Alice in Time Page 7

  I look around the kitchen. It seems to be more chaotic than usual. Actually, chaotic is a polite term for revoltingly messy. The sink is full of washing-up and on closer inspection it’s not just crockery in there. The cups and plates are jumbled together with painting paraphernalia, causing a tide mark of greasy, black paint. Old food smells are mingling with the strong smell of turpentine and linseed oil. I know it’s linseed oil because there’s a big bottle of it that’s fallen over on the draining board, the thick oil snaking its way to a puddle in the sink around the washing-up bowl. If the music wasn’t so loud I’d suggest perhaps we should tidy the place up a bit, but Imogen is looking like a thundercloud and would probably take it the wrong way.

  She’s found some cream crackers and chocolate biscuits in the cupboard and is indicating with her eyes towards the kitchen door, which I take to mean, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here’. As I try to exit, clutching the milk and the Edam, I run slap bang into Imogen’s dad, who we didn’t hear come home on account of the music. I manage to stop the milk from ending up all over the floor at the expense of the cheese, which falls with a thud at her dad’s feet. (I think he’s called Clive, but I’m not sure, so hope I never have to address him directly.) We’re all standing there staring at each other when suddenly the music stops abruptly, as if some sixth sense has alerted Claire to the arrival of Clive, and the double doors that separate the kitchen from what should be a dining room, but is now Claire’s studio, are flung open with a flourish.

  ‘Darling!’ cries Claire, rushing past Imogen, who nearly ends up with her bottom in the bin as she steps back out of the way. Claire is wearing an ankle-length black dress, some floaty scarf-type thing and her hair is swept up in an intricate design. It’s only as she passes me that I see it’s held up with a paint brush, and not a clean one at that. She looks as though she’s about to go out to a very posh party, except that she’s covered from head to foot in splotches of paint.

  ‘God! She’s a bloody walking cliché,’ Imogen mutters, and although I’m not exactly sure what she means, I get the impression it’s not good.

  Claire falls into Clive’s arms. They start kissing in a way that can only be described as passionate. Bloody hell! I’m tempted to watch so I can get some tips for later, but frankly it’s embarrassing. I sneak a look at Imogen to see if she’s embarrassed too, but she just looks bored. Not knowing where else to look I find myself staring into the studio. There’s an enormous canvas in there, but it appears to be painted completely black. Maybe it’s an undercoat or something. Imogen grabs me and we sidle round the reunion going on in the doorway. I think about retrieving the cheese but Claire’s three-inch heel is now impaling it to the floor.

  ‘Hi Dad,’ Imogen says as we pass, and he replies with something that I imagine is probably ‘Hi there, darling’, but he’s having trouble as Claire seems to have her tongue firmly down his throat. Yeeurk! Gross, I mean they must be in their forties!

  As we go up the stairs I surreptitiously look at my watch. After all, I have a schedule to keep to. It’s quarter to three, which means I’ve got just over two hours to make myself look beautiful before I have to put stage one of my plan into action.

  Imogen’s bedroom is amazing. For starters, it’s massive and has different ‘areas’. There’s her working area, which has a massive desk, except it’s not like one you’d buy in a shop – it goes across one whole wall. It’s been custom-built to fit everything, so it’s got a writing bit at one end, a computer in the middle and a space for artwork at the end. I wonder if I’d be as clever and creative as Imogen if I had such a desk. I notice that at one end of it she’s got a kettle and one of those mini fridges. In fact, it’s more like a bedsit than a bedroom. I am so jealous. If I had a room like this I’d never have to leave it or see Mum and Rory at all. Halfway along the other wall is a television which can be turned so it can be seen from the sitting area in the big bay window where the sofa is or from the big bed, which is practically a double.

  Imogen has put the kettle on and gets her new felt pens out of her bag. Stuck on the wall above her art area are loads of pictures that she’s drawn. I go over and have a look. They’re incredible. They’re like cartoons, only I can tell straight away who they are.

  ‘Manga,’ says Imogen. ‘That’s what I needed the pens for.’

