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I folded my arms. I hadn’t planned to stay in Boring Hampton as long as this anyway. It was just a little breathing space while I gathered my thoughts.
When I left here, I decided I would never come back and live in this town, which no one noticed and where no one noticed me. My distinctly average school grades meant I couldn’t go to university, so I took a job as an assistant in events management at a hotel chain in Cardiff, but realised that I was about as good at managing events as I was at managing myself.
I imagined I would be organising glitzy events like weddings and proms where magical things would happen like at the end of a John Hughes movie. I’d be creating little magical moments for others, moments so spectacular, the guests would be astounded by it all. Instead I found myself organising corporate events and product launches. It was all PowerPoint presentations in beige boardrooms and ordering croissants for breakfast meetings whilst making sure the urns of tea were hot.
When I did get an opportunity to plan a wedding or special event, I was so stressed by wanting to create the perfect occasion that I crumbled. The pressure got to me and I couldn’t stand being the centre of attention with everyone looking to me to make decisions. When the hotel chain was bought out, they brought in new staff, leaving me without a job at all.
“You could work in another video shop,” said Liv. It wasn’t exactly my career plan of choice.
“I don’t think there are any, Liv.”
I could tell by the look Anthony Michael Hall was giving me that I was right. He was The Brain after all.
Liv went back to her Netflix and the battered sausage was the only truly memorable moment of the day.
We only had one customer and he wasn’t really a customer at all; it was sneery Derek from the bookshop who made a visit now and again to show us how clever he was.
“Ladies,” he said, doffing an imaginary cap. He really shouldn’t have done that because it drew attention to his strange woman’s haircut. He looked at the display of covers on show, pinched the brow of his nose, rubbed his forehead and muttered the words “dumbing down” a lot.
Occasionally he would ask for some film no one had ever heard of, but usually he just ranted about Hollywood and how it was making us all stupid. He behaved like an old man even though he was only in his thirties. He could have been good-looking if he wasn’t always pulling a face because popular culture offended him so much. Everything seemed to make him so cross. Liv said it was because he was so brainy and read so many books that there was no room left in his head for fun. Most of the time, he was fine, I suppose, but a lot of the time I wanted to throw a brick at his head. Like just then when he picked up the cover of Dirty Dancing and said, “Vacuous, my dear. It is all so…vacuous.”
“It’s better than Free Willy,” I muttered under my breath, which raised a giggle from Olivia.
“No wonder you have no customers with this dross,” he said as he left. He flicked his university scarf over his shoulder. I could tell Molly Ringwald did not like Derek at all. I didn’t go into his dusty old shop telling him all his books were boring.
Liv folded her arms and scowled at him as he left. “What was he on about this time?”
“Dumbing down,” I said.
“Again? You’d think he’d give it a rest.” Liv launched into an impression of him and started doing a funny voice, repeating all the things he normally said.
“Liv,” I said. “Do you reckon Derek put the battered sausage in the returns box?”
“Why would he do that?” she said.
“Because he’s a weirdo?”
“Yeah, maybe. I wonder if we’ll get another one tomorrow?”
“That would be exciting,” I said and I meant it.
Just before home time, the pirate DVD lady stuck her head round the door, shouting, “Blu-ray, new release.”
“We’re fine, thanks,” I said, waving her away.
“You sure? All the latest films?” She grinned and shook her carrier bag at us.
“Quite sure,” I said and she left.
I picked up three John Hughes films and I called my friend Verity to say I was too knackered to go for a drink in the social club with her. I rang up my film rentals in the till and paid for them, so it looked at least like we’d had one paying customer that day, and then I had a revelation. The battered sausage had been the only interesting thing that had happened in the shop in months. It was certainly the most exciting thing that had happened in my life that day – possibly all week – and if this was the most exciting thing that had happened in my life all week, I was going to have to do something about it. I’d had a battered sausage revelation.
Chapter Two (#ulink_55a743fd-dcc1-5803-8655-416d78d72268)
The one thing this job had going for it was that it didn’t come with a commute. I took the short walk past our row of shops and round the back to the entrance to the flats. Verity insisted on coming over anyway even though I didn’t want to go out. She said she didn’t want to waste her babysitter. She arrived shouting about how she wasn’t going to let David Cameron oppress her because she was a single mum so she’d been shopping at Marks and Spencer’s because, she said, that would be the last thing he wanted. She’d bought us an M&S Dine in for Two. She also said she wanted to eat grown-up food for a change instead of “sodding fish fingers and chicken nuggets.”
