The Manifesto on How to be Interesting (7 page)

Her mum's forkful of beef stopped on its journey to her mouth. Out of shock maybe, or suspicion that the question was somehow a joke.

“Umm. I'm going to my body combat class in the morning.”

“Can I come?”

Her mum put her fork down. “Of course you can, sweetheart.”

Bree's dad looked from one to the other with bloodshot eyes – bewildered as to why his eating had been interrupted. They never normally spoke to each other at dinner.

“What the hell is body combat?” he asked. “You learning how to beat people up, huh, Paula?” He snorted at his own joke, then stopped quickly, looking knackered, like his terrible attempt at humour had sapped any remaining energy out of him.

“It's non-contact. It's just a cardio class. You sure you want to come, Bree?”

Bree nodded, ignoring her dad. “And, er, I was wondering if we could go shopping or something afterwards? Maybe go to the hairdresser as well? If any are open.”

Her mum's mouth flopped open. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Shopping where? A bookshop or something?”

“No, like a clothes shop. Maybe that nice place in town?”

“You're honestly telling me you want to go to body combat, get a haircut, and come clothes shopping with me?”

Bree nodded again. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Bree's mum smiled. It was just a little one, so small you would barely notice it. She picked up her fork, took a mouthful of beef and leaned back in her chair. “No. I suppose it isn't.”

Silence returned to the table, with only the sounds of chewing and sipping filling the air.

Until her dad perked up a bit.

He jabbed at her half-eaten Quorn fillet with his fork. “What's that?” he asked.

“A Quorn fillet.”

“What in the name of Christ is a Quorn fillet?”

“It's a meat substitute. It's made out of mushrooms.”

Bree's dad would probably have looked less confused if she'd told him it was made from reconstituted pigeon poo.

“Mushrooms made to taste like meat?”

“Yes.” Bree took a mouthful.

“And since when have you been a vegetarian?”

Bree was just about to respond when, to her amazement, her mother cut her off.

“Oh for God's sake, Daniel. Bree's been a vegetarian since puberty, after she watched that documentary about fast food. If you were actually ever here you would've noticed.”

Her dad looked like someone had just wiped reconstituted pigeon poo on his face. Bewilderment carved through his tired features. He looked from Bree to her mother, before shaking his head and returning to his meat, muttering, “Mushrooms don't taste of meat…” like a child who'd lost a playground argument.

Bree's mum caught her eye and did a mock sigh, blowing her hair up. Bree rolled her eyes back and they both fell into silent unnoticeable laughter. Her stomach glowed with the unfamiliar sensation.

She ate the rest of her Quorn fillet happily. And, in some odd sort of way, found herself looking forward to tomorrow.

The next morning she was shaken awake by her mother.

“Morning, love. It's time for body combat. Remember you said you wanted to go yesterday?”

Bree rubbed her eyes to dislodge the sleep from them. Her half-conscious consciousness was being ripped down the middle. Pre-The-Plan Bree would've screamed “LEAVE ME ALONE”, gone back to sleep until noon, rung Holdo and then spent the remaining weekend watching the director's commentary on something. But Post-The-Plan Bree knew she needed to do this. Even though it was going to be painful.

Bree slowly sat up. “What time is it?”

“8.15. The class starts at 8.45.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Yes. On a Sunday.”

Bree yawned, stretched, and squinted.

“Give me a minute to get ready.”

Half an hour later, Bree was in a personal hell of her own making. She had no workout gear so was wearing her school PE kit and a clumpy pair of black trainers from her earlier teenage years. She probably would have stood out less if she'd worn sexy lingerie. Everyone in the class wore belly tops, tight Lycra leggings and special workout trainers – mostly in pink – with their hair scraped up immaculately into bouncy ponytails. Everyone's limbs were perfect. Each calf was uber-defined, each buttock cheek sculpted into a perfect curve, and flawlessly toned tummies peeked out all over the place.

The instructor hadn't arrived yet but all the women seemed to be stretching out and limbering up. Bree, unsure of what to do, bent over and tried to touch her toes. “Tried” being the operative word.

