Kiss Page 3

  I looked everywhere for a glass girl, but so far hadn't found one. I invented the Glassworld Chronicles instead. They started off as a fairy story about a boy and a girl cast out into such a wintry world t h a t they froze and t u r n e d into 26

  glass. We elaborated a n d expanded u n t i l together we'd invented an entire glass world and a cast of hundreds. My glass boy and girl became the King and Queen of Glassworld.

  They h a d family, friends and bitter enemies.

  There were a host of servants, some treasures, some treacherous. They h a d a menagerie of exotic pets: penguins and polar bears, a pair of hairy mammoths, and a stable of white unicorns with glass horns and hooves.

  They were all so real to me t h a t I actually shivered inside the hot little hut, living it all so vividly. Nowadays I was on tenterhooks with Carl, wondering if he'd play properly. I didn't know w h a t tenterhooks were, but whenever he made fun of me I felt little stabs in my stomach as if I'd been caught like a fish on a hook.

  'Sylvie, I'm not in the mood,' said Carl, his eyes closed.

  He was stretched out like a marble effigy on a tomb, not moving. I looked at his beautiful face, his long lashes, his slim nose, his soft lips. I wondered what would happen if I subverted the traditional fairy tale and woke Carl with a kiss.

  I giggled nervously. Carl opened one eye.

  'What?' he said. 'Just r u n away and play, little g i r l '

  'Don't you little girl me. I'm only two months younger t h a n you. And I don't w a n t to play. I'm here to pass on a party invitation.'

  'Oh God,' said Carl, closing his eye again.

  'Please don't make me go to Lucy's party.'

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  'It's not Lucy's party. It's Miranda Holbein's party.'

  'Who?' said Carl. 'Miranda? I don't know any Mirandas.'

  'Neither do I, not properly, b u t everyone knows about her. I told J a k e she'd asked us to her party and he was dead impressed, you could tell. I'm sure I've told you about her, Carl. She's j u s t amazing. She's the girl everyone wants to be but wouldn't dare. Goodness knows why she's invited us.'

  Carl lay still as a statue b u t both his eyes were open now.

  'I don't get this us bit,' he said.

  'Well, I was going on about you a bit in the girls' toilets. Miranda and the others thought I was making it up but Patty Price was there and she started on about you too.'

  'So I'm the chief topic of conversation in your girls' toilets?' said Carl.

  I was scared he might get cross. It was a huge relief when he started chuckling.

  'So t h e r e they all are, the fresh young damsels of Milstead High School, each locked in h e r lavatory cubicle, seated in splendour, calling to each other like demented doves: Carl, Carl, Carl, Carl, Carl, Carl!'

  I started giggling. I sat on the edge of the sofa, by his feet.

  'Scrunch up a bit, Carl. OK, Milstead Pin-Up Boy. W h a t shall I say to Miranda?'

  'When is this party of hers?'

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  'Like, tonight. She decided j u s t like that.' I snapped my fingers. 'Imagine us suddenly announcing to our mums, "Right, I'm having a party tonight. Provide all the food and drink a n d music and stuff a n d m a k e yourselves scarce." Do they have food at proper teenage parties? And will they have real drink, do you think – wine and beer and vodka or whatever?'

  'Well, we'll find out,' said Carl, sitting up.

  I stared at him. 'We're not really going to go are we? I mean, it's such short notice we could easily get out of it.'

  'Why don't we go if she's such an amazing girl?'

  'Well. Because . . . I'll feel so shy and stupid.'

  'I'll be there, silly.'

  'And I don't have the right sort of things to wear. I know they all wear the most incredible stuff out of school. Miranda looks at least eighteen.

  I wish I didn't look such a total baby.' I tugged at my plaits. 'Look at my hair, for God's sake!'

  'You can brush it out and wear it loose. It looks great like that,' Carl said encouragingly.

  'I could wear my black skirt and hitch it right up. Do you t h i n k t h a t would look . . . sexy?'

  'Not if it's all bunched up at the waist. You don't w a n t to look as if you've tried too hard.

  J u s t wear your j e a n s and a T-shirt and you'll look fine.' Carl gave my h a n d a quick squeeze. I clung to his fingers.

  Are you teasing me, Carl? Are we really going?'

