Authors: Jenny Colgan

The Boy I Loved Before (20 page)

BOOK: The Boy I Loved Before

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I banged out the doors at the back of the building, and heaved round to hide behind the bushes to see if Stanzi would make it out in time. She did, heavily camouflaged in the careful meander of bodies, as people tried to pretend that if it was a real fire they were being completely brave and unconcerned about it all. I used some of my precious phone card to call her over.

She giggled. âWe do this? Is an initiation?'

âSomething like that,' I muttered. âLet's get back.'

Dammit, if I was going to cease to exist, I wanted to have done some good in the world.

Chapter Eleven

I had a problem. Well, of course, I had many, many, many problems in the scheme of things, and proper ones too, not those along the lines of worrying about picking the right time in the London housing market, or being unable to hire the right cleaning lady or the kind of guff that I used to hear at dinner parties all the time in my old life.

So this, for me, was more of a mini problem. It was Saturday, and I had simultaneously promised to go shopping for a bridesmaid's dress with Tashy, to go shopping for something hot to wear to Justin's party that night with Stanzi, and to go bonding shopping with my mum and dad as part of some ropy âkeeping the family together' session. I hadn't meant to mix it all up, but if I (possibly) only had three weeks on this earth, I wanted to make the most of it and see as many people as I could. Plus, it was shopping times three. We'd decided to go to Kingston; Mum couldn't cope with the West End, and Tashy didn't mind.

âHurry up, Flora!' said my mother. Normally Olly chivvied
me along with my breakfast too. Clearly I had some sort of breakfast speed disorder.

âYeah, yeah,' I said, spooning my cornflakes round their bowl in what I best remembered as a sullen teenage manner. Oh no, hang on, I used that one with Olly too.

My dad looked a bit mournful, smoothing down his polo shirt in front of the mirror.

âYou all right, Dad?' I said.

âYes â¦ yes, of course I am. I'm taking my favourite girls out, aren't I?'

I felt sorry for him, eyeing himself up in the mirror. I knew how much more weight he was going to put on than that too. He was probably wondering if he'd ever get good sex again â¦ well, I couldn't think about that.

âYou look great, Dad,' I said as warmly as I could.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. âIf you think that means I'm going to buy you lots of tarty outfits, you can forget it.'

âJust a little bit tarty?'

âAbsolutely not.'

âWhat about sluttish?'

He smiled. âNo.'

âForward?'

âFlora Jane, please don't make me have this conversation.'

âI'm a good girl really, Dad,' I said, with a stain-free conscience.

He half smiled.

âWell, I try,' I said, guiltily thinking about the previous week's activities. In addition to work-related mischief I had also eaten sixteen cartons of Pringles, worn odd socks and snuck out all night to go dancing at the local nightclub,
even though it was rubbish and I got hit on all night by the same stupid tossers I remembered from Mr Dean's office.

Kingston High Street was mobbed. It wasn't nearly as much fun coming here without a credit card. Tashy had subbed me again, but I wasn't entirely sure how much fun that was for her. Still, it would probably be enough, seeing as my parents insisted on constantly steering towards Marks and Spencer's and Bhs. I kept sneaking glances around. Then I realised that I was actually surreptitiously checking to see if Clelland might happen past and see me out shopping with my parents. Curse these blasted hormones! I caught sight of my reflection in a shop window and shook my head in disbelief at my knobbly knees and baby pout. But I couldn't help but wonder where Clelland was. Probably buying muesli and planning a baby with Madeleine.

âCan't we at least go to Gap?' I said. âThey're not sluttish.'

âGap,' said my mother, tutting. âTotally overpriced â¦'

I remembered why I told my mother everything I bought cost a tenner in the sale.

â â¦ and nothing I couldn't make at home.'

âYou don't sew at home,' I said crossly.

âI know, but I could. Just as well as they do at Gap.'

I let this go and followed them inside dutifully, as my mother fingered racks of elastic-waisted slacks and tried to tempt me into the plainest pair of jeans (which she called denims) she could find, to show she wasn't completely not down with the kids.

Stanzi and I had a dimly formulated plan to bump into
each other in Bentalls at noon or so, and try and encourage our parents to go and have coffee together. Apparently they all got on very well, although, of course, this was completely news to me.

However, as I struggled in and out of different shirt and cardigan combinations I started to doubt the wisdom of this plan.

âYou're being very well behaved,' observed my mother. âUsually by this stage you're swearing blue murder and insisting on those combination trousers.'

Combination trousers? Had I missed something monumental in alternate universe fashion?

âLike those ugly things,' said my mum, pointing to a girl my age with a full Christina Aguilera going on â dreads, parts of which were blue, pierced nose, shredded top exposing navel, and short combat trousers.

âThe worst thing you think about that girl is her trousers?' I said. âWhatever.' I'd heard Charlotte Church say this, so I reckoned it was down with the sixteen-year-old lingo.

âQuite right,' said my mother. “Try on this nice poloneck.'

As I was struggling to get my head through the very small hole at the top of the poloneck, I heard a familiar shrieking.

âMrs Scurrison! Mr Scurrison! Hello! What a surprise!' screeched Stanzi, in possibly the worst reading of a line requiring âsurprise' in the history of the universe.

I finally popped my head through and looked over. With Stanzi were two chubby parents, to whom she was clearly related.

â
Bella, buon giorno!
' said her dad, engulfing me in a huge and somewhat sweaty hug. â
Come stai?
'

Everyone looked at me as if I was required to say something
at this point, which was a little awkward as I didn't speak a single word of Italian.

âAh â¦
sÃ¬
,' I said

âSi? Si? Oh, your daughter,' he said to my mum and dad. âShe no play any more, no? She grow up so, she think?'