She was just in the difficult process of getting back up again when some teeny tiny stick figure with French plait pigtails rocketed through the doors.

“Right, ladies,” she yelled. “Are you ready to burn some calories?”

“YES!”

“That's not loud enough. I said ARE YOU READY TO BURN SOME CALORIES?”

“YESSSSSS!” Bree could hear her mum's voice over all the others.

Just as Bree was going to make some spot-on observation about the cult-like ways of this exercise class, the stick insect flipped on the sound system and Bree's life rapidly flashed past her eyes.

It was physical torture like she'd never experienced before. As everyone around her effortlessly kicked and punched in time to the quick (and awful) music, Bree could hardly keep up. Sweat dripped down her face. Her legs started to seize up, still tight from her not-fully-healed scars. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and her face resembled a sunburned tomato just home from a last-minute trip to Lanzarote.

And then, as if she wasn't feeling terrible already…Jassmine Dallington arrived from nowhere. She looked brilliant – wearing some vibrant red top and tight black leggings. She mouthed her apologies to the instructor, pushed her way to the front, and joined in the routine in flawless synchrony. When Bree wasn't focused entirely on not fainting, she watched Jassmine's blonde hair swish about in front of her. Jassmine watched herself in the mirror, working through the moves effortlessly and smiling smugly at her own reflection.

An emotion stronger than exhaustion passed through Bree.

Anger.

Suddenly she hated Jassmine. Her easy life, the way everyone seemed to care about her though she'd never done one nice thing to deserve it.

Bree stepped up her effort and concentrated harder on the routine.

Hatred drove her – as she squatted, lunged, boxed and panted. It soon eclipsed the knackeredness and pain. She bobbed and weaved to the music, now keeping pace with everyone around her. Sweat still poured from her body but she wasn't aware of it.

And then, with the heavy bass as a background, something began to happen to Bree. Something…good-feeling began to rush through her veins. Her heart pounded frantically – but no longer out of protest, now almost like it was spurring her on. Her breath finally caught up with her body and adrenalin rushed through her. She'd never felt like this before. Not naturally anyway. It was the same rush she got when she locked herself in the bathroom and made red patterns on her thighs. Her head thumped in the same way. She got the same tidal wave of relief. But she wasn't bleeding. She wasn't going to scab up tomorrow. Her thighs would hurt, but good hurt. Healthy hurt.

When the music stopped, Bree was almost upset. She was just balancing in a calf stretch when Jassmine picked up her stuff and left. She passed Bree with barely a smidgeon of sweat on her forehead. A look of dim recognition crossed her face and she looked confused, trying to place Bree in her inner list of who's-worth-knowing. When she realized who she was, she deliberately curled up her lip in disgust.

I have never done one bad thing to you,
Bree thought, and anger surged through her again.
Nothing about my existence affects your life in any way, and yet you deliberately make me feel like shit.

Jassmine gave a beaming smile to the instructor and waved goodbye, before she sashayed out the room.

You don't know or care who I am. But you will on Monday. I'm going to start fighting back with the best weapon I have: words. Indelible, permanent words.

Bree's mum came over, wiping her face with a towel.

“You enjoy it, Bree?” She tossed over the towel and Bree caught it and dabbed her forehead.

“It was…hard. But good.”

Her mum looked nervous. “Do you still want to go shopping and get your hair done?”

Not really. All Bree wanted to do was dollop vast amounts of Tiger balm onto every part of her and curl up with the new Booker Prize winner. But she wasn't that person any more. Well, not publicly anyway.

She scraped the last of the sweat off her face.

“That was the plan, right?”

Her mum smiled.

After a long shower and clothes change in the gigantic marble changing rooms, they set off into town.

“I didn't know all the shops were open on Sunday,” Bree said, looking up and down the bustling high street. Sundays had always been her writing and reading day and she rarely ventured past the security gate.

“Did I give birth to a daughter or an alien?” her mum asked, pushing the button at the pedestrian crossing. “Shops have been opening on Sundays for years. Nobody believes in God any more so we've made consumerism our new religion. Haven't you noticed all shopping centres look like churches?”

