remember that from the look of things now, it has hardly ended in rainbows and lollipops for poor old Claire. Maybe Péter broke her heart? But there’s nothing about Madame telling Claire specifically to lose weight or take any sort of drugs or diet supplements. I’m baffled. What
is
wrong with Claire Starr?
“What are you doing in, Amy?” Dave asks on Friday evening. I’m flopped in front of the telly, watching some incredibly tall and giraffe-legged Irish and English girls parade up and down a catwalk. “I thought you were going to Seth’s house straight after school. Pizza and a movie — wasn’t that what you said? I seem to remember giving you a tenner toward it too.”
“Do you want it back?” I say, my eyes still glued to the screen. “Is that it?”
There’s silence for a moment. Then I feel Dave’s hand on my shoulder. I shrug it away.
“What’s wrong, Amy? Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
“Might make you feel better,” he says gently.
“I doubt it.”
“Have you fallen out with Seth?”
I shake my head again.
“Mills?”
I know he’s going to pick, pick, pick until it all comes out, or even worse, he’ll fetch Mum to join in the interrogation, so I give in.
“Mills isn’t speaking to me,” I explain. “And before you say anything, there’s nothing you or anyone else can do to fix it, OK? And no, I don’t want to talk about it. She’s over at Seth’s place with Bailey. Seth was really looking forward to having people over, and I didn’t want to cause any trouble, so I opted out. The end.”
“I see.” Dave blows out his breath in a
whoosh.
“Being a teenager sucks, doesn’t it?”
I look at him, trying to work out if he’s being sarcastic, but he seems sincere enough.
“I wouldn’t go back to being thirteen for a million quid,” he adds. “I’m sorry things are tough for you at the moment, Amy. But hang in there. It will get better, I promise.”
“Thanks, Dave. I thought you were working this evening.” Dave’s a nurse, and he works all kinds of strange hours.
“Swapped shifts. Sylvie wants to talk about the wedding.” He rolls his eyes at the word “talk,” making me smile a bit.
“Do you want this room?” I ask.
“No, you stay put. We can have our chat in the kitchen.” He leaves me to it and goes into the kitchen.
Bored with the program, I decide to follow him. Maybe wedding planning will improve my mood.
Dave and Mum are sitting at the kitchen table, dozens of magazine cuttings scattered in front of them. Mum’s head is covered in paper towel, and she’s giggling so hard that tears are running down her cheeks.
“What are you doing, Mum?” I ask her. “What’s with the weird hat?”
Mum is laughing too much to speak, so she just waves her hand in front of her face.
“Your mum wanted to show me some of Clover’s suggestions for her wedding dress,” Dave says.
I wrinkle my nose. “A paper-towel hat?”
“In the magazine, it’s Italian lace,” Mum says, pointing at one of the cuttings, a photograph of a glamorous bride wearing what looks like a white, lacy nightie, with a matching mop cap on her head. “But it’s so expensive, I thought I’d make my own.”
“Your mum finds some of Clover’s dress suggestions hilarious,” Dave explains.
“Not to mention ridiculously priced,” Mum adds. “Look at this one. Almost ten thousand quid for a piece of old knitting. Are they crazy?” She points at a 1920s-style beige-crochet flapper dress with fringing along the hem that costs 9,750 euros, and a strapless Empire-line dress that’s squashing the model’s small breasts into a weird-looking tube shape that costs 6,500 euros.
“I could make that second dress out of one of Gramps’s old tablecloths!” Mum says.
I smile at her. “It’s early days, Mum, I’m sure you’ll find something nice and not so expensive. Those are pretty.” I point at some pearl-and-diamanté hair clips in the shape of large stars
is
wrong with Claire Starr?
“What are you doing in, Amy?” Dave asks on Friday evening. I’m flopped in front of the telly, watching some incredibly tall and giraffe-legged Irish and English girls parade up and down a catwalk. “I thought you were going to Seth’s house straight after school. Pizza and a movie — wasn’t that what you said? I seem to remember giving you a tenner toward it too.”
“Do you want it back?” I say, my eyes still glued to the screen. “Is that it?”
There’s silence for a moment. Then I feel Dave’s hand on my shoulder. I shrug it away.
“What’s wrong, Amy? Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
“Might make you feel better,” he says gently.
“I doubt it.”
“Have you fallen out with Seth?”
I shake my head again.
“Mills?”
I know he’s going to pick, pick, pick until it all comes out, or even worse, he’ll fetch Mum to join in the interrogation, so I give in.
“Mills isn’t speaking to me,” I explain. “And before you say anything, there’s nothing you or anyone else can do to fix it, OK? And no, I don’t want to talk about it. She’s over at Seth’s place with Bailey. Seth was really looking forward to having people over, and I didn’t want to cause any trouble, so I opted out. The end.”
“I see.” Dave blows out his breath in a
whoosh.
“Being a teenager sucks, doesn’t it?”
I look at him, trying to work out if he’s being sarcastic, but he seems sincere enough.
“I wouldn’t go back to being thirteen for a million quid,” he adds. “I’m sorry things are tough for you at the moment, Amy. But hang in there. It will get better, I promise.”
“Thanks, Dave. I thought you were working this evening.” Dave’s a nurse, and he works all kinds of strange hours.
“Swapped shifts. Sylvie wants to talk about the wedding.” He rolls his eyes at the word “talk,” making me smile a bit.
“Do you want this room?” I ask.
“No, you stay put. We can have our chat in the kitchen.” He leaves me to it and goes into the kitchen.
Bored with the program, I decide to follow him. Maybe wedding planning will improve my mood.
Dave and Mum are sitting at the kitchen table, dozens of magazine cuttings scattered in front of them. Mum’s head is covered in paper towel, and she’s giggling so hard that tears are running down her cheeks.
“What are you doing, Mum?” I ask her. “What’s with the weird hat?”
Mum is laughing too much to speak, so she just waves her hand in front of her face.
“Your mum wanted to show me some of Clover’s suggestions for her wedding dress,” Dave says.
I wrinkle my nose. “A paper-towel hat?”
“In the magazine, it’s Italian lace,” Mum says, pointing at one of the cuttings, a photograph of a glamorous bride wearing what looks like a white, lacy nightie, with a matching mop cap on her head. “But it’s so expensive, I thought I’d make my own.”
“Your mum finds some of Clover’s dress suggestions hilarious,” Dave explains.
“Not to mention ridiculously priced,” Mum adds. “Look at this one. Almost ten thousand quid for a piece of old knitting. Are they crazy?” She points at a 1920s-style beige-crochet flapper dress with fringing along the hem that costs 9,750 euros, and a strapless Empire-line dress that’s squashing the model’s small breasts into a weird-looking tube shape that costs 6,500 euros.
“I could make that second dress out of one of Gramps’s old tablecloths!” Mum says.
I smile at her. “It’s early days, Mum, I’m sure you’ll find something nice and not so expensive. Those are pretty.” I point at some pearl-and-diamanté hair clips in the shape of large stars
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