Out of My Depth (7 page)

Izzy had been beautiful that day. She’d worn an ivory silk dress, with a very simple cut, with roses in her hair and curls all the way down her back. There were photos, somewhere. Izzy had always been the pretty one (Tamsin had been the brainy one, Susie the character, and herself the blonde one).

Susie, she recalled, had been quite skinny at Izzy’s wedding, and slightly nervy She had already been selling paintings. She and Patrick had probably patronised her about it. If so, then the joke was on them. Amanda wondered whether she ought to commission Susie to do a portrait of Jake and Frey. She probably should.

The doorbell rang. Amanda realised that she was still wearing her swimsuit, and tried to peer out of her bay window to check on her caller without being seen. Whoever it was was standing right on the doorstep, so she couldn’t see them. She threw on her white fluffy dressing gown, and tied it tightly at the waist. She couldn’t be bothered to fling her clothes back on. It was certain to be one of the local mums, and they would all think she was having an affair if she answered the door in her dressing gown. Well, let them talk.

In fact, it was only the postman.

‘Sorry to disturb,’ he said, looking her up and down with a smile. ‘Bathtime?’

‘Mmm.’ She refused eye contact. ‘Do you need a signature, then?’

‘Right here, if you wouldn’t mind.’ She signed. ‘Cheers. Enjoy your bath.’

‘Fuck off,’ she said, but only after firmly shutting the door. She looked at the letter in her hand. It was boring. It was for Patrick, from the BUPA hospital. Typical of him to have made sure his health stuff came registered. She tossed it onto the hall table, and went back upstairs. Later, she would open it to check he wasn’t hiding the clap from her.

Halfway up, she changed her mind and went back into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of ice-cold Sauvignon. She needed some benign fortification.

On the first day of the sixth form, Isabelle strode into school, with her head down, feeling ashamed of herself. She twisted her hair around and pulled it over her shoulder. She frowned. She had always sworn she would leave Lodwell’s as soon as she could. All the way through school, she had quietly chafed against it. She hated being different from her neighbours, disliked the way that, the moment she first balanced that ridiculous hat on her ponytail, at the age of eight, she was ostracised. Her former friends had spent years whispering that she thought she was better than them. She didn’t; not at all. They said she was posh. They excluded her. In her turn, she had quickly grown used to going to school in an entirely privileged, female environment, and this made her nervous around what she came to think of as normal people. She had soon come to feel that she lacked the resources to deal with them, even though Lodwell’s demanded coping strategies and a thick skin, and a very specific method of dealing with feminine sniping.

She marched through the front gate, and paused to look up at the grey towers of the school building. It always reminded her of gothic horror, which was apt. She should have left, and here she was. She had let herself down. The first-day-of-term atmosphere was overwhelming, and when she looked at the smaller girls in uniform, she already felt nostalgic.

By now, she, Tamsin, Amanda and Suzii had formed an inseparable group. Izzy was comfortable with them. She knew she was too comfortable. She should branch out, meet some other people. Over the past few years, her life had completely diverged from the lives of many of her former friends. She was getting closer to some of them now, as they could find common ground over a pint in the pub. Others, though, were living lives that she knew she would never understand. Several of her childhood friends were mothers, and that chasm, Izzy felt, was unbridgeable. She ought to have left after GCSEs. But she hadn’t. She should have done her A levels in Dinas Powys or Penarth. She knew a few people at Stanwell, which was a good comprehensive. If any of her friends had been planning to leave, she would have joined them like a shot. To her surprise, however, Suzii, Tamsin and Amanda had all decided to stay put. She could not find the impetus to strike out on her own, which she knew said bad things about her character.

She pulled her bag up on her shoulder. There were kids in uniform everywhere, and she was pleased that, at least, she didn’t have to wear that any more. She had wanted to burn her old uniform, but her mum had rescued it and sold it second-hand. Her parents were pleased when she caved in and agreed to come back here. She told herself, weakly, that the sixth form might be better. At least, with no uniform, she wouldn’t have to walk self-consciously around town with her hat stuffed into her bag, a big coat over her blazer, and that green stripey shirt half hidden by a scarf. At least she would be able to look like herself.