  The biggest drawing is clearly a picture of Sasha. Imogen has made her look really evil. I realise they’re like the drawings on a programme that Rory watches called Yu-Gi-Oh. They look really professional. ‘They’re . . . brilliant,’ I tell her. I really want to ask her if she’ll do one of Seth for me. But I can’t. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘Look,’ says Imogen, going over to the computer. She hits a button and the screensaver disappears. I notice that she’s going on the internet and wonder if she has unrestricted access. And if she knows how lucky she is. A site comes up with the heading Bishop Aubrey College.

  ‘This is where I’m going in September,’ she says. ‘It’s a boarding school and it’s brilliant. I can’t wait! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Look at all the stuff they do there.’ She’s scrolling down the page and I’m trying to take in the pictures of the grounds and the bedrooms and the tennis courts and the swimming pool. They’ve even got their own theatre. She pauses on the art block.

  ‘This is the best bit,’ she says, pointing at the screen. There’s a photo of a big airy studio. It’s been partitioned off into cubicles. ‘See! I’ll get my own space to do my drawing in. They even have life models to draw from.’

  I stare at her open-mouthed. ‘What! You mean you won’t be going back to school after the summer? You can’t . . . Do you mean you’re leaving? You can’t,’ I finish feebly.

  ‘Look,’ she says, pointing to the website. ‘It’s amazing. People from all over the world go there. Dad’s already agreed. I seriously can’t wait. And look at this,’ she says, scrolling on to pictures of some very gorgeous-looking people on skiing trips, another taken outside the Colosseum in Rome and another showing some sweaty teenagers trekking through what looks like a very dense jungle. ‘The best thing is that I don’t even have to come home in the holidays. A lot of the students there have parents who work abroad and stuff, so they have this holiday club.’

  I can’t believe it. How could she do this to me? I want to cry. I want to shout at her that she can’t go and leave me alone in my boring life. But most of all I want to go to this amazing school. She looks so bloody happy I could strangle her.

  ‘But it’s so . . .’ I desperately want to put her off the idea.

  ‘. . . So far outside your comfort zone.’ I can’t think of anything else to say.

  Imogen turns and stares at me. I blush, thinking that I had just sounded a bit like some TV psychologist.

  ‘I don’t have a “comfort zone”,’ she says. She’s hunched over her keyboard tapping away at something, and it occurs to me that even though Imogen is my best friend I don’t really know much about her. Like what she does when we’re not at school, what sort of a relationship she has with her parents – things like that.

  ‘Look at this,’ she says, nodding towards the computer. She’s left the school website and, as far as I can tell, is now on some sort of chat website. I lean in closer, wondering what she’s up to.

  She’s posting a message up.

  Come to the best party of the year! Loud music, free booze, all the food you can eat, and girls, girls, girls!!!!

  Underneath is an address.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘An invitation to the world – to Sasha’s party. I thought it would be laugh – and serve her right for being such a cow.’

  I have a very bad feeling about this, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that Imogen is abandoning me. I don’t want to argue with her, though. I need her on my side if I’m going to carry out my plan. I decide to cash in on her good humour before it evaporates again.

  ‘Come o
n,’ I say, ‘don’t forget you promised to help me look older.’

  ‘Oh hell,’ says Imogen, looking me up and down. ‘Where to start?’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘I’m only kidding,’ she laughs. ‘I’ll have you looking amazing in no time.’

  This, I soon discover, is a bit of an exaggeration, as it takes Imogen a good two hours of hard work until I look anywhere near acceptable. While I’m in the shower washing my hair, Imogen rinses out the top I bought because it smells a bit musty, and sticks it in the tumble dryer. Then she does my hair. She rubs some mousse stuff into it and puts it in huge curlers which she’s nicked from her mum’s room. I feel like a complete idiot but Imogen insists it will be worth it. Then she helps me with my make-up. This is the tricky part because I don’t want to look as though I’m wearing any. But I needn’t worry because Imogen is an artist after all, and she’s got loads of make-up for someone who appears not to be too bothered about how they look. She uses brown mascara, some very subtle eyeliner, a bit of powder, especially on my forehead where I’ve got an outcrop of spots, and my new lip-gloss. When she takes the curlers out, my hair is wavy but nothing too obvious. I can’t believe the transformation, and when I’ve got the new clothes on I feel great.

