Pretty Twisted (6 page)

Kirsten nodded. ‘My mum says it’s only girls who don’t have the confidence to get real boyfriends who hook up with blokes on the Net.’ Kirsten and Poppy moved off, giving me looks that made me feel pathetic, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.

‘God!’ Abby exclaimed. ‘I never knew they were so bitchy! Don’t worry, Ros, they’re probably just jealous. Neither of them have boyfriends.’

‘He’s not,’ I said in a small voice.

‘Not what?’

I opened my mouth – then paused. Abby was never going to meet him, and she’d sounded so impressed. It wouldn’t be a
bad
lie if I pretended Jonathan was my boyfriend. Besides, Abby always had better luck with boys, and it might be nice to feel I had someone to talk about for once.

‘Can’t remember,’ I said airily. ‘I’d better get home. I told Jonathan I’d be online.’

The lie sounded so convincing that it surprised me.

Abby nodded. ‘OK. Oh, while I remember, I had something to ask you. Ros, I know you don’t like Claudia, but on Saturday night we’re meeting some blokes she knows at the Malt and Hops. They’re artists – you’d be interested in that, right?’

‘What kind of artists?’

‘I’m not sure, but they’ve just started a studio. I thought they might be able to give you tips on art colleges and stuff.’

‘How does Claudia know them? She doesn’t know which way up to hold a paintbrush.’

‘She met one of them in a pub. How about it?’

I thought for a moment. If these guys had a studio, they’d be considerably older than us. I could do with their advice and, despite myself, I was intrigued.

Rosalind

5.30 p.m.

I logged on to my account the moment I got in. Jonathan’s status was set to ‘Away’; probably still getting home from college. I waited impatiently for him to come online. When he did, about half an hour later, I typed,
good day!
me & abby made up & we r meetin sum artists on friday.

Yay! She got the point then?

yeah. tnx 4 all the advice.

Don’t mention it. I have news too: FREYA IS COMING TO VISIT ME! I’m working like a maniac to get my homework done before Saturday.

beta stop talkin 2 me then.

You have to stay. I need someone to squee to.

squee?

A squee is a spontaneous expression of delight. SQUEE!

Jonathan continued ‘squeeing’ about Freya. So much for him being my ‘boyfriend’. I wondered what it must feel like to be so into another person.

Jonathan

Saturday 13 September, 12.20 p.m.

I made Dad leave the house fifteen minutes early in case we got stuck in the Norwich traffic and were late for Freya’s train. I hovered by the vending machines until I spotted her. She was wearing one of her retro coats and stood out a mile. I tore up the platform.

‘It’s great to see you,’ I said when we broke off kissing. ‘You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this.’

There was more I could say, but I remembered that Dad was waiting. Normally I hated it if either of my parents saw me snogging Freya, but today it didn’t seem to matter. The important thing was that she was here and we had all day together.

Soon we were heading home, via the chip shop. Dad and Freya, who greeted each other like long-lost friends, started having the conversation they always have when she eats at ours, which usually goes like this:

Dad: Cod? Battered sausages? Steak and kidney pie?

Freya: I’m a vegetarian, Mr O., you know that! You’re not going to tempt me over to the dark side any time soon.

Dad: Humans are omnivores, Freya. Our ancestors killed woolly mammoths for a reason. You can’t get all your nutrients from tofu.

Freya: But battered sausages aren’t real meat. They’re all the grimy bits from the abattoir floor, probably much worse than E-numbers. And you should think of the animals: killing cows and pigs – it’s no better than murdering babies.

Dad: Large chips for you then?

That’s another thing Dad likes about Freya; she has an appetite. He gets very distressed by people who pick at food and moan about waistlines, probably because he’s up and down trees all day so he requires hefty meals. He gets almost disturbing satisfaction from watching Freya eat, probably because she doesn’t look like someone who has the space to put away second and even third helpings. The truth is that Freya’s mother is a health-food freak, meaning Freya’s been deprived of what Dad calls ‘the good things in life’ (fatty meat, huge bowls of pasta and Mum’s walnut cake). According to Freya she never tasted chocolate until she had some, aged nine, at a friend’s house; like quite a lot of Freya’s stories this is probably an exaggeration, but you get the picture.

Mum was as happy as Dad to see Freya, and they immediately started chatting about how her parents were, local gossip, whether living in the city was different to the country, everything. I couldn’t wipe a silly grin off my face. For some reason, Freya talking to my parents like another adult made me feel proud.

When the conversation was still going on after lunch though, I started to get twitchy. Luckily I managed to catch Dad’s eye, and he and Mum excused themselves. I made Freya tea (two sugars, no milk) and we took it up to my room. In the early days I always tidied it before Freya came over, but after discovering the state of her room, I stopped bothering. It was nice to feel I could be honest like that.

Freya flopped down on my bed. She picked up my teddy bear from the pillow and pretended to high-five him.

‘Hi, Clover! You missed me while I was away in the big bad city, didn’t you?’ She made Clover wave his arm. ‘Yes, Freya, I did,’ she growled. ‘I missed you ever so much. Jonny’s been such bad company since you left, all he does is sit around and pine!’

‘Hmmph,’ I said, placing the mugs of tea on the floor and sitting next to her. ‘Sometimes I think you like Clover best.’

‘Cuddly toys have secret lives we don’t know about. Fact: Clover told me he’s having an affair with the stuffed bunny you gave me.’

