One More Little Problem Page 6

  Too right I’ll take a mate. I’m hardly going to take time out of my busy schedule to meet some unknown nutter all on my own and in any case it’s a policy of mysortaspace.com that you have to take somebody with you for security.

  I wonder if Fran will agree to come with me?

  I whizz off a quick reply suggesting that we meet outside the Central Line tube station and then I continue my essay on ‘The Wife of Bath’ and I feel, if not exactly cheerful, then kind of resigned to the next few days.

  So – Dad’s going to be at the new school all week and that means I’ve got to deal with Caro on my own and make sure that if Fran comes on Saturday, she and Caro don’t kill each other and that Caro stops cutting her arms and finds something positive to focus on.

  This has all kind of become my life now.

  My jumps have gone up to fifty on the top step and fifty on the bottom step and my face-scrubs are creeping up again too. I did fifty scrubs on each cheek this morning and brushed my hair an extra twenty-two times.

  ‘Just another day in the crap life of Zelah Green,’ I say.

  Chapter Twelve

  Monday comes and Dad’s up at the crack of dawn polishing his best work shoes and squirting himself with some choke-inducing aftershave.

  He stirs his muesli around the bowl about a million times and keeps clearing his throat and checking the clock.

  ‘D’you know, Princess, I think I’m a bit nervous?’ he says as he ties the laces on his shoes to the exact same length.

  ‘I’d never have guessed, Dad,’ I say, but my sarcasm is wasted on him. He doesn’t ‘do’ sarcasm very often. Dad’s specialities are being pathetic, wounded, hopeless and depressed rather than sarcastic.

  He throws his cereal bowl into the sink with a clatter and straightens his tie.

  ‘How do I look?’ he says.

  I appraise my smart, teacher Dad from top to bottom.

  ‘Not bad,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget to smile.’

  Dad flashes a fake stiff grin.

  ‘Heather would be proud of you,’ I say. ‘And Mum would too.’

  Dad winks at me for that and pretends to ruffle my hair.

  Hooray. A glimmer of the old Dad has flashed through the building.

  I wave him off from the front doorstep just like Mum used to do. Spooky.

  Then I clear up all the breakfast things and check my email.

  There’s a confirmation from Marky saying that he’ll be waiting for me on Saturday outside the tube station in Shepherd’s Bush.

  And – there’s one from Alessandro!

  I’ve still got Fran on speeddial on my mobile.

  She says she’ll be round in half an hour.

  To my amazement mixed with more than a smidgen of horror, Caro gets up early and comes down for breakfast.

  ‘Thought I’d see what this morning thing looks like,’ she says, tipping cornflakes into a bowl and pouring apple juice all over them.

  I’m about to protest at such shocking abuse of innocent corn cereal but then I think better of it. Caro does look a bit pale and unhappy this morning. Her arms are healing up, or so she says when I ask her.

  Anyway, I know full well why she’s dragged herself out of her pit at this ungodly hour.

  She must have overheard me talking on my mobile.

  She wants to keep an eye on Fran.

  Fran’s as punctual as ever.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. There’s even a small smile. It’s a pathetic cousin of the big grin she would have given me once upon a time, but it’s a start.

  She’s holding out a warm paper bag towards me.

  ‘Croissants,’ she says. ‘And there are some clean tissues in there.’

  I’m touched.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Come in. We’re in the kitchen.’

  Fran’s face clouds over a bit at the ‘we’ part of my sentence.

  She follows me slowly into the kitchen where Caro is rolling a cigarette.

  ‘Oh, erm, hello again,’ says Fran in her posh-girl party voice.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Caro.

  Well – it’s more of a piggish grunt, really.

  The two of them sit there in silence while I make a pot of tea and get plates for the food.

  Caro brightens up a bit when she sees croissants. Fran has brought four, so that she and I can have two each, but Caro delves into the bag and comes up triumphant with the biggest one.

  ‘Cheers, Fanny,’ she says, biting off the corner with her small sharp teeth.

  ‘Fran,’ says Fran. ‘My name is Fran.’

