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I’d done an essay, a year or so back, about what I’d done on holiday, and got an A for it. I had to read it out to the whole class with Mrs Manners looking on and smiling indulgently. Dad had taken us to a place called Holy Island. It’s not really an island — its at the end of this causeway, but it’s cut off at high tide. It’s got a castle and an abbey but absolutely nothing else except marsh and sea and birds. I’d felt myself getting hotter and hotter as I read out all this stuff about the abbey and the monks and the curious sense of history in the place. I could hear people fidgeting and giggling beneath the sound of my voice.
That’s when I got friendly with Rosie. She’d come and found me in the cloakroom where I’d gone to get some peace. There’s a place between the coat racks where nobody can see you if you sit really still.
‘It’s OK for you,’ I said, blowing my nose on the tissue she’d given me. You went to Majorca. You’ve got a tan and everything.’
‘Yes, and Mum went out every night and I had to stay in this stuffy hotel bedroom and watch crappy films on the TV. The hotel was full of grossly overweight middle-aged couples getting sunburn round the pool — the women looked like red jelly babies and the men looked like Michelin men and they were all trying to get off with each other. It was disgusting.’
‘You didn’t put that in your essay.’
‘Course I didn’t, stupid.’
Rosie was brilliant like that. She didn’t tell lies exactly, she just knew how to present the truth in the right light for class consumption. If she went to Calais with her Mum on a day trip, she’d let drop that they’d popped over to France for lunch. If a boy asked her out she wouldn’t say he was fit exactly, she’d just find the right way to describe him. I’d got to know her shorthand and how to translate. Tall for his age (i.e. overgrown and weedy). Fascinating to talk to (i.e. gross to look at). Really fit and into sport (i.e. totally obsessed by football).
Anyway, unlikely as it seemed, Rosie and I had teamed up. I had an ally, a conspirator, a protector. However gross the girls in class might be to me, I always had Rosie to have a laugh with.
She was beckoning wildly to me now as a matter of fact.
‘How come you were so late in?’
‘Mum nearly ran someone over. This really gorgeous guy on rollerblades.’
‘She should’ve driven faster — you might’ve got acquainted.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. He’s moved into our street.’
‘You’re joking — a fit guy in Frensham Avenue?’
‘Stranger things have happened. Except we think he’s a squatter.’
‘In good old respectable Fren-charm.’ (She was putting on a posh accent). ‘All the local budgies will be falling off their perches in shock.’
‘Yeah well, we’re not sure yet.’
‘I better come’n check him out — like tonight.’
‘OK, you do that.’
I had double Biology at that point and Rosie went off to General Science so I didn’t see her again until after school.
Chapter Three (#ufbc92d8e-ce70-57ff-8971-011421628926)
There was a kind of unspoken feud going on between West Thames College and our school. Our school is an all-girls comprehensive, and it has quite a reputation for getting people into university. I guess the West Thames crowd look on us as swots. We return the compliment by considering them losers. Our status isn’t helped by the fact that we have to wear uniform until we’re in the Sixth Form. So the galling truth — that you’re only in Year eleven or below — is positively broadcast to the nation every time you walk down the street.
On my walk home I always came across groups of West Thames students hanging about in the street. Generally, I tried to ignore them. But today I took an interest. I was hoping to catch a furtive glimpse of our squatter. Most of the students were a lot older and a lot more chilled than us. There was a load of them crowding round a café having a laugh. The girls looked really sophisticated, more like art students. I crossed over to the other side of the road. It was really humiliating to be seen by them wearing school uniform. I’m pretty tall for my age so I look twice as ludicrous as the average girl in mine. My legs are so skinny my gross grey socks slip down as I walk. I could feel them right now subsiding into sagging rolls round my ankles. But there was no way I was going to stop and pull them up with the present audience.
A searching glance through the crowd revealed, to my relief, that there was no-one of his height or colour in the group.
