Skylarks Page 8

  I still feel sick at school the next day and it’s not helped by Miss Hills, my new English tutor, giving us a load of extra work, to catch up on what we missed when our teachers kept changing about.

  There are only two bright spots in the week: I get a call from this new cleaning company saying they might have some evening work for me for a few weeks, and Annabel, who sends a couple of texts. Nothing things really, just asking how my week’s going, a couple of library related questions that could’ve waited until we’re next in together, but it feels nice seeing her name pop up on my phone.

  I get to the library extra early on Saturday so I can sort out this homework Miss Hills wants – a comparative piece on language in tabloid and broadsheet newspapers. If I look online I won’t have to pay to buy them. I bring up the Guardian and start scanning the headlines, but it’s hard to concentrate because my mind keeps going back to Dad’s work and whether we can pay the rent. Annabel’s voice close beside me makes me jump.

  ‘I didn’t know you read the Guardian. Daddy hates it, says it’s a leftie rag.’ She gives this affectionate smile as she says it.

  She’s got on cropped trousers that make her legs look a million miles long today. And I might be getting used to the way she talks, but I don’t think I’ll ever think it’s not weird that she still calls her parents Mummy and Daddy.

  ‘Homework,’ I say, and click the screen closed.

  Annabel pulls a face. ‘I have so much prep to do it’s a wonder I’m getting any sleep at all.’

  I realise I’ve never asked her what subjects she’s doing. And that I want to know things about her. ‘So what are your A Levels? Not French obviously,’ I say.

  ‘Maths, Further Maths, Chemistry and Physics.’

  I gape at her. ‘Bloody hell. I didn’t know you were into Science and Maths stuff.’

  ‘I’m not especially,’ she says in an airy voice, but before I can ask why she’s taking them, Mrs H comes in. There never seems to be the right opportunity for the rest of the day, so I just have to wonder.

  I’m supposed to be going to Kelly’s gig with the gang later on this evening. Mrs H starts complaining of a sore head and goes home ten minutes early, leaving me and Annabel to lock up. As we close the doors, I have a mad second where I wonder whether or not to invite Annabel along, but I can’t picture her shooting pool and joking about with the gang, especially not Kelly, who’d be digging like mad for info or making a load of sketchy double entendres. It would be way too weird all round.

  Annabel watches me pocket the keys and unchain my bike, not that anyone’s likely to nick it, but still. I catch her looking at the rust and turn away to sling my leg over the saddle.

  ‘Too big for me really, but I like it anyway, especially cos I get to be up high …’ I trail off, sure definite pity is showing on her face now. ‘Right then. I’m off.’ I get one foot on the pedal.

  ‘Joni?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I thought … would you like to do something tonight? With me?’

  I blink. She flushes and then says, ‘I thought we could go out to eat? Only if you’d like to,’ she adds quickly.

  I think again about asking her to come and see Kelly, but decide against it. ‘I’ve got a thing on tonight.’

  Her face falls slightly, then she shrugs. ‘Oh well, perhaps next week?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ I’m about to push off when I stop and out of curiosity say, ‘Like where were you thinking of going?’

  She looks unusually flustered for a moment. I can practically see her spooling through places in her mind and she gets the same look, like she’s thinking what I did about taking her to the pub. That I’m a bit of puzzle that will never fit.

  ‘I’ll see you next week, all right?’ I start to push off.

  ‘Wait!’

  I wobble and tip the bike to one side so I can get my foot to the floor.

  ‘What about … would you like to have supper with me? At home?’

  ‘Come to your house?’

  She nods. ‘My parents are away next week and Mary will stay out of our way.’

  ‘For … “supper”?’ I say.

  To me, supper means a bit of cereal or something before bed, but I reckon she means come for tea. This is definitely a mad idea. I can tell she’s biting the inside of her cheek by the way one of her dimples folds into a crease. As for me, without me wanting it to, a smile has started somewhere near the balls of my feet and pushes its way up, until it’s shining out through my eyes.

  ‘All right then.’