Hang on – had her mother just said something profound?

Bewildered, Bree said, “And hairdresser's are all open too?”

“Of course. They take Mondays off instead of Sundays.”

“To go to church?” Bree deadpanned.

“No. So they have a chance to go shopping!” Her mother threw back her head and laughed at her own joke.

She steered them towards the “nice” bit of town and pointed to a window display.

“Oooh, those shoes would look lovely on you, Bree.”

Bree looked. Her mother was pointing to a pair of chunky platforms that stood centre stage behind the glass. Platforms so stylish they would make anyone wearing them look just plain fabulous. They were black but with a bright purple undersole.

Bree looked through the glass nervously. “I dunno.”

“At least try them on.”

“I don't have anything to wear them to.”

“What? Since when did us girls need a reason to buy amazing shoes? Come on, let's go in.”

She clasped Bree's hand and half-dragged her into the store.

Bree felt out of place the moment they walked through the doors. It was like having a neon sign on her head, glowing with the words
I DON'T BELONG
. She felt the shop assistants' eyes on her as she and her mum browsed the rails of expensive clothes. She could sense them narrowing as they took in Bree's baggy jeans and hoodie. Her mother put a protective arm round her shoulder and kept up a constant stream of inane babble to cover the judgement hovering in the air like a storm cloud.

“This jumper is lovely. Ooooh, this blazer would be good for school. It looks like it would fit in with your uniform policy but it's so much less frumpy than your current one. Shoes! We must get you some shoes too. Where are those platforms?”

Bree's arms quickly filled up with stacks of material – each item more trendy/beautiful/stylish than the last. At Queen's Hall you were allowed to wear “home clothes” once you got to sixth form, as long as they had a “corporate” feel. This stuff would fit the rules, but it was a world away from the garish frumpy stuff she was used to. When the pile was too big to add to, her mum led her through to the luscious changing rooms. They all had floor-to-ceiling red velvet curtains and spotlighting. To Bree's dismay, her mum barrelled into the cubicle with her, sat on a stool, and watched as she struggled into one outfit after another.

“That one looks great on you. Oooh, try it with this scarf. I wish I had a seventeen-year-old's body again.”

It was so hard, changing in a way so her mum wouldn't see the scars on her legs. Bree jiggled and danced from outfit to outfit, her heart thumping, always ensuring the tops of her thighs were covered. Luckily her mum seemed too excited to notice Bree's odd behaviour. Or maybe Bree had been behaving so oddly already this weekend, she was immunized.

“We have to get everything,” her mum said.

Bree had seen a few of the price tags. “But it's very expensive…”

“Don't worry about that.”

“Maybe we should just get the shoes?”

And then to Bree's delight, shock, and embarrassment – she couldn't decide which one – her mum stood up and hugged her.

“Darling, you do realize this is the first shopping trip we've been on since you started secondary school? Financially – and emotionally – we have a lot of catching up to do.” Her voice broke, like she was trying not to cry.

Wow
, Bree thought.
Who knew the answer to happy families was clothes shopping?

She wasn't sure what to think of her mother. There was a big inner conflict whirring round her ever-busy brain. On one hand, she was pissed off her mum only seemed to love and accept her when she was being a shallow consumerist mini-me. Why didn't they hug and cry when Bree finished writing her first novel? Okay, so she'd never told Mum she'd written a book, but still. Or how about when she won her first game of chess on Difficulty Level Three against the computer (which everyone knows is practically IMPOSSIBLE)? But on the other hand, she was just enjoying feeling loved. By her blood. By her mum. Even though it wasn't exactly how she wanted it, it still felt wonderful.

“I'm having a good day,” she mumbled into her mum's shoulder.

Her mum pulled back and looked at her with watery eyes. “Me too. Now let's pay for these clothes.”

Bags dangling off their arms like giant bracelets, the pair of them walked towards A Cut Above – home to the town's most sought-after hairdresser.