Pretty Twisted (18 page)

‘I am, but if we do this now, when he needs me, maybe my appearance won’t matter and he’ll see me in a different light–’

‘Mrs Sanders!’ A boy ran out from the path to the games area. ‘Rory’s had an accident.’

The teacher took off as fast as she could, and I made for the bushes. As I crept through I was sure that any moment a window would shoot open and a teacher would yell my name. I kept under cover as long as I could before bolting through the gates on to the road. I didn’t stop running until I was sure I was out of sight. Then, checking no one was about, I took off my school tie and stuffed it in my bag.

This was the last thing I needed – why had I been stupid enough to say yes? I untucked my shirt and undid the top two buttons. There wasn’t much I could do with my blazer, so I left it as it was. I considered rolling up my skirt a few inches like many of my classmates did, but decided the less of my legs that showed the better. Wishing I had a mirror, I raked a hand through my hair but soon realized it was no good. When I met Jonathan, I would look my ordinary, childish self and there was nothing I could do about it.

He was waiting by the ticket machines at Embankment.

It’ll be OK, I kept telling myself. He won’t care about the lies . . .

His eyes were glued on the station clock. He was dressed almost identically to how he had been in that first photograph, looking cool and grown-up. Dragging out my steps, I went up to him.

He glanced round as I approached, taking in my presence before looking back at the clock. I took a breath.

‘Hi. I’m Ros.’

His head turned slowly. He stared at me.

Jonathan

2.00 p.m.

Suddenly there was this kid standing next to me. If she hadn’t been wearing a skirt I might have mistaken her for a boy. She was clutching her rucksack strap so hard that her knuckles were white. In the midst of the office staff on their lunch break she looked little and lost.

‘Hi. I’m Ros,’ the kid said.

My mind flipped back to the two girls in the photograph. One was pretty, with long hair and trendy clothes and a great figure. The other was boyish, maybe about thirteen, and I hadn’t given her a second glance.

‘I’m sorry I lied to you.’

I realized I was staring and looked away.

‘Ros? How old are you?’ I asked.

‘Fourteen.’ There was a pause. ‘And a half.’

God. I’d been confiding my thoughts in a child.

‘I didn’t think you’d want to speak to me if I told you who I really was,’ she said.

I paced round in a circle, blowing out a long breath.

‘You wouldn’t have, right?’ Rosalind asked.

I glanced at her. It was eerie to hear the voice I’d associated with the glamorous girl coming out of her little sister’s mouth. ‘You’ve bunked off.’

She nodded. ‘You asked me to.’

‘You should get back.’

‘But I’m here now,’ she said. ‘We’re going to find Freya.’

‘Is this why you didn’t show up the last time? Because you’re – you?’

Another nod.

‘Why did you lie? I was just some random guy when I first spoke to you.’

‘I dunno.’ She looked really embarrassed. ‘I guess – well, you said stuff that made me think. No one’s ever given me advice like that before, ’specially not a boy. Then you made me laugh – we liked the same TV shows – and I needed a friend.’ She pressed her lips together, eyes flicking away for a moment. ‘I’m the same person I was online and on the phone. The only difference is, you can see my face. I know I’m not pretty like my sister.’

‘It’s not the way you look that bothers me,’ I said. ‘It’s just that – well, there are things I maybe wouldn’t have said if I’d known you were fourteen.’

‘But you did,and you never knew the difference,’ she said softly. ‘There’s only two years between us – that’s nothing.’

Rosalind was looking at the ground, shoulders hunched, and I suddenly felt sorry for her. Maybe I shouldn’t blame her for lying. After all, I knew what it was like to be lonely.

‘Look – Rosalind – we could talk about this for hours,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got to find Freya. If you don’t fancy going back to school, you might as well come along and show me how to get around London. Maybe we can work something out as we go.’

She nodded and we walked in silence to the escalators.

Rosalind

2.10 p.m.

How small is it possible to feel before you disappear?

I felt childish.

I felt ugly.

I felt like a fool for playing at being someone I wasn’t.

And after all we’d shared online, we had nothing to say apart from stupid stranger talk. I explained about underground lines, in more detail than he needed because I was afraid of silence. Jonathan listened politely and offered me the only spare seat when we got into a carriage, perhaps to get me out of the way because I was embarrassing him. We called each other ‘Rosalind’ and ‘Jonathan’ rather than ‘Ros’ and ‘Jono’. It was as though we’d never spoken.

I felt like crying, but I didn’t because I knew it was my fault.

We got off at Richmond. Jonathan’s trip to the conservatoire had drawn a blank, and he wanted to check Freya’s room again. I pretended not to know where we were going as we headed to Ridgemont Street.

‘You know,’ Jonathan said, ‘what actually surprises me most is you’re really short. I was picturing you being taller.’

I could tell he was trying to be friendly, but it wasn’t helping. I played along anyway. ‘Really? I was picturing you being shorter.’

He gave me a lopsided, unconvincing smile. I mimicked it, and pretended it made everything all right.

Jonathan took a key from the bush outside the house and let us in.

‘’S’OK,’ he said, reading the look on my face. ‘Her aunt’s on holiday.’

I hovered on the doorstep, taking in the clean, cream-coloured carpet, the framed photographs on the wall, the coats neatly hung up to my left. This was Freya’s house, Freya’s life. I wondered what would happen if she suddenly came back and found me inside; me, the kid who’d stalked her.

‘Rosalind?’ Jonathan was halfway up the stairs. ‘Come on.’

