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Authors: Jenny Colgan

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BOOK: The Boy I Loved Before
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My worst suspicions were realised when somebody called out his name.
‘Ethan!'
‘Girls, girls,' he said, coming over. ‘What's this, a fan convention?'
‘I just thought a certain poem deserved a public reading,' said Fallon, lowering her head and lifting her eyes in the patented technique of bitches through the ages.
‘Oh God, yeah. Did you hear about this?' he asked Justin.
Justin looked at me and, from my burning face, instantly
realised what was going on. ‘Come on. Don't fart about with this shit,' he said to Ethan.
‘No, no, I want to hear.'
I lifted my head – I'd reverted to staring at the ground – in amazement.
Ethan was handsome, alright, there was no doubt about that, with his blond hair, a long forehead and a lovely patrician nose.
‘Oh, Ethan, you're going to love it,' said Fallon, her voice instantly softening and her head dipping in that annoying Princess Diana style.
‘Tempt me,' he said.
Surely not. Well, we were young, after all. But it looked to me as if Fallon, and every other woman in the world, was going to be very disappointed by young Ethan indeed.
The idiocy of what I was doing – standing, letting myself be completely humiliated – suddenly dawned on me. I grabbed on to the last remnants of my adult brain.
‘Come on, Stanz.'
‘Oh, don't you want to stay?' said Ethan.
‘You could ask her out if you like,' said Fallon.
‘No thanks,' said Ethan.
I'm a grown-up. This is a child. A very camp child, I reckoned. Whom I have never even met. How can this possibly make me so embarrassed?
‘This is fucking lame,' I said.
‘This is fucking lame,' said Fallon. Ah, imitation: world's easiest way to be completely annoying.
I finally de-rooted my feet from the paving stones and walked off.
‘I think you've broken her heart,' I heard Fallon crow as I went, cheeks flaming. I was even close to tears.
‘It's hormones,' I told myself. ‘Just teenage hormones. You are better than this. You are so much bigger than this.'
But I still had a little sniffle in the toilets by myself.
 
 
It was almost a relief to slip into detention, which wasn't full of people from my class who knew everything that had happened at break time and were sniggering and pointing throughout the afternoon. It always amazed me, first time round, that teachers wouldn't be aware of the simmering tensions and ongoing sieges in any class situation. As an adult, of course, all teenagers look the same to me. Until they're at eye level.
I took the same seat as last time and started in on today's hot topic, five hundred words on ‘Why Detention Works'. Justin came in late, and I barely glanced at him. OK, I deliberately made a huge point of not looking up. I didn't want his interest and, more importantly, I didn't want his pity. It would remind me a little too much of somebody else who was kinder than Ethan, but probably hadn't liked the poems much either.
‘Hey,' he said.
‘Hey,' I said, writing furiously, ‘Detention may only be regarded as superior when compared to the method of repeatedly beating children's skin with birch.'
He shrugged. ‘Sorry about … you know, that, today.'
‘Honestly,' I said, ‘in the scheme of things, it doesn't matter.'
‘That's a good attitude,' he said. ‘I know girls can be pretty rough to one another.'
‘It works out for the best later,' I said. ‘Apparently.'
‘Really? Huh.'
I bent my head back to my page and wrote, ‘It also starts to look pretty good compared to the whip, and steady and repeated buggering.' I wondered if Mr Rolf would let me get away with that one. Probably not. I have to say, there was a tiny bit of fun still to be had in a world where one wrote with pencil. I rubbed it out.
‘You know, I shouldn't worry too much about Ethan.'
I lifted my head again.
‘What do you mean?'
‘Well … you know, he never really has a girlfriend.'
‘Justin, he's queer as a coot.'
‘Miss Scurrison! Quiet, please.'
The look on Justin's face was absolutely something to see. I'd forgotten just how unthinkingly bigoted and homophobic teenage boys were. Everything was batty to them, and homosexuality hugely amusing and terrifying at once. I almost felt sorry for them; with their penises bobbing up and down at the slightest provocation, probably male and female, they were panicking at being marked out from the pack. God, poor Ethan. He probably hated being a teenager even more than I did. I wanted to tell him not to worry, he'd be very popular when he grew up.
‘He's not,' whispered Justin fiercely. ‘He just doesn't have a girlfriend.'
‘Because he loves the world of men,' I said, in a mock news announcer's voice.
‘Just because he doesn't fancy you, he's a poof?'
‘Well, yes, partly that, obviously. Tempered only by the obvious fact that he's gay. Give your friend a bit of support, won't you?'
He stared at me while I wrote, ‘Detention is also to be preferred to the sacrifice of teenagers to Inca gods, widely practised at one time in South America.'
He was still staring at me, in that gauche way young boys have. I stuck my tongue out at him.
‘You,' he said finally, ‘are not at all what I thought you'd be like.'
‘Amazing,' I said. ‘Person in not-pathetic-victim shocker.'
He smiled.
‘Clelland! Scurrison! Do you really want to stay another day?'
‘Sure,' said Justin. And he winked at me. And for the first time since I'd arrived, I felt rather pleased.
 
