Phosphorescence Read online

  Falling behind badly on the boyfriend front, I am not much better on accessories, despite my amazing shopping trips with Mum. My phone is a different make to everyone else’s, which is fine, except it is much bigger – like the mobile phone equivalent of being fat. And my clothes are new in the wrong way.

  ‘How can clothes be new in the wrong way?’ Mum is incredulous. ‘Surely they’re new or they’re not?’

  I hurl myself back on the sofa, and the taut anxiety which has been holding me together all day collapses. Tears roll down my cheeks.

  ‘Oh, Mum, you wouldn’t understand. You can’t just wear everything new and expect it to look – oh – there’s no point in trying to tell you.’

  I don’t want to see the hurt look on Mum’s face, and I don’t want her to start telling me everything is fine, because it’s not. I need to call Nell, right now. Nell understands, and goes straight to the point.

  ‘So what did you wear?’ is her first question, followed by, ‘How unfriendly were they?’

  Hugging the phone to my chest, I stretch out on the floor, facing the base of the sofa, my back to Mum and the room.

  ‘Oh, Nell, it’s so weird. I am not on their planet. I don’t have the stuff and I haven’t done anything. There’s this girl in my form going out with a sixth-former.’

  I stand up and go through to my room, cradling the cordless phone between neck and ear.

  Nell cuts strictly through the whimpering note in my voice. ‘Well, Josh is a sixth-former, isn’t he? It’s not that weird.’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t go out with Josh, did I?’

  ‘I know that, you know that, but they don’t, do they?’

  A reluctant giggle surfaces for a moment, but dies again.

  ‘Oh, Nell, they go out on dates and they meet in bars in the evening. No one will ever want to meet me, and there’s this teacher called Mr Christoff and he sat on my hand when he was explaining something in maths to me.’

  ‘Ooh, gross,’ murmurs Nell. ‘Does his breath smell? Our new geography teacher is a woman. She’s called Miss Harris. Actually, she’s more like a girl, really. She’s only about twenty-five and all the male teachers follow her around with spaced-out hungry faces. It’s so rank, it’s unreal.’

  I am restless with the phone, and now I lock myself in the bathroom and turn on the taps, partly because I want a bath, but also just in case Mum might be listening. I pour in some bath essence.

  ‘Lola!’ Nell’s voice is distant. ‘Are you in the loo?’

  ‘No, I’m running a bath and it’s going to be blue thanks to little Sadie’s leaving present. Actually, it’s a bit gross – it smells like those cartoon yoghurts Sadie likes, but anyway, I can’t be bothered to let it all run out. No one will be near enough me to smell it anyway.’

  Nell sighs.

  ‘Come on, Lola, you’ve got to make the best of it. I think it would be brilliant to be in London. What about the shops? I’m going to fix a weekend with Mum when she’ll let me come and see you. I’ve got to go now, I haven’t done my homework and it’s getting late. My mum is in a real psych. Text me tomorrow. I’m missing you.’

  She is gone. I wonder whether to call back and ask how Josh is, but what is the point? I have to get on with my life in London now.

  It isn’t until I am in bed, drifting off to sleep enveloped in the fruit aroma of Blueberry Bubble Breeze, that I remember something awful – I haven’t called Dad or Grandma, and I promised I would.

  Chapter 4

  The first day was the worst, and, in fact, I soon become grateful for the invisibility I feel at school. It gives me the chance to get to know my way around and to work out who is who without any attention focusing on me. Jessie becomes a real friend when I notice a photograph in her locker of a terrier, and speak my thoughts out loud.

  ‘What a nice face that dog has got.’

  ‘That’s my dog, Loopy.’

  ‘Ooh, he’s sweet. He looks like Cactus. Is he a Border terrier?’

  ‘He’s anything you want him to be. We got him from Battersea Dogs Home when he was a puppy. They found him in a dustbin with six brothers and sisters.’

  I lean into the locker to look at the picture more closely; there is a dark-haired woman holding the dog in her arms.

  ‘Is that your mum?’

  ‘Yup.’ Jessie slams the locker shut. ‘She’s a cow. She’s left me and Dad and my sister and she’s gone off with her yoga teacher. She’s on holiday right now.’

