Following Flora (9 page)

“Perhaps it's all he could find,” she said. “Perhaps it's his favorite color.”

“Mum!
Mum!
MUM!” Flora yelled.

“She's still sleeping,” I called down as softly as I could.

Flora tore past me into Mum's room.

“Read this!” Flora shouted, and shoved the letter under Mum's nose.

Mum moaned, “Flora, I am
asleep.
”

“Then listen!”

Flora brandished the letter, which was also bright green, waving it about until she had our full attention, and then she began to read.

“‘
Dear Miss Gadsby,

We were most impressed by your recent audition. It was
a
very ambitious role, and we felt that you would have tackled it well. What a shame the production coincides with your A-Level timetable, though of course it goes without saying that your exams must come first
 . . .
'”

“I did tell you,” Mum murmured, but Flora ignored her.

“‘
You
may know that three years ago I set up a new training facility for young actors such as yourself. Foundation courses run September to June, and I am writing now to offer you a place for next year. These places are very limited, so please let me know as soon as possible if you are interested. You will find all the relevant information concerning dates, accommodations, and fees in the accompanying information leaflet. Yours sincerely, Thomasina Foulkes-Watson.'”

Flora was shouting louder than Grandma by the end of the letter.

“
Who,” Mum croaked, “is Thomasina Foulkes-Watson?”

“Thomasina Foulkes-Watson,” Flora announced, “is probably the most influential talent scout, casting consultant, and producer of new plays in Britain. Her school is amazing. You have to be invited to go, and all the best actors teach there. It's like being given a place at . . . Oxford or Cambridge or Harvard or something.”

“But you're going to King's.” Mum was completely awake now. “They offered you a place and you're starting in October and you're going to read English and drama.”

Flora stared back down at her letter before replying. She folded it very carefully and put it back in its envelope, and then she said, very softly, “No, I'm not.”

She and Mum looked at each other for ages.

“No,” Mum said at last. She put both her hands on her tummy, like she was asking the baby what it thought of all this, then she held one out to Flora. “No,” she repeated. “I can see you're not.”

I crept down to the kitchen with Twig and Jas. Twig hasn't baked anything for a while, but I found a packet of chocolate biscuits in the cupboard. We squeezed up on the sofa to eat them.

“It's all very exciting,” I said.

“She's going to live in Scotland?” asked Jas.

“I can't imagine this house without Flora,” said Twig, and we were all silent for a while, trying to picture it and failing.

I just went out because as I was writing I thought I heard crying from Flora's room, and I was right. She was lying in bed, fully dressed, with the duvet over her head and her face pressed into the pillow. I thought about stroking her hair, but you can never be too sure how Flora is going to react to things like that, so I just sat down next to her instead.

“Why aren't you happy?” I asked.

“I am!” she sniffed.

“You sound it,” I said. She poked her head out from under the covers. Her face was all puffy, with little salt tracks from her tears and mascara halfway down her cheeks.

“You look it too,” I said. Flora sniffed even louder.

“Of course I'm happy,” she said, and then her lip started to wobble again and these big fat tears began to splash down her face. I had to lean really close to work out what she was saying.

“It's Zach,” she wailed finally between sobs. “If I go away to Scotland, it means we're definitely over.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. I didn't think it was the right time to talk to her about the fickleness of men, especially given Zach's current uncommunicative behavior. “There are loads of very successful long-distance relationships,” I told her.

“Name one,” Flora wailed. I said well, look at all those men who went off to the First World War and spent four years in trenches with their wives waiting faithfully for them at home. Flora said that didn't exactly make her feel better since most of them
died
, and what was she going to do if he did fall under a train and did I think that was possible?

“It's possible,” I said. “But like I said the other day, I think it's very unlikely.”

“Don't go,” she sniffed. She wriggled to the edge of her bed and I lay down next to her.

“Boys are rubbish,” I whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back. “But I do love him so much. Is it true you threw a milk shake over Jake?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Tamsin's mum told us. She heard it from a friend of Jake's mum. I should have said something sooner, but you know . . .” She gave me a watery smile. “Way to go, little sister,” she said. And then she started crying again.

I stayed there for ages, long after Flora stopped crying and went to sleep. I thought Dodi would probably have told everyone, but I can't believe it's got as far as Tamsin's mum. There are just two days left till school starts again. Basically, someone has to do something massively dramatic, or the whole world is going to be talking about me.

Flora flipped over in her sleep and nearly hit me in the face. I slipped out from under her duvet and pulled it up around her shoulders. I wish there was something I could do for her, but I don't think an accidental meeting in the park would work a second time.

SATURDAY, JANUARY 4

I have found out why Zach means so much to Jas. She told me everything when we went back to the stables this afternoon and were brushing our horses down afterward. Their stalls are side by side, with wooden bars you can talk through, and Jas said could she ask me a question. Then she asked did I think Zach and Flora had split up, and if so, did that mean we would never see Zach again?

I said I didn't know.

“Do you think they will?”

I said maybe, when she goes to Scotland. I'd like to think mere distance wouldn't come between them, but look at me and Jake. I mean I know Australia is a lot farther than Scotland, but he was gone less than a month and he fell in love with Talullah
on the second day
. And then I heard Jas sniff and I asked, “Are you crying?” and she said no, she was perfectly fine, just a bit allergic to horses.

“That's ridiculous,” I said, and then she started to cry properly.

“I tried to call him!” she sniffed. “I got his number from Flora's phone, but he didn't answer, and I left a message but he hasn't called back, and I
need
him!”

