The Shell House by Linda Newbery

freestyle. And got my best times for both.’
    ‘Brilliant!’
    ‘Er . . .’ Jordan looked embarrassed. ‘I was wondering if—we’re having a special meal at home next Saturday night, for Michelle’s birthday, and I thought you might come.’
    ‘What, a party?’
    ‘Not really, just family and a couple of friends of Michelle’s.’
    ‘OK. Er . . . thanks,’ Greg said, simply because he could think of no way of refusing. He was wary of occasions that might demand his best behaviour. And there would be Michelle. Jordan had told him that Michelle had started off at Radway, but since her illness their parents had decided to fork out the necessary fees for St Ursula’s, because she was too frail for the boisterousness of comprehensive life and missed so much school that she needed individual tuition. Greg pictured a wan, drooping invalid. What would he say to her? If something better came up he’d make an excuse not to go. On the other hand, it might be a handy way to fend off whatever Gizzardry might await him next weekend.
    The weather turned cold and autumnal during the day, the wind coming from the north. At the end of school Greg collected his bike and cycled down the main driveway. A girl in navy-blue uniform stood at the entrance, conspicuous among the indifferent greys and unofficial variations of the Radway pupils. A group of Year Nine boys were calling out to her, jeering—Greg couldn’t hear what, but she turned aside, chin high.
    Her hair was pulled back in a neat French plait, not loose round her face as he’d seen it before, but he recognized the turn of her head. Faith. Braking, he pulled over to the kerb next to her.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ It was almost a mile from St Ursula’s.
    ‘Waiting for you.’
    ‘Me? Why?’
    ‘I wanted to see you,’ Faith said. ‘To talk. You’d better give me your mobile number, then I can text you next time.’
    Greg registered the
next time
. ‘Has something happened?’ He was aware of being seen by everyone coming down the driveway—him and a St Ursula’s girl.
    ‘No. Why? Does something have to happen for me to want to see you?’
    He felt self-conscious, annoyed, pleased. ‘Come on, then. We can’t stand here. Let’s go somewhere.’
    Where? Not home. Katy would be there, all eyes and ears and snipey remarks.
    ‘We could go into town. Get a coffee,’ Faith said.
    In the burger bar at the far end, he thought she meant. They set off, Greg pushing his bike, Faith walking beside him, accompanied by wolf-whistles from some tedious kids behind. When they reached the High Street, Faith stopped outside Casa Veronese, the Italian restaurant near the church.
    ‘You mean here? Will they let us in?’
    ‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Faith said. ‘We’re customers, same as everyone else.’
    ‘I know that. I meant can we have just coffee?’
    ‘Don’t see why not. I’ll ask.’
    Greg secured his bike and Faith led the way inside. The Italian waiter recognized her and showed them to a table by the window, bringing menus. The decor was minimalist—elegant black tables and chairs, white walls hung with paintings of skewed red squares. There were no other customers; the tables were set for dinner.
    Faith handed back the menu without looking at it. ‘Just cappuccino, please. No flaked chocolate. Greg?’
    ‘The same. With chocolate,’ Greg said. When the waiter had gone, he asked jokily, ‘Do you come here often?’
    ‘I’ve eaten here a few times with my parents. We love Italian food.’
    Greg was silent. One glance at the menu had shown him that Casa Veronese was out of his parents’ price range. They rarely ate out as a family, and when they did it was a bar meal at the pub. Surreptitiously he checked the coins in his pocket, hoping he had enough for a cappuccino. It was another reminder of the difference between Faith’s background and his own; it made him uncomfortable. He would have felt happier in the burger bar, drinking from a styrofoam