Girls to Total Goddesses (12 page)

.

.

22

‘Oh my God!’ I screamed. ‘Catch it! Catch it! Catch it!’ I raced off down the road – it was some distance before we got to a side street which would lead in the right direction. Fred sprinted ahead, although he is no athlete and his arms and legs were flapping all over the place. I could hear Jess puffing away just behind me.

‘God! This is a killer!’ she gasped. ‘I’ve just had lasagne and chips!’

Down the side street and into the parallel road we ran: there was no sign of the artwork. Cans and crisp wrappers were blowing about. We raced up and down, peering into all the front gardens by the feeble light of the street lamps. We looked up into the branches of the trees, all swaying and creaking and bending in the violent wind. Nothing.

‘It may have gone over into Byron Road,’ said Fred, glancing up at the wild black sky. ‘Come on!’

‘No! Fred! Wait!’ I panted. ‘There’s no point! It’s gone! It could be miles away by now!’

We stood beneath a street lamp, gasping to get our breath back. The wind tossed Jess’s hair about and tugged at Fred’s hoodie. Huge anguish built up in my head. I was going to cry. I had lost the winning artwork! Beast would be furious. I would get the sack from the campaign. It would be the end of all my hopes. He would hate me for ever.

‘What can I do?’ I wailed. ‘It’s a disaster!’

‘It must be somewhere!’ said Jess. ‘Someone will find it! Get them to make an announcement on local radio for everyone to look for it tomorrow.’

Right on cue, it started to rain.

‘Oh no, no, no!’ I groaned. ‘This rain is going to ruin it anyway! I can’t tell the radio people! I couldn’t bear everybody knowing! Nobody must know! Least of all Beast!’

‘Beast won’t mind, surely.’ pondered Jess. ‘It was an accident.’

‘He is fairly grumpy these days, though,’ commented Fred dubiously.

Tears filled my eyes at the thought of Beast being disappointed in me. ‘There’s only one thing to do,’ sighed Jess. ‘You’ll just have to fess up.’

‘No, no – lateral thinking, my dear girl!’ retorted Fred, putting on a posh professor’s voice. ‘What Zoe must do is forge a replacement.’

‘Forge it . . . ?’ I faltered.

‘Yes, yes, you know what the original looks like, don’t you?’

‘Yes – right. It’s a guy in jail, looking through the prison bars, but they’re also the strings on a guitar.’

‘Forge it, then,’ repeated Fred. ‘I wish we could help you but it is tricky to forge something you’ve never seen. Although I did get away with that Michelangelo last year.’

‘It shouldn’t be too difficult,’ mused Jess. ‘I mean, kids’ paintings are always a bit primitive, aren’t they? It’s not as if it really was a Michelangelo or something.’

We parted. Jess and Fred promised to keep their eyes open for the artwork. I could hear them resuming their dentist argument as they strolled off down the road. I really envied them their relationship. They were mad about each other but really good mates as well. I bet they’ll stay together till they’re ninety.

If only I had a nice supportive boyfriend to help me through this crisis! I had a little cry on the way home, just to pass the time, and because basically I had lost the cherished artwork and there was no way out: Beast was going to despise me.

‘Where have you been all evening?’ demanded Mum as I entered the sitting room. I slumped down on the sofa next to Dad and let rip with another big salvo of tears. He put his arm round me. Mum switched the TV off and a sudden silence sprang up, punctuated only by my raucous sobs.

Between sobs I told the parents about losing the artwork. They looked concerned.

‘You should ring them immediately and tell them what’s happened,’ said Mum.

‘No! No!’ I cried. ‘I can’t! I’ll have to forge a replacement!’

‘Good thinking, old boy,’ said Dad.

‘Jeremy!’ snapped Mum. ‘Surely you’re not encouraging Zoe to cheat?’ Dad shrugged.

‘It just might be worth a try,’ he said, eyebrows raised. ‘It’s a child’s work, after all, so it’s bound to be a bit rough round the edges. And anyway, you shouldn’t be so high and mighty about it. What about that time at uni when you forged a letter to your tutor from your parents to say you’d had to go home for a family funeral? When we had our romantic little weekend away in Southwold?’