“Talking of meat in batter,” I said.
“Yes?” said Verity.
“I had a battered sausage revelation today.”
“A revelation, eh? Okay. Tell me more.”
I told Verity about the special delivery and how exciting I thought it was and she agreed that I was demented and sad and needed to get a life.
Verity was the very best thing about coming home again. She pressed play on the remote control and for the next hour and a half or so we watched Pretty in Pink completely absorbed, mouthing all the words like we used to when we were at school.
“You know what the problem with this film is, don’t you, Cara?” asked Verity, as we watched the final scenes. She was pointing at different parts of the television with her cutlery, waving her knife around while she delivered her lecture.
“Yes.” I did know what she thought the problem with this film was, because every time we watched it, she said exactly the same thing. I shovelled a mouthful of mushroom tagliatelle in because I knew I wouldn’t be required to talk for a while.
“Not only does she ruin one, she ruins two, two perfectly good vintage dresses and turns them into that monstrosity…” She paused briefly to jab at the screen with her fork before continuing. “And instead of leaving with Duckie, she gets off with someone called Blane, who, quite frankly, has behaved like a complete arse. But apart from that, do you know what else gets me about these films?”
I nodded and polished off the rest of dinner. She was part way through her list when I tuned back in. I’d missed the bit about how come if they were the kids from the wrong side of the tracks they managed to own and run cars, and her thoughts on why on earth they simply did not ignore peer pressure and go out with whoever they liked.
I started on the raspberry and passion fruit choux fresh cream dessert.
“I like Blane,” I said. “He’s so kind and sweet. Plus he’s rich, so that helps. If you went out with Blane, you’d be able to eat Marks and Spencer’s meals for your tea every night! Imagine that!”
Verity tutted, but I still lived in hope that one day my Blane would turn up or even better my Judd Nelson. But I accepted neither of them or anyone like them were likely to turn up in Broad Hampton.
“And why, just why were all the high school senior boys played by thirty-five-year-old men? I mean that’s just weird, isn’t it? See him? He was twenty-seven years old when he was in this, you know.”
“I don’t care. Shut up,” I said. I grabbed the wine in one hand and the choux ring in the other and snuggled back into the corner of the sofa. “I love them. All of them. And you do too, so shut it. It’s the ending, my favourite part. It’s perfect.” I gave her the gentlest kick in the shins.
I’ve always loved endings, especially the happy endings that come at the end of a film. In no particular order, my favourite ones are Blane and Andie kissing at the prom in Pretty in Pink, Judd Nelson air punching after he’s kissed Claire at the end of The Breakfast Club and Keith giving Watts the earrings at the end of Some Kind of Wonderful.
My favourite thing about endings, at least the ones in films, is you know that by the time the end credits roll, all of The Worst Stuff that happens to the guys in the film is out of the way and The Good Stuff is beginning to happen.
“The only thing they get right in these things is just what arseholes the rich kids are.” She harrumphed. “And I know that to be a scientific fact.” Verity did indeed have first-hand experience that ending up with someone well off was never a good idea, and neither of us had the best time at school at the hands of the more well off kids.
Me, Verity and two other kids – Stubbs and Divvy – all lived on a road that linked our outer city estate to one of the “nice” parts of town. The way the school places worked meant we were the only four kids from our estate to go to St Veronica’s. People said we were lucky, but we were anything but. The other kids from our estate mocked our school uniforms and the kids at St Veronica’s pretty much ignored us. When things were going well, they ignored us, but when things weren’t, we were teased about charity shop shoes and school bags and threadbare uniforms patched up to last longer than they were designed to. So I did everything I could to stay under the radar.
“Blane is boring,” said Verity.
“He’s not. He’s perfect,” I said.
“Okay. Pick the next film then.” She fanned out the DVD cases for me to make our next selection.
“Breakfast Club,” I answered quickly.
“Really?” she asked. “Why?”
“Because I like the idea of spending Saturday morning in detention with Judd Nelson instead of sitting in a shop with no customers being surprised by processed pork products. And I like how they all know what they are.”
