Girls in Tears (10 page)

“You get your hands off her!” I say fiercely.

“Yeah, clear off, you dirty old man!” says Magda.

“Now look here, Nadine’s my little girlfriend, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he says, fondling her in a way that makes me feel sick.

“You’re old enough to be her
grandfather
! Leave her alone or we’ll tell the police and have you up for child molesting,” I say.

He looks worried now. He peers at Nadine. “Tell them, sweetheart,” he says.

“I’ll tell
you,
” says Nadine. “Get lost! Go on, go away. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

So he walks away, down the road, round the corner, gone. Nadine bursts into tears.

“Oh, Naddie, don’t cry. It’s OK, he won’t come back now,” I say.

“Don’t be cross with us for coming. We were just so worried about you. But we’ll make ourselves scarce when Ellis turns up.”

“
He
was Ellis,” Nadine sobs.

“What?”

“But he’s
ancient
. Ellis is nineteen.”

“He said he’d lopped a few years off his age.”

“A
few
!”

“And he was sure I wouldn’t mind going out with him. He said the
Xanadu
showing was canceled but—but never mind, because I looked so like the real Xanadu it was as if we were in our own little show together—”

“Oh, yuck yuck!”

“I know. He’s so
horrible
—and kind of scary.”

“Well, never mind. You don’t have to have anything to do with him ever again. And we’re here now. We’ll look after you.”

“I’m such an idiot,” Nadine sobs. “I’ve been so crazy about Ellis. Now it’s like that horrible old man has stolen him away. Oh God, you were right all the time, Ellie—and you haven’t even said I told you so.”

“Yet!” I say, giving her a hug.

“You’re the best friend in all the world,” says Nadine, hugging me back. “And you are too, Mags.” She looks at us both anxiously. “So have you two made it up now?”

Magda looks at me.

“Of course,” I say. “We’re all best friends, forever and ever and ever.”

when everything ends happily ever after

I keep thinking about the old bearded guy. He keeps morphing into someone else. Someone horribly familiar. He’s got Dad’s beard—and Dad’s hair, Dad’s eyes, Dad’s face. It’s like it’s my dad leering at Nadine.

“You’re ever so quiet, Ellie,” says Magda on the train. “We
are
friends again, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll make it up with Russell, too?” says Nadine.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “It’s not just because of the party. It’s a whole load of other stuff. I’m totally off men at the moment.”

“Me too,” says Nadine, shuddering.

“Count me out of this one!” says Magda. “Look, it’s still ever so early. Why don’t you two come back to my place and we’ll watch a video. I think I’ve even got the
Xanadu
pilot, Nads! We’ll snaffle one of my mum’s cheesecakes and have a little feast. Then my dad can really run you both home after. Yeah?”

“Great,” says Nadine.

They look at me.

“Well, I’d love to, but—”

“Oh, Ellie, you
are
still all huffy, I knew it!” Magda wails.

“No, I’m not, silly,” I say, giving her a little dig with my elbow. “It’s just—well, there’s something else I have to do before I go home.”

“What’s more important than having a laugh with your girlfriends?” says Magda. Then Nadine sighs and gives her a nudge. She mouths one word. Magda goes, “Ooooh!” They both smile at me.

“Right!” says Magda. “Of course, Ellie. Come round tomorrow instead or the next night or whenever.”

They think I’m going round to Russell’s house to make it up with him.

I really don’t know if I want to or not. But that’s not where I’m going tonight.

I’m going to the art college.

I’m sick of Dad. I’m going to have it out with him. He keeps coming up with this stupid excuse that he’s working late at the college. Of course he’s not doing anything of the sort. He’s out somewhere with one of his students, I’m sure of it.

Someone half his age. He’ll be leering at her, looking like that horrible Ellis—and she won’t look that much older than Nadine.

I’m going to go to his room myself to prove there’s no one there, then confront Dad when he comes home.

So I say goodbye to Magda and Nadine when we get back to our station and hurry off toward the college. It’s a bit weird walking along the streets by myself. I keep seeing men lurking in the shadows. I glare at them all, my fists clenched, ready to smack them straight in the face if they try anything on with me. I know I’ve gone a bit mad and that they’re just perfectly ordinary harmless men coming home from work or the pub or simply out for a stroll—but I’ve started to suspect all men,
especially
my dad.

I march quickly to the college and stare up at the big dark building. I know which is Dad’s room, right up at the top. The light isn’t on. There! Working late indeed! The whole college is in darkness apart from a light on the first floor, where the studios are. I peer up—and then catch my breath. Dad
is
there! I can just make out his profile as he stands near the window. His head bobs backward and forward: It’s as if he’s looking at someone. Oh God.

He’s there in the studio with some girl student.

How
can
he? There’s poor Anna worrying herself sick at home.