 
As we came out of the building, Justin self-consciously moved over to walk beside me. It was getting dark.
All of a sudden we heard, ‘Oi! Little Britches.'
It was a familiar voice and I stopped dead in my tracks. ‘Oh, for fuck's sake …' said Justin. ‘It's my brother. He thinks it's hilarious to call me that.'
‘Your brother's picking you up? Here?'
‘He just got back from Africa and won't leave me alone. Some bonding bollocks,' said Justin. ‘Here he comes now,' as the familiar shape loomed out of the dusk.
FUCK!
 
 
Clelland stopped about five feet away, stock-still, his face as white as a sheet, just staring at me.
It would appear that he recognised me, but that he thought he was seeing a ghost.
‘Hey, retard!'
It was Justin. He sauntered up to Clelland and hit him on the arm. I remember how he used to pad after him as a baby and concluded that, underneath it all, Justin still worshipped his brother.
Clelland continued staring at me. I tried not to meet his eyes.
‘Spazmo,' said Justin, when he couldn't get a word out of him.
‘Sorry, I …' Clelland blinked and looked at me again. ‘You look like …'
‘I have to go,' I said. ‘Bye, Justin.'
And I ran like the wind, tie and schoolbag flying behind me, all the way home.
It was the following evening and I was huddled on my single bed; my new, prominent rib bones made me so thin I was cold all the time. I was on the phone, my parents were downstairs having a fight about a frying pan. The frying pan so far hadn't come into play, but I had a horrible suspicion it was just a matter of time.
‘Tashy, we have to—'
‘I know. Don't worry.'
‘What?'
‘I've already spoken to John Clelland. I have never heard a man panic so much in my entire life.'
‘He called you about me?'
‘No, he called Ghostbusters. Yes, of course he called me. Or rather he called my mum and left a very frantic message. He thought he was cracking up.'
‘Wow. He remembered me.'
I think to have met Clelland again and then been wiped
from his memory circuits for ever would have been more than I could have borne.
‘After all this time. You know, he hasn't seen me yet, not till the wedding. And he still recognised me! That's amazing.'
‘Yes, yes, my wedding, the wedding, blah blah blah. Anyway, he called. Apparently when Justin told him your name he started to gibber. He wondered if you'd died recently. Do you know, I'm getting quite nonchalant at explaining it now.'
‘How did he take it?'
‘He suggested we both required medication. And he wants to see you.'
My heart leaped. ‘I may … Um, maybe I should go see him to explain things.'
There was a pause.
‘To explain things?' Tashy sounded suspicious. ‘Are you going to wear a Britney Spears top that shows off your perfectly flat tummy?'
‘It depends on whether I feel the situation requires it.'
‘Flora.'
‘Uh-huh?'
‘There is someone you really have to see, and it's not Clelland.'
I knew that. It was stupid, stupid, stupid. I was in a ridiculous situation, and pining after someone from a long time ago wasn't going to help anything.
‘I know,' I said.
‘Call him. Sort it out. Then decide what you're going to do. Then sort your life out. Then make everything right again. Then make sure everything is good for my wedding.
Then
you're allowed to worry about John Clelland.'
The noise of a frying pan hitting the wall came up the stairs.
 