“What?” Verity asked taking the disc out.
“Yeah, you know, like you have the arty one or the brainy one. Must be nice being brainy or arty or athletic instead of just being average.”
“Average?” said Verity.
“Yeah. My thing is being average, always has been, always will be. That and talking to 80’s movie stars because I haven’t got any customers. Pretty sure I’m more like a basket case than any of the others in this film though,” I said.
“It’s probably more interesting talking to cardboard cut-outs than talking to my two all day. Do you know how many conversations I have had about Frozen today? A million. Two million probably.” Verity started chugging her wine back. “Bloody Frozen. Christ.”
“And you see in The Breakfast Club, they don’t have to pick what they want to be when they grow up. They already know. How am I meant to know what I am supposed to be?”
“They’re not real, Cara. It’s just all stereotypical. Hate to break it to you but it’s all fictional this, you know.”
“Yeah, but how do you know what you’re meant to do in actual real, real life?”
“You don’t. You just accept your lot and get on with it. I don’t believe in all this controlling your destiny business. Shit happens and then you get on with it. Simple as.”
I didn’t agree with Verity on that one. Surely we could have everything we wanted in life, just the same as everyone else. I wasn’t sure I was happy to give in and accept my lot.
“Yeah, I know they’re fictional, but at least they have a clue where their life is leading. I haven’t got the foggiest! I’m not academic; I’m not sporty. I never once got an A in anything and was never picked for the netball team. So what have we got left after The Brain and The Athlete? Oh yeah, The Basket Case and The Criminal.”
I contemplated whether a career in the pirated DVD sector would suit me. Okay, yes, it was highly illegal, but the pirate DVD lady always looked so happy, it was clear she had an enormous amount of job satisfaction. It might almost be worth going to prison for. Something will come up, I thought to myself. I’d find another job, one I liked and one that wouldn’t get me arrested.
“Then there’s Princess,” said Verity.
“Come off it. We are too skint for that. And we couldn’t really be any of the other Molly Ringwald characters in any of the films because we were crap at art and we didn’t like The Smiths, plus we hadn’t even heard of sushi in those days – let alone take it into a detention. What I would have given for a Saturday morning in detention with Judd Nelson!”
“We’re the skint ones,” said Verity. “That’s who we are.”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to watch The Breakfast Club any more. It made me think about what school was really like. I’d often landed myself in detention, but it was nowhere near as fun as a detention in Shermer High School, Illinois. I’d never had a gun in my locker or taped Larry Lester’s arse cheeks together or any of the other things I aspired to do. I was just often late for registration, which meant spending first break picking up litter on the playing fields while Sister Mary Margaret shouted at us. I didn’t try as hard as I could not to be late, as it meant I didn’t have to spend much time in the social areas where the popular girls like April Webster and her cronies would mock my charity-shop and hand-me-down clothes.
At primary school April and I had been friends. Mum used to take me with her in the school holidays when she cleaned houses in the nicer parts of town. April’s mum was one of her customers and me and April would play for hours in her garden while Mum cleaned and did the laundry. Her mum was kind and brought us out jugs of orange squash with ice while April and I played on the swings or shared secrets in her tree house. April had an older sister and when it was time for secondary school to start, April’s mum gave us her old school uniform and school shoes. It was like new, and no one would have known except April must have told her friends. On the first day at school, every time I walked past one of April’s friends, they would whisper about my shoes and my second-hand clothes. April wouldn’t say anything, but she went along with her friends laughing.
I couldn’t tell Mum how they teased me or ask if I could have new clothes, but I cried on the way home, walking ahead of Verity and Stubbs until they caught me up. Stubbs made us laugh in between kicking a ball about between him and Divvy, so by the time I got home I had stopped crying. By second year, I’d had enough of the taunts of “bag lady” and I did everything I could to make myself invisible. I didn’t put myself forward for anything. I didn’t speak up in class to avoid drawing attention to myself and I didn’t try to make other friends. I just stuck with Verity, Stubbs and Divvy. I missed out on so many moments: the school plays, the discos, the school trips, as I did everything I could to be as inconspicuous as possible.
“Imagine if we’d had a high school prom like that,” I continued.
