Girls in Love

  I also had a panda called Bartholomew and a giraffe called Mabel and a big rag doll with orange hair called Marmalade.

  I had really grown out of them all by the time Eggs was born, apart from Nellie. When Eggs started crawling he ignored all his own new cuddly toys and always wanted mine.

  We once had a fight over Nellie. Eggs was screaming and screaming and wouldn’t give her back. I could see it was a bit ridiculous a girl like me wrestling with a toddler over a dirty toy elephant with a wonky trunk – but I wouldn’t give up. And then Eggs was suddenly sick all over Nellie. I insisted he’d done it on purpose. I said Nellie was spoilt for ever. My mother had made her for me when I was little. I bawled like a baby.

  Anna sluiced Nellie down and put her in the washing machine. She ended up a rather naff pale mauve and her stuffing went lumpy. She was still Nellie but I insisted she was spoilt and I threw her in the dustbin.

  I wish I hadn’t. I wished it almost the minute the dustmen carted her off. I know it’s totally mad but I still sometimes think of her now, lying amongst rotting Chinese takeaways and soggy teabags on some stinking rubbish tip, her trunk crumpled in despair.

  I threw all my other toys out when I redecorated my room, wanting to change everything, to stop being that sad silly dreamy fat girl. I wanted to remodel a new shiny hip version of Ellie to match my new room. I painted it bright blue with red furniture and yellow curtains, primary colours for a very secondary style. I tried to be bright and snappy and cheerful to match but I couldn’t keep it up. In fact right now I feel so dark and dreary and dismal I feel my matching habitat would be down a drain.

  I clutch the pillow close. When I was younger I used to have Nadine sleep over at my house at least once a week. We’d never bother with campbeds and sleeping bags, we’d just snuggle up together in my bed. Nadine’s not the cuddliest of girls, her elbows are sharp and she’s very wriggly, but it was great fun all the same. We’d make up ghost stories so gross and gory that I’d have nightmares when we eventually got to sleep, but that was OK too because I could hang on to Nadine and feel the knobs on her spine as I cuddled up against her, her long hair tickling my face.

  Only now Nadine has got Liam to cuddle. I still can’t believe it even though I’ve met him now. I wonder how she got on with him on their walk. And Magda with Greg. Nadine and Liam, Magda and Greg, Ellie and no-one at all . . .

  I drift off to sleep at long last. I dream. Ellie and Dan. Not the real Dan – the pretend boy, the one with blond hair and brown eyes. He waits for me outside school and we go off for a walk together down by the river. He holds my hand while we’re walking along the street but when we get to the secluded riverside he pulls me close, his arms go round me, he whispers lovely things, he lifts my hair and kisses my neck, my ears, my mouth, we’re kissing properly, it’s so beautiful, we’re lying on the mossy bank, entwined, I am his and he is mine and he whispers that he loves me, that he loved me from the moment we first set eyes on each other when he dodged round the parked car and we nearly collided, and I whisper that I love him too.

  ‘I love you,’ I whisper, and I wake up. I’ve never had such a vivid dream. I can still see the dappled sunlight on our skin, smell the honey musk of his chest, hear the beat of his heart, feel the warmth of his body . . .

  That is where I am, where I want to stay. I’m a stranger in this banal world of bathroom and breakfast. I won’t say a word as I sip coffee and spoon cornflakes. We sit at the table, Dad, Anna, Eggs and me. Four sides of the table, four members of a family, but they don’t seem to have any connection with me whatsoever.

  Dad is saying something to me but I’m not listening. It seems so strange that the only reason I’m sitting at this table is that the eight pints of blood in his body are similar to mine. He’s just a plump middle-aged guy with an embarrassing haircut and beard way too old to wear that silly T-shirt. That small boy with the yelping laugh choking on his cornflakes has even less to do with me. The calm woman in her white shirt nothing at all.

  She’s saying something about me missing the bus if I’m not careful, and she’s right. It’s there at the stop when I’m only halfway down the road. I could try running, but I don’t want my skirt to ride up even further, and besides, maybe I don’t really want to catch the boring old bus. I can always walk to school. Just in case . . .

  So I walk, past the bus stop, down the street, round the corner. The parked car’s not there, he’s not there either . . . YES HE IS! That’s him, right down at the end. Walking towards me!

