008 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Paper Alice
Charlotte Calder
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the team at Pan Macmillan – Kylie Mason, Amy Thomas, Julianne Sheedy and particularly Anna McFarlane for her usual wonderful enthusiasm, guidance and support.
Fiona Inglis, especially for the cheery emails!
For matters medical – Sue Doherty; for those mathematical – Sam Dutton, Tisi Dutton, Mark Worrall and Jan Potworowski.
And of course my family, particularly Emily for the important first read, and Alexander for the title. Plus Gussie for just being himself, and Alo for making it all possible.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER
ONE
The day I turned the page of the paper and saw myself standing there, in full colour, it was like being punched in the stomach.
It was in the Metro section of the Saturday paper – in one of those ‘what people are wearing in the street’-type segments, featuring a photo of the person and a paragraph underneath describing what she (it was always a girl) had chosen to put on that day. There I was, Alice McBean, looking like the typical uni student in my thongs, khaki cut-offs and coral-coloured singlet top, red bag slung over my shoulder. Fair hair springing around my face, sunnies stretched across wide cheekbones, smiling my having-a-good-time smile for the camera.
Except it wasn’t me – was it? How could it be? No one had taken my photo . . . had they?
I leaned in closer, my heart starting to patter. It was me – and it wasn’t just the clothes. Summery brownish skin and average-sized body, curves more or less in the right places . . .
Also the stance. This girl was standing how I guess I stand – one foot slightly in front of the other, arms held out a tiny fraction from the body. A legacy, if I think about it, from all those years of after-school ballet classes at Madame Zeta’s Academy of Dance.
Then I looked at the caption and, of course, it was someone else.
Wilda Lichtermann, it said, 19, student.
Snap – same occupation and almost the same age! But . . . Wilda? I’d never known anyone called Wilda, or even heard the name before. So weird and old fashioned-sounding, especially combined with the surname. Foreign, German maybe.
And yet, looking at her again, she seemed so completely . . . familiar.
So this was what it was like, I thought, to have an identical twin. The same flesh and blood. Like a little kid’s match-it puzzle, it felt as though I could merge with her and nobody would be any the wiser.
Her watch was different to mine. Big and red and chunky – not my small silver Guess. And there was something not quite right about the face . . .
I was staring so hard the grainy pixels were beginning to separate. The eyes (greeny-hazel?) were hidden behind tortoiseshell sunnies identical to my own, but the nose seemed right.
It was the mouth. Or, more particularly, the teeth. In the photo they seemed to be wider spaced than my own, giving them an almost feral kind of look. Particularly between the two front teeth, where there was, I now realised, quite a definite gap.
The very same gap that had been the badge of all my childhood photos. Before Dr Sim the orthodontist had wired and twisted my teeth into a perfect smile – straight and white and minus the troublesome space.
Someone had once told me that a gap-toothed smile foretold a life of wealth and power. Did this mean that post-orthodontics my life was going downhill?
This Wilda was standing in front of some bushes at Darling Harbour, it said, bright sunshine glowing on her hair. She had a bit of a mop like mine, the kind that has a mind of its own. The sort that when you wake up you never really know what particular style – unless you wash and blow-dry it – you’re going to be stuck with for the rest of the day.
‘I’m here at Darling Harbour just because I felt like it,’ she was quoted as saying. ‘It’s so beautifully warm and summery today.’
Darling Harbour. I very occasionally went there with friends for drinks or something to eat at one of the cafés, but I hadn’t visited it during the day since a school excursion to the Maritime Museum.
She went on to describe what she was wearing, and that’s when I could tell we really were different. ‘I like wearing colours of fire and earth,’ she said, ‘like this khaki with my red bag.’
I frowned. ‘Colours of fire and earth’ – how wanky was that? Why couldn’t she just say that browns and greens suited her, like they did me?
She obviously didn’t have too many lectures on, or didn’t care. Or perhaps she went to UTS, the University of Technology, just up the road, and had wandered down for lunch . . .
Just then my mum came in, heading for the phone.
‘Hey, Ma,’ I said, standing up and holding out the paper.
God knows why I sometimes call her that – it doesn’t suit her in the least. Just to give her a bit of a stir, I suppose. ‘Look–’
‘Yes, darling?’ But her glance had already zeroed in on the mug of tea and the sea of papers at my feet. ‘How’s that essay coming? Don’t you have to hand it in on Monday?’