  ‘Oops,’ says Caro. She eyes up Fran’s pink pinafore dress and white plimsolls.

  ‘You do look a bit like a Fanny though, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  Fran is bristly and blinking with indignation like a hedgehog pulled out of the ground before the end of hibernation.

  ‘And you look a bit like a . . .’ she starts, but I plonk the teapot down on the table just in time.

  ‘Tea?’ I say, in a loud bright voice.

  Fran and Caro are eyeing one another up like a pair of tomcats.

  Any moment now there’s going to be hissing and fur flying. Not to mention huge gaping wounds. Major Germ Alert, obviously. There are many reasons I don’t like cats.

  ‘Yes please, one sugar,’ says Fran. She takes the cup and sips with her little finger pointing out in a delicate fashion.

  Caro sniggers and blows a huge smoke ring up into the air.

  ‘Ooh, tea party! How lovely,’ she says, mimicking Fran’s voice. ‘And will you be having cucumber sandwiches?’

  I grip the underside of my chair, even though I know it’s not as clean as I’d like.

  Fran, you see, is very sweet and posh and all that, but if you wind her up, as well I know, she can go bonkers with rage.

  Fran must be trying hard to stay polite because she gives me a tiny smile.

  ‘How long do you think I’ll be here today, Zelah?’ she says.

  Ah-ha! So that’s how she’s going to play it. Ignore Caro. Pretend she doesn’t exist.

  Big, big mistakerola.

  If there’s one thing that Caro can’t bear, it’s being ignored.

  She might as well have ‘I must be the centre of attention at all times,’ tattooed on her forehead.

  ‘Hey,’ says Caro, tipping the kitchen table up towards Fran so that her plate of croissant starts to slither towards her. ‘I’m talking to you. Didn’t you hear me, little girl?’

  Fran lifts her nose slightly and sniffs.

  ‘Right, Zelah, I’ll eat this and then I’ll get to work,’ she says, ignoring Caro again.

  I’m holding my breath now. This is terrible. I can’t eat my croissant because my mouth has dried to cobwebs.

  Fran is about to pick up her breakfast and take a dainty bite, but Caro has other ideas.

  The croissant, still on its plate, slides off the table and into Fran’s lap as Caro lifts her side up higher and higher.

  Then with an enormous slam she drops it back on the floor again and pushes back her chair.

  ‘You’re a complete arsehole!’ she screams before storming out of the room and banging the door.

  A selection of coloured fridge magnets falls on to the floor.

  Fran picks up the plate and the greasy flakes of jam and pastry from her pink dress and reassembles them on the table.

  ‘How do you put up with that?’ she says, eating the less ruined of two croissants.

  I admire the way she’s not crying or making a fuss.

  I would be.

  ‘Dunno, really,’ I say. I’ve got mixed feelings at the moment. A big part of me wants to slap Caro for being so rude to my friend. Or ex-friend, I suppose.

  Another part of me knows that Caro is lonely and insecure and unhappy and thinks that Fran is going to take me away and leave Caro deserted on an island of self-harm with only the dire songs of Marilyn Manson and a limp pouch of tobacco worms for company.

  ‘Caro isn’t as horr
id as she comes across,’ I say in the end.

  Fran raises her eyebrows but says nothing.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  The clash between Fran and Caro has made me all tense and unsettled.

  When Fran goes to the loo I make an excuse and creep upstairs to do some rituals.

  I do fifty jumps on the carpet in my bedroom and then measure all the gaps between my clothes in the wardrobe with a ruler, just to make sure that they are exactly four centimetres apart.

  Fran comes in and gives me a look of impatience but I can’t stop.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  I tidy my bedroom up and make all the spines of my books stand up straight and tall in the bookcase.

  Then I stick some washing in the machine downstairs and clean the kitchen table.

  Only when I’ve done all that can I face going back up to my bedroom.

  And that turns out to be a hideous mistake.

  First thing is that Caro has followed Fran up there and is sitting on my bed with her dirty boots all over the white duvet.