I really thought I knew what was wrong with her then. I wanted to say to her, “It's perfectly natural to have a crush on your older sister's boyfriend, trust me it happens all the time,” except I wasn't sure if she knew about me liking Flora's old boyfriend Joss last year, and if she didn't I would rather it stayed that way.

“He's the only one who ever LISTENS to me,” Jas cried through her tears. And that is when she told me everything, and it is nothing I would have guessed in a million years.

Jas is a poet.

And Zach is the only person who has ever read her poems.

“He really liked them,” she said. “He said I had ‘definite talent.' He was going to . . .”

“Going to what?” I asked.

“There's this competition,” Jas said. “I read about it in the newspaper. He was helping me with it, and now I've got to the actual final, and I have to
perform
it, stand up and recite it and everything, and I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!”

I stared at her in astonishment.

“That's wonderful, Jas,” I told her.

“But what am I going to do?” she cried

“About what?”

“I asked you for help before but you weren't interested,” Jas said. “Nobody is
ever
interested. It's all oh
my boyfriend my acting career my hair gel my documentary my baby
. It's never, EVER about me. Zach is the only one who cared and even he must have been pretending because now he's GONE!”

“Do you mind about the baby?” I asked.

“Of course not!” she said. “Do you?”

“Of course not,” I said.

“I'm just sick of being the youngest,” said Jas. “It used to be fun, but then you get left behind. At least once the baby's born people might stop treating me like a little kid and leave me alone.”

Jas is clearly as confused about the baby as I am.

“When we get home,” I said, “let's tell the parents about the competition. Dad's a writer. Maybe he can help.”

“If you tell Mum and Dad I write poetry,” Jas said, “I swear I will never, ever speak to you again.”

My pony was growing restless. I'd stopped brushing her to talk to Jas, and I think she was wondering what I was still doing in her box. She nudged me with her head like she was pushing me toward the door.

“I don't understand why you need Zach,” I said. “I mean, I can understand you're sad he's not around to hear about it and everything, but you're in the final now. I bet you'll even win.”

“I can't win.”

“You might.”

“I CAN'T!!!” Jas shouted, and then she started talking really, really slowly, like I was really, really stupid. “This is not a children's competition. It is the West London Poetic Society's Annual Open to All Competition, but it is
not
‘open to all' because it is for people aged sixteen years and over. I can't win, BECAUSE I AM NINE YEARS OLD. It is
spectacularly
unfair.”

“But why do you need Zach?” I asked.

“I need Zach,” Jas said, “to pretend to be me.”

Flopsy gave up on nudging, and nipped me on the shoulder. It hurt. I yelled. Flopsy pushed me out of the box.

Bill was sitting on a bench right outside the door, polishing a bridle. “You want to be more careful around horses,” he said.

I stuck my head out of the top half of the door.

“Were you
listening
?” I cried, and he shrugged and said, “Sounds like someone needs to have a word with this lad.” He looked straight at me when he said that.

“Me?” I asked.

“Someone's got to,” he said.

“He's not answering his phone,” I told him.

“More than one way of talking to a person,” he said.

 

SUNDAY, JANUARY 5

I spent ages writing to Zach.

I wrote loads about understanding how strange it must have been to see his mum again after so long, and how hurtful her leaving must have been.

I wrote about Iris and how I know what it feels like to miss someone you really love.

I wrote about how annoying Flora can be, and how when they quarreled she was probably a load more hurtful than she told me.

Then I got annoyed, because even though this is Zach and not Jake, I am still wasting my time worrying about finding the right thing to say to a boy, and I limited my letter to facts.

“I'm truly sorry about your mum,” I wrote. “But the point is, we are here, and she is not. We miss you, and we are not going away.”

Then I wrote about Flora and how much she missed him and hadn't stopped moping since he went away, and about Jas, and how upset
she
was because of her poetry recital. I finished by telling him if he wanted to finish with Flora, he should be brave enough to do it properly, and otherwise he should come around and see her immediately.

“PS,” I added. “Flora
is
upset, but she may choose to play it cool. I recommend flowers and chocolate.”

I wrote the letter very late last night and got up early this morning to cycle over to Zoran's flat before anyone was awake to ask me what I was doing. With school starting tomorrow, I assumed they would be back soon, if they weren't back already. After I'd put it through the letter box, I sat and stared at the letter box for a while, wondering if I'd done the right thing, and then I decided there was nothing I could do about it anyway, so I came home.

At lunchtime, Mum got a phone call from Zoran, saying they were back in London.

At two thirty, Flora announced that she was going to bed with a fever and that she might never get up again.

At five minutes past four, the doorbell rang, and it was Zach, clutching a bunch of tulips. Twig answered the door, which was good, because anyone else would have made a fuss. All Twig did was say, “Oh, cool, you're back,” and yell upstairs for Flora.

Flora didn't play it cool.

She appeared at the top of the stairs much too quickly for someone dying of a fever. Zach held up the flowers. Until today I never truly understood what people meant when they said “she flew down the stairs.” One second Flora was on the landing, the next she was in the hall with her arms around Zach's neck. Her feet didn't touch a single step.

“You don't hate me!” she cried.

“I brought chocolate too,” Zach said, and then they didn't speak for a while because they were too busy kissing. Then Jas appeared, and Zach was all, “Hey, Jas,” and she said, “You're back!” Zach said, “Yeah, and we've got work to do,” and Jas beamed, and then Mum waddled down from her room (the waddling is quite new, something to do with the baby pressing down between her legs, which I don't really want to think about), and then Dad came out of his study with the mad hair he gets when his writing is going badly, looking grumpy because he'd been interrupted, and even Twig left his comics, and it was impossible to get a sensible word out of anyone.

Whatever problem Zach had with our family, he has clearly gotten over it.