Mum blushed deeply, and though intrigued by the thought of their illegal tryst, I didn’t want to hear any further details. With a cry of disgust I launched myself off the sofa, ran upstairs and gained the sanctuary of my room. My teddy bear Bruce waved gleefully from my pillow.

‘Not yet, Bruce,’ I sighed. ‘First I have to forge a masterpiece.’

Luckily my childhood paints were stashed away untouched and there was some heavy-duty art paper under my bed. I blew the dust off it and cut it to size: A3. At least that much was going to be accurate.

I found the brushes, rinsed them in my washbasin and sat down at my desk. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up the image of the winning design. But all I could see were Beast’s hands.

When we’d been standing side by side, earlier, all I’d been aware of was the faint warmth of his body all down my left side, and the lovely square shape of his hands, and the citrus smell on his skin. I’d been completely and utterly oblivious to the painting.

Although I had looked at it earlier, of course, and last Sunday, when I’d been drawing up the shortlist of five I’d been comparing it with the others all the time. But that was three days ago. And though I did remember the general design quite well, it was impossible to recall all the details.

The first one I did was way too small, I suppose because I was so scared. The second one looked like the smeary blotches of a toddler. The third one slanted off towards the left in a way that was unsettling. Halfway through the fourth one I began to feel desperately hungry.

I went downstairs. Dad and Mum were making their bedtime cocoa.

‘I’m starving,’ I announced.

‘There’s some chicken and salad in the fridge,’ said Mum.

‘Finished your masterpiece, then, old boy?’ asked Dad.

‘It’s difficult,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t know how they manage when they’re trying to forge Michelangelo and stuff. I might have to fess up after all.’ I addressed this remark to Mum to placate her a bit.

I went back to my room and recommenced the forgery. At one-thirty precisely I decided to stop. I’d gone dizzy with the whole thing, and I couldn’t even remember what the original artwork had looked like. My latest effort, though lame and dire, would have to do. I would drop it in at the printer in the morning on my way to school, and hope nobody would notice that it wasn’t the original.

.

.

23

At school next day I was uneasy and preoccupied. I didn’t dare tell Chloe that I’d forged the artwork, so I was trapped in lonely torment. Chloe was back on the goddess project, big time.

‘I think we should call in at Baxter’s on our way home,’ she said. ‘We could go to the beauty counter and get them to do a make-up session on us.’

I have been trying to get Chloe to think creatively about make-up for literally years. This was a major breakthrough.

‘Great idea!’ I patted her on the shoulder like a general congratulating his most heroic corporal. I needed to get into this, to force myself out of my artwork angst. ‘Brilliant! We’d better call them first, though, and make an appointment.’

‘You do that!’ said Chloe. ‘I’m useless on the phone.’ I’d got my phone halfway out of my bag when I stalled.

‘No, you do it, Chloe!’ I insisted. ‘Being so phobic about the phone is really holding you back. I’m not going to do any more phoning for you.’ Chloe’s eyes flashed, but she knew she was on shaky ground.

‘This isn’t for me,’ she said. ‘It’s for both of us.’

‘Well, for the past five years, whenever there’s been any phoning of strangers, I’ve had to do the honours for both of us, and from now on it’s your turn.’ I grinned at her and handed my phone across.

Chloe took it reluctantly and switched it on. ‘OK . . .’ she mused. ‘Oh! You’ve got a text!’ Her eyes flared in astonishment. ‘It’s from somebody called Harry!’ I grabbed the phone back. ‘Who’s Harry?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’ That was a stupid thing to say. As if I would get a text from a total stranger.

I read the text.
ZOE, PLEASE CAN YOU CALL IN AT THE OFFICE ON YOUR WAY HOME AFTER SCHOOL?
I deleted it swiftly.

‘Somebody wanting to know Tam’s new mobile number,’ I lied, my face burning inconveniently. ‘She’s switched to a different network.’