‘Yeah . . .’ I frowned, wishing I’d never mentioned the assignment. ‘Gunna go and do it in a minute. Here, have a look at–’
‘Careful,’ she interrupted, pointing a finger at the mug of tea.
I stepped over it, shoving the article under her nose. ‘Look – I’m in the paper!’
‘What?’ Mum lifted her silver-chained glasses and peered down her nose. ‘Where?’
‘There,’ I said, jabbing at the photo. ‘Quite a good one, isn’t it?’
I quickly turned to gauge her reaction, and wasn’t disappointed.
‘My god, so it is!’ She stared at the picture, before glancing at me and back again. ‘What were you–’ She broke off and started reading the blurb.
I gave a little laugh. ‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s someone called Wilda. Wilda! If I was called that I’d change my name quick smart!’
Silence. I looked at Mum again. She’d gone quite still. Her eyes were wide, her mouth dropped open.
‘Mum?’
No answer.
‘Mu-um–’
‘Oh!’ She almost jumped. Then practically bundled the paper back into my hands and swung away, towards the phone. She gave a big shrug.
‘Looks a bit like you, I suppose,’ she murmured finally. ‘But . . . people often do, in photos. You’re probably nothing alike in real life.’
‘But–’ I glanced at the photo again, then at her. Or rather, at the back of her. She was standing very still again.
Then just as quickly she seemed to snap out of it; reached for her phone directory.
‘Go on, why don’t you go and see how much of that essay you can get done, before you go out.’
I stared at her, slinky cardigan draped around her slender shoulders. Feeling, not for the first time, as though I’d like to give her a shake.
I sat down at my desk, switched on my computer and started playing Sarah Blasko (nice and chilled) before rummaging through my books and papers. For once I resisted checking my emails or Facebook page, clicking instead to Google for a quick check of the essay topic: Identity Politics in the Postmodern Age.
Typing in ‘identity politics’ produced the first ten of a mere 215,000 entries. Identity politics . . . From identity politics to social feminism . . . Bibliography of Identity Politics . . . Identity . . . Identity . . .
I groaned and clicked out again. Philosophy could be interesting at times, but I certainly didn’t think I’d be taking it next year as a major.
I swung absently around on my chair and spied my phone, switched off for once, nestling in a jumble of clothes on the bed. Lying there silent and accusing, like a noisy show-off that’s been temporarily gagged, dying to jump up and down again and perform its usual song and dance. And next to it sat the article on Wilda. I’d brought that bit of the paper up to my room, though what I was going to do with it, I wasn’t sure.
Show it to my dad when he got home from tennis, for a start. I was sure I’d get a more satisfying response from him than I had from Mum.
I turned back to the screen and sat there staring blankly, picking at my nails. Remembering how completely taken in she’d been to begin with, then suddenly didn’t seem to want to know about it.
She probably didn’t want to encourage more distractions from my essay, I thought. And anyway, with everything that had been going on at our place lately, Mum’s annoying tendency to vague out seemed to have got worse.
I found a rough end of a fingernail, nibbled at it and then tore it right off. My nails are uneven, to say the least, despite my dear mother periodically making appointments for me with her manicurist, so that I could, as she put it, ‘start afresh’.
I frowned down at the ragged edge, then got up, found my bag beside the bed and dug around in it for an emery board. I finally came upon half a torn one in the zippered pocket, along with a couple of old cinema tickets, a lidless, fluff-filled pot of lip gloss, my school student card from last year, a half-unwrapped tampon and a mystery email address scrawled in eyeliner across a scrap of paper.
I tossed all these in my wastepaper bin and then (anything to avoid the essay) proceeded to clean out the rest of the bag. The bin was already pretty full, but by the time I’d finished it was just about overflowing. Then I upended the bag over it, producing a final shower of sand, cookie crumbs, bank receipts and lolly wrappers. I put back the essentials – wallet, brush, sunnies, pens, lip gloss and house key. Great feeling, isn’t it, having a newly emptied bag? I dumped another miscellaneous collection of objects, including a bikini top and a book belonging to my best friend Milly, a CD of photos from a party, a flyer for a uni concert, my boyfriend Duncan’s phone charger and a mini Mars Bar, with some other stuff on top of the chest of drawers in my wardrobe.
