Phosphorescence (7 page)

‘Yes, but not every day.'

I pour hot water over the tea bags and pass Mum her tea. Right now I'd be happy to have breakfast with Miss Mills and her dachshund if it meant I could sit at a table with a knife and fork and have tea from a pot. Honestly, anyone who could hear my thoughts would think I am a granny myself. The truth is that Mum is happy and engrossed, and I feel left out and lopsided. Mum brought me to London and now she is getting on with her own life and I am supposed to do the same. In some ways, being treated as a grownup is just what I want, but the contrast between now and family life in Norfolk is so extreme.

Nell is envious when she calls.

‘It sounds brilliant to me to be living in a flat with no cooking or clearing up,' she says. ‘We had roast chicken tonight and guess who had to peel all the potatoes, and shred the cabbage?'

‘But I like cooking, and Mum used to as well,' I reply forlornly. ‘We haven't had any roast dinner at all since we've been here.'

‘Oh, Lola, come on. You sound like a baby,' laughs Nell. ‘Tell me about the boys in your drama group. Are they fit?'

Sun pours through the high, smudged windows of the geography room, causing me to squint and doodle pairs of sunglasses all over my folder. Mr Lascalles is outlining a project on elements at the coast, and his enthusiasm is causing him to spit small blossoms of saliva on to the whiteboard. Unheeding of this, he continues with his marker, underlining vigorously to prove a point. The spit begins to slide slowly down the board; I shall hold my breath until Mr Lascalles wipes it off. Next to me, Pansy is pretending to write, while tapping messages into her telephone, which is hidden in a pencil case on her desktop. A buzzing begins in my head as I continue to hold my breath. Pansy's phone, which is set on silent mode, vibrates with a call.

‘Cover for me,' she whispers.

‘How?'

I forget to hold my breath and gulp air in. Pansy needs my help; this is a first, a chance for me to get in with her; I don't want to let her down. I must create a diversion. Pansy has draped her hair across her face like a curtain and is whispering into her phone, doubled up as if she has terrible pains in her stomach.

Mr Lascalles is still busy with his marker on the board, swooping his hand rhythmically like a conductor. The spitballs have gone now. Without stopping to consider what I am doing, or how I will carry it off, I stand up and move forwards.

‘Sir, I wonder if you could explain this to me?'

It is like walking in the dark, but without being allowed your hands in front of you. Mr Lascalles turns in surprise.

‘Dear me. I thought I was being remarkably clear,' he says.

I have no idea what I will say or do next. I bend my head over my open folder to give a studious but confused appearance. There is very little in the folder, apart from the pictures of the sunglasses. Mr Lascalles comes to stand next to me, turning his back to the class and Pansy's phone call. So that's good. My heart is pumping. Weakly, I turn the pages of my folder, hoping for a miracle.

‘I'm not sure I understood our homework,' I mumble, reddening as I can feel the restless attention of the class behind me, and the heat burning in my cheeks.

This is such a lie, as the one topic in the whole of geography that I understand is the British coastline – for reasons I don't feel like telling Mr Lascalles. I gaze at him, and wish I could faint to order. I have often thought how wonderful and glamorous it would be if I was a hypersensitive person living on my nerves, always swooning and having hysterics. Right now it would be such a bonus. Mr Lascalles looks from me to my folder.

‘But you haven't done it.'

Ha! I can do this one.

‘That's because I didn't understand it,' I respond with a flourish.

Actually, I didn't do it because it was so easy I kept putting it off until I ran out of time. I can see a way through now. A glance over my shoulder reassures me that Pansy has stopped talking and is leaning back in her chair filing her nails while ostentatiously chewing gum. She blows me a kiss and mouths
thank you
before turning back to her manicure. It has worked. Mr Lascalles is none the wiser. I didn't blow Pansy's cover; now she might even talk to me instead of looking straight through me, as she has done so far this term. The only problem now is Mr Lascalles, who thinks I am an imbecile. His face is grey and impatient.

‘Look here. I think it might be better if you saw me after the lesson. We can go through it properly then.'

The bell goes. With a sinking heart I turn back to him as the others file out of the classroom.