  My dream is still so real it’s as if I know him, as if we went for that walk together and were in each other’s arms down by the river.

  He’s getting nearer, wearing a blue denim shirt today. It looks great with his colouring. He’s looking straight ahead. Is he looking at me? Looking for me? What if he dreamt about me too? What if he somehow dreamt the very same dream?

  I walk on and he walks on too. I can see his features now, his brown eyes, his straight nose, his sweet mouth, he’s smiling, he’s smiling at me. I shall smile too, a deeply significant smile to show that we share a secret . . .

  ‘Hi,’ he says, a few paces away.

  Hi! To me? Is he really talking to me? He can’t be. My head swivels to see if there’s someone standing behind me. No-one. It’s me. Oh, God, I feel such an idiot. I try to say Hi back but my throat is a sandy Sahara, so dry it comes out as a croak. Then he’s past, he’s walking on, I’ve lost it, I’ve lost my chance. He must think me a complete fool, only capable of frog-talk.

  I am late for school again. Mrs Henderson gives me a detention. Another one. Two in two days. Mrs Henderson suggests that I seem to be going for some sort of record.

  ‘Not a wise move, Eleanor,’ she adds threateningly.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m not fussed about old Hockeysticks Henderson. It’s me. I think I’m really going mad. Because now I’m in school and I’m breathing in the familiar smell of rubber trainers and canteen chip fat and Body Shop scent and Clearasil my dream is fading fast. I was starting to believe the dream was real, that the blond boy and I were really involved.

  I’ve got to stop this fast. I’ve got to tell Nadine and Magda that I made it all up.

  But I still don’t get a word in edgeways, not even at lunchtime on our steps. Nadine goes on about Liam, Liam, Liam. She’s inked a whole series of lovehearts all the way up her arm. She’ll give herself blood poisoning if she’s not careful. It’s as if she’s dyed her brain with his name too, because he’s all she can talk about. Not that they seem to talk at all. He’s barely said anything to her so far. They just skive off and snog, basically. Which is a little too basic, if you ask me.

  ‘Well, I didn’t ask you,’ Nadine snaps.

  Magda says that Greg does too much talking, he never stops. He showed her how to work out the Maths homework although she already knew perfectly well how to do it. And then he started giving her tips on Science into the bargain.

  ‘How about a few tips on Human Biology?’ Magda suggested on their way home.

  But he was too thick to take up her offer. He might be dead brainy but he’s brain-dead when it come to physical relationships, obviously.

  ‘It’s not necessarily obvious,’ Magda retorts. ‘I’ve just got to give him time. Redheads are known for their tempestuous natures.’

  ‘You’re ever so picky about Liam and Greg,’ says Nadine. ‘What’s bugging you, eh, Ellie?’

  ‘Nothing’s bugging me.’

  ‘You’re not feeling just the teeniest bit left out?’ says Nadine.

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Well, she’s probably fed up because her Dan is so far away and she can’t see him,’ says Magda.

  ‘If he even exists,’ says Nadine, staring at me very intently.

  I feel my heart pounding underneath my blouse. Nadine knows me so well. I hate the way her green eyes are gleaming.

  ‘Oh yes, he’s a figment of my imagination,’ I say, staring at them both. I pause. Then
I feel in my skirt pocket and produce my crumpled letter. ‘A figment of my imagination who somehow miraculously has managed to write to me,’ I say, flashing the letter in their faces.

  I cover up most of the words but I show them the important part: Love from Dan.

  (but only just, and all dying of embarrassment and boredom!)

  There’s no way I can ever tell the truth now. So I’m stuck. Treading in treacle, superglued into silence.

  I write back to Dan. Mostly because I need him to write back to me again so I can show off his letter to Nadine and Magda. Which is so mean.

  He writes back. And I write back. And he writes back. And so it goes on. They’re just silly letters. He goes on about school and stuff and things he’s reading and he tells a lot of corny old jokes. He puts ‘Love from Dan’ at the end each time, but they’re not love letters.

