occasional table with a dull white vase holding dusty artificial flowers, and Lucy began to peer in each room.
“No, that’s a bedroom, and that’s a bedroom – it doesn’t look as if his parents are in – and this must be Brad’s bedroom. Oh, look, he’s got that huge poster of Eminem. Ah, this must be the bathroom.” Lucy switched on a light and I followed her in.
Immediately she began fussing in front of the mirror, twiddling with bits of hair. I leant against the wall and noticed the clutter by the side of the bath – a Marks & Spencer bubble bath, a body moisturiser, nail clippers, Calvin Klein aftershave, little coloured bottles of aromatherapy bubble baths, an underarm shaver, an off-white sliver of soap with small hairs attached – I averted my eyes and saw that by the side of the toilet was one of those knitted ladies sitting discreetly on top of a roll of toilet paper, hiding it with her skirt. It made me smile. Brad made out he was such a cool guy at school. Brad wasn’t even his real name. He was Martin Bradley Cropper.
I didn’t like the way I was seeing through everything that night. I took hold of myself and focused on Lucy. Actually it was quite easy to get involved with her preoccupations, as they felt so important to her. I helped her put some wax on the strands of hair at the sides so they fell the way she wanted them to, and we put some glitter by the corner of her eyes. I knew Lucy was fussing because it put off the awful moment when she would have to go downstairs and face everyone. I kind of felt the same way as her, but for different reasons. Lucy was worried about what people would think of her; I was scared about what I might think of the other people.
Don’t think I was trying to be clever, or that I was up myself. It didn’t feel like that – but you know what I mean, Taz. The truth was, I wanted to be like Lucy, someone who really believed that Brad’s party was going to be top, someone who liked everyone they met, who was warm and open and good company. But I just couldn’t be that person. I felt more like a shadow with the ability to pass straight through people. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t slept much the night before.
Eventually we did go downstairs. Fliss and Toni had arrived and they squealed when they saw us and Lucy squealed back and I forced my mouth into a smile. There was lots of whispered gossip, stuff about who was coming later, and who might fancy who. Fliss and Toni wore stiff new jeans with diamante beading down the side of the legs, and tiny sleeveless tops with high necks. They both wore their hair down and daringly, Fliss had a pink hair extension. I wondered whether Toni’s had fallen off. If I’m honest, they made me feel dowdy. I’d pulled on my silvery-grey trousers, the ones that shimmer, and the dark grey T-shirt with the words Go Slow – you never gave it back to me, did you?
I stood with the girls and looked over to the drinks table where the guys had congregated. I knew most of them and had pulled one or two – it made me a little sick to think of it now. None of them was one hundred per cent fanciable; Brad was so tall he stooped, Matthew had bad skin, Chris had cheeks like a hamster. It wasn’t that I dreamed of the Mr Perfects that you see on films and TV. In many ways they’re worse. For a start, they’re not real.
Brad came over to say hello to us with a stupid grin stretching his mouth.
“Why have you got a blanket over the TV, Brad?” Fliss asked.
“Yeah,” added Toni.
“The old man insisted. In case anyone scratches it.”
“Oh,” said Toni.
“Oh,” said Fliss.
“What’s that in your hair?” Brad asked Fliss, fingering her extension.
“Leave it out!” Fliss giggled.
“He’s terrible,” Toni said.
“Have you got one?” Brad asked, messing Toni’s hair. He was having a good time, and it made me smile. I could sense Lucy restless by my side, feeling ignored.
“Shall we go and get a drink?” she said.
Melissa arrived while I was sipping at a Coke and Lucy was knocking back a Bacardi Breezer. She had a tall, blond boy in tow, with cold blue eyes. She gave the impression she was just dropping in, and looked around, giving everyone time to get an eyeful of her. She wore black hipsters that accentuated her flat stomach and a tiny kid’s top with a cartoon character on it. It hugged her bust possessively. I watched people drift over to her as if they couldn’t help it. Even I felt her pull. Simply not going over to say hi to Melissa was a statement. In the end I had no choice. Lucy dragged me over.
“Oh, hi Catherine, hi Lucy. You look nice.”
Patronising bitch, I thought. But I just smiled.
“You look gorgeous,” Lucy said. “I love your top! Where did you get it?”
But Melissa didn’t hear her. Some guys had come over and she was flirting, properly flirting, you know, with her hands, touching people’s arms, nuzzling up to them. It was clever, in a way, what she was doing. The boys were hooked. No one was actually listening to what she was saying; they were just waiting for the moment when she might make them feel special. It was like Lucy and I didn’t exist. Which was OK by me, but I could feel Lucy sagging.
Brad appeared then, having abandoned Fliss and Toni.
“Have you got a ciggie?” Melissa asked him, stroking his arm.
Brad shook his head. “It’s a bugger. The old man doesn’t like smoking in the house. I’ll open the garden door if you like and you can smoke outside, if you can find a fag.”
“Don’t bother,” Melissa said.
Brad looked crestfallen. I saw him shoot a glance back to Fliss and Toni who were now being chatted up by two short boys I’d seen around school.
“Is that painting of you?” Lucy asked him.
His face lit up again. “Yeah, it’s crap, isn’t it?” he said, grinning again from ear to ear.
“No,” she said. “I think it’s lovely.”
Time, I realised, to separate myself. I wandered off to the settee by the bay window, which was empty, and sat down to watch everyone.
I could see the party was beginning to take shape. Some of the girls were moving to the music and Melissa, as foul as she was, made the party seem important, somehow. Some guys were laughing and getting more plastered. It was noisier and noisier by the minute. I liked just being there. It was restful not to be me but just an onlooker, outside life.
Even the scenes earlier in the day seemed apart from me, as if they’d happened to somebody else. Mum’s grand inquisition, why haven’t I seen you working? Is there something wrong, Catherine? Peter! Help me here – she’s being so uncommunicative! And locking myself in my room again and looking at my books and my bulging schoolbag like a malignant growth sprouting blackly in the corner. I recalled burrowing under my duvet, and sleeping. Then I went downstairs rubbing my eyes, and lied that maybe I was fighting a virus and it would help me to go out tonight. Mum said, you silly girl! but spoke the words affectionately. I returned upstairs, and soaked in the bath, considering my pale body that seemed to belong to someone else. Then there were pangs of guilt about my oboe practice – little lappings of panic – and I began to wonder why it was I hadn’t done a stroke of work for days. It wasn’t as if I’d made a decision not to work. Something outside me had made that decision, and then I found the reasons to
