Mum smiled at me at least. “I thought you’d be happy, love, with all that art stuff going on next week.”
But I wasn’t going to paint the set. Mr Roberts didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want to make things any more awkward than they were already. It had been written all over his face today; his hands stuffed in his pockets as though I was unhinged enough to try and grab hold of him or something. And then his fake meeting at just the right time. That and the forced normality.
The whole thing was cringeworthy.
“Leave it if you’re just going to play with it,” Dad said. “Put it in the microwave for later, or chuck it over here if it’s going to waste.”
I handed him my bowl and he emptied the contents into his. I’d just made it to my room when my phone started bleeping from my bag. I rummaged for it, expecting it to be Lizzie, but the number wasn’t in my contacts list.
My stomach felt like it was falling. No. Surely not.
“Hello…” I said, and even on the phone I sounded like a little mouse.
“Helen.”
My heart stopped.
“Hi, yeah…” I couldn’t stop the smile. “Hi.”
And I could tell he was smiling, too. “I’m sorry for the call, I just wanted to apologise, for earlier. You had questions, and I wasn’t there to answer them. I should’ve made time, Helen, I apologise.”
“It’s ok,” I said. “I understand…”
“But you don’t. There really was a meeting and I really was late for it. I didn’t want to leave you under the impression that I was avoiding you.” He took a breath. “I wouldn’t avoid you.”
I was glowing. Burning up at his voice. Insides spinning and tickling. “Thanks… for letting me know, I mean…”
“So, I shall be seeing you on Monday, yes?”
My smile was from ear to ear. “Yes… yes, you’ll be seeing me.”
“Good. Then I look forward to it. What questions did you have?”
“You, um… you just answered them…”
“I see.” The silence was loud but not unpleasant, heavy with words that weren’t spoken. He broke it first. “In that case, I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Yes. Yes you will.”
“Goodnight, Helen.”
“Goodnight, Mr Roberts.”
“It’s Mark,” he said.
Little wings fluttered around my ribcage.
And then he was gone.
Helen
I owed Lizzie big time, dragging her away from sexy time with Scottie Davis for virtually the entire weekend while we went through every item of clothing I owned, once, twice, three times. She’d tried to dress me up like I was going out on the pull, trying tirelessly to convince me of the practicality of wearing four-inch heels through a week’s worth of painting. Overruled. We’d called a truce over a cute little pair of ankle boots I hadn’t worn since last winter, and a loose turquoise dress shirt over jeans. The frilly underwear was uncomfortable, and I felt all trussed up and ruffly on my way to school. I just hoped it would be worth it.
I’d gone with makeup, but only a little. A dab of lip-gloss and the faintest dusting of silver shimmer eyeshadow to make my eyes sparkle. I was still freckly, skinny little Helen, even if I was wearing fancy undies, and that would have to do. Today it didn’t actually feel so bad. I felt good. I felt alive.
I felt excited.
My heart hammered as I passed through the school gates and made my way to the main hall. I was early but the doors were unlocked, and as I headed down the corridor, past the empty canteen, I could hear signs of movement.
Mr Roberts was dragging canvas frames across tarpaulin, positioning them ready for the painting to commence. He looked as though he’d been there a while already; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbow, and today there was no tie, just an old blue shirt over faded black jeans. He tucked his hair behind his ears and surveyed his finished arrangement. And then he saw me, and he smiled.
“Helen. Morning.”
“Morning, Mr Roberts.” I dropped my bag at the side of the main stage and discarded my jacket and scarf. He was watching me, I could feel it and it made me burn. “Just us?”
“For the moment.” He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it over. I scanned the names, ten in total, mine included. I smiled inside as I realised there was just me from sixth form, the other volunteers were younger, mainly year eights and nines.
I handed it back. “We should have a few hands on deck, then.”
“Let’s see how many actually show for us.”
For us.
He showed me the stage plans, and the outlines, and we laid out paints and rollers and brushes. We talked ideas and responsibilities and how we were going to split the volunteers, and he spoke to me like a colleague, a friend, a peer. He spoke to me like I was an adult.