She knew she was making excuses. For years she had railed against private education, and particularly against her own participation in the divisive and unjust system. And here she was, like a white South African enjoying the privileges afforded by apartheid. She was going to have to live with herself for two more years.

It felt funny to be at school wearing a dress of her choice. She almost felt like a teacher. She had kept her burgundy summer dress hanging in her wardrobe, spotless and ironed, for the past fortnight. It had small white flowers dotted over it, with green stems snaking between them. She had tied a burgundy silk scarf around her head so it trailed down her back, under her hair and then beyond it, down to her waist. Her shoes were classic black Mary Janes. The whole outfit was from Miss Selfridge, but she hoped it looked a bit classier than that implied.

She looked closely at her fellow sixth formers as they arrived. Most of them had opted for jeans and cotton shirts. In fact, the more classmates she saw, the more it looked like a new uniform. Some jeans were tight and stonewashed, while others were wide and indigo, but almost everyone was wearing them. They were walking differently; showing off to the younger girls while slouching in what was meant to be an adult kind of a way.

She noticed younger girls looking at her and she smiled. Suzii’s little sister Jackie was waving from across the drive, and she waved back. Jackie adored Izzy, to the point where Izzy would walk the other way if she saw her coming. Now, she quickened her step towards the sixth-form block.

It was nice to be senior. But, as she smiled, she remembered that she was nearly seventeen, and that she didn’t need to be in school at all. She could be married. She could be working full time, paying tax, and living in her own flat. Her primary school friend, Andrea, was living with her boyfriend and expecting her first baby before Christmas. It had, apparently, been a planned conception. Andrea, Izzy was sure, would end up as a single mother. Izzy was equally sure that she would never meet such a fate.

She walked in through the sixth-form door, a sacred privilege which didn’t feel quite as grand as she had always supposed it must. It was a pathetic offering really: she was still at school, still confined within the institution that had held her since she was eight, but now that she was nearly an adult, she was able to use the side door. Peeved, she set off up the sixth-form stairs. This felt equally bathetic.

She had chosen English, French and music for her A levels. At least it would be pleasant to be studying subjects she enjoyed. There would be no more multiplication of negative numbers, no more bunsen burners, no sedimentary rocks. There would, however, still be compulsory morning assembly, compulsory praying to a God in whom she did not believe, and compulsory PE. Being seventeen should involve more freedom than this. She had let herself down, and she knew it.

Suzii caught her up at the top of the stairs.

‘Hiya!’ she exclaimed, with a grin. She was slightly breathless. ‘I’ve been shouting but you were in a world of your own. You looked a bit glum.’

Izzy hugged her friend. ‘Just wondering how come I’m still here. How are you?’ She looked at Suzii. She was dressed in tight pale jeans and a man’s shirt with swirly patterns on it, which was tucked into her waistband and pulled partly out again, and she had had the spiky tips of her hair bleached. ‘You look great,’ she said. ‘Very unschooly.’

‘Thanks. So do you. Well, you look lovely, as usual.’

‘Where do we find out whose form we’re in?’ asked Izzy.

‘I think there’s a list. Look, Amanda. Hey! Amanda!’

Amanda was in dark blue jeans and a pink rugby shirt. They all hugged again. Izzy noticed that Amanda smelt of soap and moisturiser and CK One. There was something very wholesome about Amanda. Her hair was newly bleached, so she had no roots at all, and she had managed to fix it so half her face was obscured under the blonde thatch. She was wearing pink lipstick, and her fingernails had been French manicured. They had seen each other several times a week through the holidays, so it was not a real reunion. Amanda and Suzii seemed genuinely excited to be in the sixth form. Izzy was fighting a growing nausea at the enormity of her mistake.

It got worse. Mrs Spencer was Izzy’s worst teacher by a million miles; the only one she actively hated. And, of course, her and Tamsin’s names were both down on Mrs Spencer’s list. That, Izzy knew, was karma. Suzii and Amanda were with Mrs Grey and Isabelle longed to swap with one of them. Tamsin, of course, couldn’t be in her own mother’s form, but Izzy could have been.