‘OK,’ said Chloe. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

‘Get on with what?’ My face was boiling and so was my brain. The text from Beast had wiped everything else from my memory banks.

‘I was going to call Baxter’s and make those appointments, remember?’ Chloe held out her hand for my phone.

‘Oh yes,’ I said helplessly. ‘Of course.’ I handed over my phone, and watched in dumb torment while Chloe first called directory enquiries to get the number for Baxter’s, then faltered and flustered her way through to the beauty department, and then made two appointments for us after school, at the very time I had to go and see Beast in his office. I was double booked.

.

‘Come on! Come on! Quick!’ I urged Chloe, hustling her down the high street at ten past four.

‘What’s the hurry?’ grumbled Chloe.

‘I can’t wait to see your new look.’ I grinned treacherously. ‘And I’ve just remembered I’ve got to see the doctist afterwards.’ I would need an excuse to get away from Chloe afterwards, in order to see Beast alone.

‘The doctist?’

‘The dentist, the dentist.’ We arrived at Baxter’s and went to the beauty counter. A woman with very high eyebrows and a snooty nose looked down at us.

‘We’ve got an appointment,’ I said. ‘For a makeover – make-up. Thing.’ We gave our names, and she consulted some papers.

‘Who wants to be first, then?’ asked the snooty-pants.

‘Chloe first!’ I insisted, pushing her forward. ‘While you’re having it done, Chloe, I’ve just got one or two things I have to get for my mum.’

‘Don’t go!’ wailed Chloe anxiously. ‘What things?’

‘Won’t be a min!’ I lied, and escaped through the handbag department.

Luckily Baxter’s is a huge old-fashioned department store, so I was soon out of sight of the beauty section. I darted out into the high street and dashed to the Major Events office. Within moments I was in Beast’s office. Unfortunately, so was Charlie. He was sitting at his desk; she was standing at the filing cabinet. They both looked at me in a way I didn’t quite like. My heart gave a sickening lurch and went into car-chase mode.

‘Zoe,’ said Beast, looking mystified, ‘did you deliver that artwork to the printer this morning?’

‘Yes.’ I blushed.

‘Well, Pete sent us a mock-up for the poster this afternoon . . .’ Beast pushed a printout across the desk to me. I looked down at it. There was my awful half-hearted forgery of the winning artwork, looking lame and poor. Pete had added all the words: the date and the venue and the starring artistes and where to buy the tickets.

‘I just wanted to ask you, before I ring him, if this is the exact artwork that you delivered.’ Beast looked into my eyes and, sadly, it wasn’t a romantic kind of stare. It was more the kind of stare a weasel might direct at a rabbit seconds before pulling its head off. It was so obvious that he’d realised it wasn’t the original artwork, but he wasn’t clear about whether it was me or Pete who had messed up.

‘Yeah,’ I said in a tiny croaky voice. ‘This is what I delivered.’

‘But this is not that kid’s painting,’ said Beast. ‘The guitar looks different, the face looking out is different, the stars are missing . . . I think Pete’s been messing about with it or something.’

‘And the word “Amnesty” is missing from the guitar,’ added Charlie. I suddenly felt scared. If Beast accused Pete of messing up the poster design, and caused a row between them . . . I shuddered. I couldn’t get away with this. And poor Beast couldn’t afford to lose any more time.

Beast was looking up at me, puzzled and stressed out. He didn’t look furious – yet. But this was the moment when he would realise that I was, in fact, an imbecile. My eyes filled with imbecilic tears. Beast’s expression changed from irritation to concern.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘The wind . . . bl-blew it away,’ I stammered.

‘
What?!
’

‘I met Jess and Fred on the way home,’ I explained, a tear trickling down my cheek. ‘And I wanted to show them it, so I got it out, and the wind kind of snatched it out of my hand and blew it up into the sky, and it went off over the rooftops, and we searched and searched for ages, but we couldn’t find it anywhere. It was dark. I’m so sorry. I’m terribly, terribly sorry.’ I ransacked my pockets for a tissue. Beast got up from behind his desk and came round to me. He put his arm round my shoulders.