  Annabel brings her hands together and she looks so pleased I can’t help laughing. ‘Fantastic! I’ll cook. Something vegetarian. Is there anything you don’t eat?’

  ‘Other than meat, I’ll eat pretty much anything,’ I say. ‘Except mouldy cheese.’

  Annabel laughs. ‘Next week then,’ she says, and there’s something in her smile that makes my stomach clench. I pedal away, feeling her eyes on me as I go.

  Later, I’m in the pub waiting for Kelly’s set. The gang are all here, plus Ananya and few of the other Drama lot from school. Kelly sits next to me, gabbling extra loud the way she does when she’s nervous.

  ‘God, I wish I had more than Coke in this glass. Or a different sort of coke, haha. Not really, obvs. Shouldn’t be drinking this anyway, I’ll need a wee as soon as I get on stage.’ She gulps back the last of her drink and turns wide eyes on me. ‘I’m sweating bullets here. God, why do I do this to myself?’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’ I pat her hand, which is definitely on the clammy side, but as soon as she goes on she’s more than fine. She sings a short set of covers, accompanying herself on a keyboard. I’ve asked her before whether she ever wants to write her own stuff, but she laughed and said, ‘I just like the singing. Glad Mum made me take all those piano lessons though.’ I sit back, listening to the music and her amazing voice, remembering how Kelly made me do all these singing and dancing routines in her front room when we were little. She’d insist on us dressing up with glitter eyeshadow layered right up to the eyebrows and way too much lipstick and T-shirts tied in knots at the front to show off our bellies. She was desperate to be on The X Factor, back when it was a thing. I can’t believe it’s actually been going since we were in infants.

  Kelly’s just finished her latest song, a cover of ‘Chandelier’ that sounds really good with the keyboard. I think she’s done, but then she leans into the microphone and says, ‘For my last song, I have a helper today.’

  To my surprise, Pete gets up from our table and walks to the space at the front. He sits on a stool next to Kelly, looking grey in the face, but determined. Then they start to sing ‘True Colors’.

  ‘Oh my God!’ There’s a massive grin on my face. I love this song. They work it perfectly, the harmonies and the keyboard going together just right. When they finish, I’ve got tears starting in my eyes and the whole pub erupts into applause and cheers.

  I rush up to them. Pete’s looking a little shell-shocked, while Kelly’s beaming. ‘I can’t believe you never said!’ I yell over the noise of the landlord announcing the next act, then lob my arms around Kelly and squeeze her tight.

  ‘I know. I was dying to tell you, but Pete wanted to keep it a secret. We’ve been practising first thing …’ Kelly stops because Ananya has come up.

  ‘You were a-ma-zing,’ she shrieks, drawing the word out. Then she throws her arms around Pete’s neck and kisses him. I look at Kelly, smiling in an ‘aw, look at them’ kind of way, but to my surprise she turns quickly back to her keyboard and starts taking the leads out, ready to pack away. Huh.

  I help her with the keyboard out to Ed’s car. Kelly’s oddly quiet; usually she’s buzzing after a gig. I open my mouth to ask what’s up, but she gives me a look that says she doesn’t want to talk about it. Then she says, ‘How’s you then?’

  This would be the perfect time to tell her about going to Annabel’s house, or that we went up the Downs together the other week, but for some r
eason I just say, ‘Nothing to report.’ I can’t help giving her a significant look and adding, ‘You?’ But she simply shrugs and says, ‘Ditto.’

  The night carries on and we have a laugh like always, but underneath it is a new current passing between me and Kells, both of us thinking about other people, but neither of us saying a word. It feels strange.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The following week I stop outside the gates to Annabel’s place to catch my breath. She said I’d have to ring an intercom and I spot it to one side, but don’t press the button just yet. First I try peering over the wall, but it’s too high. Gates are solid too, no chance of anyone peeping in. All I can see are the tops of trees. I push my hand through my hair, rub my palms on my jeans. Get my phone out to check the time.