  I’m certain these black jeans make me look slimmer. Some of my nerves have disappeared. Until, that is, I realise it’s nearly six o’clock and I need to put my plan into action.

  I get my phone out of my bag and I’m staring at it trying to work out how I can convince Imogen that I’ve got a call from my mum. I’m just about to start fiddling with it to see if I can get into the ringtones and set one off – when it rings and I nearly have a heart attack. It’s Mum.

  ‘Alice, I’m really sorry to do this to you, but I need you to come home.’

  I can’t believe it. There I am, about to pretend that my mum’s calling to tell me I have to go home, and then she actually does!

  ‘What! What do you mean? I can’t come home! I’m at Imogen’s for the night.’ The realisation that I won’t be able to see Seth kicks in. ‘I’m not coming home,’ I shout at her.

  ‘Look, I wouldn’t ask you unless it was really important, Alice. Please . . . only I’ve just had a call from work . . .’

  That does it! Her and her bloody work! ‘Tell them you can’t work tonight. It’s the truth – you can’t go to work because I’m not bloody well coming home.’ By the time I’ve finished, I’m shouting, and with a final screech I throw the phone on to the floor. I desperately want to cry, but I don’t want my mascara to run. Not that it matters now. I hardly need to look nice for babysitting Rory.

  Imogen picks the phone up and puts it to her ear.

  ‘Hello, Susan. It’s Imogen here . . . Oh . . . I see . . . I’m sorry . . . OK . . . My dad can give her a lift. No, don’t worry . . . it’s no bother, we can do it another night.’

  I glare at Imogen. How dare she collude with my mother in this way, and why is she agreeing with her?

  Imogen hangs up and passes me the phone. ‘She doesn’t have to go to work,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s Miss Maybrooke. Your mum’s work phoned to say that Miss Maybrooke is really ill . . . dying actually . . . and she’s asking for your mum.’

  I swallow. I feel really bad now. Imogen is obviously not impressed by my outburst. But how was I supposed to know?

  ‘I’ll go and ask Dad to run you home,’ she says. When she’s gone I pack my bag and then pick up the phone. I suppose I’ll have to text Seth now and tell him I can’t make it. But then a plan starts to form in my head; a Plan B. I stuff the phone into my bag and when Imogen comes back and says her dad can take me home, I beg her to come with me.

  ‘Go on, Imo . . . it’ll be great. You can spend the night at my house instead . . .’ She looks unconvinced. ‘Pleeease . . . it’ll be better than having the whole night ruined. We can still watch the DVD. We can order pizza.’

  Imogen hesitates. I can see that she’s thinking it won’t be a bundle of laughs at my place, what with Miss Maybrooke and everything. But when she came back into the room she left the door open and the loud, dramatic, classical music is floating up the stairs. And then we hear her mother laugh, a high, almost hysterical sound, and that seems to do the trick.

  ‘OK, why not?’ she says and stuffs some things into a bag. I’ve never seen anyone get ready so quickly.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she says and is halfway down the stairs before I’ve even got to the bedroom door. Somehow I get the feeling that her haste has less to do with the fact that Miss Maybrooke might breathe her last before Mum gets there than the fact that she seems desperate to get out of her house.

  Chapter Nine

  On the way home in the car, I’m worried that Mum will ask me why I’m all dressed up but I needn’t have worried on that score. As soon as we get in Mum hurriedly says hello to Imogen and me and then hurriedly says goodbye and disappears out the door.