I run through the gates and up to the college entrance. The main doors are locked but there’s a side door round the corner for staff and it’s still open. I walk in and start trekking along the corridor. My boots echo eerily in the silent building. I try to tip-toe, as cautious as a burglar. I creep up the first flight of stairs. My heart’s pounding. I wonder what on earth I’m playing at. I’m so scared of what I’m going to see. Maybe I should keep out of things after all. No, I’m going to go through with it. I’m going to confront Dad. I don’t care how embarrassing and appalling it is. I’ve got to know. If my dad’s little better than some leering old pervert then I’ve got to face up to it—and make him face up to it too.

I throw open the studio door. Dad gasps. He’s on his own! He’s standing in front of a canvas, painting. There’s a mirror propped up in front of him. He’s working on a self-portrait. I’ve made him jump so much that he’s daubed grizzled beard color right across his nose.

“Good God, Ellie! Now look what you made me do! You terrified the life out of me. What on earth are you doing here?”

I stare at him, speechless.

“Are you checking up on me?” Dad asks.

“No! Well . . .”

“Ellie, I’ve told you and told you, I’m not having some secret affair. Chance would be a fine thing at my age, anyway! All my students treat me like some sad old git way past his sell-by date. Which I suppose I am.”

“No you’re not, Dad,” I say uncomfortably. “I’m sorry I made you jump like that. You can scrape off the smudgy bit, can’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s an improvement. Me and my new furry nose.”

I go and stand beside Dad and look properly at the portrait. It’s good, of course. Dad’s always been great at painting, though he hasn’t worked properly on anything for ages. He’s painted himself with almost painful precision, putting in every line and gray hair. He’s emphasized his sagging tummy, his hunched stance, his worn old shoes.

In the portrait he’s standing at his easel, painting. He’s gazing intently at the picture on the easel. This is a portrait of a very different Dad. He looks much younger, with a trimmed beard and trendy haircut, a flat stomach and stylish black clothes. He seems to be at some art exhibition. Maybe it’s his own private view. He’s surrounded by admirers. There’s Anna, there’s me and Eggs, there’s a whole flock of pretty leggy girls raising their glasses of champagne to him, there are older men in suits writing in their checkbooks, paying a fortune for each painting.

“Oh, Dad,” I say softly.

“Yeah. Sad, isn’t it?” says Dad.

“It is—it’s a brilliant painting.” But it
is
sad. Dad’s obviously all too aware that he hasn’t achieved all the things he once longed for.

“It isn’t brilliant, Ellie, but it’s the best I can do. I’ve been working on it evening after evening, trying so hard. But it’s all a bit pointless. I want to be him”—Dad points to the portrait within the portrait—“but I’m stuck being him. A jealous old idiot.”

“Oh, Dad, I shouldn’t ever have said that. I’m so sorry. I didn’t really mean it. And I like the real you much much better.”

“Well, I’m glad about that, Ellie, even if you’re just being kind to your old dad.”

“Anna likes the real you best too.”

“I’m not so sure about that. She’s starting to move in a different world now. I think she’s getting pretty fed up with me. Maybe she’ll meet some trendy successful designer—”

“Maybe she will. But she won’t want him, Dad. She just wants you. I know. She’s been going crazy worrying about you. Why didn’t you
tell
us you were just working on a painting?”

“I wanted to see if I could do something really worthwhile. I didn’t want to tell anyone in case it didn’t come off. I needed to keep it to myself.”

“And maybe you kind of
wanted
to make Anna worry?” I suggest.

“She’s so busy she doesn’t notice if I’m there or not,” says Dad.

“Oh,
Dad
! You know that’s not true. Anna needs you so much. She loves you.”

“Well—I love her,” Dad says gruffly.

“Then why don’t you just come home and tell her?”

“OK. Home it is. Ellie, do you really think the painting’s OK?”

“I told you, Dad. It’s wonderful.”

“Well—I suppose it isn’t
too
bad. It still needs quite a bit of work on it.”

“Like the hairy nose?”

“I’ll sort that in a tick.” Dad dips his brush in pinky beige paint and starts splodging over the brown.

“Hey, Dad, try painting out your beard too. See what you might look like without one.”

“I’ve always had a beard,” says Dad.

“Like when you were a little boy?”

“Absolutely. I had the cutest stubble as a baby, a little goatee as a toddler, and a full beard from when I was six,” says Dad, laughing. “OK, OK, let’s shave it off.”

He deftly paints over his beard. His painted face looks strangely naked, but I think I like it.

“It makes you look much younger, Dad.”

“Do you think so?” says Dad, stroking his real beard. “Mm. Maybe I’ll shave the real one off.”

“See what Anna thinks. Maybe she
likes
the Father Christmas look.”

“Nobody can insult you like your number one daughter,” says Dad.