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  'Yep, why not? Everyone's telling us to grow up and socialize and party like everyone else, so we'll try it out, eh? Don't worry. If it's a total bore or dead scary or whatever we'll just stay for one drink and then come straight home again.'

  'Carl . . . I hope you don't mind, but I kind of told Miranda you're my boyfriend.'

  'Well, I am, aren't I?' said Carl.

  His blond hair fell forward over his brow like the Glass Boy's on the shelf. He smiled at me, his brown eyes shining. All the dangling cryst a l s glittered in t h e late sunlight, casting rainbow reflections across the hut. I felt dazzled w i t h happiness.

  I ran home to try on all my clothes and experiment with hairstyles for the party. I met up with Miss Miles on the stairs. Miss Miles is our lodger. She's an old lady who will never wear purple like the poem. She has several beige knitted suits and cardigans, and thick beige stockings which always loop around her ankles, Nora Batty-style. She h a s h e r hair dyed a blondy beige colour and rubs beige foundation over her wrinkly face. Her spare beige bra and big knickers drip on the towel rail once a week, evidence that she is totally colour co-ordinated.

  'You look full of the joys of spring today, Sylvie,' she said.

  'I'm going to a p a r t y ' I said.

  'Ooh, lovely! I hope you get lots of ice cream and jelly and birthday cake.'

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  'Er – yes,' I said, dodging round her. She seems to t h i n k I'm about six years old.

  'What colour is your party frock?' she called after me.

  'I haven't really got one,' I said, going into my little bedroom.

  Mum used to sleep in Miss Miles's room when Dad was around. She's moved into the little bedroom now. I got the box room. It wasn't much bigger t h a n a cupboard. I h a d a mirror, but I h a d to s t a n d on my bed to see w h a t I looked like all over.

  I didn't think much of myself in any of my clothes. I was still experimenting when Mum came home from work.

  'What are you up to, Sylvie?' she said, putting her h e a d round the door. 'Hey, I hope you're not thinking of going out like t h a t – t h a t skirt's much too short.'

  'I know. And it bunches up at t h e waist, j u s t like Carl said. And I don't look sexy, I look stupid,' I said, pulling it off in despair.

  'I don't t h i n k I want you looking sexy,' said Mum.

  'Carl says j u s t wear j e a n s but you can't wear jeans to a party. It would be different if they were designer.'

  'Don't s t a r t . They're Tesco's finest –

  w h a t more could a girl wish for? And w h a t party? You haven't said a n y t h i n g about a p a r t y '

  'Because I've only j u s t got asked. It's tonight, 31

  at Miranda's. She this girl in Year Nine, the other class.'

  'What sort of party is it? And how are you going to get home? I'm knackered, Sylvie. I don't want to stay up late to come and pick you up. I j u s t w a n t to have a b a t h and go to bed straight after supper.'

  'Carl's going too, so his m u m or dad will pick us up, no problem,' I said.

  'Carl's going? What is this party, then? Why didn't you tell me about it earlier?'

  'I told you, I didn't know about it earlier. Oh, Mum, don't fuss. Look, you were the one who said it was time I grew up. Miranda and her friends are ever so grown up.'

  'Yes, that's w h a t I'm worried about. There's a happy medium. This party – Miranda's parents will be there, won't they?'

  'Of course.'

  'And there won't be any alcohol?'

  'As
if!' I said firmly. 'Mum, I'll be fine. And I'll have Carl to look after me. I can go, can't I? It's j u s t t h a t Miranda isn't the sort of girl who asks you twice.'

  'Whereabouts does she live?'

  'Lark Drive.'

  M u m raised her eyebrows. 'Then she's dead posh,' she said. 'Those houses cost a fortune.

  Maybe you shouldn't wear your jeans.'

  'Well, w h a t should I wear?' I said, standing there, still in my bra and knickers. I didn't really need a bra at all yet b u t I wasn't going to 32

  be the only girl in my class who didn't wear one.

  'God knows,' said Mum. She giggled. 'A t i a r a and evening frock?'

  'Oh, ha-ha.'

  I h a d a best dress, a terrible velvety pinafore thing, b u t it was old now, and I looked about five in it anyway.

  In t h e end I took Carl's advice and wore my jeans a n d a v-necked black sweater of Mum's.

  The wool made my skin itch and it was going to be too hot for a party but it looked more sophisticated t h a n my own T-shirts. I privately stuffed paper tissues in my bra to give me a little shape.

