‘Nah,’ I interrupt. ‘Definitely Village of the Damned!’
‘“Come and play with us, for ever and ever and ever and ever and…”‘ Shimmi intones in a spooky voice, until Nathalie actually looks like she’s going to wee herself with fear.
Then we all burst into hysterical laughter, and we can’t stop.
Even though it’s totally worth it, waking up at Nathalie’s is always rubbish – it’s freezing in her enormo-house first thing in the morning. Nathalie and Shimmi are both still fast asleep. I switch off the TV, which has been on silent all night, and pad quietly into the kitchen to ring my mum. Unlike Shimmi, who’d move into Nathalie’s house and be adopted by her parents if she was allowed, I like staying over at Nathalie’s, but then I like to go home and be in my own house.
Usually someone in my household is up and about, and prepared to give me a lift on a Saturday morning. Unfortunately, I am still a way off driving, and even further off a shiny car of my own like a large proportion of my classmates are automatically given on their seventeenth birthdays. Daisy answers the phone; of course my mum’s there but still asleep, so Daisy and Pete will come and get me. The two of them are already up and watching cartoons, apparently.
Almost no sooner than I’ve changed into day clothes and packed my little overnight bag – actually an ancient old-lady vanity case that I found in Oxfam last year – I hear Pete’s crazy sports car growling up the driveway and I slip out through the ludicrously grand electric gates. Nathalie and Shimmi are used to this disappearing act, so I don’t have to wake them up.
‘Morning, Sorana, you dirty stop-out.’
Pete always says this and thinks it’s funny. He’s sweet, and tries really, really hard to get on with Daisy and me, so I don’t hold it against him.
There are only two seats in Pete’s car, so Daisy squashes up on my lap – she loves going fast, so wouldn’t have missed this early morning ride for all the chocolate in the world.
‘Don’t tell your mum,’ Pete says automatically.
Mum hates Pete’s car, and especially hates Daisy and me going in it when Pete breaks the speed limit, which we encourage him to do as much as possible. We take a slight detour to stop at Krispy Kreme on the way home; Pete gives Daisy the money to run in and get a mixed dozen to share for breakfast. Yep, Saturdays at my house are all right.
By the time we get home my mum is up, still wearing her dressing gown and singing along with Radio Two in the kitchen. Basically, it’s no wonder Pete’s so desperate for the seal of approval from Daisy and me, because my mum is stupidly pretty and really quite cool for a mum. She looks like me, but somehow really beautiful in a way that I’m most definitely not. This would give me hopes of improving with time, if not for the fact that I’ve seen photos of my mum when she was my age – sadly, she was already a full-blown hottie.
I make myself the world’s weakest coffee and pretend to enjoy it in between scarfing down bites of chocolate-cream doughnut. Mum’s already demolished an apple-cinnamon when she sits down and reaches across me for a second one.
‘How was Nathalie’s?’
‘You know, palatial. The usual. How was your evening?’
‘You know, sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll. The usual.’
‘Ha ha, very funny. The sad thing is your night probably was more rock ‘n’ roll than mine!’
‘Well, we did have a kitchen dance party to Santigold – so let’s call it a draw. Now, what are you doing today?’
‘Um, dunno?’
My mum rolls her eyes, grins and fake-throttles me out of what she calls my ‘clichéd teenage ennui’.
‘Well, I’m taking Daisy into town for summer school sandals, if you want to come with us? I got paid yesterday; make the most of it. If you find something you like, we’ll call it an early birthday present. Not long to go now.’
I’d better jump at this chance while I can. Despite my protestations to the contrary round at Nathalie’s house last night, I’m keeping all of my fingers and toes crossed that Josh will blow off his rugby party and turn up at my house later.
My heart leaps a tiny bit as I watch the Greens’ massive Range Rover pull up outside our house, from the safety of my bedroom with the overhead light switched off. If they came in ‘the beast’ rather than Tina’s little yellow Mini, this must mean the whole family is in attendance…
There’s Tina – my mum’s best friend – and her husband Greg, followed by Tristan, Josh’s little brother, leaping out of the back ninja-style. And that’s it. The car does that annoying double-beep and locking sound behind them, just to rub it in.
I’m not so much heartbroken as a bit blah. Especially when I add up all those hours of wasted time – washing, blow-drying and straightening my hair; painstakingly applying liquid eyeliner; painting my nails and toenails a new shade of navy blue that I bought in town today; trying on three different outfits before settling on leggings, flat sandals and a short shift dress in sixties fabric that I bought on Etsy. Not to mention wasting some of the last precious drops of my Marc Jacobs perfume that I’m trying to eke out until my birthday, when I might get enough cash to buy some more.
‘Sorana!’ my mum’s voice inevitably drifts up the stairs.
‘Oh my God!’ I hear when I am only halfway down into the hall. ‘Sorana, you look more like your mother every time I see you. Only much younger and taller and thinner, obviously – damn you. Lucy, your daughter is getting far too beautiful.’
I’d be flattered if Tina didn’t say this sort of thing to everyone. She’s my mum’s best friend – they used to work together. She’s about ten years older than my mum but she’s immensely cool, with a loud voice and hair that changes colour every week. It’s currently pillar-box red, with a quiff at the front. Josh finds her mortifying and I don’t blame him, but she takes it with the sort of good humour that annoys him even more – Tina’s awesome, but I’m quite glad she’s not my mother.
‘Josh is following in his own car,’ she adds. ‘I hope you don’t mind him having such bad manners – he’s just going to pop in for some food and then he’s got a party to whizz off to later. You know what these teenagers are like.’
‘Only too well.’ Mum shoots me a smile as she says it. ‘Now, what are you drinking?’
Daisy and Tristan – who are roughly the same age, just as Josh and I are – have already disappeared to play on the Wii. I pour myself a glass of wine, and then I have to try not to react when I hear the doorbell ring. Instead, I choke on my drink and do a weird half-cough/half-hiccup type thing and fiddle with the buckle on my shoe like the meaning of life is stuck in it somewhere.
‘Sorana!’ Pete shouts, wearing oven gloves and poking his head out from the kitchen. ‘Can you get the door, please?’
‘Yeah, all right, calm down.’ I immediately feel bad for snapping at Pete, who is never anything but totally easy-going. ‘I mean, yeah, OK, just a minute…’
Deep breath. Gather.
‘Oh, hey, Josh – how are you doing?’
‘Not bad, not bad. How are we?’
Josh casually kisses me on the cheek before walking straight past me and heading into the kitchen, where he falls into instant conversation with Pete and Greg. Assessing him objectively from afar, I do kind of wonder what I ever saw in Josh. It’s not as if we have anything in common, except for our families and age. I mean, he’s wearing a rugby shirt, board shorts and flip-flops even though it’s raining outside.
‘And what the hell did you do to your hair, kid?’ Pete asks out loud. ‘Didn’t