 
I tentatively crept downstairs; I needed to use the house phone. I couldn't afford to keep my mobile in minutes. My parents immediately jumped apart, then arranged their faces into ghastly intimations of being pleased to see me.
‘Aren't you getting ready, darling?' said my mother. ‘I thought you'd have been more excited.'
‘Excited about what?' I said.
‘Oh, you teenagers!' said my mother, as we all ignored a big dented frying pan in the middle of the kitchen floor. ‘Ha-ha.'
The doorbell rang. My mum answered it, and Constanzia burst in in a whirl of black curls with a tiny shredded fishnet lace top thing on.
‘Did your mother let you out the house like that?' said my mother.
‘No, Mrs S.' Stanzi held up a bag. ‘I've got a jumper in here. That's what I was wearing when I left.'
‘Well, you'll need it. You'll catch your death.'
Stanzi looked at me in horror. ‘You not ready? You want, what? A white dressing room with lilies, like Jennifer Lopez?'
‘Yeah,' I said, desperately stalling for time. What on earth was she talking about? I already had too much in my head. God, I had to see Ol. ‘Want to come and help me get ready?'
‘But we've got to get there early! To get down the front!' Stanzi's face was a picture of frustration.
‘I know. I'll be quick, I promise.'
‘Mrs S, can you make her hurry up?'
‘I'm afraid I thought the fact that Darvel was waiting for you would be enough.'
‘Darius, Mrs S,' she tutted. ‘It's Persian. He's descended from a long line of kings. And doctors. It's a very good combination.'
‘We're going to see Darius?' I exclaimed, before I could help myself.
‘Well, yeeaahhh,' said Stanzi. ‘I thought for a moment you'd forgotten.'
 
 
I was swept up in Stanzi world and I let myself get carried along. Music was easier, at the moment, than thinking about anything else.
I'd forgotten what gigs were like, I really had. A gig to me is somewhere, probably seated, melodic folk rock. You turn up late, miss the support, get yourself a gin and tonic and settle back for some mellow enjoyment and try not to let your boyfriend tapping out of tune annoy you so much.
That's not gigging. This was gigging. I larded on Sophie Ellis Bextor-style makeup (‘Wow, you've got really good at putting on makeup,' said Stanzi), and wore a push-up bra (my breasts really were still practically nonexistent) and a little pink tanktop with a slashed V at the top, then a little denim miniskirt. I twirled in the mirror. I looked like my fantasy self, my best-looking self, the one I had to scrunch up my face to see. Why, then, was my diary full of complaints and moans?
‘You think you are very beautiful, huh?' said Stanzi.
‘Yup,' I said.
‘You going to get off with Darius?'
‘I'm going to turn him down.'
We both giggled.
‘Are you lovely ladies finished in there?' came my dad's voice. ‘Because there's a pop star who won't stop calling the house and begging you two to come to his concert.'
‘It's not a concert, Mr S,' said Stanzi, opening the door. ‘It's a gig.'
My dad laughed.
‘He'll only be bloody miming, won't he? It's not even a show. Maybe you should just stay home and watch the video.'
Stanzi's face was suddenly aflame.
‘That is NOT TRUE. Darius sings and writes all his own songs. And we're going to be his fans for ever.'
‘He's only teasing you,' I said, hitting her lightly on the shoulder. ‘And it doesn't really matter. As long as we like him, that's all that counts.'
‘Good God, Joyce, our Flora just said something sensible.' He looked at my mother with a ‘can-we-make-up?' expression, comically scratching his head. My mother looked through him as if he hadn't said anything. I wanted to shout at her: ‘MUM! You don't know what he's going to do.'
‘
Please
, Joyce' he said. ‘Could you cut it? Just for tonight? It's the girls' big night.'
Stanzi and I looked at each other and shuffled our feet.
‘Yeah, stop it, you two,' I said.
‘OK, OK,' said my mum. ‘Have fun, everyone.'
‘Stop it, everyone!' commanded Stanzi. ‘If we don't go now I'm going to DIE.'
 