  Dad says we’re like Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning and sniggers. They are dead poets. I mutter something ultra-unpoetical along the lines that I wish Dad were dead too. Dad hears and gets narked and says I’ve completely lost my sense of humour. Anna surprisingly takes my side. She says Dad’s crass and insensitive and she’s sick of it, so goodness knows how Ellie feels. Both Dad and I blink at her a bit. She doesn’t usually rush to my defence. I think maybe she and Dad have had a row. I heard a lot of angry whispers last night after Anna got back from her evening class. I don’t know what’s going on with them. I don’t know what’s going on with me.

  I haven’t even seen the dream Dan again. I caught the bus for a bit because Mrs Henderson was giving me so many detentions it was getting like I’d be stuck at school for a full twenty-four hours. But I chance walking today. I even hang around a second on the street where we met. Longer than a second actually. More like fifteen minutes. And I still don’t get to see him. And I get another detention.

  It’s quite companionable actually because Nadine is doing a detention too. It’s just the two of us. Mrs Henderson makes us write out lines, would you believe? I had to write out: I MUST PULL MYSELF TOGETHER AND TRY TO BE ON TIME.

  I write it one hundred times. I don’t feel pulled together. I feel as if I’m flying apart. And I tried to be on time to see Dream Dan. I couldn’t try any harder if I wrote it out one million times.

  Nadine’s line is shorter than mine so even though she writes in an elaborate twirly way she still gets finished first. One hundred times: I MUST NOT BE INSOLANT.

  She came to school with this amazing love-bite on her neck, a big blotch that looked impressively purple on her white skin.

  ‘For God’s sake, your Liam must have a mouth like a vacuum cleaner,’ said Magda.

  ‘Well, Nadine’s always had a thing about vampires,’ I said, trying to sound funny and flippant.

  I couldn’t stop staring at Nadine’s love-bite. When we were little we used to experiment, sucking on each other’s arms to see what it felt like. When we got older we agreed love-bites were gross. And yet now Nadine had one right at the front of her neck so that it wasn’t even hidden by her hair. I tried not to think of Liam doing it to her but I couldn’t help it. It made me feel so weird. I couldn’t work out which I felt most, disgusted or envious.

  Mrs Henderson’s feelings were more straightforward. ‘I think you need to go to the medical cupboard for a sticky plaster, Nadine,’ she said coldly. ‘I don’t want to look at that stupid mark on your neck. Surely you realize how silly it is to let someone do that to you. It’s not exactly treating you with respect, is it? Let alone risking serious infection.’

  Nadine scowled. ‘Bet you’re just jealous,’ she muttered.

  Not quietly enough. She got her detention too.

  Mrs Henderson leaves us to finish our lines while she goes off to supervise a hockey practice.

  ‘Well, I’ve done my stupid lines so I don’t see why I can’t go now,’ says Nadine, fidgeting.

  ‘She said we had to wait till she came back.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous. She’s got no right to comment on what I do out of school hours,’ says Nadine, fingering the plaster covering her bite.

  ‘What on earth did your mum and dad say when they saw it?

  ‘Don’t be mad! I wound this scarf right round my neck, right? I tell you, if they found out about Liam they’d go seriously bananas.’

  ‘Nadine?’

  ‘What?’ She doesn’t bother to look up. She gets a magazine out of her schoolbag and starts flipping through the pages.

  Nadine used to despise teen mags. She just read weird fanzines about her favourite bands and horror stories. But now she’s reading this problem page as if her life depends on it.

  ‘What’s it feel like? You know – the love-bite?’

  Nadine shrugs.

  ‘Did you want him to do it?’

  ‘Well, he wants to do a lot more.’

  ‘And . . . do you let him?’

  Nadine wriggles. ‘Well, some things.’ She hesitates. ‘Look, keep this a secret, right? Don’t even tell Magda.’ There’s no-one else in the room but she still leans forward and then whispers.

  ‘Nadine!’ I say, stunned.

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with that, eh?’ says Nadine. ‘Honestly, Ellie, you’re such a baby.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Everyone does that with their boyfriends.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Well, I take it you don’t do it with Dan.’ Nadine looks at me sharply.

  I try to imagine such intimacy with both my Dans. I think of doing it with the dream Dan and the blood starts beating in my own neck. Then I think of doing it with the real Dan and I practically crack up laughing.

