3. Phone Dad at least once a week
4. Sign up for the photography course at the leisure centre
5. Forget about Julian Symonds
CHARLES WAS COMING round for dinner, which really pissed me off. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him; he was actually really nice. It just seemed … insensitive. This, after all, was the anniversary of my parents’ spectacular break-up and there was still part of me that blamed Charles for it. Charles, my mother, myself most of all. Somehow over the course of the past twelve months Dad’s part in the whole thing seemed to have diminished in importance.
Mum suggested that I invite a couple of friends around to join us for dinner; grumpily, I declined.
‘It’s going to be
really boring
,’ I pointed out. ‘My friends do not want to come round here and watch TV with you and your
boyfriend
.’
‘Okay then, darling, have it your way,’ Mum replied breezily, which infuriated me further. This was not going my way. This is not how I wanted to spend New Year’s Eve. I wanted to be going out to a party, or at least having a party at home. Actually, the thing I wanted most of all was to have last New Year’s Eve back, a chance to do it over, minus the bloody ending. More than anything on earth, I wanted to be sitting in my bedroom with Julian Symonds.
Julian and I had not spoken since Valentine’s Day. He’d called a couple of times in the summer, but I’d got Mum to say that I was out. I didn’t want to talk to him,
ever again
. I didn’t want to hear him say that he was sorry, or to tell me that it wasn’t me, it was him. I didn’t want to hear him say that he really hoped we could be friends. It was all just too humiliating, too painful.
The thing was, I should have been over him by now.
‘You only went out for like, five minutes,’ Emma Bradley, my
supposed
best friend at school pointed out to me the last time I flinched at the mention of Julian’s name. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit … melodramatic? It’s not like you were in love or anything. You didn’t even shag him.’
True, I didn’t shag him, but I
was
in love with him. And it wasn’t five minutes. It was five weeks. Five torturous, blissful, rollercoaster weeks, the five most intense weeks of my entire existence, the weeks during which I was Julian Symonds’ Girlfriend.
It was beyond my wildest dreams. After all, I’d returned to school a week after the New Year’s Eve party in a state of panic. I was terrified of seeing Julian again, convinced that he would have told the entire school about the party; about my awful fucked-up family, what a total head case my dad was, and about how desperately uncool I was, with a Gustav Klimt print on the wall and everything. That first morning back, I made my way towards morning assembly with my head down. My entire body tense, I glanced up every now and again to check whether people were staring at me, whispering, pointing, laughing. They were not. No one said anything to me, apart from a couple of classmates saying hello and asking if I’d had a nice Christmas, until I reached the doorway of the assembly hall. Then, just as I was about to enter, I felt a gentle tug at my sleeve, and I turned around and there he was, towering over me, handsome even in the dull grey of his school uniform.
‘Hello,’ he said, not quite meeting my eye. ‘How are you?’ He looked nervous, he was shifting his weight from foot to foot, biting his lower lip.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, concentrating terribly hard on breathing and not falling over at the same time. ‘How about you?’
‘I wanted to ring you,’ he said, ‘to find out if you were okay. You and your mum. But I wasn’t sure if I should … I was worried …’
‘Dad moved out,’ I said, ‘so, you could have, you know, if you wanted to, you know, called me.’ Jesus, I sounded retarded.
‘God, Nicole, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry about your parents. That’s just awful. I feel really terrible about this.’ He looked genuinely upset.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said.
‘It kind of was …’
‘Julian …’
The second bell went, the signal for everyone to get into the assembly hall immediately unless they wanted a week’s detention.
‘Can I come and see you?’ he asked me. ‘After school, some time this week?’
My heart was hammering so hard in my chest I thought I might pass out.
‘Of course,’ I squeaked. ‘That would be … nice. I have piano today and gymnastics on Thursday, but any other day would be fine.’ Christ, now I sounded like a nine-year-old.
But he didn’t seem to think so, he just smiled and said, ‘Great. I’ll come over tomorrow.’
As I walked into assembly, I glanced around again, holding my head high this time, no longer hiding. No longer was I hoping that no one had noticed me, now I was praying that someone had seen. Please, please say someone had just witnessed me, Nicole Blake of Year Eight, talking to Julian Symonds of Year Ten, not just an older boy, but the best-looking boy in school.
As promised, he visited the next day. The day after that, he sought me out during our lunch break at school, he actually
sat next to me
, at my table,
in full view
of other Year Tens. That Friday, he came round to the house again. I was upstairs in my room, sulking, because I’d come home from school to find Mum sitting in the kitchen with Charles, giggling like a teenager.
So
undignified. After Charles left, Mum and I had a row. She said I’d been rude to Charles.
‘Just because I don’t fawn all over him like you do doesn’t mean I’m being rude,’ I said to her.
‘Don’t be like that, Nic,’ she said. ‘He’s my friend.’
‘Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?’
‘Nicole!’
‘Well, maybe Dad was right …’
‘Go to your room, Nicole,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘Now.’
And I went upstairs and lay on my bed, wondering why I felt the need to be such a bitch to her. I knew she hadn’t done anything wrong.
I was still lying there when I heard the doorbell ring. A few moments later, there was a soft knock at my door.
‘What?’ I snapped.
Mum pushed the door open. ‘There’s someone downstairs to see you,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘It’s Julian,’ she said, and I leapt to my feet in a panic, tearing off my school uniform and rushing around the room looking for something to wear. Mum stood in the doorway watching me.
‘I really ought to send him home,’ she said.
‘No!’ I cried, horrified. ‘Please don’t.’
‘You’ve been really unkind to me, Nic. I’m not sure you should be allowed to see friends tonight.’