 
Any thoughts I might have had about being a tad underdressed were dispelled when we got to Earls Court. There had to be five thousand teenage minxes there, milling about inside. In fact, we were verging on the oldest. Lots were there with their parents, dragging baby sisters in tow, giving the thing the weird aura of a monster creche. Pink fuzzy Deely-boppers appeared to be back, I noticed.
We, however, quickly dumped my dad at the front gate so he didn't have to come in with us and we could make it look as if we'd travelled over on our own. ‘I'll just wait for you,' said my dad, taking out his
Evening Standard.
‘Dad, it'll be hours. Why don't you go home … surprise Mum and take her a fish supper or something?'
He looked at me. ‘Your mother never eats chips.'
‘She loves chips, though. She'd really like it. Please, Dad. Go on.'
He thought it over for a minute. ‘She always did love chips, your mum.'
‘Go on. It'll be good.'
He sighed. ‘All right, then. But if she gets annoyed at me, I'm blaming you.'
‘She won't,' I said, fervently hoping this was true.
‘OK. I'm picking you up here. And here …' He held out his hand. In it was a tenner and – bliss – a top-up card for my phone.
‘I'll be outside,' he said gruffly. ‘Be careful. Don't take any drugs.'
‘Darius says no to drugs,' said Stanzi.
‘Good for him. And I'll see you right here at ten thirty.'
I sneaked a look at my Swatch. It was six p.m. The support acts, of whom there appeared to be about nine hundred,
started at seven thirty. The man himself didn't appear to be turning up for about three hours. Christ, half of this lot would be asleep by then.
‘This is great,' said Stanzi.
‘I can't believe people are queuing three hours early.'
‘You're joking, aren't you? I wanted to come down at four, but Mama wouldn't let me. Cow.'
We passed one of the many stands dedicated to branding all things. Stanzi was in bliss.
‘Look at this!'
‘Who would pay twenty-five pounds for a T-shirt?' I asked, being a sixteen-year-old version of my mother, without thinking. ‘Oh. You.'
‘I work hard Saturdays,' said Stanzi. Then she picked up the baggy, cheaply made shirt. ‘Mind you – I don't know. Do you think he's really going to like me better in a big T-shirt than in my Zara fishnet lace tops?'
‘No, definitely not,' I said. ‘And it's going to make it harder for you to play it cool. You know, with his name and face printed on your front. Almost makes you look a bit easy to get.'
‘By having his picture on my front?'
‘Yes.'
‘My big baggy front.'
‘Yes.'
She thought about this and concurred.
‘Come on,' I said, as the queue inched forward infinitesimally. ‘I'll try and scam you a beer.'
‘Beer is horrid.'
I took a mad stab in the dark from remembering my own sweet tastes. ‘A Snowball, then.'
‘Voddy Red Bull more like.'
‘Oh yes. Yum.'
From inside the booming arena came a muffled thudding.
‘Ohmigod! It's starting!' wailed Stanzi, grabbing me hard on the arm.
‘I don't think so,' I said. ‘It'll just be the PA. They'll be putting on some music just to cheer everything up.'
‘How do you know, smartie pants?'
She was right, I thought. I might as well just get in the scheme of things.
‘I'm making it up to make myself look clever.'
‘It's not working!'
I stuck my tongue out at her and marched through the doors.
We passed two girls even smaller than us, wearing Atomic Kitten-style white cheap synthetic tops and matching cowboy hats. They were carrying a big sign that said, ‘Darius – MARRY US!'
‘Sluts,' said Stanzi.
‘Stanzi!'
‘Well, they look like sluts.'
‘So do we!'
‘We do not. We look like sexy, legal women of the world.'
One of the girls turned round. ‘What did you say?'
‘Nothing,' I said hastily.
‘God, look at those sluts,' said the other cowboy-hatted girl.
I grinned and wandered on.
Stanzi was hopping from foot to foot, looking at the line snaking on round corners we couldn't even see.
‘There's too many people here! We'll never get to the front.'
‘We're bigger than most of them. I'm sure we will. Smack 'em with their own lightsticks.'
‘Yeah!' said Stanzi, looking as if she was up for it.
The vast cavern of Earls Court looked massive, partly, of course, because everyone was so small. But I hadn't been to anything on this scale for a very long time.
The air was heavy, weakening, with the smell of hairspray and something I couldn't quite place. Then … yes, there it was. I didn't know they hadn't changed it. If anything could make me feel sixteen again, the smell of Impulse would certainly do it. I inhaled deeply, suddenly thrilled. Impulse, source of exotic dreams from the ages of fourteen to fourteen and a half, when my dad said if I didn't stop smelling like a seraglio he was going to stop taking me to school.
BOOK: The Boy I Loved Before
13.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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