My Invisible Boyfriend (14 page)

I have to be a bit creative with the Mothership about quite how enormously close I am to Flick Henshall (“I’m not sure
she’s the kind of girl I really want you to be all that friendly with, babes.”), but Dad Man unexpectedly comes to my rescue and offers to drive me up the hill when he goes to start his night shift. The Mothership gets torn between Strict Teacher and Disappointed by Antisocial Freakish Daughter modes and gives in once I’ve promised to call her for a lift home before 10:30.

“No sneaking off into the dorms with that boyfriend of yours,” she says, kissing me on the cheek as we’re leaving. “Your father’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

UM.

YEAH.

I picture my gingerbread boy waiting up there in my bedroom right under her nose, and by the time we’re at the Finch I’m smiling again for real. OK, so I’m going to a party without him, but he’s real enough for parental angst. I should go into business: new Saturday job as a one-girl imaginary boyfriend production line.

Dad Man peels off into his little cubbyhole, and I head on through Manor and back out into the gardens. It’s a horrible night, windy and wet, and I skid down the muddy slope toward the lake. Thumpy bass line. Nasty smell from outdoor candles. Etienne Gracey and Scheherezade doing a vaguely slutty-looking dance around the world’s least alight bonfire. There’s no sign of Flick Henshall: just Timo Januscz, holding a handmade Welcome Back! banner, and one lonely yellow balloon.

At least I have The Coat. It might not be standard
partywear, but my Wednesday getup had jam on it. I’ve decided if anyone asks, it’s a costume, and I’ve come as the world’s greatest time-traveling gentleman detective who just happens to have autumn-friendly dress sense.

I head for the pavilion, where I can see a little huddle of people and the red glow of cigarette ends. Peroxide Eric and Ludo (
both
smoking: that’s new) and Dai and Henry are all squashed together on one bench. Both pairs of them are still cuffed together, too, which makes me grin.

“HEIDI!”

They all try to squeeze up, and I wedge my bum in between Ludo and Henry. Need to cut back on the blue poppyseed cake if I’m going to be doing this again. See? More reasons why being newly unemployed is actually great. Really, really great.

“Warm you up?” says Peroxide Eric, blowing smoke and waving a bottle of Something under my nose.

Ludo’s teeth are actually chattering around her cigarette. Henry looks an unusual shade of blue. I think my toes may have fallen off.

I take a swig. It warms me up.

I get cold again.

I’m in one of those shows where across the bottom of the screen it says San Diego, CA, but you know they actually film it in Canada. Bikini scenes with tight cold smiles. Except no one’s going to yell “cut” and bring Scheherezade a goose-down anorak between lines.

“No Fili and Simon?” I say, squinting across the lake.

“Nope,” says Ludo. “Haven’t seen them since we got back.”

“Lucky you,” says Dai. “Looked like there was trouble in Goth paradise, know what I mean?”

“Really?” I say, at the exact same time as Peroxide Eric does. He probably doesn’t mean it in quite the same detect-y way as me, though. He chuckles, though, and we’re so squashed together we all have to join in, like some freaky five-headed bench beast.

“Definitely some kind of argument,” says Henry. “They were very nearly audible.”

I wonder if I should go and investigate. My other cases are all neatly chained to one another, after all. Fili might be lonely.

Fili might still not want me around.

Then Flick Henshall comes sprinting down the muddy hill in nothing but her bra and pants, hotly pursued by Dad Man.

A cheer goes up from the other side of the lake.

“Oops,” squeaks Ludo, as the chase comes to an abrupt end.

“Oh,” says Dai. “That’s…unfortunate.”

“Lucky it’s so muddy; you can’t see anything,” adds Henry. “Though she’s probably not all that bothered, come to think of it.”

Dad Man frog-marches her across the slippery grass, trying to cover her up a bit without actually touching her. As they walk, the rain begins to wash away the mud, revealing streaks of white skin. The laughing and clapping that rippled
across the water from the watching crowd fade away: All you can hear now is the wet crackle of candle wicks spitting and Dad Man’s faint mumbling reassurances.

And a clinky, metallic noise, as a chain snaps, and the broken links tinkle on concrete.

The wedged feeling on the bench suddenly disappears, and Peroxide Eric is skidding across the grass in the flickery light, his big gray coat flapping behind him. Then he slips it off his shoulders and wraps it around Flick.

