might not miss me at all—and I would come back one day to find my place was taken. Like a room where they’ve removed a chair and rearranged the furniture so you don’t know the chair was ever there. Karen Jones had been vanished overnight like a lamp no one liked anymore. The other day in PE, Karen had to be partners with Susan Smell. It was a warning and maybe an omen. Plus, I didn’t want Gillian to see me as Miss Hoity Toity up-herself classical music.
Impress Princess Margaret or Gillian Edwards? It was no contest.
“You two finished by any chance?” The waitress stood by our table with a hand on her hip.
“Still going strong,” said Sharon. She had poured the cold tea from the previous customers’ pot into her empty cup and she raised it with a cheery grin toward the waitress, who stalked away.
“That woman’s got a face like a smacked arse.”
“
Shar-rrron.
”
“She has. Just cos we’re too poor to have proper food. If you have gammon and chips they let you be. Spend a lot on Gillian, did you?”
“Not really. Not much to play with after buying the concert ticket.”
My foot touched the carrier bag under the table and I got a jolt of pleasure thinking about its precious cargo. I was positive that the classy Mary Quant eye-shadow kit would soon change my life for the better. In my head, I was already foreseeing various heart-warming scenes. Gillian ushering the other girls into her legendary bedroom on her birthday. “Have you seen what
Petra
got me?”
Gillian receiving admiring comments for her makeup on Saturday night at the Starlight disco. “Yes, it’s indigo, actually, from the Mary Quant eye-shadow palette that
Petra
gave me for my birthday. It was recommended in
Jackie
.”
When the camera swiveled round, it was me who was center stage for once. Petra being promoted to Gillian’s best friend to the astonishment of the rest of our group. Petra as the wise and effortlessly funny confidante in Gillian’s legendary bedroom. Petra maybe even invited to accompany the Edwardses on their summer camping holiday to France. They were the only people we knew who went abroad.
The Gillian fantasies sort of muddled in with my David dreams, filling up a lot of my waking time as her birthday drew near, and Bach had to take a backseat. I had always been conscientious about practicing. Now, every time I looked at my cello, I felt guilty, as if the cello knew it didn’t come first anymore.
“I got her Pond’s Cold Cream,” Sharon was saying. “Cleanses without drying the skin, leaving it radiant, that’s what the ad says.”
At thirteen, our notions of sophistication were drawn entirely from magazines. We were the perfect consumers, Sharon and me, believing absolutely everything the mags told us. I had an oily T-zone, which I dutifully tried to tame with Anne French Cleansing Milk. A bottle cost a lot, but the pointy blue cap with its pleasing ridges felt good and purposeful as you opened it. It made me feel like I had a skincare regime, which beauty editors said was vital. It was never too early in life to start a skincare regime.
We bought one of those little brown barrels of Linco Beer shampoo because Sharon had read that it gave your hair incredible shine. Did we look like the brunette in the advert with a curtain of hair so glossy you could see your reflection in it? Not a chance. We smelled of hops, which, if you ask me, is in a dead heat with bad eggs for the most sick-making smell in the world. That smell is so bad it makes your
ears
hurt. During our Linco Beer period, Sharon’s Uncle Jim asked if we’d started brewing our own. It was not the kind of male attention we’d had in mind.
There were so many problems girls like us could have. And those posh women up in London, well, they had all the answers:
The current trend is for delicate, highly curved brows, unlike your own, which grow thick, dark and bushy! Which of the following do you do?
Pluck them fiercely into a thin,
Impress Princess Margaret or Gillian Edwards? It was no contest.
“You two finished by any chance?” The waitress stood by our table with a hand on her hip.
“Still going strong,” said Sharon. She had poured the cold tea from the previous customers’ pot into her empty cup and she raised it with a cheery grin toward the waitress, who stalked away.
“That woman’s got a face like a smacked arse.”
“
Shar-rrron.
”
“She has. Just cos we’re too poor to have proper food. If you have gammon and chips they let you be. Spend a lot on Gillian, did you?”
“Not really. Not much to play with after buying the concert ticket.”
My foot touched the carrier bag under the table and I got a jolt of pleasure thinking about its precious cargo. I was positive that the classy Mary Quant eye-shadow kit would soon change my life for the better. In my head, I was already foreseeing various heart-warming scenes. Gillian ushering the other girls into her legendary bedroom on her birthday. “Have you seen what
Petra
got me?”
Gillian receiving admiring comments for her makeup on Saturday night at the Starlight disco. “Yes, it’s indigo, actually, from the Mary Quant eye-shadow palette that
Petra
gave me for my birthday. It was recommended in
Jackie
.”
When the camera swiveled round, it was me who was center stage for once. Petra being promoted to Gillian’s best friend to the astonishment of the rest of our group. Petra as the wise and effortlessly funny confidante in Gillian’s legendary bedroom. Petra maybe even invited to accompany the Edwardses on their summer camping holiday to France. They were the only people we knew who went abroad.
The Gillian fantasies sort of muddled in with my David dreams, filling up a lot of my waking time as her birthday drew near, and Bach had to take a backseat. I had always been conscientious about practicing. Now, every time I looked at my cello, I felt guilty, as if the cello knew it didn’t come first anymore.
“I got her Pond’s Cold Cream,” Sharon was saying. “Cleanses without drying the skin, leaving it radiant, that’s what the ad says.”
At thirteen, our notions of sophistication were drawn entirely from magazines. We were the perfect consumers, Sharon and me, believing absolutely everything the mags told us. I had an oily T-zone, which I dutifully tried to tame with Anne French Cleansing Milk. A bottle cost a lot, but the pointy blue cap with its pleasing ridges felt good and purposeful as you opened it. It made me feel like I had a skincare regime, which beauty editors said was vital. It was never too early in life to start a skincare regime.
We bought one of those little brown barrels of Linco Beer shampoo because Sharon had read that it gave your hair incredible shine. Did we look like the brunette in the advert with a curtain of hair so glossy you could see your reflection in it? Not a chance. We smelled of hops, which, if you ask me, is in a dead heat with bad eggs for the most sick-making smell in the world. That smell is so bad it makes your
ears
hurt. During our Linco Beer period, Sharon’s Uncle Jim asked if we’d started brewing our own. It was not the kind of male attention we’d had in mind.
There were so many problems girls like us could have. And those posh women up in London, well, they had all the answers:
The current trend is for delicate, highly curved brows, unlike your own, which grow thick, dark and bushy! Which of the following do you do?
Pluck them fiercely into a thin,
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