  Jessie’s sneer hides pain I can recognize, even though it is too new to have made an imprint on me yet. I slide my arm through Jessie’s as we walk towards the canteen for lunch.

  ‘My parents have broken up too. That’s why I’m here.’

  The relief of telling someone at school brings a lump to my throat.

  All my physical boundaries have changed, along with the structure of my family. I am surrounded by buildings and pavements instead of the sea. Spring bursts out all around and I scarcely notice it – I am never aware of the weather any more. I haven’t once taken a coat to school; if it rains, I just run for shelter. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because it isn’t real rain like in Norfolk. And just as it is never really wet, it is also never really dark. Even in the middle of the night the street lamps glow orange, and I become used to sleeping through the restless city at night, only in my dreams experiencing the black silence of the nights at home.

  Dad calls, and when I speak to him, I realize how odd it is not to see him every day. The funny thing is, I probably say more to him now on the phone in the evening than I did when we both lived in the same house.

  ‘Hi, Dad, I’ve got history and maths homework to do tonight and I haven’t even started.’

  ‘Is it the same as you were doing at Flixby?’

  ‘I can’t really tell because everything here is done so differently. We’re doing the French Revolution. I’ve never done that before.’

  ‘Oh, Marat and Robespierre and what was that woman called?’

  ‘You mean you know it?’

  I am ashamed by my own surprise, but then, I’ve never thought about Dad in any other context than on the marshes, knowing about birds and boats and ecosystems, but not about revolutions and politics and history. Mind you, he quickly reverts.

  ‘I think one of them was a bit of a pervert. Was it Robespierre? I can’t remember, ask your teacher. When you come home, I’ve got lots to show you.’

  ‘I can’t ask which of the leaders of the Revolution was a pervert,’ I protest. ‘Tell me about Cactus, and what’s happening in the village. And Grandma and Jack.’

  It is May now.

  Staitheley is still home. Our flat in Iverly Road is characterless and hot. I miss the familiar faces in the village, people I didn’t even realize I noticed, like the milkman, or Miss Mills, or Billy Lawson’s dad with his gnomic hat and his daily stroll along the quay getting slower every year with his encroaching arthritis. In London, I don’t know a soul on our street, and the youth in the newspaper shop never acknowledges me with so much as a flicker of recognition, no matter how often I go in for chewing gum and phonecards.

  The window in my room is stuck shut and Mum is working too hard to get it fixed, or so she says. I asked on Monday after a restless night, and then again on Tuesday and Wednesday.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, could you organize it yourself?’ Mum says finally.

  This is the last straw. I am a child, not a caretaker. I slam out of my bedroom yelling, ‘Mum! Why don’t you do something about this place? It’s not a home, it’s a cell.’

  Mum looks stricken. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she repeats. ‘I’ve been so busy at work I haven’t had time to think about it.’

  ‘Well, life isn’t just about work. You’ve got to live somewhere as well,’ I storm. ‘This flat is awful. I want to go home.’

  And Mum sits down on the sofa, and for once doesn’t cry.

  ‘This has not been an easy time for either of us, Lola, and I know I ha
ve neglected your needs. I am sorry for that.’ God, she is so serious. All I wanted was my window open. But the look on Mum’s face, which is kind of soft but strong, makes me slide down next to her. ‘I don’t know if I can make it up to you, but I can make an effort, with your help, to make this a happy place to be.’

  ‘OK,’ I agree. ‘Let’s make some rules about things each of us should do.’

  The next day Mum comes back from work late with big bags of rugs and lampshades, cushions and a silver-grey velvet throw for my bed.

  ‘Here, I bought you this because it reminded me of the sea.’ She smiles, wrapping me in the silvery softness. ‘And I got takeaway for supper – sushi tonight.’

  Actually we have takeaway most nights. I like it. In fact I love it, although breakfast the next day isn’t so great. We had curry last night, and this morning I have to hold my breath, because of the rank smell of the empty cartons. I must be a very contrary person, I think, because I find myself hankering after supper at home in Staitheley when all three of us sat down together at the table for fish pie or lasagne, proper meals that I took for granted until they stopped existing.