There’s a roar of disapproval from the crowd as the streaks of white flesh disappear under the blanket of his coat. I can hear Dad Man thanking Eric as they head up the slope back to Manor, out of sight. Flick Henshall’s crying now. The crowd gets bored and goes back to trying to keep the pathetic fire going.

“We would’ve done that,” says Dai, watching them go.

“If we’d had the appropriate clothing,” says Henry.

“My hero,” sighs Ludo.

I look at the broken chain on the cuff around her leg, and think that there’s probably a reason Ludo’s not in the top set for English, with a socking great metaphor like that going unnoticed.

Could
Flick Henshall
be Girl B?

No. She’s been in that clinic since the McCartney Party: Eric probably doesn’t even know who she is.

Agent Ryder could take the opportunity for a little quiet snooping, though. It’s not like the party is all that gripping: People are drifting away in twos and threes, back to
the houses, back to where it’s warm and dry. Timo Januscz lets go of his balloon, which, not being the helium kind, just trundles along the ground until it lands on the lake. I should probably find Dad Man and see if he wants some extra coffee anyway. I really should go and check Fili’s OK.

The others seem happy enough on the bench, watching the balloon floating slowly across the water as if it’s an artsy new commercial, so I leave them with a little wave and make my skiddy way up the slope.

Dad Man’s not in his cubby, though: Peroxide Eric neither. Probably off finding someone to deal with Flick Henshall: maybe finding her some clothes.

I squelch my way down the tiled corridor and pull one of the huge heavy front doors open. It’s really raining now, hard enough that the drops are bouncing in through the doorway and splashing my feet. I wipe my face, and my hand comes away smeared with black from my not-waterproof-after-all mascara.

Jori Song stands around in dramatic torrential rainstorms all the time, and that never happens to her. Real life: just rubbish compared to the telly.

Fili’s just upstairs, probably. I could call the Mothership for a lift and just pop up to see how she is while I’m waiting. If she tells me to go away, at least I’ll have tried.

I fumble in my pocket for my mobile, glancing up at S
TUART
A. McC
ARTNEY
1979, carved in gold on the Student of the Year board just inside the doors. His party goes down in Finch history. I suspect that future Finches will not be
holding Henshall Parties to commemorate that time it rained a lot and everyone went home early.

My eyes wander across the board as I wipe more black junk off (or more likely around) my face.

And then I think my heart stops.

Actually stops.

Like a dead person.

Which is what I am.

There it is, on the Student of the Year board, carved in the wood and painted gold. There
he
is.

E. D. H
ARTLEY
.

I pull my soaked coat halfway off and read the little name tag in the collar.
Hartley.

Hartley, who I named Ed because it seemed to fit, somehow. Ed Hartley, my boyfriend. Ed Hartley, whose name is up on the wall of Manor, for anyone to see at any moment.

OHM.

EYE.

GOD.

One car ride down the hill (complete with Mothership lecture on the correct application of makeup) later, and I’m back in my attic, with Gingerbread Ed.

He doesn’t look like a lovestruck angsty troubadour who tinkers with his motorbike, writes poetry, and misses me like a shooting star over the roof of Stables. He looks
like gingerbread. Old, stale, needs-to-be-thrown-away gingerbread.

I have to get rid of him, now, right now.

I’ll delete his ULife. Erase his imaginary existence. And eventually he’ll be forgotten about, like that boy from my last school who stopped coming for a few months, until one day in assembly they told us he was dead from leukemia, and I realized I’d known him exactly as long as my one and only best friend in that place, but I couldn’t really remember what he looked like.

Bryan Coleman—that was his name. I haven’t forgotten about him after all. Crap.

And anyway, I need Ed. He’s my sidekick. He’s other people’s sidekick, too: Ludo, and Dai, and especially Fili. Ed wouldn’t just abandon them: dash off a quick “you’re dumped” blog to his Heidi and never reply to any of his messages again. My Ed would never be that insensitive.

My Ed.

Me, Ed.

I can’t keep him. The profile, the messaging, they aren’t the kind of thing you can just explain away as Dorky Heidi messing about. It’s gone too far now to be a joke. All it takes is for someone to see E. D. H. up there in the Manor, put two and two together, and Operation: Simply Belonging will be over for good. I won’t be wanted in the Leftover Squad. I won’t even be Frog Girl. I’ll be looking back on the Frog Girl days with fond nostalgia, wishing people still
remembered those happy times, before I became That Psycho Who Made Up a Boyfriend and Prentended to Be Him.

But I can’t just get rid of him, either. There’ll be more questions asked if he vanishes. Fili will be all on her own. I’ll be all on my own.