  ‘What are you grinning about?’ says Nadine. ‘So you did fool around with your Dan.’

  We’d certainly make fools of ourselves! ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I mutter. ‘We don’t see each other, do we?’

  Dan (real, of course) has been nagging me to go and stay with him or invite him down to London. I keep putting him off with elaborate excuses, but it’s getting a bit awkward. The whole situation is so difficult I let out this long sigh.

  ‘Do you really miss him, Ellie?’ says Nadine softly. She puts her arm round me, crumpling her magazine.

  I snuggle into her, though I feel guilty. ‘It’s just . . . Oh, I wish I could explain properly, Nad,’ I whisper.

  ‘I know,’ says Nadine – though she doesn’t. ‘Look, things are a bit difficult with Liam and me too. We had this sort of row yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Because I won’t, you know, go the whole way. I just don’t feel ready to. And the magazines say you shouldn’t do it till you are ready – look.’ She reaches for the magazine and shows me this letter.

  ‘Bla bla bla, “so don’t let your boyfriend do . . .” Ooh! “And if he complains that his tackle . . .” What’s his tackle? Like in fishing rod?’

  We both get a fit of the giggles.

  ‘No, you nutcase. It’s his . . . you know.’

  Oh. Yes. Even I can work it out now. I carry on reading the letter. ‘So does your Liam get all narked with you like the guy in the letter?’

  ‘He did yesterday. He said he’d been ever so patient. And didn’t I love him enough. And I said I loved him desperately but I still didn’t feel ready, right? And he said if I wasn’t ready now I never would be, and what was the matter with me, didn’t I want our relationship to develop.’ Nadine’s not giggling now, she’s nearly in tears.

  ‘Oh, Nad. He’s acting like a right . . . tackle!’ I hope she’ll laugh, but a tear drips down her cheek.

  ‘No, I can understand, Ellie. I mean, it’s so frustrating for him—’

  ‘That’s rubbish! Look, you don’t have to do anything with him. You’re only thirteen, for goodness’ sake. It’s against the law.’

  ‘Yes, but nobody takes any notice of that. And all his other girlfriends have always done it, no bother.’

  ‘There you are! You don’t want to be one of a whole long line o
f stupid girls. Honestly, Nadine, where’s your brain?’

  ‘I have often been tempted to ask that question myself,’ says Mrs Henderson, walking through the door.

  Nadine shoves her mag under her desk and bends her head so that her hair hides her tear-stained face.

  Mrs Henderson approaches. She’s actually looking concerned. ‘What’s up, mmm?’ she says, in a different sort of voice altogether. ‘I know you girls think I come from another planet – but maybe I can still help. What’s the problem?’

  Nadine fidgets behind her hair. I look down at my lap.

  ‘Nadine?’ says Mrs Henderson. ‘Are you upset about a boyfriend, is that it?’

  I suppose it’s a reasonably obvious guess, with Nadine’s neck still purple.

  Nadine keeps quiet.

  ‘It does help to talk things over, you know,’ says Mrs Henderson. ‘And no problem is unique. I’m sure I’ve had similar problems myself.’

  I immediately get this amazing image in my head of Mrs Henderson doing this particular thing to Mr Henderson. I have to bite the sides of my cheeks to stop myself shrieking with laughter. Nadine’s shoulders shake. She’s obviously got the same mental image. Thank God Mrs Henderson doesn’t twig the trouble.

  ‘Don’t cry, Nadine,’ she says gently.

  Nadine gives a little gasp.

  Mrs Henderson interprets it as a sob. ‘Oh, come on, now. Well, I can’t force you to confide in me. But don’t forget, I’m always here. Now. How far have you got with your lines?’

  Nadine hands her page over, her head still bent.

  ‘“I must not be insolant.” One hundred times. Oh dear, I really ought to give you another hundred: “I must learn to spell:” In-so-lent, Nadine. But never mind. Off you go now. And you too, Eleanor.’

  I hand in my own page, hoping she won’t count the lines as I’m still only at seventy-something. She scans them quickly, raises an eyebrow, but waves me away.

  Nadine and I hold our breath till we’re safely down the corridor, and then we let out great whoops of laughter. At least it cheers Nadine up for a bit. But she still can’t seem to see any kind of sense at all.