He gives me a little poke with the end of his paintbrush. I pick up another and we have a mock fencing match. Dad’s acting like
Dad
again and it’s such a relief.

We go home together. I go straight up to bed and leave Dad and Anna to talk. I don’t know if they really will sort things out—but certainly at breakfast next morning they both seem unusually chirpy.

Dad gives Anna a quick kiss on the cheek when he leaves for college. I raise my eyebrows at Anna. She goes a little pink and smiles demurely.

There’s a thud of post coming through the letterbox. Eggs runs to fetch it.

“Boring boring boring,” he says, flipping through all the business envelopes and giving them to Anna. “Why do you get all this post now, Mum?”

“Because of my sweaters, darling. Maybe I’ll have to get an assistant soon, someone to help answer all the letters. And we’ll find a proper lady to look after you after school, Eggs, if I can’t be there. I’ve just got to get myself organized—somehow!” says Anna.

Eggs still has a letter in either hand. “These are yours, Ellie. It’s not fair,
I
want a letter.”

“I’ll write you a Cornflake Kid letter after school, OK?” I say. “Let’s see my letters, then!”

I take them and look from one to the other, my heart thumping. I recognize the handwriting on both. I don’t know which to open first. I juggle them from hand to hand, and then open Nicola Sharp’s letter first. I scan the page. She’s drawn herself at the end, hand in hand with lots of her rainbow fairies!

Dear Ellie,

Don’t worry, I think you’re the most original illustrator ever. It’s very touching that you’ve used your
mother’s mouse designs—but you’ve moved on and
made Myrtle yours.

I love all the mousy illustrations in your letter. I’d
like to see more of your work. Maybe we can meet up
sometime? Perhaps you’d like to spend a day at my
studio in the summer holidays? I can show you how to
draw rainbow fairies and you can show me how to
draw Myrtle Mouse.

With very best wishes,

Nicola

“Oh wow! Nicola Sharp’s asked me round to her studio, Anna! She doesn’t mind a bit that my mum invented Myrtle. She
still
thinks I’m original.”

I hand her the letter. Eggs sees the colored picture and tries to snatch it.

“Careful, sweetheart,” says Anna. “This is a very special letter. Look, Nicola Sharp’s done a lovely drawing just for Ellie!”

“I think Ellie’s drawings are better!” says Eggs. “Will you draw the Cornflake Kid on my letter, Ellie?”

“Yes, I promise,” I say as I open the other envelope. There’s a very large sketchpad page folded up inside.

“Is it from Russell?” says Anna.

“I think so.” I open it out with trembling hands. It’s a huge picture of an enormous ring engraved over and over again with the word SORRY, with little hearts and flowers in between each words. It must have taken him hours and hours to draw, and it’s been colored in so carefully too, each flower a different shade, the gold ring beautifully highlighted, the background a brilliant, even blue.

Underneath, Russell writes:

Darling Ellie,

I’m so sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry
sorry sorry sorry sorry. Could we rewind right back
and start all over again? I’ll be in the McDonald’s
where we first met straight after school, waiting and
waiting and waiting.

Love,

Russell xxxxxx

“Well?” says Anna. “Is he sorry enough?”

“I—I think so.”

“And how do you feel about him now?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

Anna smiles at me. “I think you do!” she says, and gives me a hug.

I run nearly all the way to school. I turn the corner—and there’s my Mr. Wonderful Dream Man on his way to work.

“Ellie! I was so hoping to bump into you!”

“Not literally, this time! Kev, thanks so much for looking after me that night. You were so sweet to me. I was in a right state, wasn’t I? I’m so sorry!”

“I don’t need to ask how you are now. You and the boyfriend are back together again, right?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you’ve got a big smile stretching from ear to ear!”

I stay smiling all day long. Nadine and Magda tease me fondly. I can’t
wait
until the end of school. I start haring down the corridor the moment the bell goes.

“Slow down, Ellie, you’ll knock the little ones over!” Mrs. Henderson calls, coming after me. “I wish I could make you run that fast on the hockey pitch! Still, I’m very glad you’ve cheered up.”

I grin at Mrs. Henderson. She’s really not such a bad old stick after all.

Then I gallop off again. Out of school, into town, round to McDonald’s—and there, sitting at a table, is Russell. He’s looking around anxiously, his hair tousled, dark circles under his eyes. He’s clutching his sketchbook. I want to rush right up to him, but I force myself to saunter slowly past, up to the counter for French fries and Coke.

Then I sit at the table opposite him. I get out my own little notebook. I start drawing in it, taking little nibbles of chips and sips of Coke. I draw Russell. He is busy drawing too. I’m drawing him drawing me and he’s drawing me drawing him. Every so often our eyes meet as we look up. I can’t help smiling. Russell smiles too. He gets up and comes over to me. It looks like we’re starting all over again.

It won’t be the same.

It will be different.

It could be
better
.