Wonderland (6 page)

I look at him blankly. How does he know? Then I remember. I told him she was back, that day in the dunes. I nod.

His face lights up with the lie I have told. “But you said you were on your own.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” I push a kernel across the table and watch it roll silently onto the floor. “He wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t like her. She did some stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Just stuff . . .” So much stuff. And I shouldn’t tell him. But I want someone to know who she is. How incredible she is. Why I want her, need her. “Like . . . she painted the toilet red.”

“Really?”

I nod. She did. And the bath. One Sunday when Dad was in the top field with a calving. Stella was delighted. Said it was like peeing into blood. But Dad went spare. Made me scrape it all off.

“What else, what else?”

But I don’t answer. I’m listening to Dad on the phone, talking about shop awnings. God, the glamour of it. And I think about London and Stella kissing that guy outside the Rocket. And I remember Mum telling me she once kissed some pop star at the Palais. Because she could. And I want to get out of this town, out of this life, like never before. The need is overwhelming.

THE LETTER
arrives on Saturday. Exams over, the long summer stretches out before me. I’m behind the till, making minimum wage, Stella sitting beside me, flicking through
Vogue
and passing judgment on society.

The cowbells tinkle. Stella looks up.

“Oh, my God. What does she think she’s wearing!” she whispers.

It’s Mrs. Penleaze. Forty-something. No makeup. Hair scraped back in a lank ponytail. Anorak, despite the heat, and flowery skirt.

“She looks like a bag lady.”

I let out a snigger and Mrs. Penleaze looks at me, frowning. I turn it into a cough and smile at her, elbowing Stella to shut her up. Mrs. Penleaze goes back to her agonizing decision between baked beans and Spaghetti Hoops.

“Go on. Take a risk. Get the hoops,” whispers Stella again.

“God, Stella. Pack it in.”

“Well. Anyone would think she was on
Deal or No Deal
the way she’s dragging it out. It’s not like it’s a life-changing decision.”

“Maybe it is for her,” I say. “Maybe she’s never had spaghetti before.”

Stella flashes me a lipstick smile. And I know what she is going to say. “OK. Dare.”

“No way.” I shake my head.

“Yes way. I dare you to say something about that skirt.”

I sigh. “Good or bad?”

“Whatever. Just say something.”

Mrs. Penleaze comes to the counter with the beans and a
Western Daily.
Total, £1.10. I don’t need to look at the price tags. Know what everything costs. The thought saddens and sickens me.

She hands over some coins. Stella elbows me.

I can’t say anything bad. Just can’t. But I have to say something. What comes out is, “That’s a lovely skirt.” It’s pathetic, and I know it. And so does Stella. But I have done the dare, and that’s what matters.

Mrs. Penleaze looks down, confused.

“Oh . . . um . . . thank you, Jude.”

“It’s a . . . er . . . bold choice. Suits you.” I drop ten pence into her hand and slam the till drawer shut.

“So. Tell your dad hello.” She tries out a smile.

“I will. Call again soon.” I am choking down the laughter.

“Have a nice day,” adds Stella. Perfect all-American service with a smile.

The door closes and Stella and I shriek.

“You’ve probably made her day,” says Stella. “I bet she hasn’t had a compliment for years. Poor cow. Not that she deserves one in that getup.”

“Not as bad as Mr. Penleaze, though. Have you seen his ears?”

“God. Imagine them in bed,” ponders Stella.

“That’s gross, Stella. I don’t want to.”

“Oh, Janet,” she pants. “I love you, Janet. Do it to me, Janet!”

“Shut up!”

“You’re right. They probably don’t bother. Just pick each other’s corns or something.”

“Stop it now.” I hit her with a copy of
Cosmopolitan,
but she still has
Vogue.
Twice as heavy.

The cowbells go again. We stop and look up. I’m praying it’s not Mrs. Applegate, all Barbour jacket and Hunters, fighting a losing battle against the scales. Or Mental Nigel, who comes in for sweets and magazines.
Playboy
and penny chews. Stella would have a field day. But it’s neither. It’s the postman. How stupid is that? That the post gets delivered here. To a post office. They should drop it off when they open up the mailbox in the morning or something. Different jobs, Jude, Dad says. But it still seems dumb to me.

“All right, Jude?” The postman nods. “One for you here.” He hands over a stack of envelopes. Bills. Except for one. Thick, white vellum, A4 size, logo printed on the top left-hand corner. The Lab. My legs feel weak. And I’m not sure if it’s because I’m scared that I haven’t gotten an audition or scared that I have.

“I hope it’s good news. Anyway, best be off. No rest for the wicked, eh?” He laughs, a throaty, guttural sound. “See you later, love.”

But I am still staring at the envelope.

“Earth to Jude . . .” he says.

“What?” I look up. He’s smiling at me, waiting. “Oh, right. Yeah . . . See you . . . Thanks.”

“Another world,” he mutters as he leaves.

The envelope feels hot in my hand. Dangerous. Life-changing. The opposite of Mrs. Penleaze’s beans.

“Jesus! Would you just open it, Jude?”

But I can’t. Not in front of Stella. I don’t want her to see if I don’t get in. Don’t want to be a nobody in front of her.

“Well, if you won’t . . .” Stella snatches the envelope from me.

“Give it back. It’s private.”

She tuts. “What do you mean, private? I tell you everything.”

“Stella! Come on, give it back.”

She’s holding it above her head. “You didn’t say, ‘Simon says.’ ”

“What?”

Stella raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, for . . . Simon says, ‘Give it back.’ ”

“Only if you open it now.”

“OK . . . God!”

Stella holds it out. I snatch it. Still hot. My fingers are shaking as I run them under the flap and pull out the two stapled sheets.