‘Funny, cos last time I was round yours, that bunny was talking about getting off with your old Barbie dolls.’

‘God, such a slut! Clover will be heartbroken!’

‘No, he won’t, cos his heart is made of foam.’

‘Not funny.’ But she was giggling, and it felt good to be talking nonsense again. ‘Do you realize it’s been two weeks and six days since we last saw each other?’ I said, putting my arm around her.

‘Trust you to count. Hey, you know that girl who disappeared round mine?’

‘Oh yeah. Did they find her?’

‘Yes, floating in the Thames. Newspapers say she was strangled.’

‘Christ. Have they arrested anyone?’

‘Not yet. You hear about things like this all the time, but it doesn’t feel real; stuff that happens to other people never does. This girl was sixteen, just like me – she could have
been
me, or one of my friends.’

I squeezed her hand. ‘Be careful, OK?’

We whiled away the afternoon chatting and playing old CDs we’d made. It was almost like old times, except that Freya hadn’t brought her guitar or violin. I tried not to show how disappointed I was. There’d been a melody bothering me all week and I’d been hoping she could help me with it – I never quite got things right when I wrote music alone. But Freya said it sounded too much like schoolwork. Instead she talked, mainly about London and her new friends.

At one point she asked to check her email.

‘Someone called Rozzledozzle’s messaging you,’ she said as she clicked on the Firefox icon.

‘Can’t think why. Ros
knows
you’re here,’ I said half-crossly.

‘Who’s Ros?’

‘Girl I met online.’

Freya turned, frowning. Realizing what she was thinking, I said, ‘I’m not chatting her up or anything. We just talk every so often. She knows I have a girlfriend – I go on about you all the time.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ she said pointedly.

At about half six Dad poked his head round the door. ‘Shouldn’t you two be getting ready?’

‘We’re going out?’ Freya looked startled. ‘You never said.’

‘That’s cos it’s a surprise!’ I knelt in front of her, taking her hand. ‘Freya, would you like to join me for a candlelit dinner at the Market Street Gallery?’

‘Seriously? It’s really posh there!’

‘I know, that’s why I chose it. Don’t worry, it’s on me.’

‘He means me,’ Dad mouthed, but luckily Freya didn’t see. I shooed him away in case he said anything else.

‘Is this why you told me to pack something smart?’ Freya asked.

‘Of course. They don’t let any old people in there. And I know you love dressing up.’

She clapped her hands, delighted. ‘Are you going to wear a suit?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ I was enjoying this. I’d known it was a good idea; Freya adored surprises. She went to get changed, and I picked up the suit I’d borrowed from Dad. I had to wear my own trousers as Dad’s were too short, but the jacket fitted fairly well. More to the point, it made me feel suave. Grown-up. Maybe even a bit James Bondish.

Freya was ages getting ready. When she appeared in a green dress with a huge sticky-out skirt I was lost for words.

‘It’s fifties style,’ she said, giving a twirl. ‘Do you like it?’

‘You look beautiful.’

‘You don’t look bad either. Is that actually gel in your hair?’

‘Taxi’s waiting!’ Dad bellowed. Downstairs, Mum insisted on taking photos, and for once I didn’t make a fuss. Eventually Dad managed to get us in the van and dropped us off next to the restaurant.

‘Wow,’ said Freya as he drove off ‘For somewhere so pricey, it’s packed, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’ I frowned, suddenly uncomfortable.

A very smartly dressed waiter met us at the door.

‘Yes?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Table for two, please.’

He looked at us down his nose. It was a very long nose, made for sneering. ‘Have you made a booking?’

I swallowed. ‘Well, no . . .’

‘We’re fully booked. If sir looks around, he’ll see that there isn’t a spare table – nor is there likely to be. Perhaps next time sir takes madam out, he might consider making a reservation.’

‘But . . .’ I struggled to find words. Freya saved me the bother.

‘Come on, Jonathan,’ she said, pulling me outside. I stared through the window, taking in the candles, the wine glasses, the evening so suddenly ruined.

Freya was looking at me, and I wanted to dissolve to liquid and flow along the pavement, into the gutter and down the drain.

‘Mum did tell me to book, but I thought it’d be OK,’ I murmured. ‘Sorry.’

There was a long silence.

‘Maybe we can find somewhere else,’ I suggested, but I knew there wasn’t much chance of that. We’d be laughed at if we went into any of the pubs, and probably wouldn’t be served anyway. The local Indian was a takeaway, and the Chinese had closed down.

We ended up in Bertie’s Burger Bar.

‘It’s not real potato,’ Freya said, poking her packet of fries. ‘It’s all powder, you know. And that milkshake’s disguised whale blubber—’

‘Look, Freya, I’m sorry, all right? I made a mistake.’

Grinning faces pressed against the window. It was Stuart and his mates. After that there was no peace. They mobbed our table, and Stuart ate all my fries and took the mick out of me for being dressed like I was at a wedding (or a funeral, he said he couldn’t tell which). His mates started making lemonade spurt out of their noses and telling dirty jokes, mostly about me and Freya. Then one started getting touchy-feely with her, and when I told him to lay off Freya got the huff and said she could look after herself. By the time Dad came to pick us up I couldn’t wait to get home. When we got in I followed Freya straight upstairs to my room.

‘Sorry I screwed up,’ I said. ‘Next time you visit I’ll make it up to you.’