My mother nodded. âWell, you know how it is, Gianni. They're always going through one of those phases.'

âI know. My daughter, she is marrying a pop star now, yes?'

âDa-ad,' squealed Stanzi.

âThey too old to be teased by their daddies? Never!'

And he pinched my cheek hard, which made me wince, particularly as everyone was looking at me as if I'd done something terribly rude, even Stanzi.

âJust joking,' I said brightly, and quickly moved the conversation on before anyone could enquire what that meant. âCoffee?'

âOh, coffee,' said Stanzi's dad. âThey say “coffee”; they mean “old parents please sit down out of the way and let us buy things with your hard-earned money”, yes?'

Stanzi grinned. â
Prego, Papa
.' And she stuck her hand round his waist and pulled out his wallet.

âDo you always act like a nine-year-old round your dad?' I asked her when we were safely away.

âIt always works, doesn't it?'

âYes, but that's notâ'

âI didn't see you complain before â¦'

True enough, as I looked down I reminded myself that I was holding an enormous ice-cream cone.

âWhat about this?' she said. We were in Topshop â of course! In fact, I know Kylie Minogue and Davina and other cool-looking thirtysomethings are always saying they shop there, but personally I can't handle it. It may say size twelve, but it certainly never looks it. Plus, all the teenage girls swanking about, looking groovy in the communal changing rooms â¦ too depressing. Shopping with people younger and slimmer than you, no matter how much time you may spend thinking: ah, but you'll end up a lumpy-thighed accountant too, is just not fun.

âLet's try on one of everything,' I said.

OK, it was Topshop, not a Rodeo Drive boutique, and OK, I had pocket money, not Richard Gere's credit card. But I have never felt more like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
than I did then â a movie, I was almost unsurprised to learn, that Stanzi was only dimly aware of, it having been released when we were both three years old.

I could wear
everything.
Well, not those Atomic Kitten white catsuits, because nobody can wear those, whatever Stanzi thought she was doing.

âIt's a school party, not an invitation for the whole room to get you pregnant,' I hissed to her, when she came out wearing the full white waistcoat and camel-foot pants.

âStop trying on ballgowns,' she retorted. âYou look retarded.'

âI look fabulous,' I said. âShut up.'

Stanzi raised her eyebrows. âMe, I look terrible,' she sighed, staring at her limpid petite reflection. âI am fat greaseball covered in steel wool.'

âYou're gorgeous,' I said. âYou look fabulous. Here.'

I handed her a shocking-red top, which made her boobs look enormous and her hair stand out like Catherine Zeta-Jones's.

âWhore's clothes,' she said. âGood.'

I slipped on a completely unforgiving ivory sheath with a metallic strap. The material was cheap, but when you are almost entirely hip free that simply doesn't matter.

âWhat, you are twenty-five-year-old going to get married? You look ancient.'

Crap, that reminded me. Tashy. I checked my Swatch. It was OK, I had half an hour or so to try on:

â¢ teensy denim miniskirt that made my legs look skinny

â¢ obscenely low-cut jeans I could normally only get one leg in

â¢ sixties-style minidress with no waist, thus unwearable by anyone with curves

â¢ huge gypsy-style Laura Ashley-type seventies dress (in sale), still hideous

â¢ leggings (which hadn't worked for me at the right size first time round and weren't improving by much)

â¢ innumerable Sharon Stone-style satin evening gowns, with gloves on my long slender arms, in which I took to parading round the dressing room as I looked so lovely. In no way did I need an evening gown, but, oof, I looked like one of those Hollywood starlets in them.

Stanzi was looking at me queerly.

âWe should go,' she said.

âTen minutes,' I said.

âNormally you always say you are ugly when you are shopping.'

âOh yes,' I said, admiring my reflection in a yellow dress like Renee Zellweger wore to the Oscars. âI look like a piece of shit.'

âMe too,' yelled Stanzi, obviously glad to be back in the game. âI look like a pig in a dress!'

âYou look gorgeous! I look like a wombat in tights.'

âNo, you are beautiful. I am like a slavering space Martian who has been sent down to Earth to discover what makes Earth males vomit!'

âWhy am I in this shop when the shop I need is the shop making outsize paper bags?'

We were giggling with each other as we made our final choices. Stanzi took the red top, which looked great on her, but insisted on wearing it with black trousers, which gave her a fat bum and made the combination subliminally resemble some kind of deadly spider. I'd kept the cute denim miniskirt â fake tan ahoy â and was teeming it with a cute off-the-shoulder stripy top, which was a bit eighties-fashion-back-again, but I figured if anyone had earned the right, it was me. We popped in to change back happily (sharing a changing room, which I'd forgotten was
de rigueur
), but both of us stiffened when we heard a familiar voice.

âGeorgia! For goodness' sake, Georgia, can't you even get me the right size? A six, for fuck's sake. Only losers take eights.'

Fallon. Clearly slumming it in Topshop, like Kylie did.

âCrap,' I said.

âPorca miseria,'
agreed Stanzi.

âWe really look like lesbonerds,' I whispered. Stanzi
nodded. In honour of my âbringing my family together' goal, I was wearing a Mum-approved long peasant skirt and gypsy top. I shouldn't have been nervous but any kind of confrontation gets my heart rate up and I couldn't help it.

âAnd I want one in every colour,' shouted Fallon. âChop chop!'

I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes to meet Tashy, and I had to misdirect my mum and dad, using some brilliant plan that hadn't quite occurred to me yet.

I stared at the floor. No way could I wriggle under that.

âYou go,' whispered Stanzi. âExplain. No. Explain something. I follow later.'

My eyebrows raised in gratitude at this self-sacrifice. âThank you!' I said.

BOOK: The Boy I Loved Before

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