  I brushed my hair out but I still looked lamentably little-girly. I tried copying Miranda's elaborate hairstyle, experimenting with beads and bits of thread. I wasn't sure it looked any better.

  Is t h a t the latest style for long hair?' Mum said doubtfully. 'I could twirl it up in a b u n thing for you if you like.'

  'No thanks,' I said. 'Miranda h a s h e r hair like this. Sort of

  'You seem very keen on this Miranda all of a sudden,' Mum said. 'Write down h e r full address then. Oh God, I don't know whether I should let you go, not when we don't even know them.

  Maybe I'd better ring Miranda's mother and j u s t check up on this party situation.'

  'Don't, Mum! I'll die of embarrassment. They 33

  all t h i n k I'm a total baby already. They laugh at me a n d call me the Titch.'

  'That's not very nice of them,' said Mum. 'Do they tease you a lot?'

  'Well, a bit. But it's OK. I'm kind of used to it.'

  Mum sighed. 'I don't know. It used to be so lovely when you were back in first school and everyone was so friendly and all the mums knew each other. I suppose middle school was OK, but now t h e high seems so big and scary. They've lost t h a t special atmosphere. I'm not happy with it as a school. And yet there's Carl at the grammar and Jules doesn't think he's happy there either.

  She thinks he's maybe being teased now.'

  'She said. But he's fine, Mum. We're both fine.'

  Mum suddenly gave me a hug. 'I know you are,' she said, nuzzling h e r head against mine.

  'Mind my hair, Mum!'

  'OK, OK. Sorry! Oh, Sylvie, fancy you going off to a proper party. You will be sensible, won't you?'

  'Yes, Mum.'

  'Yes, I know you will. Take no notice. I'm j u s t being daft.' Mum rubbed h e r forehead the way she always does when she's tired.

  'Jules or Mick will come and collect us, right, so you can go to bed early' I said.

  'Yeah, like I'm going to be able to sleep before you're back!' said Mum.

  It was weird saying goodbye to her. She was e a t i n g h e r supper on a tray, watching Coronation Street.

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  'You have fun, darling,' she said. She looked at h e r microwaved p a s t a a n d t h e television, shaking her head. 'I seem to have turned into a sad old woman,' she said. She lowered h e r voice.

  I'll t u r n into Miss Miles if I don't watch out. Oh dear, I wish I h a d a party to go to.'

  'Oh, Mum,' I said, suddenly feeling awful.

  'Forget I said that. I'm j u s t feeling stupidly sorry for myself. Go on, off you go. You look lovely, darling. Enjoy yourself.'

  Jules drove us to L a r k Drive, positively burbling with excitement.

  'It's no big deal, Mum,' said Carl. You're acting like we've been invited to h a n g out w i t h t h e Geldof girls. It's j u s t a little s u b u r b a n party.

  Relax!'

  Carl certainly looked relaxed in his white T-shirt and blue j e a n s , totally cool a n d understated, but he was jiggling his leg up a n d down, always a sign he was tense. I felt a wave of love for him because he was going to Miranda's party for my sake. I reached out a n d gave his h a n d a grateful squeeze. Both our p a l m s were clammy and damp.

  Even J u l e s looked nervous w h e n she t u r n e d into L a r k Drive. It was well-lit w i t h lampposts, all in a fancy repro-Victorian design. E a c h 36

  house was set back from the road in its own grounds. Some were big red-brick villas with gables a n d t u r r e t s and towers.

  'Cor, lummy,' said Jules in mock-cockney.

  'You're partying with the posh nobs tonight.'

  'Miranda can't live in one of these houses!' I said.

  My h e a r t started thudding. Maybe she was playing a joke on me. Yes, of course. She didn't really w a n t to invite me to h e r party and meet my boyfriend. She j u s t wanted to make a fool of me, pretending she lived in one of these extraordinary mansions. She was probably killing herself laughing now, imagining me trailing up and down Lark Drive looking for a non-existent party.

  'I've made a mistake, Jules,' I said, nearly in tears. 'Let's go back home.'

  Carl edged closer to me. 'Hey, it's OK. Don't worry, I'm here.'

  'No, I've j u s t realized, Miranda's playing a joke on me. I bet there isn't even a n u m b e r ninety-four. I'm such an idiot,' I wailed.

  'The houses aren't quite so grand this end,'

  said Jules as we drove past several square modern houses with mock Regency pillars.

