school’s narrow hallway had been, on a daily basis, a combination of the Vanity Fair post-Oscars party and the Newsnight greenroom, as high-end TV presenters pushed past Westminster power brokers. Less-rich parents, it was said, took out mortgages in advance of the summer fête. This was so they could bid for raffle prizes ranging from trips in other parents’ private planes to walk-on parts in their films.
Meanwhile, Campion Primary was a state school of some two hundred and seventy pupils and had seemed, to Diana’s panicking eyes, a shanty town of prefabricated and temporary-looking units set on broken tarmac and cracked concrete. Of the notices stuck all over the walls, the emergency, anti-bullying and Childline numbers were the ones that leapt out. The acting headmistress, during their brief meeting, had seemed a severely harassed woman mainly in the business of crowd control.
To make things worse, the first term of the year had already started. Friends, Diana fretted, would have been made, alliances formed. It was into this alien world that Rosie would walk alone tomorrow. And yet she seemed utterly unruffled. Diana urged herself to feel the same.
‘I love this film,’ Ellie sighed joyfully. ‘It’s the best bit, too.’
Isabel, snuggled amid the teddies and the cushions on Ellie’s bed, felt almost ridiculously happy. Uni was bliss, as Ellie herself might say. Dinner at the Incinerator had been great fun, despite all the hard concrete surfaces making for a deafening noise of clattering plates, clashing cutlery and voices. But Isabel had loved looking about at all the other new students from the safe haven of Ellie’s companionship and thinking how alone and vulnerable she would have felt without her.
The food had been, at best, unremarkable. ‘We used to have something like this at school; we used to call it “Dead Man’s Leg”,’ Ellie said, poking the unidentifiable meat about her plate. ‘And that pudding of yours is just like one we used to have at St Mary’s. “Nun’s Toenails”, we used to call it.’
Isabel had laughed. Even the bad food at Ellie’s school sounded fun. In the Turd, afterwards, she had sat against the blue-lit, curved concrete walls and – after Ellie’s example – drunk vodka while her companion assessed the romantic possibilities. ‘Not great,’ was Ellie’s conclusion after a swift scrutiny of the available talent. ‘Fat hippies, mostly, and Goths in guyliner.’ Isabel wasn’t sure what guyliner was, but there was no disagreeing with the rest; large, shambling long-haired types in black T-shirts seemed overrepresented in her view.
‘No one to practise my snogging skills on,’ Ellie lamented, then giggled at Isabel’s expression. ‘You looked so shocked! But that’s pretty much all we learnt at school: how to snog and how not to get a hangover.’
Isabel stared at the vodka in her hand and felt she didn’t have much of a clue about either. She felt lumpishly unsophisticated in comparison. But Ellie must have learnt something else at school, surely, or she wouldn’t be here.
They went back to Ellie’s room and set up the laptop.
‘We spent our lives watching DVDs at school,’ Ellie said.
Isabel was beginning to feel she had attended Ellie’s south-of-England girls’ school herself. Perhaps she just wished she had been part of the jokes, the camaraderie, the communal atmosphere. It certainly seemed more real to her than the far-distant lochside where, right this moment, her mother would probably be sitting alone in front of the TV. Isabel pushed the thought away – she would ring tomorrow – and tried to concentrate on the film, Dog For Christmas .
‘Two lonely people who, after hilarious misadventures, misunderstandings and mistakes, are brought together by a loveable mongrel just in time for the festive season.’
Isabel, feeling warm and woozy after the vodka, was conscious of missing various crucial plot twists because of her eyelids
Meanwhile, Campion Primary was a state school of some two hundred and seventy pupils and had seemed, to Diana’s panicking eyes, a shanty town of prefabricated and temporary-looking units set on broken tarmac and cracked concrete. Of the notices stuck all over the walls, the emergency, anti-bullying and Childline numbers were the ones that leapt out. The acting headmistress, during their brief meeting, had seemed a severely harassed woman mainly in the business of crowd control.
To make things worse, the first term of the year had already started. Friends, Diana fretted, would have been made, alliances formed. It was into this alien world that Rosie would walk alone tomorrow. And yet she seemed utterly unruffled. Diana urged herself to feel the same.
‘I love this film,’ Ellie sighed joyfully. ‘It’s the best bit, too.’
Isabel, snuggled amid the teddies and the cushions on Ellie’s bed, felt almost ridiculously happy. Uni was bliss, as Ellie herself might say. Dinner at the Incinerator had been great fun, despite all the hard concrete surfaces making for a deafening noise of clattering plates, clashing cutlery and voices. But Isabel had loved looking about at all the other new students from the safe haven of Ellie’s companionship and thinking how alone and vulnerable she would have felt without her.
The food had been, at best, unremarkable. ‘We used to have something like this at school; we used to call it “Dead Man’s Leg”,’ Ellie said, poking the unidentifiable meat about her plate. ‘And that pudding of yours is just like one we used to have at St Mary’s. “Nun’s Toenails”, we used to call it.’
Isabel had laughed. Even the bad food at Ellie’s school sounded fun. In the Turd, afterwards, she had sat against the blue-lit, curved concrete walls and – after Ellie’s example – drunk vodka while her companion assessed the romantic possibilities. ‘Not great,’ was Ellie’s conclusion after a swift scrutiny of the available talent. ‘Fat hippies, mostly, and Goths in guyliner.’ Isabel wasn’t sure what guyliner was, but there was no disagreeing with the rest; large, shambling long-haired types in black T-shirts seemed overrepresented in her view.
‘No one to practise my snogging skills on,’ Ellie lamented, then giggled at Isabel’s expression. ‘You looked so shocked! But that’s pretty much all we learnt at school: how to snog and how not to get a hangover.’
Isabel stared at the vodka in her hand and felt she didn’t have much of a clue about either. She felt lumpishly unsophisticated in comparison. But Ellie must have learnt something else at school, surely, or she wouldn’t be here.
They went back to Ellie’s room and set up the laptop.
‘We spent our lives watching DVDs at school,’ Ellie said.
Isabel was beginning to feel she had attended Ellie’s south-of-England girls’ school herself. Perhaps she just wished she had been part of the jokes, the camaraderie, the communal atmosphere. It certainly seemed more real to her than the far-distant lochside where, right this moment, her mother would probably be sitting alone in front of the TV. Isabel pushed the thought away – she would ring tomorrow – and tried to concentrate on the film, Dog For Christmas .
‘Two lonely people who, after hilarious misadventures, misunderstandings and mistakes, are brought together by a loveable mongrel just in time for the festive season.’
Isabel, feeling warm and woozy after the vodka, was conscious of missing various crucial plot twists because of her eyelids
Similar Books