  I’m early. I faff about, texting Kelly back to say I’m not coming out tonight. I don’t say where I’m going though. I let out a massive yawn. A big part of me wanted to cancel tonight, because I’m knackered what with starting the new cleaning job this week. Mum’s not happy, but it’s six pounds an hour cash in hand so that’s something. Hopefully it’ll be enough for Jack’s trip.

  I put the camera on to selfie mode to check my hair, which is mad as always. I scrunch my fingers through it again, then wonder what on earth I’m doing.

  I pick up my bike, sling one leg over, then get off again.

  Stuff it.

  I march back to the intercom and press down hard, before I can change my mind.

  A moment later, Annabel’s voice floats out. ‘Joni?’

  ‘Hiya.’

  ‘Come in.’

  The gates swing open and I wheel my bike through, then stop as they close automatically behind me. I’m on a tree-lined driveway that curves round so I can’t see what’s at the end of it, except the bend is so far away it’s almost funny. I mean, I know she’s minted, but this place is huge. I get back on my bike and pedal slowly. When I round the corner, I can’t help stopping again.

  The house is bloody gigantic. Like a stately home. Well, maybe not that big. A mini version, all red Georgian brick covered in wisteria. The drive ends in a perfectly raked gravel turning circle at the front, and an expanse of grass on either side with those stripes you get from a ride-on mower. Jack would love a go on one of those. Actually, stuff that, I’d love a go on one of those. I can see the roofs of a couple of other buildings and guess at least one must be a garage. It’s about the same size as my house.

  Holy crap.

  Part of me considers turning the bike round and disappearing back the way I came in a spray of gravel, but a bigger part is totally curious. My mind gets made up for me a second later when the front door opens and Annabel runs out.

  ‘There you are!’ She comes right up and leans towards me. I realise at the last second she’s going in for an air-kiss like she did with Charlotte and her mum in Waitrose the other week. Must be something about being on her home turf. I decide I’d better roll with it except I’ve now gone the same way she has and what I thought was going to be one of those mwahs landing into nothingness in the vicinity of my face actually ends up being right by the side of my mouth. Worse, I actually make one of those kissy noises, which sounds ridiculously loud in my ears.

  Oh God.

  I scuttle back a pace and the bike crashes down, taking a chunk of my shin with it.

  ‘Crap. Ow.’ I lean down to rub it and, I hope, cover up the fact that one part of me is shrivelling up and the other part’s trying to finish off the first cringey bit, because who cares anyway? Since when did I give a stuff about air-kisses and that sort of thing?

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I risk a glance up at Annabel. If she thinks it’s funny, she’s doing a pretty impressive poker face.

  ‘Yeah.’ Her face is still all concerned so I cough and say, ‘Where shall I put my bike?’

  She flicks her wrist in a vague gesture. ‘It will be fine anywhere.’

  I guess I probably don’t need to bother with the lock, unless someone’s planning to ninja down from a helicopter, in which case I’m pretty sure my bike’s about the least valuable thing in a two-mile radius. I prop it against the wisteria and follow Annabel through a huge entrance hall with a wide staircase and doors leading off it on all sides, then into a massive kitchen that smells like something’s burning. A pot on the Aga hisses.

  ‘Oh no!’ Annabel rushes over to it and lifts the lid, letting out a stronger waft of burning. I come up next to her and peer in. Whatever the sauce was originally, it’s now welded on to the bottom of the pan. She turns off the heat, grabs a piece of paper from an expanse of gleaming worktop and frowns at it. ‘Ah. It says lightly simmer.’

  She looks again at the pan, then at me with a completely tragic expression. I take it all in, the messy hair twisted on top of her head, her flushed cheeks, the million shining gadgets on top of the island counter thing with its huge stone sink, and there’s only one thing to do. I start to laugh. There’s a pause, and then Annabel joins in.

  ‘It was supposed to be a creamy mushroom sauce,’ she says.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ I say. I give the sauce a stir. ‘That’ll be all right.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yup,’ I lie. It’s a bit of a whopper. ‘What’s it going on?’

