Why did you say that, you idiot? Isn’t it obvious what he’s doing? Moving a great big sign from the pavement to the store. You sound like a moron!
‘I work here.’ He pointed at the store.
‘Oh, right! I didn’t know that, no one told me that at all. I had no idea. I was just walking this way home anyway, and there you were, are, were, whatever.’ Again she cursed her unnatural speech, spiked through with nerves, and the feeling of her cheeks and chest flushing red.
He looked at her quizzically. ‘How’s your summer going?’ he asked. And there it was, that fantastic, heart-flippingly glorious lopsided smile.
‘Good, yes, you know, hot!’ She fanned her face. ‘And yours?’
‘Good, yeah. Been working here, playing football, getting ready for uni.’
‘Cool – oh, you’re off to uni? Where are you going?’
Newcastle. Business Studies. This I know because I stalk you anonymously on Facebook. I know your mum is called Stella and works in Waitrose and your dad is Michael and works on oil rigs. I also know your birthday is the day before mine, 11 October.
‘Newcastle.’
‘Oh, really, Newcastle? Cool.’ For the love of God, stop saying, ‘cool’! It’s a word you literally never use, never! ‘And what are you studying?’
‘Business Studies.’
‘Oh wow! Business Studies. Brilliant. And they’ve got quite a football team. I mean, they’re no Chelsea, but . . .’ She swallowed, feeling her face flush further at the utter absurdity of the conversation and how far out of her depth she was paddling. If the shore was reason, she was already drifting towards a rip tide. She felt equally a little light-headed and thrilled by the prospect.
‘I didn’t know you liked football?’ He cocked his head to one side as if seeing her in a different light.
‘Yeah, I do. I do. I like lots of football.’ She nodded in an exaggerated fashion, kicking the toe of her sandal against the hot pavement. ‘I like the blues, Chelsea, who are blue, and I think Josie Macarena is doing a good job, don’t you?’ She swallowed.
‘Mourinho?’
‘Yeah, Mourinho.’ She cringed, having got the name so very wrong.
‘Well’ – Flynn ran his fingers through his hair – ‘he hasn’t been at Chelsea for a while. More recently he was at Man U and now Spurs.’
‘Oh! Spurs!’ She raised a finger as a memory stirred. ‘And Man U! They are the red ones?’
‘Yep.’ He nodded. ‘The red ones.’
I am going to kill you, Daksha Joshi. I am actually going to kill you!
‘Well, I’d better go.’ Flynn lifted the sign. ‘I think a few of us are going to the Derby Arms later.’
‘Oh! Cool!’ She wasn’t sure if this was an invitation or polite conversation, but her pulse raced either way. She recognised the importance of the moment, knowing that she was either being given the chance to make all her dreams come true and spend time in the company of this gorgeous boy who had fuelled her secret fantasies for the last couple of years, or it was an opportunity to make a monumental dick of herself. It still felt surreal that he was chatting politely to her, a girl in his year. A girl who didn’t even know the name of the current manager of Chelsea FC, for goodness’ sake, and a girl who could not stop saying ‘cool’, even though she was anything but. Victoria considered what to say, how to couch it. As she opened her mouth to speak, trusting her words to be appropriate and not garbled, a voice called from behind her:
‘Flynn!’
She turned to see none other than Courtney Mulholland walking at pace. She was deeply tanned, and her long legs and swingy blonde hair shone in the sun. Her teeth gleamed whiter than white, almost blue in tone, and her impressive chest was hoisted and partly exposed behind a keyhole crop top. Victoria looked down at her clunky brown sandals on the end of her pale, string-bean legs and swallowed the disappointment that nestled on her tongue.
Looking up at Flynn, she saw that his mouth had indeed fallen open a little and yes, his pants had fallen off. Well, not quite, but this wouldn’t have been a surprise. This was, after all, Courtney’s superpower.
Victoria raised her hand in a small wave of hello and goodbye, before taking out her phone, pretending to be absorbed in something fascinating on the screen and marching forward.
With the rocks of disappointment lining her stomach, the walk home seemed to take twice as long.
Why? Why would he look at you when there are girls like Courtney around? Did you really think you might be in with a chance? You lanky, freckly idiot! Her interior monologue sabotaged the sapling of confidence that had threatened to take root, strangling it before it had a chance to bloom.
By the time Victoria reached the lane, she was hot, thirsty and more than a little fed up. The sun had begun to sink behind the trees and she now wished she’d slung a jersey over her shoulders, the skin of which stung a little after being exposed to the sun. As she opened the wrought-iron gate, with the gravel crunching underfoot, she fished for the house key in her book bag. Remembering, as she did so, the burnished sheen to Courtney’s skin and cursing her own pale, freckled exterior, wishing, as Daksha had suggested, that she could walk in the shoes of those girls who were so sexy, so shiny, neat and perfect, just for one day. And she would choose today, tonight in fact, when she would stroll into the Derby Arms, order a large mimosa, and she would be quite magnificent.
‘I’m home, Prim!’ Victoria called, throwing her bag down on to the floor and depositing the delicious Greek delicacies and the jar of marmalade on the countertop in the kitchen before flicking on the kettle. A cup of chamomile tea might be just the thing to help restore her equilibrium. That, or she might actually make that big fat mimosa she now had a fancy for. She gulped down a large glass of water, letting it run over her chin and soak her vest. God, it was hot. Too hot.
Fl-ynnn! She recalled the precise way that Courtney had called his name, and it was alarming how much Victoria had managed to glean from the one word. Like a sommelier able to discern a range of tastes and scents from a mere drop of plonk, she had heard much in the single word: a heady bouquet of familiarity, with undertones of assuredness and an almost undetectable hint of ownership in the aftertaste. She paused and rested her outstretched arms on the countertop, cringing at the thought of her two classmates discussing her as she’d tripped away in her chunky sandals and the vest which highlighted her non-existent bust, in sharp contrast to the two envy-inducing balloons that fought for space inside Courtney’s lace bra. She knew it was going to take more than a coquettish giggle and a hair flick to make a boy like Flynn interested in a girl like her. He had mentioned the pub . . . Had there been more to that?
Don’t be ridiculous, Victoria.
Clamping her eyes shut, she wished she had not taken the detour past his workplace, wished she had never been told he was there. Having quietly liked and fantasised about him for the whole of school, it was a blow to know that she had effectively ruined any chance of him taking notice of her.
Thanks a bunch, Daks. Not that it was Daksha’s fault, but it felt good to have someone to blame. Maybe her gran would have top tips on how she too could be magnificent, although dancing braless in a wet slip was, she thought, a step too far!