I was blank, and I must have looked it. “Which is?”
She grinned. “This is why I love you, Helen Palmer, you’re so innocent. Like genuinely. It’s really cute.”
“That just about sums up my entire life, thanks very much, Lizzie.”
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. He really has got you all grouchy, hasn’t he?” She tutted. “It’s jealousy. That’s the strongest weapon in your arsenal.”
“Jealousy? You think a man like Mr Roberts is going to be jealous?” I scoffed at the absurdity. “Jealous of what, exactly?”
“All men get jealous, Hels. Women, too. Everyone gets jealous, even if they are super good at hiding it. It’s like a fixed law of humanity.”
“Even at the outside chance that Mr Roberts could be made jealous, how would I do it?” The thought made me feel all lurchy and horrible.
“Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” She smirked at me. “We need to get you a boyfriend.”
I laughed aloud. “A boyfriend?! Like that’s going to happen anytime this century. I’m in love with Mr Roberts. He’s the only one I ever wanted, in case you haven’t noticed already.”
“Yeah, well, you want to catch the monkey you need to open your horizons up and get a bigger monkey trap.” I pulled a face at her analogy and she did, too. “What I mean is, you need to rethink your strategy…”
“And get a boyfriend?”
“Don’t sound so disgusted… there are other male specimens in the world besides Rampant Roberts, you know. Some of them are even alright…”
“None that I’ve noticed.” I stared at the ceiling, at the twinkle of fluorescent star stickers still up there from primary school.
“Best case is that Mr Roberts can’t handle it, and boom, you’re in. Worst case, maybe you even like the new guy and ditch the virgin shit. It’s a win-win.”
“And who’s going to go out with me?” I couldn’t even look at her. “I hardly get a queue of offers, Lizzie. I’m the outsider. Nobody notices me.”
She took my hand and squeezed it tight, and pulled the covers higher around us both.
“You leave that to me,” she said.
***
Mark
I can’t remember a time I was as nervous as I was waiting for Helen to turn up in my art room. Monday came and went and I didn’t hear a peep from her. It felt strange, and empty in my classroom, even though I’d rarely have seen her on a Monday anyway. And that’s when I realised it wasn’t the classroom that felt strange and empty. It was me.
Fuck you.
I’d deserved that. I still deserved that.
And she deserved better than me and my mixed messages. So I’d steered well clear through the weekend. Even though I was preoccupied to the point of insanity, my brain spinning through events on loop, through the day, through the night, through everything, I kept well away from her.
When she arrived for her lesson on Tuesday morning, she looked different. She looked drawn and sad and lacklustre.
She wouldn’t meet my eyes, just sat herself directly behind Harry Sawbridge while I took class, and that big oaf blocked my view obliviously, yawning his idiot face off. The guy should never have been in my A-level art class, he was both lazy and talentless.
She returned to her usual bench when I stopped speaking, and I ached to go over there. Her shoulders were tense as she painted, and her brush strokes were jerky little lines that lacked any real finesse. And it pained me, it really pained me to see her that way.
I took my time approaching her, and she didn’t acknowledge me until I spoke.
“Is that a new technique?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
“You always care, Helen.”
“Not today.”
I sighed, and leaned in closer, hoping nobody else could hear me. They were gabbling on about the holidays anyway, and about the winter ball. Gabbling on about anything but the paintings in front of them. “I think we should talk.”
“To say what? I want you and you don’t want me? I already know that, thanks.” Her voice was hissy and her eyes were pained.
“That isn’t how it is.” My voice was nothing but a whisper.
“How is it, then? Do you want me, or not?”
“It’s not that simple…”
“Then you don’t. I’ve got nothing to talk about.” She jabbed her brush against the canvas and it smudged.
I leaned in so close my mouth was at her ear, and I closed my eyes, just to savour the smell of her, hoping, praying that none of the useless idiots in the room would notice me. “I want the best for you, Helen. That’s all I want.”
She turned her face to mine and her eyes were angry and hurt. “Who are you to say what’s best for me?” Her voice was just a breath. “I’m not a child.”
“But you are in my care.”
“Not for much longer,” she said, and turned her attention back to the painting. “In a few months I’ll be gone, and you can forget I ever existed.”