Everyone congregated in Mrs Grey’s classroom, because it consisted of two large tables in the glorified corridor which led to the common room and the other tiny classrooms. The upper sixth — the year above — bustled around importantly, making a show of looking down on the upstarts.

Tamsin was morose. ‘My bloody mother!’ she said, sitting on the edge of a table and pulling her thin, jeans-clad legs up so her knees touched her chin. ‘I mean, I like her as a mother. But why does she have to be a teacher? Why? And why does she have to be in charge of the best classroom so I have to see her all the time?’ She turned to Izzy. ‘Why didn’t we leave?’

‘I wanted to!’ said Izzy, appalled. ‘I thought you didn’t.’

‘I was too lazy. I couldn’t be arsed to find somewhere to go. You should have made me.’

‘I wish you’d said that. We could be at Stanwell. Atlantic College, even better.’

‘God. Shall we wear black every day for the next two years? To mourn lost opportunities?’

Izzy shook her head. ‘Let’s leave that to them.’ She indicated the Goths with her head. These were two extremely polite and rather shy girls, called Beth and Bobs. They were celebrating their first day of freedom from a dress code by wearing floor-length black skirts, long black cotton tops with wide sleeves, black Doc Marten’s, and striking white face paint with black eye make-up. Their lips were purple, matching their fingernails. Izzy had a sudden urge to find a red pen and draw some blood dripping down their faces. She was sure they would have appreciated it.

‘Hey, Beth!’ Tamsin called across the room. Beth looked at her with a friendly smile. ‘Do you reckon you’ll get away with it?’

They both giggled. ‘Only one way to find out,’ said Bobs, in her quiet voice.

‘No chance!’ Suzii informed them. ‘It says on the sixth-form rules that “a little subtle make-up” is permitted. There’s no way in the world they’ll let you walk round school like that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Good luck, though,’ she added.

‘Thanks,’ they chorused, sweetly.

Izzy sat on a table and tried to blank out most people. She saw a few new girls looking lost, and she felt sorry for them. She wondered why they were there. Not one of the new girls was wearing jeans. They were dressed safely, in sensible skirts, blouses and cardigans, with their hair neatly tied back. She imagined mothers insisting, ‘I know there’s no uniform but you have to look smart.’ She wondered how long it would take them to change into jeans. A day, probably. She could not bring herself to get up and walk over to them and say friendly things. She would make a point of being friendly to any who were in her classes, and that was all. There were plenty of busybodies around who were going to be only too happy to take them under their wings.

Izzy ignored most of her schoolmates. She didn’t feel she had anything to say to the likes of Alissa McCall, who was nearby, chatting excitedly to her friends about the half marathon they had done, for God only knew what reason, during the holidays. Instead, she looked around for her music friends. She had no idea why the girls who studied music were nerds, but there was no doubt about it, they were. She saw them arriving: Mary-Jane — MJ — who had the social graces of a lonely baboon. Jennifer, small and blonde and so shy that, when she did manage to force a word out, it came in a whisper. Felicity, who was so caught up in practising her cello that she barely noticed anything that happened around her, and who was roundly ignored by everybody. Izzy smiled at them all, the outcasts of the school year. These girls only came into their own in the music block. Most sixth formers would be hard pushed to put a name to any of them.

Mary-Jane saw Izzy looking, and ambled over. ‘All right, then?’ she said. She was tall and broad and carried herself awkwardly. ‘Had good hols, have you? Have you practised lots? We’ve got an orchestral recital coming up before half-term.’

Izzy couldn’t help laughing a little. ‘It’s hardly a recital. We’re playing in assembly!’

‘And we hardly want to be a laughing stock!’

‘Mary, no one in this school could give a flying fuck if the orchestra’s crap.’

MJ looked around. ‘I don’t care what these ignoramuses think. It’s about perfectionism, Isabelle, you should know that. I’m concerned about starting A level, too. We’ve got to do harmony, you know. It’s going to be quite a jump from GCSE standard, because let’s face it, a trained monkey could do GCSE music! How did your results go, by the way?’