“What?” Stella demands.

“Wait.” I scan down the page for the bad news. And again to make sure. But it isn’t there. They want to see me.

I look up. “I’ve got an audition.”

“Let me see!”

I hand it over.

“Oh, my God. Look at the date.” She is wide-eyed and helpless with happiness. “It’s in two weeks.”

“I know.” I make a face.

Stella grins. And I laugh, infected with her delight.

She claps her hands to her chest.
“O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?”

“Shut up!” I smile. “I’m not doing that, anyway. Too clichéd. And I’m hardly Juliet.”

“Yeah, you are. All innocent . . .” She lingers on the word, savoring it.

“I’m doing Isabella again. Same as the GCSE.”

“A nun! Even better. I bet Mr. Hughes loves that. Imagining you in your penguin outfit. Or out of it . . .”

“God, Stella. Is that all you think about?”

“Yup. Mostly. That and vodka. Decadence is so this year. Says so in the Bible.” She waves
Vogue
at me. “So, this calls for a party.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“I guess? It’s Saturday night. You’re going to drama school.”

“Might be.”

“Bugger
might be.
You’re going.”

Then it hits me. And it’s like in films when you see the background rushing toward someone. The world is turning around me. I feel the blood drain from my face. This is it. My chance. And I’m terrified and exhilarated. Because it’s everything I’ve wanted for so long. To go somewhere. To be somebody. I want this feeling, this day, to last forever.

“The Point,” she says.

“What?”

“Tonight. Let’s go there, me and you.” Stella has a plan.

“OK . . .” But then I remember something. Heard some kids talking about it in the shop. “No. Wait. We can’t. There’s this party up there.”

“Even better.” She smiles.

“No, but —”

“But nothing. There’ll be vodka, right?”

I nod. And dope, I think. And Emily Applegate and the Plastics. And all those same million reasons why I shouldn’t go. But then I think of Ed. And I want to tell him. To know what he thinks. To see if he’s pleased for me, proud of me. And I’m high again on possibility. I want to dance, to drink, to kiss someone. Anyone. Maybe.

“Well . . .” Stella drawls, playing it cool. “I think we should grace them with our presence.” Then she shrieks again. And we’re hugging, jumping up and down, shouting. Breathless, I feel more alive than I have ever been.

Then Dad bangs on the wall. We fall apart.

“Shit. Tom,” says Stella. “You’ve got to tell him.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

Stella sighs. “OK. So, gotta go, pussycat.” She takes a packet of Marlboro Reds off the shelf behind her. “Take it out of what you owe me, yeah?”

“OK . . . Wait!” I say. “Pick me up? At eight?”

“Half seven,” she replies. “Then I can help you get ready.”

I feign horror. “Are you saying I can’t get dressed by myself?”

“Yup.”

“Fair point,” I concede. “Half seven, then. Bring makeup.”

“OK. Bring booze.”

I laugh. “See you.”

“Wouldn’t want to be you.”

And she’s gone. I’m alone again. But this time it’s different. Everything is different.

The shop is empty, so I slip out the back, letter dazzling white in my hand. Dad’s in the stockroom, listening to some twangy folk music about shipwrecks and white hares.
You should be proud of where you come from,
he says. But it’s not where you come from, is it? It’s where you’re going. That’s what matters. London. Johnny Gillespie and the Rocket and a high-class hooker in the basement.

I hear a sound above the fiddles and drums. Talking. Dad’s on the phone. I listen in. Just in case. Once I got lucky. It was a woman. Rachel, she was called. Worked at the wholesaler’s. I met her when she dropped Dad off one day. She wore Mrs. Hickman clothes. Her hair was short. Not even elfin, just short. She smelled of cheap perfume and said she tap-danced. Giggled, like it was exotic, amazing. And I thought of Mum’s hobbies. How they changed by the week. Phases, Dad called them. She would take up yoga, then beekeeping, then Buddhism. Trying everything on for size. Trying to find something that would fill the emptiness.

I hated Rachel, and said so. Dad never saw anyone after that. Said we weren’t ready. He wasn’t ready. So now he just works. And has his nightly drink.

I hear his voice rise above the music. It’s nothing. Nobody. And I feel the grip around my throat and chest again. This suffocating house. Town. Life. And I know that I won’t tell him. Not now. In case he spoils it. This perfect day.

I pull the door shut, fold the letter, stuff it into the pocket of my jeans, and go back to the Spaghetti Hoops and the papers and the endless clutching monotony of his world.

“
BLOODY HELL,
Jude. Come on!” Stella is leaning on the gate, one hand on her hip, the other tight around the neck of a half liter of vodka. £4.99. Second shelf down, next to the cherry brandy.

I’m struggling up the path in a pair of three-inch Mary Janes and the black dress. Not really outdoor wear. But Stella just says, “Lily Allen wore a wedding dress to Glastonbury.” So I don’t argue.

Told Dad I was going to see Ed. Just not where. Or who else would be there. Only half a lie, then.

I trip on a clump of grass and twist my ankle. “Ow . . . oh, shit . . . I told you I should have worn boots.”

“Take them off, then.” Stella unscrews the cap and swigs back a mouthful. “You can go barefoot. Like the hippies.” She twirls around, her tulle skirt sticking out like a ballerina’s. Or a fairy. She is Tinkerbell. On crack. Which makes me who? Wendy?

I unstrap the shoes and put them in my bag on top of the cans of lager and the jumper I brought (on the grounds that there is nothing decadent or sexy in dying from hypothermia). The path is dusty underfoot. My ankle hurts, and I know I’ll tread on glass or mud or something worse on the way home. But right now, I just want to get there. I reach the gate and we climb over, and onto the Point.