  Fran is sitting at my desk with her back towards Caro. It’s a back as hard and rigid as a plank of wood so I can see that she’s not enjoying Caro’s company.

  ‘Caro,’ I say. ‘Haven’t you anything else to do? Painting? Smoking? Abusing strangers on the street?’

  I gesture towards Fran and make some encouraging faces but Caro fails to pick up on my hint. On purpose.

  ‘OCD, are you trying to get rid of me?’ she says. ‘That hurts, man.’

  I sigh loudly.

  ‘It’s kind of private,’ I say. ‘I’ll be down in half an hour. Promise.’

  ‘Ooh,’ says Caro, her face lighting up with malice. ‘I bet it’s BOY stuff. Hey, Fanny! Got a boyfriend? I heard you were a bit of a tease.’

  ‘I haven’t got time for a boyfriend,’ says Fran in a low, neutral voice meant to discourage any further conversation.

  ‘Haven’t got a boyfriend?’ Caro says, her eyes glinting at having found a chink in Fran’s armour.

  ‘Why not? Do you bat for the other side? Or are you like OCD here? Boys are just a germ-carrying waste of space. Unless they happen to be called Sol.’

  I make to whack Caro over the head.

  ‘Hey! No need for that!’

  I don’t want Caro spilling the details of my disastrous love life to my ex-best friend.

  Fran’s back goes even stiffer and she pretends to be reading the screen on Heather’s laptop even though it hasn’t fired up into life yet.

  ‘Ahh, diddums,’ says Caro, on a roll now. ‘Poor little Fanny hasn’t got a boyfriend! Maybe they don’t like her perfect pink clothes and her sweet little plaits. Maybe they’d prefer a real woman like me. Or maybe she’s frigid! That’s it! Frigid Fanny!’

  Caro lies right back on my bed with a satisfied smirk on her skinny features.

  She drums a pen on the edge of my bookshelf and hums an irritating tune to herself.

  Fran is turning puce.

  ‘Why don’t you go back downstairs and smoke yourself to death?’ she says, turning round and directing the full force of her Fran-glare upon Caro.

  Caro lights up like a crazed Christmas tree.

  She gets another pen and starts drumming two at the same time, still singing an annoying little riff over and over.

  All I can see is a big grassy clump of vile mud dangling off the sole of Caro’s boot.

  Any moment now that clump is going to fall off and attach itself to my bed.

  MAJOR DIRT ALERT.

  Fran gets up from her chair and starts to advance on Caro.

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘That’s it. Get out of Zelah’s bedroom. Now.’

  Caro does a pretend tremble but I notice that her smile has faded just a bit.

  ‘I’m not joking,’ says Fran.

  I half expect to see actual steam coming out of her ears so I duck.

  Fran leans over the bed and Caro’s pretending to squeal in fright but is really enjoying herself in that warped way of hers and I’ve just about had enough of this now.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Caro. Downstairs. NOW. And please take that duvet cover with you. I want it boil-washed at ninety degrees and then rinsed in fabric softener. Then I want it hung on the washing line, attached only with the blue plastic pegs from the packet NOT the dirty wooden ones. Goddit?’

  Wow. I sound like one of my teachers.

  Caro swings her legs off the bed, still with the insolent grin on her face. She picks up the whole duvet despite my desperate cries and drags it off into the hallway, muttering and swearing as she goes.

  The smell of stale tobacco hangs in the air.

  I fling open my sparkling latticed windows and let a cool breeze stream in.

  Fran takes her coat off and lets out a sigh of relief.

  ‘How do you put up with her?’ she says. ‘And WHY do you put up with her?’

  I sigh too.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I say. ‘She kind of helped me at Forest Hill. And Dad thinks she’s a reborn angel.’

  Fran looks very doubtful at this but manages not to say anything nasty.

  I go downstairs and get us a can of coke each from the fridge and then I show her the emails and photo from Marky.

  ‘Wow, Zelah,’ she says. ‘He’s got a stupid name but he’s hot! If you don’t like him, can I have him?’