  She gestures to another pot, which is also bubbling. Inside is that fresh pasta stuff, which has been in there so long it’s disintegrating into the water. ‘OK. Er, this is fine. Where’s your plates?’

  She hands two to me and I ladle out a dollop of soggy, bloated pasta on each, then the sauce, trying to leave the burnt bits at the bottom of the pan.

  ‘I forgot the salad.’ Annabel goes to a giant fridge freezer and sticks her head in, emerging a moment later with a bag. She scans it, then says, ‘This one’s no good.’ She drops the packet on the counter, and turns to rummage in the fridge again.

  I pick up the salad, open it and sniff. It looks all right to me. Annabel swings round with another identical bag in her hand.

  ‘The first one’s fine,’ I say.

  ‘It’s past its best before date,’ she says.

  ‘What? That was only yesterday. It’s “best before”, not “it’ll kill you if you eat it a day after”. It smells fine and it’s not mushy or anything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. You weren’t going to chuck it, were you?’

  Annabel gazes at the bag in her hand. ‘Well … yes, I suppose.’

  I take it from her, shaking my head, and put it back in the fridge. ‘Trust me, the first one’s fine.’

  When everything’s ready we take the plates to a table over on one side of the kitchen and Annabel opens some wine. ‘Do you mind eating here? The dining room is so formal. I never use it unless Mummy and Daddy are home.’

  I take a mouthful of pasta, which tastes mainly of water and burnt sauce. Annabel pulls a face when she tries hers.

  ‘It’s disgusting, isn’t it?’

  I force another soggy mouthful down with a sip of wine. ‘The salad’s nice.’ I say.

  We start laughing at the same time. This buzzing feeling starts up inside, like on a fun night out with the gang, but with other currents going on underneath it too.

  ‘Let’s find something else,’ Annabel says. We dump our plates on the side and I stand next to her to peer into the fridge. It’s rammed with packets of ready meals, all with M&S labels on.

  ‘Your parents got shares or something?’ I say in a jokey voice. It’s like our laughing together over her horrendous sauce has released something in me, let me be myself.

  Annabel seems to feel it too, because she smiles. ‘Oh probably, Daddy has shares in everything, I think.’ She pushes a few things to one side. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much food in one place outside a shop; we’d probably eat for a month on all this. ‘Do you like Brie?’ she says.

  ‘Uh …’

  I actually have no idea. I’ve never had it.

  ‘No mould this
time, I promise,’ Annabel says, smiling. ‘We can always have one of these.’ She gestures at the ready meals.

  ‘No go on, I’ll give the cheese a whirl,’ I say.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re dunking our bread into the Brie, which turns out to be much less strong than the mouldy stuff. It feels odd against my teeth, kind of claggy, but nice with the bread. At first I only take a tentative bite, but when I realise it’s OK, I start scooping out big stringy chunks, then Annabel does too, her piece of bread chasing mine. I look again around the kitchen, how shiny and warm everything is, the weirdly luxurious feeling of eating posh food, drinking wine and not fretting about cost, just enjoying myself.

  When we’ve scoffed the lot, Annabel says, ‘Would you like pudding? There’s a chocolate cake.’ She goes into a walk-in cupboard – a larder, I guess – and comes back with a tin.

  ‘Did you make it?’ I say, deadpan.

  ‘No, Mary did. Actually, confession time, she made the sauce too – I only needed to heat it through, so I think she thought it would be safe – are you laughing at me?’

  ‘Little bit.’ I nudge her shoulder, only lightly but enough to intensify that humming feeling going back and forth between us.

  Annabel smiles and cuts the cake. The wine is pretty strong stuff; I make a mental note to have just the one glass, especially seeing as I’m supposed to be cycling home. I don’t usually drink at all; I don’t like the way it makes me feel. Annabel’s already polished off hers, mind – not that it seems to be having any effect on her.

  I take a mouthful of cake, which oozes on to my tongue in this rich explosion. ‘Oh my God. I could eat this all day.’

  Annabel smiles. We seem to be doing that a lot.