So then I said, ‘It’s different for me. I know one day I’ll be tall, like Mum. I think I’m going to be beautiful.’
So then they all went very quiet, except Cindy, who said ‘You can’t say that.’
And although I was already regretting it, I was brave, and said ‘I just did, so what?’
Quite soon after that the three of them began to talk about how they were going to give me a present. It started one Saturday, which is the day some girls have parcels from their parents. A lot of girls, in fact, so it gets a bit competitive. Some mothers don’t have to work, like mine does, – (lazy!) – so they spend their whole time making great big parcels with chocolate bars and Heat magazine and Bobbi Brown liquid eye-liner, which we’re not allowed to wear, by the way, but the girls who get them go Ooooh and Aaaah and Oh, my mother is such a sweetie, look what she’s sent me this time, everybody!
As it happens I haven’t had a parcel yet. I know it’s because my mum is so busy. And so I am Mature about it. I’ve decided I’m not a Materialist, except I really want that phone.
So apparently Cindy, whose mum hadn’t sent one either, had got it in her head I wasn’t happy because I was stuck on a table of show-offs. (In fact I wasn’t bothered, they can all fuck off with their Stupid Idle Full-time Mothers.)
So later that day she came in with Linda to C13 where I was doing prep and said ‘We’ve decided to do something nice for you, because we like you, but it’s a secret.’ So I said ‘It’s not my birthday yet,’ and she said ‘It doesn’t matter, we just want to do it.’
And then for two weeks the three of them were talking in whispers about this Secret Present, and laughing a lot, and not explaining, because they said then it wouldn’t be a surprise. And they said ‘We’re going to give it you on Saturday morning, because that’s the day it’s nice to have something special.’
And when they said that, I started to hate them, because I could see they felt sorry for me, and no-one needs to feel sorry for me, because I am really a Strong Person, but another part of me which is soft and weedy enjoyed the attention, and feeling special, because they kept repeating that I was ‘special’, so they had this ‘special’ gift for me. And everybody wants to be special.
And whenever I came into a room where they were, they hid whatever they were doing, and giggled a lot, and were all simpery-smiley, Ooh Gerda, how are you, lovely to see you, your Special Surprise is nearly ready.
And I hate to admit it, but I got quite excited. I thought I was popular at last. Not that I wanted to be popular. Heroes don’t need to be popular.
But deep inside me was a kind of Gollum, a slithery Gollum like in Lord of the Rings, which wanted everyone to like me, because that had never happened before, because of my weirdness.
So for a bit I was almost Obsessed, and thought about it when I was in bed, because I need to have good things to think about before I can get to sleep in this place. Because I seem to have lost my dreams. My Wonderful Dreams that I’ve had since I was a baby.
(I do believe they’ll come back one day.)
So the weekend arrived when they were going to give me this Special Present they’d made all the fuss about. Saturday breakfast was the same time as usual, i.e. too early – these posh schools have normal lessons on Saturday morning, which is outrageous. (Because lots of girls are so thick that they need them.) I don’t need them. I prefer to read books.
I admit I might not have been looking my best, because I had got up in a hurry, and had not combed my hair, and had sleep in my eyes. I was sitting at a long table facing the window, because I love spring, and the trees were coming out, and the tiny green leaves made me feel happy, because the same tiny leaves would be unfolding at home, and so I hadn’t lost everything. And the same sun shone in a bar on the table, a bar of gold that reached out to me.
And I thought, ‘Tonight my dreams will come back.’ And then I thought, ‘Maybe Dad will come home, and he will save me from this Dump,’ and that thought was happy and sort of heroic, I saw him striding into Maths looking handsome and saying ‘My daughter is coming with me,’ but then I found I was almost crying, which shows I was being Sentimental, which Dad is always very down on, and also, that day I wanted to be happy, and so I stared back at the sun on the trees. Trees would be budding all over England. And Scotland too, but I’ve never been there, because Mum always says ‘Oh, Scotland, boring boring, why don’t we go to Egypt?’The buds were bright, like dots of green glass, and the sun lit them up so they were like a necklace.
And I was glad when my ‘friends’ arrived, because I enjoyed it when they called out ‘Gerda, Gerda how are you, how are you today?’
(I know it wasn’t really that I liked them so much, just that the Gollum inside me felt all smiley-wiley because it thought other people would notice and think, ‘Oh Gerda’s popular.’ And I agree that that’s pathetic, but I am still young, and Will Get Better.)
And so I sat there smiling at them – and partly because of the leaves, and the sunlight, and suddenly feeling it wasn’t so bad, this Hell-hole which my dumb mother had chosen.
Then Cindy produced something from behind her back, with a silly flourish like a waiter. ‘At last it’s finished, it’s from all of us, we really hope that you will like it!’ Her face looked peculiar, sort of partly nervous, but at the same time she was laughing so much that I could hardly hear what she said.
The Special Present was an envelope, quite fat, with ‘Gerda Lamb-Kaye’ in capital letters. I like my full name but at primary school a boy called Darren teased me because it sounded like Manky, or Monkey. Darren was bright but drove everyone mad, and he was also a Total Div. Two nice boys who loved me punched him by the fish-tank and he got a nose-bleed all over his T-shirt. That stopped the bullying! Yay! Besides, the teachers at primary school definitely didn’t allow bullying.
In any case, there was my Special Present.
When I think about it, my cheeks get hot. I actually got up and hugged the Bitch (or Wanker as the case may be.) Though I have nothing to be ashamed of.
And the others all giggled, they were so excited, and I thought it was because they had done something nice. Because some people laugh with happiness. When I am happy, I laugh all the time. But since I came here, I haven’t laughed much.
I am going to send Mum another email.
What’s the matter with her? Why isn’t she answering? She can’t have much to do, in New York. She must have got rid of that woman by now.
Maybe she’s started another novel. I shall finish Part the Second here, and email her.
23
ANGELA
Virginia was hyperaware of odours. Chemical odours, not her own. She found the interiors of buildings stifling. I took her for a walk in Central Park. She became so elated I started to worry.
VIRGINIA
Free at last! We had been walking for an hour and still not reached the northern tip. It was almost like being in the country. (Not quite: running people kept passing us, covered with sweat, attached to machines.) Spring had scattered the park with beauty – as we entered from Fifth Avenue, the sun on the plane trees was fresh & bright, each tiny leaf was blowing, dancing – the stuck traffic had turned to a procession, yellow taxis played their horns, blinkered horses shook coloured plumes & even the plastic flowers on their carriages shone with life, quivered like feathers – sea-winds had blown the grime away – everything looked crystalline. A fur of tiny yellow-green crystals electrified the outline of branches, mauve and white crocuses starred the grass, there were dazzling mirrors of silver-blue sky on