Perhaps, I thought, I should spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning up my room. In tidy surroundings I might feel more inspired to concentrate on the essay.
Then I thought about the marks I’d lose for every day I didn’t hand it in. I sighed again, flopped back on my bed and lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Stretched out my hand and touched the bag once more, running my fingers over its new flatness . . .
I rolled over, reached for the photo and placed it next to my handbag. And got another mini jolt.
From what I could see – Wilda’s bag was taken from an angle, not full-on – the two looked identical, with their oversized rings and the same-coloured plaiting on the shoulder bands.
I’d bought mine the year before at the Saturday markets. It had been right in the middle of the final exams, but Milly had persuaded me – without a lot of difficulty – to come out for a browse and a coffee. I’d spotted it hanging in the middle of a whole lot of other bags on a board propped up against the church wall. It looked so different with its woven inlays – it was love at first sight. Funky but serviceable, and, as Milly said, just the right size for uni.
Now it suddenly came back to me – what had actually happened when I bought it. The old hippie stallholder had been quite unhippielike in her beady-eyed selling technique. Her gaze had followed mine to the bag and she’d whipped it off its peg and held it out to me. But as I took it from her, her smile suddenly faltered.
‘Didn’t you buy one just like this last week?’
‘Pardon?’ I was too engrossed in the bag to pay much attention.
She nodded at it. ‘Didn’t you buy the other one of these – just the same? There were only the two of them . . .’
I squeezed its suppleness, smelt its new leather smell. ‘No,’ I said vaguely, ‘must’ve been someone else – it wasn’t me . . .’
She scratched her head and laughed. ‘I could’ve sworn it was you! Well, you’ve got a twin walking around – either that or I’m going mad! Going mad, most probably!’
I laughed politely; Milly rolled her eyes.
‘Tell us about it,’ she cried, ‘we’re in the middle of exams!’
I slipped the strap over my shoulder; it fitted perfectly against my side. Then I looked at the price tag: $115. Nearly a whole two shifts’ worth of waitressing, but still a lot cheaper than it would’ve cost in a shop.
‘I’ll take it,’ I said, fishing out my wallet.
‘Weird,’ said Milly as we walked away, me with my booty in a recycled plastic bag. ‘If she’s right you’ve got a double walking around, with an identical handbag!’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘same looks, same taste in bags!’ But I was already being distracted by delicious smells coming from up ahead. ‘Let’s have our coffee now. I’m dying for one!’
And I hadn’t thought anything more about it. Until today.
I jumped off the bed and started walking about the room, feeling quite ji
ttery. Trying to calm myself. Big deal, I told myself. There’s a girl walking around who looks like you and has the same taste in clothes and handbags. So? If she’s got the same complexion and body, the same type of clothes are going to suit her. And in a city of four million people, there’s bound to be several more lookalikes. I’m not particularly distinctive looking – it’s not as though I’ve got a cleft chin, or a horn growing out of my head . . .
I sat down at my desk again; opened some lecture notes. And after about three minutes reached over, grabbed my phone and switched it on.
The beeping and whirring seemed louder than usual. ‘OK, OK,’ I muttered. There were three messages – one each from Dunc, Milly and Bunters, the catering company I waitress for. Dunc said he’d meet me at the party and that they had the other team five for 59, Milly asked did we want to go and see the Black Keys playing at the Rose and Star, and Bunters was enquiring whether I was available to do a last-minute shift at a wedding.
To Dunc I messaged ‘Yay! keep going xx’. Dunc is a star bowler, both when he was at school and now, for his uni team. I was really happy for his successes, but am not exactly a great cricket fan. To Milly: ‘Great see u there round 11. Sure u dont want to come to Baddos first?’ even though I knew her answer would be no. Parties given by Dunc’s friend Baddo, aka James Baddersley, weren’t exactly Milly’s scene. Nor mine, for that matter.
I told Bunters I was tied up, even though I really should have said yes, considering the balance in my account. But Dunc would be pissed off if I cancelled and anyway, I was excited at the thought of seeing the Black Keys.
I looked at my watch. Four o’clock, and I hadn’t done a thing. I switched off my phone again and chucked it back on the bed. I picked up a highlighter pen and chewed on it, and stared out through my big back window. The backyards of the houses in the next street stretched away to either side, all much the same size, yet each one so different, containing a separate little world.
Paper Alice Page 1