  'There's certainly a hotch-potch of styles! That's ninety, ninety-two – oh look! It's t h e white house at the end!'

  It wasn't Victorian, it wasn't new, it wasn't mock anything, it was utterly different from all the other houses in the road, a large white 37

  1920s house with a flat roof and stained-glass windows. It was gently floodlit so it glowed like a great moon.

  'Oh, wow, look at the Art Deco glass!' said Carl.

  'Look at the Art Deco everything]' said Jules.

  'It's so beautiful. I'm sure I've seen it featured in one of those glossy home magazines. So can your Miranda really live here?'

  'No way' I said. 'I've led us all on a wild-goose chase. I'm sorry'

  'We'll go and knock on the door and see,' said Carl.

  'No!' I said. 'Well, OK, but they won't even have heard of her, I'll bet.'

  Carl and I got out of the car. Jules got out too, tucking her wild h a i r behind her ears. She rubbed at a paint stain on her trousers and sighed.

  'Oh, well. Pretend I'm simply your chauffeur, kids,' she said.

  We went through the white gate and walked up t h e York-stone path, looking up at t h e house as reverently as if it was a cathedral. Carl gazed at t h e stained glass, transfixed by t h e pink flowers, the blue butterflies, the glowing sun with spreading rays.

  Jules pressed the doorbell timidly. 'Did t h a t work? Did you h e a r it ring?'

  We waited. Nothing happened. Jules tried again, pressing firmly this time. The bell rang immediately, making us all jump. Then the 38

  door opened and there was Miranda herself.

  'Hi,' she said casually.

  She didn't look casual. She was wearing a black lace long-sleeved top, a tight skirt and h e r pointy boots. She had a black velvet ribbon round h e r white neck, heavy black eye make-up and d a r k red lipstick. She looked fantastic.

  'Hello,' I said, my voice quavery. 'Er, this is Carl and Jules, his mum. Um. Is the party still on?'

  'Sure,' said Miranda. 'Come in, all of you.'

  'Well, I'm j u s t delivering them,' said Jules.

  'Are you sure you don't want to stop for a drink?' said Miranda.

  'No, no,' said Jules. 'So, when should I come and collect Sylvie and Carl?'

  Miranda shrugged. 'Whenever.'

  ' A b o u t . . . eleven?' J u l e s suggested tent-atively.

  'Fine,' said Mira
nda. 'Or later.'

  We nodded at J u l e s a n d t h e n followed Miranda indoors. Well, I followed Miranda. Carl was looking at the windows close up, very gently fingering the lead and stroking the glossy glass.

  'Carl!' I hissed.

  Miranda stopped, her head on one side. Her eyes were screwed up, looking at Carl. 'You like the windows? Come and see the ones in the conservatory.'

  We walked along the hall, through a huge quarry-tiled kitchen with a dresser full of matching china, all stylized orange flowers, and 39

  t h e n into a glass room of green palms and great fans of fern, with pink and purple orchids everywhere. The conservatory h a d a frieze of stained glass running right round it, wonderful flowers a n d p l a n t s in rich crimsons a n d chrome yellows and jade green. The French windows were stained glass too, with birds in each panel

  – bluebirds, canaries, finches, magpies, parrots.

  Carl stood on tiptoe, as if he was going to fly like a bird himself. I worried t h a t he looked a little too enchanted. I didn't want Miranda to t h i n k him totally weird. But it was OK. She was smiling at him.

  'Great, isn't it?' she said.

  'The flowers are original nineteen twenties,'

  said Carl. 'But the birds?'

  'They're new. Ish. There used to be flowers in the door panes but there was a little accident. I slammed straight through them. I was riding this go-cart, you see, and I didn't quite get to grips with the steering. So there I was, spouting blood like a scarlet fountain and my dad was j u s t going "Oh God, my stained-glass window!"'

  'Quite right too,' said Carl. 'It's much easier to mend you t h a n a beautiful original window.'

  M i r a n d a laughed. 'Yeah. So he was going to get t h e door glass replaced at great expense and I was losing my allowance for t h e rest of my life, but t h e n he saw these modern birds in t h e stained-glass guy's studio and t h a t was it, he h a d to have t h e m – at even greater expense.'

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  'How much is that?' said Carl. I knew he was thinking of the Glass Hut.