‘Don’t cry, Zoe,’ he said softly. If I hadn’t been so upset, this moment would have been one to cherish. Beast’s lovely citrus smell washed over me and I felt his breath on my cheek. But then Charlie came up to me, too, with a tissue, and kind of tried to join in the cuddle, grasping my arm and squeezing it. How dare she gatecrash our tender moment? I blew my nose and shook them both off.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m OK. I’m just so stressed out about the painting . . . I stayed up all night trying to make a copy of it, but . . . it was hopeless.’

‘You should have told me, Zoe,’ said Beast gently. ‘It would have saved us a day. Pete’s wasted time on this.’

‘It doesn’t look right,’ said Charlie. If only a meteorite would smash into the office right now and pulverise her without touching either of us! But there’s never a meteorite around when you want one. ‘It’s lost all the passion and the feeling, you see,’ she went on, pulling a face at my artwork.

‘Because you were trying so hard to get it right,’ said Beast. ‘It’s the work of somebody who is trying to paint like somebody else. It would have been better if you’d just done a painting of your own.’

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘Because I’m rubbish at art.’ This wasn’t true, actually. Art is my favourite subject. But I was in a deeply penitent mode.

‘We could use one of the other kids’ artworks,’ suggested Charlie.

‘No,’ said Beast. ‘We’ve already told Ruby that she’s the winner. I rang the school today to congratulate her. Funny, somehow I’d assumed it was a boy’s work. Shows what a terrible old chauvinist I am!’ He sat back down in his chair and searched through some random papers, whilst making a terrible groaning noise.

‘Oh God!’ I gasped. I was beginning to realise what it would mean to the little girl involved. I’d been so focussed on my own dilemma, I hadn’t thought about the artist, at all. She was going to hate me for ever, too.

‘The solution,’ said Beast, ‘is to go and see Ruby and ask her to do it again.’

‘Oh brilliant!’ gushed Charlie. She laid her hand on Beast’s shoulder. He didn’t respond. ‘You are a genius, Beastie.’

Beastie!
How dare she trivialise his magnificent nickname? He wasn’t a pixie, for God’s sake! I wondered briefly if she knew that his real name was Harry.
Harry
. Mmmm. I bet she did know it, though. She was the kind of person who’d ask you what star sign you were if you were standing next to her in a bus queue.

‘And that’s your job, Zoe,’ said Beast. He found a piece of paper and handed it to me. ‘That’s Ruby’s address. Go round there, congratulate her, of course, and explain the situation.’

‘Apologise –’ added Charlie bossily. A meteorite was too good for that girl. Once I was a goddess, I was going to have to organise an alien abduction. She would be whisked off Planet Earth by things with slimy green tentacles.

‘Zoe knows what to say,’ Beast said slightly irritably. He wanted Charlie to shut up! This was the one tiny shred of comfort for me. ‘Tell her we need another painting immediately. Ideally she’ll be able to do it for you this evening, on the spot. If she does it in a hurry it might be a good thing. You know – capture the urgency, the feeling.’

‘So you want me to try and get another painting out of this little girl
today
?’ I asked, looking at my watch. It was already ten to five.

‘Yeah, go for it,’ beamed Beast. ‘I’m sure you can work miracles. And ring me once you’ve got it.’

I left the Major Events office and looked at the piece of paper. Ruby’s address was across town. I would need to get the number 114 bus. I was literally halfway to the bus station when I remembered, with a sickening lurch, that Chloe was still at Baxter’s in the beauty department having herself transformed into a goddess, and I had to go through the same process before I’d be free to seek out Ruby and ruin her evening.

I turned and ran back to the high street and entered Baxter’s. Chloe was sitting with her back to me while the beautician gave the finishing touches to her makeover.

‘Your friend’s here,’ she told Chloe. ‘Look at this transformation!’ she invited me to admire her work. Chloe turned to me – she looked like a mad doll from a horror movie.

‘Amazing!’ I gasped. It’s such a useful word.