At break I am suddenly worth talking to, and Freda, Pansy's best friend, slouches over to stand next to me as we queue for the hot-chocolate machine. It seems a good idea to loll against the radiator in the corridor with her.

‘Cool belt.' Freda glances sideways at me. Pansy and a couple of other cohorts stop chewing their gum for a second, which feels like an hour. They too look at my belt. It really isn't worth all this scrutiny.

‘I got it on the market,' I mutter. This is definitely the right thing to say. There is a lot of nodding, and Pansy moves to the other side of me and leans her shoulders back against the wall, her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans.

She is so close I can smell the tutti-frutti tang of her gum mixed with some sort of musky perfume. The effect is weird – intoxicating and gross at once. I almost want to retch.

‘I love the market,' she growls in the breathy voice she uses when she's really intense about something – usually Aiden. ‘I'd get all my clothes there if Topshop wasn't so ridiculously cheap.'

The others nod approval, and Freda, as if revealing a huge secret, sighs, and rolls up her top to show a sludge-green vest with a small rabbit embroidered on it.

‘Topshop,' she announces solemnly. ‘Those big bins by the door?' Her statement is a question. Everyone, including me, nods comprehension. ‘Four ninety-nine.' She makes a face, eyes big, mouth slack to denote wonder, and nodding adds, ‘
and
you get the knickers too.'

Everyone looks impressed. Having been about to exclaim at the shocking expense, I am forced to rearrange my expression to make it look as though I think four ninety-nine is a steal. I have a stab of anger towards my mother for never initiating me into expensive underwear. Then I think of her big old black knickers and feel guilty for being disloyal, even in my head.

Anyway, I am right in there with the girls, and for
the whole of break I am at the centre of a wide-ranging discussion about clothes and make-up. Basically, I just nod, while trying to notice every detail of movement and mannerism of Pansy's lot so I can fit in better. It is really hard work, but I manage to stand right, throwing my shoulders back, and my hips forwards. This is really good – it has the double effect of making a bit of your tummy show and your boobs look bigger. And I can do it. Everything else is so complicated. I don't know where they mean when they talk about ‘Roo's' and there is a really bad moment when they talk about which drink they like best.

‘I'm really into the cinnamon and orange,' says Freda, nudging Pansy. ‘You were a bit off with that one, weren't you?'

‘I was not.' Pansy pouts. ‘Anyway, you haven't tried the black cherry. It's just coming in from the States. My dad had some from his office last week and we tried them on Saturday.' She pauses. Pansy is very theatrical and she doesn't like to miss a chance. When everyone is looking, she growls, ‘It was legendary,' and we all burst into peals of laughter. I don't know quite what we are laughing at, but I need to join in.

‘I really like the caramel Frappuccino,' I offer. Pansy and Freda's finely plucked eyebrows lift into their hair.

‘Oh my God,' breathes Freda, ‘she is unreal,' and she puts her hand over her mouth to giggle.

I have no idea what I've got wrong, but it's something. Mind you, I never expected to get anything
right with this lot. It's a miracle they've talked to me for the whole of one break. I shrug and turn, using the bell which has just gone as an excuse to move away. As I hoist my bag, an arm slides through mine. It is Pansy.

‘Oh, Lola,' she whispers huskily. ‘You are so fresh, I love it. We were talking about alcopops, not coffee shops. I'll bring you one tomorrow. But you'll have to hide it in your bag because we're under age. I promise you though, they are so lush you'll die.'

I know I'm a pushover, but I can't help finding her really endearing.

Nell is amazed.

‘You mean they're actually talking to you?'

‘I promise you, I am Pansy's new BF' Delighted by having surprised Nell so much, I drop into the sofa and deliver the most impressive bit. ‘She's bringing me a black cherry alcopop to school tomorrow. It's from the States. Everyone's drinking them there apparently.'

‘Cool, but I bet you won't like it. You hate the taste of alcohol. Just make sure you do drink it so you can tell me exactly what it's like and I can pretend to everyone here that I've tried it too – oh. Hang on, Lola, Mum's shouting something.'

