“I like painting,” I said. “It’s no problem.”
“Well, we really do appreciate it. I’m sure you had fun, of course.”
I made myself smile. “Yeah, it was fun.”
“Long days painting.”
“Yeah, they were long days.”
“I’m sure Mr Roberts was good company, at least.”
And then I was feeling hot. I didn’t answer, just smiled. “I have English…”
“Of course, I’m sorry!” She put her hand on my arm. “I’ll be seeing you at the ball, yes?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Mr Roberts and I are chaperoning.”
“Cool.”
“It should be so much fun!”
“Can’t wait.”
“Bye then, Helen.”
“Bye, Miss Monkton.”
I had the strangest urge to flash her the finger as I walked away.
Lizzie came with me to the doctors. She insisted.
It was quite humiliating, her sitting there while I talked about my non-existent sexual history, but I was out of there in a lickety split, asides from some height-weight measurements and a pep talk about safe sex.
I’d have to take them until my next period. Lizzie announced with glee that that meant I’d be covered in the insanely unlikely event I went home with Harry after the ball.
Even the idea gave me the shivers.
All in all, life was pretty shit. My art was sucking, the weather was shitty, things with Lizzie were weird, and Harry Sawbridge was after my attention more and more each passing day. Not just in art, but around the school as well. He discovered mine and Lizzie’s secret smoking routine, and I wondered how coincidental that really was. Harry was ok, but he was just ok, just some other average person amongst the crowd.
The thought of kissing him made me feel sick, no matter how many times Lizzie tried to convince me otherwise.
I even stopped logging into my cam account. What was the point?
Mr Roberts was Mr Roberts again.
Only Mr Roberts.
I’d walk down to the river some evenings, even when it was raining, but I never saw him. I never saw him outside of class at all in fact, and I never heard a peep from him. He was just… him… friendly and professional and totally over me. Like he was ever into me in the first place.
Everything was going so horribly wrong.
Mum taking me shopping was a good excuse to have some time without Lizzie at least. We took the bus to Hereford on a Saturday morning, and it had been so long since we’d done that that I couldn’t help but smile on the way. Me and my mum. Just us. And it felt safe.
“It’s a special occasion,” she insisted. “Have whichever dress you want.”
It turned out that I didn’t want many of them. They were all ruffly and flouncy and sparkly and big. Or short, short and showgirly. Or vintage and way too trendy for a little outsider like me.
I’d all about given up when we dipped into a little boutique down Church Street, and then I saw it.
A shimmering cross between mauve and silver, satin and simple and perfectly understated. Perfectly me.
I took in a breath when I saw it, and Mum did, too.
“Oh, Helen! Helen, that’s so you!”
And she was right. It fit me like I’d been born to wear it. I did a little twirl and the dress moved with me, just enough, and I felt beautiful. More beautiful than I’d ever felt.
The sales assistant gushed, and Mum had a tear in her eye, and my sad little world seemed a little bit brighter until my stomach fell through the floor at the price tag.
The sales assistant made me twirl another time, showing off the definition of my back as the fabric sloped away. It was so pretty, and so tasteful, and so expensive.
Mum pulled out her credit card and I gasped.
“No!” I said. “It’s way too much!”
She waved me aside. “This is your special night with your new boyfriend, you’ll have the dress you want!”
And I felt unbelievably guilty all of a sudden, like a fraud. A horrible fraud.
I remembered the times gone by when we’d been close, and I was just a little girl and could tell her anything. I used to tell her about Mr Roberts, too.
Now we didn’t talk about anything.
But I missed it. I really missed it.
They handed me my dress in a pretty paper bag, and it was so light, like the fabric itself was made of air.
We stopped for a bite to eat before the bus home, and Mum asked me question after question about Harry.
What’s he like? What kind of person? How does he look? Who’s his favourite artist? How much do I like him?
I answered them as best I could, but my answers were short.
Eventually she looked sad, as though she was angling for information she knew I possessed but wasn’t sharing, and I wished more than anything I could just be honest.
It’s not Harry, Mum, I’m in love with Mr Roberts. And he wanted me, for just a while he wanted me. It was the happiest time of my life, but now I’m broken again.