I start up the Dread Pirate, still trying to decide. And I discover I’m already too late.

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

Dearest Heidi,

I’ve been meaning to write to you for some time but never quite mustered the courage. I wasn’t sure my attentions would be welcome. I like you, you see. I might more-thanlike you. I thought perchance you might like to know that. And of course, online is your preferred method of communication, I believe?

love & affection,

E

WOE.

AH.

If I was feeling shaky before, I’m a jellyfish now. My fingers are all skiddy on the keyboard as I type.

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

E,

Suppose you think this is hilarious. Just go ahead and tell everyone how pathetic I am then, I don’t even care anymore. Thanks for taking the piss while you’re doing it, though. It’s really cute of you to mock me to death.

H

I sit staring at my gingerbread boy, wondering exactly how someone four inches high with sugar for eyes has managed to take over my life. Then my inbox winks at me again.

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

Dearest Heidi,

Did my message get mistranslated in the ether? I said I like you. I don’t recall using the word “pathetic.” Nor taking the piss, which I’m sure I’d recall. Do you talk to all your gentleman friends that way?

You consider me “cute,” however. This amuses me. Perhaps this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship after all?

Oh, and rest assured: Your secret (or should that be
our
secret?) is safe with me.

love & affection,

E

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

E,

OK, you’re actually freaking me out now. You want to humiliate me, fine, can’t stop you, probably deserve it. Just stop with the weird “love&affection” crap, because it’s kind of creepy.

H

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

Dearest Heidi,

I perceive you’re going to play hard to get. This shall be fun.

You disappoint me, however. I thought you wanted to play detective? You must be at least a little curious. Don’t I remind you of anyone, even the merest smidgen? I’ve been endeavoring
to be obvious for some time now, in fact. But perhaps you have a selection of possible suitors from whom to choose?

Until then, unrequited as it may be at this moment, I continue to write with

love & affection,

E

The jellyfish feeling doesn’t go away. But now it’s a different kind of quivery breathlessness that’s making me stare at the screen, rereading and rereading.

The dimly lit penthouse. Mycroft Christie, gentleman detective, is reclining on an armchair, apparently relaxing after a party: His undone bow tie is draped loosely around his neck, and he twirls a red rose between his fingers. His companion, Miss Heidi Ryder, looks equally elegant and does not in any way have eyeliner on her chin.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Well, this has been a dramatic evening.

HEIDI: (makes goldfish face)

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: How attractive. No wonder you’ve a new beau.

HEIDI: I haven’t got a new beau. I haven’t got an old beau! I’ve got…I don’t know what I’ve got.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Then let’s consider the matter in a professional capacity. What explanation could there be for the attentions of this Mysterious E?

HEIDI: OK. I see three possibilities. One: Someone found out about Ed being imaginary, and wants to torture me before they tell everyone and humiliate me into a puddle.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: A rather arcane technique, don’t you think?

HEIDI: Yeah, but it makes more sense than possibility number two: The gingerbread man suddenly came to life and decided to send me freaky romantic e-mails.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Hmm. While I recall being menaced by a possessed stapler in episode 3.3, “When Office Supplies Attack,” I think we can all agree that wasn’t the highlight of my televisual career. It wasn’t terribly plausible when it happened to me, and I am, alas, fictional.

HEIDI: Well, I’ve always thought so. Unless…

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Oh. Would I be possibility number three?

HEIDI: You do sound a lot like him. And there’s the “love & affection” bit: You always finish your letters like that. And…now I’ve stepped over the line from fangirl to total frothing loon.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I suspect the existence of this conversation makes that point moot. Might I propose a fourth option? That this Mysterious E, whoever he
might be, is a perfectly real person who likes you? More-than-likes you? Likes you enough to find out something of your tastes in debonair television heroes and to borrow a few of their charms to woo you?

HEIDI: Dude, I’m fifteen. We don’t do “wooing.”

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: You’re blushing.

HEIDI: Am not.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Are too. A very attractive shade of rose.

HEIDI: Do you really think he likes me?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Yes, Miss Ryder, I believe he does. And painful as it is for me accept that I’m no longer primary in your affections, I suspect you might rather like him back.

HEIDI: But I don’t even know who he is.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Indeed. Now, if only there were a talented girl detective in the vicinity to investigate…

Miss Ryder plucks the red rose from Mycroft Christie’s fingertips, tucks it behind her ear, and shrugs on her long detective coat.