I was continuing on my way down Frensham Avenue dressed in this totally humiliating way when I had that feeling again. The feeling of being watched. The closer I got to home the stronger it got. I glanced up at number twenty-five. I couldn’t see anyone at the windows but I felt positive he was looking down — watching me.
I got inside as fast as I could and slammed the front door.
‘Hi Tasha — want some tea?’
‘No thanks. I’m going upstairs to change.’
‘Have a cup first.’ Mum appeared round the kitchen door. What’s up? Had a bad day?’ It never ceases to astonish me how mothers have such an uncanny knack of reading every tiny intonation in your voice and then drawing a totally inaccurate conclusion.
‘I just want to get out of this,’ I said, indicating the uniform.
‘Have a shower — you’ll feel much better.’
‘Mmm.’
I dragged my clothes off and climbed into the shower. I washed my hair. I let the water run down through my hair and over my face and I did feel better as a matter of fact. I felt as if I was washing away my dreary day and that terrible vision of long lanky me in saggy grey socks. The person who emerged from the shower was new and clean and not half-bad actually — wrapped in my white towelling robe I felt like someone quite different.
I went and lay on my bed for a while in order to savour the feeling. I’d just spend ten minutes or so chilling out before I got down to my homework.
I lay there staring at the ceiling. That guy over the road was just so — fit. I’d never stand a chance. I mean, he was surrounded by dead cool girls, wasn’t he? He’d never be interested in me. Then I got to thinking about that word ‘cool’. The trouble is, if you’re like me, the minute you’ve got the hang of it — like the right clothes and music and language and stuff — you find the whole scene has moved on. And whatever it was you thought was ‘cool’, isn’t any more.
In fact, the truly sad thing is, the harder you try to be ‘cool’, the more it evades you. Like that ghastly time the girls at school were talking about their favourite film stars. I thought I’d be really ‘cool’ and mature so I said Ralph Fiennes. And everyone fell about. I didn’t know you were meant to pronounce his name ‘Rafe Fines’. It would have been simpler if I’d just settled for Leonardo diCaprio or Brad Pitt like everyone else.
One day I’d show them all. I’d be so damn ‘cool’ that everyone would be absolutely begging to come round to my place. I’d have one of those mansions in the hills in LA — all white with pillars and palm trees and a couple of marble swimming pools and a drive-in wardrobe. And I’d give this massive party with guys in uniform ushering limos in. I’d be standing there on the steps wearing this incredible designer outfit with Brad Pitt on one side and Leonardo diCaprio on the other and ‘Rafe Fines’ lurking enigmatically somewhere in the background being incredibly mysterious. All these girls from school would drive up and I’d look at them blankly and say: ‘Hang on a minute — do I know you …’
‘Hi … I’ve come to check out your horny new neighbour.’
Rosie woke me up!
‘Oh no! What’s the time?’
‘Seven-thirty. You look so you’ve been hard at work, I must say.’
‘How did you get up here? Mum in a coma or something?’
My parents generally went ballistic if anyone interrupted the sacred homework hour.
‘Nah, told her we were doing a project together — official visit. So I’ve come to see what he’s like. I hear he’s got a really fit body.’
She had moved over to the window and was staring out in the most obvious fashion.
‘Get away from there, he’ll see you. How come you know so much about his body anyway?’
‘Your kid sister’s put out an official statement. Only a matter of time apparently before you two are an item. She’s chosen her bridesmaid’s dress already.’
‘Gemma! Uggh … You can have no idea what a pain it is to have a younger sister. I’ve absolutely nil privacy. I fantasise sometimes about being an orphan with no family whatsoever. You don’t know how lucky you are.’
‘Yeah well, but brothers and sisters can take the pressure off. Being an ‘only’ means Mum’s investing all her hopes and ambitions in me.’
‘Huh — you can wind her round your little finger.’
‘That’s technique. Taken years to perfect. Sod-all going on over there — budge over.’
Rosie grabbed a pillow and settled herself down end-to-end on my bed. She leaned over and shoved a CD in my player, then sat well-prepared for a girly chat.