  I look at my watch. It’s quarter to seven. I’m supposed to be meeting Seth at seven. Although he did say ‘sevenish’. Still, I need to think fast if this is going to work. Rory is all over Imogen like a rash, but she seems to be coping so I tell her I’ll make a cup of coffee and leave them in the sitting room. In the kitchen I quickly send a text to Seth: Can you meet me outside the nursing home at the end of George Street?

  I go back into the sitting room. Rory is showing Imogen his boring set of Pokémon cards. With any luck Seth will text me back immediately. The next few minutes take hours to go by while I do my best to look relaxed. Suddenly my phone beeps and there’s a text from Seth. I look at the screen.

  Be there in ten.

  Bloody hell! He must live fairly close then, I think wildly.

  ‘It’s from Mum,’ I tell Imogen. ‘She’s forgotten something. She wants me to take it to her,’ I lie. ‘Do you mind looking after Rory for a bit while I pop down to the nursing home? I don’t know how long I’ll be . . . I might have to sit with Miss Maybrooke for a while.’

  I’m worried that Rory is going to kick up a fuss, but he looks quite happy at the prospect of having Imogen all to himself.

  Imogen shrugs. ‘Go ahead,’ she says. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we, Rory?’ He’s snuggled up to her on the sofa and as I leave the room I hear him asking her if she’ll read him a story. I feel a pang of something. Could it be jealousy? Of what, exactly? That Rory likes Imogen so much or that she likes him? So what? I tell myself crossly. Why should it matter? I should be grateful under the circumstances, shouldn’t I? I check myself in the hall mirror before I leave. It’s freezing outside but there’s no way I’m going to ruin the effect of my new top by covering it up with a big coat.

  I pace up and down in front of the nursing home for what seems like an eternity, glancing up at the windows now and again to make sure no one I know spots me. I wonder if I should have just come home without Imogen and told Seth that there was a family emergency and that I couldn’t make it tonight. But then all that work making me look nice would have been wasted and the thought of not seeing him when I’ve been looking forward to it for days would have been too depressing. I could have explained the situation to him and asked him if he wanted to come round and keep me company. Some date that would have been! Rory would have been a pain in the butt and then Mum might have come back and I’d have had to explain him to her and then she would have given me the lecture about going out with boys who were nearly seventeen and I’m only fourteen (it would be hopeless pointing out to her that I’m nearly fifteen) and why can’t I go out with someone nearer my own age (like two years is much – Dad’s three years older than her – and look at the age gap between him and Trish) but she’d just say that was different and I’d be shouting by this point and saying, ‘Have you seen a fourteen-year-old boy recently? They’re not even human!’

  I’m so busy playing out this imaginary argument in my head that I don’t realise Seth has come up behind me and when he puts his hands over my eyes and says, ‘Hi, Gorgeous,’ I ve
ry nearly stamp on his foot and elbow him in the stomach like we were taught in self-defence classes. Luckily I don’t, and he takes his hands away and I turn round and I stand there staring at him, and he’s so lovely I could eat him and I’m suddenly glad that I told all those lies so that I could see him. I know it sounds really corny but I actually go weak at the knees and have to sit on the wall. He sits down next to me.

  ‘So what do you want to do then? Why are we meeting here?’ he asks, looking around. I can see his point. I decide at that moment to be completely truthful with him. I explain about Mum’s emergency and me having to babysit and that I’ve left Imogen alone at my house watching my little brother for me and that I will have to get back and I’m really sorry, but maybe we could meet up tomorrow or something. I’m babbling because I’m nervous but it’s such a relief to finally be telling the truth to someone. I can’t believe it when he starts laughing.

  ‘What?’ I ask him. ‘What’s so funny?’ and he explains that he’s in exactly the same situation and that he shouldn’t be out either because he’s supposed to be keeping an eye on his stepsister. We sit there grinning at each other and I can tell he’s reluctant to go.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine for an hour though,’ he says.

  ‘I think I could get away with about an hour,’ I tell him.

  ‘Come on, then. Let’s go to the park,’ and he grabs my hand and pulls me off the wall and we run down the road. He shows me a way into the park where the railings are bent and we squeeze through the gap.