‘Please, Mum,’ I begged her. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’
She just looked at me, implacable. Then she smiled. ‘The red top, that one we got on Oxford Street last summer. Put that on. You look lovely in that.’ I flung my arms around her neck and squeezed. ‘Yes, all right. You get dressed and I’ll tell Julian you’re on your way down. And Nic?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I would never be rude to your friends. Please do me the same courtesy.’
I pulled on some jeans, threw on the red top and drew a line of black kohl under my eyes. I glowered at myself in the mirror. I was hideous. But there was nothing to be done about it now. I took a deep breath, pushed open my bedroom door and made my way downstairs.
Julian was standing in the hallway. Dressed in black jeans, his biker jacket and Doc Martens, he looked perfect.
‘Hey you,’ he said with a smile, ‘hope you don’t mind me just coming by like this.’
‘Course not,’ I said. As I got to the bottom of the stairs, he reached for my hand. I thought I was going to die. He pulled me closer, glancing quickly over my shoulder to make sure that we were alone (we were – my wonderful mother had disappeared into the kitchen), then he leant over and kissed me on the lips.
‘Even better,’ he said softly.
‘Even better than what?’
‘Than I’d imagined. And I’ve been imagining that since New Year’s Eve.’
So it began, and it was even better than I’d dreamt it would be, too. It was perfect. He was so easy to be around, and beneath that whole cool façade, he had a wicked sense of humour. For the five weeks we were together it seemed like we never stopped talking – about everything: my family, his family, our friends, films, music, art … And I was so proud to walk down the halls with him, holding his hand, or with his arm draped around my shoulders – and he was so cool about stuff like that – he wasn’t like those idiots who refuse to show their girlfriends any affection in public, but once they’re alone immediately begin ripping their clothes off. Julian was happy to be seen with me.
Except, of course, that it wasn’t perfect. Because although he was lovely and affectionate in public, he was nothing more than lovely and affectionate in private, too. Not that I actually
wanted
to do anything with him (not yet, anyway), but it seemed really weird to me that
he
didn’t want to. I never ever said anything about it (of course), but privately, I tortured myself. Why didn’t he want me? What was wrong with me? Well, aside from my thighs (flabby), breasts (small), hips (wide) and so on. I tried to reassure myself that he was just being respectful of me, but in my heart I knew this was total crap. I was fundamentally undesirable.
A fact which was confirmed in brutal fashion on Valentine’s Day, a date that I had been anticipating with feverish excitement and not a little anxiety. For the first time ever I was going to get a Valentine’s card. A real one, not one written in my mother’s poorly disguised hand. I might even get flowers. The anticipation was killing me. The post hadn’t arrived by the time I left for school that day, but that didn’t matter. He’d probably give me the card when I saw him anyway, and that would be even better, because then I’d have an excuse to show everyone. It was the complete contrast to the first day of term: me desperately hoping to bump into him, searching him out all day, failing to find him. I hung around the school gates for half an hour after classes, convinced that he’d be along any minute, but no such luck. I went home, deflated.
Until I pushed open the front door, and saw there on the mat, peeking out from under a large, official-looking manila envelope, a corner of brilliant vermilion. My heart leapt. I threw my bag onto the floor and scooped up the mail, flinging the bills and junk mail back onto the carpet. I ripped open the envelope and was surprised to see an impressionist scene on the front of the card: Monet, the artist’s garden at Giverny. Not very Julian. I flipped open the card and read:
Dearest Elizabeth, Happy Valentine’s Day. With love, C
.
It was only then that I looked at the front of the envelope, which I hadn’t even checked in my haste to get to the card. It was addressed to Mrs E. Blake. It wasn’t for me, it was for Mum. And it wasn’t even from Dad, it was from Charles. Were they lovers now?
Feeling sick to my stomach, I ripped the card to pieces and threw it in the bin, making sure to cover the evidence with banana skins and tea bags. I couldn’t believe it. Nothing from Julian for me, something from Charles for Mum. It was the worst possible combination. I dragged myself upstairs, stuck
Nowhere
on the stereo, turned ‘Dreams Burn Down’ up to ten, and flung myself face down onto the bed.
I was still lying there, in my school uniform, face buried in the pillow, when I heard the doorbell go downstairs. For a moment, I didn’t know what to do. What if it was Charles? What if it was Dad?
‘Nicole?’ I heard a voice call out. ‘You there?’
Julian! I was so delighted to hear his voice, I didn’t even worry about the fact that I was still in uniform, that I looked like hell. I tore down the stairs and yanked open the door, grabbing him around the waist and kissing him until I noticed that he wasn’t kissing me back.
Something was wrong. He didn’t meet my eye as he pushed past me into the house. He seemed agitated, distracted. In the kitchen, I poured us both a glass of juice. He waved me away as I offered it to him.
‘Stick something stronger in there for me, will you?’ he said.
‘Jules,’ I laughed, ‘it’s five-thirty in the afternoon. Mum’s going to be home soon. She’ll kill me if—’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Nicole.’
‘What? What’s wrong?’ I reached out my hand to take his. He pulled away.
‘Nothing. I’m just … I felt like having a drink.’
‘Well, you can’t have one here.’
‘Fine, I’ll go elsewhere then.’
‘Julian …’ I reached out for him again, but he was already heading out into the hallway.
At the front door, he turned. He looked straight at me, unflinching, direct, and said: ‘This is just not working, is it? You and me. You’re a great girl, Nic, but this isn’t right …’
‘Jules, please don’t …’ I said, already starting to cry.
‘Oh don’t …’
‘Julian, I love you.’ It was the first time I’d ever told him that, and I meant it.