“We did have a prom, sort of,” said Verity. “The leaving disco.”
“I didn’t go to the leaving disco, not after the awful Christmas disco we had the year before,” I said. I hadn’t gone like I didn’t go to most things.
“Yeah, well you didn’t miss much. All we did was drink squash from plastic cups in a school dining hall that smelled of gravy and onions. I don’t think anyone even actually danced. It was hardly like a John Hughes film.”
I wondered where my perfect moment was and if it would ever arrive, and I began to bristle thinking about that school disco.
“Shall we go to the social club, then?” I asked.
“I’ll get my coat,” Verity said. “Think we’ll find your Blane or your Judd Nelson in there?”
“Doubt it very much,” I replied and laughed.
“That’s good. Because you don’t need a Blane; you need a Duckie. Everyone does,” Verity said as we left the flat.
I shook my head. I still had hope I’d get my happy ending. I’d find my perfect job, one where magic happens, and if my Judd Nelson came along, all the better. I still believed I could find the job of my dreams, creating little moments of magic for people. I just knew I would be able to create events that had that wow factor, moments people would talk about for ever. I had the battered sausage to thank for that. I knew that if a chip shop pork product was the most exciting thing that had happened in my week, I had to make a change. I made a resolution to myself I would start applying for events jobs first thing on Monday and vowed to myself I wouldn’t let my previous experience put me off. It was time to start again.
*
The social club was in the old cinema. Even though the building tried to stand majestic, the gaudy “Bingo” sign mocked the building. The bingo ran in one room and there was a tired-looking bar in the other. Verity worked there at lunchtimes, serving pints of mild and cheese rolls to pensioners.
An old man sat in what used to be the cinema ticket booth and asked us for our membership cards even though he knew we didn’t have any. We decided we would never become members, as that would make us sad and socially inadequate, so each week we forked out the fifty pence visitor’s entrance fee.
We walked through, past the main bingo hall and up into the bar where Stubbs was taking advantage of the lack of customers and leaning on the bar pencilling answers into a crossword in the newspaper. I glanced around at the ceiling in the bar area. It was so ornate, beautiful really – all intricately carved cornices and light fittings, which must have once held chandeliers. I loved it here even though it wasn’t a cinema any more.
Me and Verity, already a bit tipsy from the wine, demanded that Stubbs answer our questions.
“Stubbs, when we were all at school, would you rather have been an athlete or a basket case with dandruff?” Verity giggled.
“Not following you, ladies,” he said.
“Ah, but you see, Verity…” I pointed at Stubbs “…Stubbs was always good at art, good at everything really and he likes cool bands, so for all intents and purposes he is Molly Ringwald out of Pretty in Pink. And you lived in the rough part of town, so Stubbs, you are Molly Ringwald.”
“I am?” said Stubbs, mildly irritated by our line of questioning. “Well, thanks for that, you pair. You learn something every day.”
“I’m trying to find out what my thing is,” I said. “The choices are basket case, athlete…”
“Basket case,” Stubbs interrupted.
“Hey, I hadn’t finished yet! Criminal, princess…”
“Basket case,” said Stubbs.
“Oh shut up, you. What would you be? What’s your thing?” I said. I probably would have said Brain. Stubbs had been to uni.
“I didn’t know I had to have a thing,” he said. Stubbs totally didn’t have a thing either. I doubt he would want one. He was quite happy trundling along, not wanting to seek out anything new.
“Did you ever wish you were one of the popular kids at school? Or the rich kids?” I said.
“Nope,” he said firmly. He folded his newspaper up and moved behind the bar to pour our drinks.
Verity and Stubbs and I had been in the same form at school and sat at the same table. Verity and I had bonded immediately over knowing all the words to every single John Hughes film. While Stubbs didn’t really like those movies. He’d roll his eyes at us as we flicked through magazines, but he didn’t say much. He was always quiet and hid behind his too long fringe. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.
Stubbs had moved away too after sixth form and had gone to art school in London for a while. He’d met his girlfriend there on his first day and they had been together ever since. Until he’d decided to move back to the Midlands and she’d decided to stay in London. He didn’t hide behind his fringe any more; his hair was still longish, but brushed back off his face. He was taller than he’d been at school and despite working in the bingo hall, he always managed to look tanned.