‘So … what is he like?’
‘Turn it down a bit — they’ll hear.’
‘God, I’d give anything for a ciggie — do you think they’ll notice?’
‘Yes, Dad’s got a built-in smoke detector up his nostrils.’
‘OK, shoot. Is Gemma making it all up? Said he looked like that guy who used to be on Blue Peter — you know …’
‘Tim Vincent? The one she nearly died of a crush over? She needed counselling when he left the programme …’
‘Well is he …?’
‘Nah. He’s a bit more mature-looking than that. Not so baby-faced.’
‘Mmmm … Tell me more.’
I suddenly had an insight that if Rosie got in on the act I wouldn’t stand a chance.
‘I didn’t get that good a look at him. Not that fit. Maybe he had dandruff …’
‘You must’ve got a pretty good look at him to notice that!’
‘Look, hold on — we don’t know a thing about him! He’s a squatter for God’s sake and he’s probably really rough. He goes to West Thames.’
‘A squatter who goes to college?’
‘Well, seems like he was going there this morning. I guess it is a bit odd.’
‘Maybe he’s a cleaner there or something.’
‘Mmm.’
Rosie had grabbed my eyelash curlers and was studying her reflection in my hand mirror. She was concentrating on putting the curl back in her lashes.
‘Hey … Something is going on over there.’ She stopped with one lash done — the hand mirror was trained over her shoulder.
I craned towards my window. The boards which had been nailed up over one of number twenty-five’s upstairs windows — the one at the very top, opposite mine — were being split apart. It looked as if someone was trying to break through.
Rosie had leapt from the bed and was hovering by the window.
‘Do we have a sighting?’ I asked.
‘Uh-uh, nothing yet,’ Rosie whispered, waving a hand at me to keep quiet. Then she added: ‘Down lights. Down music. Action!’
I switched the bedside light off and joined her.
The squatter was leaning out and wrenching at one of the boards which was proving hard to shift. He was wearing a torn old T-shirt. The light of the street-lamps had just come on and were catching him from below like footlights.
‘I thought Gems was exaggerating. But he is really scrummy.’
‘Isn’t he just?’
‘So why aren’t you in there, man?’
‘How?’
‘Head over there with a cup of sugar. Enrol him into the local Neighbourhood Watch. Sign him up for the Brownies. Use your imagination!’
‘Small problem.’
‘What?’
‘Mum and Dad have already decided he’s big, bad and not-nice-to-know.’
We were interrupted at that point by a loud ‘Cooooey’ from below. ‘Supper-time!’
We made our way downstairs.
‘Do you want to stay, Rosie? There’s plenty to go round.’
Rosie eyed Mum’s veggiebake, which was standing steaming on the table.
‘Thanks Mrs Campbell, but Mum’s expecting me back.’
Mums cooking was a bit of an embarrassment. I mean, there’s a limit to what you can do with vegetables. I expected Rosie and her mum were having one of those lush M&S meals. I’d seen inside their freezer, it was stacked with stuff — ready-made meals all with posey foreign names. Some people had all the luck.
But it was one of Mum’s better bakes. As a matter of fact, I even had a second helping. When Dad had eaten enough of his meal to put him in a receptive mood, I took the opportunity to ask a few questions.
‘What happens to squatters, Dad? If they’re caught? Do they get fined or go to prison or what?’
‘It depends,’ said Dad. ‘If the property’s derelict and they’re in there long enough, they can establish something called ‘squatter’s rights’. Then it can be really difficult to get them out.’
Gemma eyed me over her food. This was good news.
‘But there must be some way to get rid of them,’ said Mum.
‘If you can prove they’re causing damage or are a nuisance you can.’
‘This one’s not a nuisance. He’s quiet as a mouse. He doesn’t even have lights on,’ said Gemma. ‘I think he’s lovely.’
‘Stop messing about with your food and eat it properly,’ said Mum irrelevantly. Her irritation showed in her voice.
‘I don’t like the horrid black bits. They’re all wibbly.’
