Waiting for Callback (31 page)

I was just imagining Flissy (who I could see making out athletically with James in the bushes) catching her hair on fire when I felt Archie’s hand on my cheek turning my face towards him.
I looked at him for a minute. Was he waiting for me to say something? I stared desperately at the bushes, willing them to lend me a line. Nope, nothing.

‘Don’t you just, like, love what she’s done with the candles and lights and stuff?’ I babbled. Where were the Hollywood scriptwriter and director when you needed
them?

I could feel Archie looking at me; it was intense.

Or maybe he was just worried about my lack of social skills.

I dared another proper look at him and stopped. God, he was hot. I could feel his hands moving up my arms, down over my shoulders and my back and round my waist again, holding me tight, and then
he started to kiss me. I didn’t realize until it had started, not because it was a stealth attack like in the audition, but because it happened naturally. When Damian had lunged, my brain had
gone into horrified overdrive, but this time I didn’t
think
anything at all. Anyway, my optimism about kissing had been well founded.

I sort of sensed another couple coming and sitting next to us. I would have preferred us to have been on our own, but I wasn’t going to stop unless it was my mum who’d just sat
down.

Even if someone knows what they’re doing (and Archie did), you need to break off eventually. I didn’t really know what to say so I just sort of smiled at him goofily, but to be
honest he just sort of smiled goofily back.

‘Hey, Archie.’ It was a familiar voice.

I peered out from under Archie’s arm; I was a bit blurry-eyed with the kissing, but yep, I was definitely sitting next to Moss. And Moss was sitting next to (well, on) Torr. This was
awkward.

‘Hey, it’s Archie, right?’ Torr was introducing himself and within minutes Archie was getting up, leaving a cold, Archie-shaped space, and he was talking to Torr, not me, and
Torr was nodding and getting up, no doubt leaving a cold, Torr-shaped space.

‘Shall we leave them to it for a bit?’ suggested Torr and Archie was nodding and – and there is no other word for it – they
abandoned
us.

Moss and I sat next to each other in a loud sort of silence for some long minutes.

‘So you finally got with Archie.’ She broke it first.

‘Obviously.’

‘About time.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Good decision.’

‘Uh-huh . . . So, things going well with Torr still?’

‘Obviously.’

‘That’s a long time now.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Good decision.’ It was
her
decision so I meant it.

There was another long pause during which we kept giving each other sideways looks. ‘Nice . . . distressed thingy,’ I said, gesturing at what she was wearing (a skinny, black,
distressed thingy which on her, of course, looked amazing).

‘Your legs have got longer,’ she said, gesturing at my very short skirt, which had ridden up even higher. We both started to laugh a bit nervously, but it was still laughter.

I stopped. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I said and I was so, so serious.

‘Don’t. I’m sorry too.’

‘I’ve missed you so, so much,’ I said and she was saying it back at the same time and we couldn’t talk because it was a party and really, really loud so we just did the
whole girly, huggy love thing until Archie and Torr judged it safe to come back.

Then we did more hugging but less girly.

It was kind of predictable that I got home late. Not that late but late enough. It was predictable that Mum waited up. It was also predictable that she’d been having a
nervous breakdown.

‘Why do you never pick up your phone?’ she said (as she so often did).

‘I didn’t hear it ring,’ I protested (as I quite often did).

‘If you can’t behave responsibly when you’re out, then you can’t go out,’ she said (she didn’t say that very often because I didn’t really go out very
often).

‘You’ve no idea how responsibly I behaved.’ And comparatively speaking that was true.

She paced and tutted for a bit, but couldn’t help herself. ‘Are you hungry? Do you want pasta?’

‘Yes, please.’ I was starving.

‘Fine. I’ll make you pasta and you sit down and tell me everything.’

Oh. OK, this pasta had strings attached.

‘Moss was there,’ I said.

She looked worried. ‘Oh, dear, did you have another argument?’

‘No, it was really nice to talk to her. It was all good.’

‘I’m pleased,’ said Mum simply and for once had the sense not to ask me any questions about something that mattered. It didn’t mean she wasn’t going to ask
any
questions. ‘So, did you have fun?’

‘Uh-huh.’ I went as non-committal as possible; I didn’t want her to think I hadn’t had fun, but I definitely didn’t want her to know how much fun I’d had.

‘So you didn’t have fun.’

‘No, no, I did.’ I just really didn’t want to tell her about it.