  ‘Why don’t you cook any more, Mum?’

  We are both leaning on the breakfast counter, eating cereal and watching the toaster.

  ‘I do,’ protests Mum, rinsing a mug for each of us, and throwing in a tea bag. ‘It’s just so nice not to do it every night, especially now I’m working, and you love takeaway, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but not every day.’

  I pour hot water over the tea bags and pass Mum her tea. Right now I’d be happy to have breakfast with Miss Mills and her dachshund if it meant I could sit at a table with a knife and fork and have tea from a pot. Honestly, anyone who could hear my thoughts would think I am a granny myself. The truth is that Mum is happy and engrossed, and I feel left out and lopsided. Mum brought me to London and now she is getting on with her own life and I am supposed to do the same. In some ways, being treated as a grownup is just what I want, but the contrast between now and family life in Norfolk is so extreme.

  Nell is envious when she calls.

  ‘It sounds brilliant to me to be living in a flat with no cooking or clearing up,’ she says. ‘We had roast chicken tonight and guess who had to peel all the potatoes, and shred the cabbage?’

  ‘But I like cooking, and Mum used to as well,’ I reply forlornly. ‘We haven’t had any roast dinner at all since we’ve been here.’

  ‘Oh, Lola, come on. You sound like a baby,’ laughs Nell. ‘Tell me about the boys in your drama group. Are they fit?’

  Chapter 5

  Sun pours through the high, smudged windows of the geography room, causing me to squint and doodle pairs of sunglasses all over my folder. Mr Lascalles is outlining a project on elements at the coast, and his enthusiasm is causing him to spit small blossoms of saliva on to the whiteboard. Unheeding of this, he continues with his marker, underlining vigorously to prove a point. The spit begins to slide slowly down the board; I shall hold my breath until Mr Lascalles wipes it off. Next to me, Pansy is pretending to write, while tapping messages into her telephone, which is hidden in a pencil case on her desktop. A buzzing begins in my head as I continue to hold my breath. Pansy’s phone, which is set on silent mode, vibrates with a call.

  ‘Cover for me,’ she whispers.

  ‘How?’

  I forget to hold my breath and gulp air in. Pansy needs my help; this is a first, a chance for me to get in with her; I don’t want to let her down. I must create a diversion. Pansy has draped her hair across her face like a curtain and is whispering into her phone, doubled up as if she has terrible pains in her stomach.

  Mr Lascalles is still busy with his marker on the board, swooping his hand rhythmically like a conductor. The spitballs have gone now. Without stopping to consider what I am doing, or how I will carry it off, I stand up and move forwards.

  ‘Sir, I wonder if you could explain this to me?’

  It is like walking in the dark, but without being allowed your hands in front of you. Mr Lascalles turns in surprise.

  ‘Dear me. I thought I was being remarkably clear,’ he says.

  I have no idea what I will say or do next. I bend my head over my open folder to give a studious but confused appearance. There is very little in the folder, apart from the pictures of the sunglasses. Mr Lascalles comes to stand next to me, turning his back to the class and Pansy’s phone call. So that’s good. My heart is pumping. Weakly, I turn the pages of my folder, hoping for a miracle.

  ‘I’m not sure I understood our homework,’ I mumble, reddening as I can feel the restless attention of the class behind me, and the heat burning in my cheeks.

  This is such a lie, as the one topic in the whole of geography that I understand is the British coastline – for reasons I don’t feel like telling Mr Lascalles. I gaze at him, and wish I could faint to order. I have often thought how wonderful and glamorous it would be if I was a hypersensitive person living on my nerves, always swooning and having hysterics. Right now it would be such a bonus. Mr Lascalles looks from me to my folder.

  ‘But you haven’t done it.’

  Ha! I can do this one.

  ‘That’s because I didn’t understand it,’ I respond with a flourish.

  Actually, I didn’t do it because it was so easy I kept putting it off until I ran out of time. I can see a way through now. A glance over my shoulder reassures me that Pansy has stopped talking and is leaning back in her chair filing her nails while ostentatiously chewing gum. She blows me a kiss and mouths thank you before turning back to her manicure. It has worked. Mr Lascalles is none the wiser. I didn’t blow Pansy’s cover; now she might even talk to me instead of looking straight through me, as she has done so far this term. The only problem now is Mr Lascalles, who thinks I am an imbecile. His face is grey and impatient.