  She’s not joking either. And the annoying thing is that when I turn up with Fran in tow this Marky will probably take one look at her beautiful long brown hair and freckled face and fall head over heels in love with her and that will be me out of the frame forever.

  Then I open the latest email from Alessandro. This is what it says:

  Dear Zelah,

  Sorry, I hope I didn’t upset you by mentioning your weird name. I guess I kind of like it that’s all. Cheers for mentioning my dad. He’s doing OK in the nick now. He’s got this cellmate called Chris who weighs about ninety stone and has fifteen snakes tattooed on his left arm. So nobody bothers them much. Which is good ’cos my dad’s quite a small bloke. What do you do at the weekends? I’m going on hols for a week but maybe we could meet up some time after that? Your profile says that you live in West London. I live over East London but I could get a tube. I understand if you want to bring somebody with. I mean, I could be anybody. But I’m not. I’m just me. Alessandro. x.

  ‘He put a kiss! He put a kiss!’ squeals Fran in this demented fashion.

  ‘Er, it’s only one,’ I say, but inside I feel all pleased and hot.

  I’ve stopped Fran and Caro from killing each other and Alessandro has put a kiss on his email.

  Maybe things are finally looking up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fran’s agreed to come with me to meet Marky on Saturday morning. I reckon she just wants to flirt with him and lure him away, but seeing as how I’m not exactly swamped with friends at the moment it’s Fran or nothing.

  Dad would go mental if he found out I was going off to meet a strange boy so I’ve sworn Fran to secrecy and also made her promise upon pain of violent death that she won’t tell Caro.

  Dad comes home at half four when Fran has left with promises to return on Saturday morning with some story worked out about what she and I are supposed to be doing all that day.

  Caro is upstairs downloading new goth misery music from Heather’s computer on to her iPod.

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table performing a ritual on the last of the custard creams by dissecting it into little squares of equal sizes and arranging the pieces around the edge of the plate with four centimetres in between them.

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Dad when he sees this. ‘Bad day, Princess?’

  He throws his briefcase into the corner and pulls out a chair.

  His eyes are a bit red and his cheeks are flushed and there is a faint whiff of something. Petrol? Aftershave?

  Oh no, it’s stale beer.

  ‘Dad,�
�� I begin, suddenly feeling as if I have the weight of the entire world on my shoulders. ‘Dad, please tell me you didn’t go in the pub on the way home from school?’

  Dad holds his hands up in a surrender position. His tie is hanging loose around his neck in a most un-teacherly fashion.

  ‘OK, I did go for one quick drink,’ he says. ‘But only because I was celebrating my first day in a proper job again. The induction is going really well.’

  I perk up a bit at that. He does look cheerful, in a flushed kind of way.

  ‘What were the other teachers like?’ I say.

  Dad gets up and clicks on the kettle.

  ‘Nice,’ he says. ‘Yep. They were really nice. I think I’m going to like it there.’

  Well, at least something good has come out of this confusing day. My father is finally getting himself sorted.

  I dissect the custard cream into even smaller bits.

  Then I go upstairs to scrub my face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My rituals go from bad to worse.

  When I was at Forest Hill I kind of got over my fear of touching toilets and sinks. But now it all seems to be going backwards again.

  I’ve just been to see Stella at the clinic for my treatment session.

  It’s fair to say that she wasn’t very happy with my progress.

  Stella looked as hygienic as ever in her white coat and shoes.

  But she didn’t smile as much as usual. Her face kept creasing into a frown as she listened to me talk about what was going on at home.

  ‘So you’re pretty much trying to take control of everything,’ she said. It’s not really a question, more just a summing-up of my hideous life.

  She chewed her lip for a moment and I got all worried that she was considering contacting Social Services and reporting Dad for going to the pub on the way home from teaching and not helping me with the cleaning.

  And if she got them involved they might take me away from home and place me with foster parents. Like Caro. Look what’s happened to her.

  ‘It’s only temporary,’ I said, trying to smile. ‘Heather’s back in a couple of weeks and then I’ll be able to get on with my normal school life after that.’