‘Was it awful? You hated it? They were mean to you?’ Every teenage parenting book she’d ever read had been preparing her for this moment. ‘Darling, if anything happened,
anyone peer-pressured you, you did anything you regret, you can tell me.’

‘NOTHING HAPPENED! I LOVED THE PARTY!’

‘Why do you sound angry then? Something’s obviously upset you. Just tell me – stop being so defensive.’

I spoke very slowly, like you’d speak to a small, rather stupid child who was threatening to throw themselves under a train. ‘No, I had a very, very nice time. The party was amazing.
I didn’t drink anything. I did no drugs. I did not engage in sexual contact.’

‘Oh, all right.’ She almost looked disappointed. ‘Who did then?’

She was a lost cause. I ended up telling her about Flissy’s ‘moment’ in the bushes because my judgement was a bit impaired, it was seriously funny, I owed no loyalty to Flissy
and Mum deserved payment for the pasta.

She took this as proof that the party was a rampant orgy, then she let me go to bed, her fears about not having anything to worry about allayed.

My phone was ringing, but by the time I found it – under the bed, under a tangle of tights – whoever was phoning had given up. A minute later, there was a single
woof and a text glowed on the screen.

Are you awake?

I am now
. I love Moss, but she has an abnormal body clock and is stupidly conversational in the mornings.

I had a seriously weird dream last night

Unlikely to have been as weird as mine. I’d dreamt I was at the callback, stark – completely no knickers – naked. Also I couldn’t find my script. That was the bad bit.
Was I in it?

Yes
. Good. I would have been offended if I hadn’t been.

Was it good?

Er, not exactly

Then don’t tell me

It wasn’t pervy. But Archie was in it

Did it end well?

Not really

THEN DON’T TELL ME
. I really didn’t need any more dream-related stress.

I’ll save it. Happy bout Archie?

Yes. Come over later and we can have a deep convo
.

Yaaaaay. Will you give me ALL the goss?

I’ll give you the highlights

Can’t come till evening — is that OK for you?

I was pretty sure that meant she was seeing Torr.

Perfect. I’ve got to revise. And it’s just possible that Archie might drop by . . .

You’re not going to go all . . . unavailable on me, are you?

LOL
. I was taking a risk there.

Hahaha

Mum yelled up the stairs. Apparently, if I wasn’t down for breakfast within five minutes, I wouldn’t be getting any. Also, apparently, I didn’t really deserve breakfast on
account of being late home.

‘You look tired.’

I didn’t say, ‘You always look tired,’ because that would have been harsh. Also I didn’t say, ‘You shouldn’t have waited up,’ because that would have
just started her off again.

‘I suppose you’re hungry.’

‘Starving.’

‘I thought you might be. Bacon sandwiches?’

‘Thanks, Mum. Love you.’ It was the best smell in the world again; Digby was beside himself. ‘Did Stella call?’ I asked through a mouthful. I’d propped my mobile up
against the milk jug so I could keep an eye on it at all times.

Mum shook her head, ‘No. Anyway, under our new regime she’ll call
you
first.’

I’d forgotten. ‘Do you think we’ll hear on Monday?’

‘I don’t know. I think you should try to put it out of your head. You’ve got school; how about just concentrating on finishing your homework?’ I could see her fighting
the temptation to add ‘for once’ to the end of that sentence.

How could I be expected to concentrate on E=VxQ with everything that was going on?

‘And you’ve got exams. They’re not going to revise themselves, you know. Parties or no parties. Boy or no boy. Film or no film.’

She said the strangest things. I escaped into the garden where I could sit under a tree and
no one would talk to me
. If the price for solitude was a stab at revision, it was a price I was
prepared to pay.

Also I really didn’t want to fail my exams.

At least it was revision for English and not physics. Newton might have managed insights under a tree, but it wouldn’t work for me. Our set drama text was
Waiting for Godot
: an odd
play, the point of which is that there isn’t a point. Most of the time there’s just two old guys with only a tree for company, waiting – just waiting – for Godot; and who or
what he is nobody knows. You couldn’t call it
gripping
, but I secretly liked it. How could you not like a play with lines like: ‘Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes,
it’s awful!’? Actually, they should have made it with teenagers – just substituted the tree for a phone and that’s about 90 per cent of my life. They could have called it
Waiting for Something to Happen/Anything to Happen
.