I shook my head. ‘Can’t. Feels wrong.’

‘It’s fine – no one will even know. It’s not like we’re going to nick anything.’

Even though I’d never touched any of Freya’s things, somehow it felt like I’d stolen from her already. But I didn’t have much choice, unless I wanted to hang around outside. I stepped in, telling myself I was doing this for Jonathan.

Freya’s room was small and square, the walls covered by posters and photographs. The bed was unmade, and there were clothes everywhere, piled on a spare chair, a shelf, the top of the chest of drawers.

By the bed lay something red and silky. Unable to resist, I picked it up. It was a nightie – the sexy kind Abby and I admired through the windows of underwear shops. I felt slightly sick. Of course Freya would have one. I wondered if Jonathan had bought it for her.

‘Maybe she
didn’t
plan to get rid of me before she came to London.’ Jonathan was standing by the window. In his hand he held a stuffed white rabbit with a pink bow round its neck. I dropped the nightie quickly.

‘What makes you think that?’

He waved the rabbit at me. ‘Gave her this on Valentine’s Day. Thought it was sweet – a bunny from Squeebunny. She gave me the nickname, you know. I hated it at first, but it ended up sticking.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘I know it’s only a cuddly toy, but it’s special. Back home she kept it on her pillow, and she even took it into exams with her as a mascot. Why would she bring it here if she didn’t care about me any more?’

The rabbit stared at us with blank, happy eyes, and I looked away.

‘I don’t know.’

Jonathan wiggled the rabbit’s ears. ‘Squee,’ he said flatly, and put it down. He wandered over to look at the photographs on one of the walls. I didn’t want to look, but I found myself joining him. Some seemed older than others; one showed Freya at maybe my age, posing behind a birthday cake with her parents. Even then she looked great; I wondered if she had ever known what it was like to feel awkward in her body or have a crush on someone who didn’t like her back. I doubted it.

There were also a lot of photos of the stuffed bunny.

‘It’s just a daft thing we do,’ Jonathan said. ‘It was Freya’s idea – she’s a real shutterbug. We take photos of it in strange places. Like, once we sneaked into the head teacher’s room at school and snapped it sitting on his chair.’

I felt a bit of a pang. He was still so deeply attached to Freya.

‘There are some nice photos of you here,’ I said.

‘Wouldn’t call them nice. I’m not very photogenic.’

‘You look different without your glasses.’ I pointed to one in which he appeared to be asleep, the bunny peeping out from under the bedclothes beside him. Jonathan made a face.

‘Yuck.’

‘Where was it taken?’

‘Edinburgh. My aunt and uncle live there and said we could come up for a holiday after our GCSEs. They weren’t about so it was just the two of us. Freya woke up early one morning and thought it’d be fun to take embarrassing pictures of me.’

‘Oh. Were your parents OK with that?’

‘What, going to Edinburgh?’ He gave me a funny look. ‘Course.’

Argh! Why did I have to ask stupid, childish questions? They’d have been sixteen – old enough to be independent and do what they wanted. Old enough to share a bed.

Jonathan didn’t notice that I was blushing. ‘It was a really great week. I know I go on about her, but Freya’s fun, especially when you get her alone. We saw loads of sights and mucked about at the castle pretending to be pirates – dunno why, but it made sense at the time. The best bit was the last two days. We’d spent all our money and ended up wandering around the city and just talking. For the first time I felt someone understood me. Maybe I’m being OTT, but that holiday’s the only time I’ve ever felt truly happy.’

Now I felt even more uncomfortable. Even though they were only photographs, I felt like I was nosing into Jonathan and Freya’s special moments. Me, who had never had a boyfriend or even been kissed, and spent far too much time wondering what it was like.

‘Maybe we ought to do what we came here to do,’ I said. Jonathan nodded. He went over to Freya’s laptop, lifting the cover. Very gingerly I perched on the desk beside him.

‘What time is Freya due at the restaurant?’

‘Around six, I’d guess. If she’s not there, I’ll panic. Not turning up for classes is one thing – Freya’s skived before – but work is another. She’s always skint.’

He clicked on the Internet browser and typed in the URL to a webmail site. Seeing the address he entered, I said, ‘You’re looking at her email?’

‘I know her password; she might have emailed someone saying where she is. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier! At the very least, if she’s sent anything since Saturday it’ll tell me she’s OK.’

I thought of how I would feel if someone found their way into my account and read my messages, and squirmed. ‘This isn’t a good idea,’ I said, but Jonathan wasn’t listening. Freya’s inbox popped up. The first ten emails were all from the same address. Jonathan clicked on the latest, sent last Friday – several hours before Freya had dumped him. I read it over his shoulder – and felt sorrier and sorrier for him as it became clear what kind of email it was.

Jonathan

3.05 p.m.

‘Just as I thought this couldn’t get any worse . . .’ I stared at the screen, feeling the colour drain from my face.

‘She’s found someone else,’ I said.

‘Sorry,’ Rosalind said in a small voice.

I clicked on another message, snorting as I read the first line. ‘The bloke’s an idiot; what kind of person addresses emails “Dear Goddess”?’

‘It’s Norse mythology. Freya’s a goddess – of lust, actually.’

I clicked on the ‘sent items’ folder and opened Freya’s response to the first message. When I saw there was an attachment, my heart stopped. It was a new photo of the bunny, balanced on the shoulder of a bemused-looking man in a fancy uniform.