Half listening to Nell's muffled conversation with her mum, I gaze around the sitting room of the flat. I can't call it ‘our' flat and definitely not ‘home'. Although it is much better with the cushions and stuff. The trouble is, they are a bit like my new clothes – all bought at once to fill the space, not accumulated
over time, and with love, the way things are in a home.

Mum isn't back from work. Early summer afternoon sunlight slices through the dusty window and on to my legs. I wriggle down so the warmth plays on my midriff, now permanently exposed to show I am accepted by the crowd. Mum won't be back until about seven, so I can play my music as loud as I like, or I could if I wanted to. It's funny, though, I haven't really taken advantage of the empty flat. At home I always played loud music, and I would never hear Mum yelling up the stairs at me to turn it down. The sound in my bedroom under the eaves used to swirl and fill my room – even the whole quayside if I had the windows open. Dad used to come right in and stand there smiling at himself because I wouldn't notice him and I'd carry on fiddling about, putting up posters or singing along. He never minded my music like Mum did, which is funny considering he is surrounded by quiet all day with his work. Maybe that's why.

Here, though, the silence of the flat is too enormous, and I find myself being hushed in it. I always take my shoes off when I come in; you don't need them on here, and the people downstairs might complain if they heard me clumping about in my stacks. It's weird that in the city there is no need to go outside – from getting back after school until the next morning when I go down the stairs to the street door for school again. At home, being outside was as much of life as inside, but here it hardly exists. I miss the sea. I hadn't realized how loud it was until I came
away. Now all the traffic out on the road doesn't talk to me the way the sea used to, keeping me company in my room in Staitheley. Cactus would hate it here, and the people in the flat below would definitely complain about his claws skittering on the floorboards and the way he used to yap and jump in circles when I came back home. I am usually silent in the flat. The only time I shout is when I'm on the phone to Nell, because she knows just how to wind me up and make me really laugh.

She is teasing me now. I call her the minute I am back from school, and I am dying to tell her something. As usual, she goes straight to what I want to talk about.

‘Hey, Lola, how's your love life now you're friends with the cool crew? It is so boring here. There is no one new to meet. And Josh is doing exams so he is always busy.'

‘Actually, there is one guy.' I keep my voice casual, although I have thought of nothing else since break today. ‘I've only seen him, not actually spoken to him, but this boy called Harry Sykes is gorgeous.'

‘How old is he?'

‘He's nearly seventeen. He's got exams so he hasn't been in school that much. He's been studying, but he's a skateboarding freak and he's a graffiti artist.'

Nell laughs. ‘How can you be a graffiti artist? Aren't people who do graffiti arrested?'

‘I think it's different here. He decorates the concrete bits in skateboard parks. He's been in a video of some band.'

‘Wow.' Nell is lost for words for a moment. We contemplate his coolness, then she laughs again and says, ‘God, can you imagine how graffiti art would go down in Staitheley?'

‘Have you been to Staitheley?'

‘No, but Mum was there this morning.' Nell pauses, and I know her too well for her to disguise it; she's trying to find a way to say something awkward.

‘Come on, Nell, spit it out.'

My ear is hot from the phone. I can see the green clock on the music system flaring as the sun dips past the roofs across the road and suddenly the room is grey. We've been talking for twenty minutes. Mum will kill me. She says I've got to leave Norfolk behind now, because it's the only way I will come to think of this flat as my home.

‘She saw your grandad, Jack.'

I don't know why my heart starts to hammer.

‘But she doesn't know him.'

‘I know.' Nell's voice was small, ‘Oh, Lola, I think your dad should have been the one to tell you. Your grandad fell over on the quay. They were shouting for a doctor and Mum was in the fish shop and she ran out because she's a nurse. He's fine, though, he's really fine now. Mum says so and she knows.'

Cold water is flowing through me, making my heart race but paralysing everything else.

‘I need to ring Grandma, Nell, I've got to go.'

‘Lola, are you all right? Where is your mum, you shouldn't be on your own—'

Putting the phone down, I know I'm shaking because I miss its cradle. I have to pick it up again to
call Grandma, but I can't. I'm scared. I want Cactus to be here to hug, and my bones hurt; they're aching with loneliness. The phone rings and it is Mum. She has a sixth sense for when I desperately need her. She always knows, and it often really annoys me. Right now I really like it.