  ‘Look here. I think it might be better if you saw me after the lesson. We can go through it properly then.’

  The bell goes. With a sinking heart I turn back to him as the others file out of the classroom.

  At break I am suddenly worth talking to, and Freda, Pansy’s best friend, slouches over to stand next to me as we queue for the hot-chocolate machine. It seems a good idea to loll against the radiator in the corridor with her.

  ‘Cool belt.’ Freda glances sideways at me. Pansy and a couple of other cohorts stop chewing their gum for a second, which feels like an hour. They too look at my belt. It really isn’t worth all this scrutiny.

  ‘I got it on the market,’ I mutter. This is definitely the right thing to say. There is a lot of nodding, and Pansy moves to the other side of me and leans her shoulders back against the wall, her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans.

  She is so close I can smell the tutti-frutti tang of her gum mixed with some sort of musky perfume. The effect is weird – intoxicating and gross at once. I almost want to retch.

  ‘I love the market,’ she growls in the breathy voice she uses when she’s really intense about something – usually Aiden. ‘I’d get all my clothes there if Topshop wasn’t so ridiculously cheap.’

  The others nod approval, and Freda, as if revealing a huge secret, sighs, and rolls up her top to show a sludge-green vest with a small rabbit embroidered on it.

  ‘Topshop,’ she announces solemnly. ‘Those big bins by the door?’ Her statement is a question. Everyone, including me, nods comprehension. ‘Four ninety-nine.’ She makes a face, eyes big, mouth slack to denote wonder, and nodding adds, ‘and you get the knickers too.’

  Everyone looks impressed. Having been about to exclaim at the shocking expense, I am forced to rearrange my expression to make it look as though I think four ninety-nine is a steal. I have a stab of anger towards my mother for never initiating me into expensive underwear. Then I think of her big old black knickers and feel guilty for being disloyal, even in my head.

  Anyway, I am right in there with the girls, and for the whole of break I am at the centre of a wide-ra
nging discussion about clothes and make-up. Basically, I just nod, while trying to notice every detail of movement and mannerism of Pansy’s lot so I can fit in better. It is really hard work, but I manage to stand right, throwing my shoulders back, and my hips forwards. This is really good – it has the double effect of making a bit of your tummy show and your boobs look bigger. And I can do it. Everything else is so complicated. I don’t know where they mean when they talk about ‘Roo’s’ and there is a really bad moment when they talk about which drink they like best.

  ‘I’m really into the cinnamon and orange,’ says Freda, nudging Pansy. ‘You were a bit off with that one, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was not.’ Pansy pouts. ‘Anyway, you haven’t tried the black cherry. It’s just coming in from the States. My dad had some from his office last week and we tried them on Saturday.’ She pauses. Pansy is very theatrical and she doesn’t like to miss a chance. When everyone is looking, she growls, ‘It was legendary,’ and we all burst into peals of laughter. I don’t know quite what we are laughing at, but I need to join in.

  ‘I really like the caramel Frappuccino,’ I offer. Pansy and Freda’s finely plucked eyebrows lift into their hair.

  ‘Oh my God,’ breathes Freda, ‘she is unreal,’ and she puts her hand over her mouth to giggle.

  I have no idea what I’ve got wrong, but it’s something. Mind you, I never expected to get anything right with this lot. It’s a miracle they’ve talked to me for the whole of one break. I shrug and turn, using the bell which has just gone as an excuse to move away. As I hoist my bag, an arm slides through mine. It is Pansy.

  ‘Oh, Lola,’ she whispers huskily. ‘You are so fresh, I love it. We were talking about alcopops, not coffee shops. I’ll bring you one tomorrow. But you’ll have to hide it in your bag because we’re under age. I promise you though, they are so lush you’ll die.’

  I know I’m a pushover, but I can’t help finding her really endearing.

  Nell is amazed.

  ‘You mean they’re actually talking to you?’