does he mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ I lie, blushing. In a mortifying flash, I remember what happened during Hardwired’s performance at the local nightclub.
Hardwired is Sam’s band and they were doing a gig while I was backstage, helping Will uncover Dave Wiggins’s stolen goods racket. Escaping from Wiggins’s thugs, I blundered
onstage during Sam’s performance. Faced with a hooting crowd, I grabbed a tambourine and danced my way across the stage before racing into the wings to call the police.
Cindy’s busy texting back. ‘I’m telling him that your new look is a bit
out there
, even for London.’ She glances back at me and freezes. ‘Oh my God! Tell
me you’ve got a comb.’
‘Combing just makes it worse,’ I mumble.
‘Can’t you damp it down or something?’ she presses.
‘It’s the damp that sent it berserk,’ I tell her. Despair washes over me.
Cindy turns back towards the windscreen and drops her head into a hand. ‘Try and stay in the background, Gemma.’
Mr Harris pipes up. ‘I think your hair looks quite splendid, Gemma. You remind me of Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’
‘Stig of the Dump more like,’ Cindy mutters. She smoothes a hand over her own bob, which is still as sleek as silk. I hunch deep into my blazer and watch the fields flash past.
Cindy starts texting again. Her phone jangles happily as it sends texts back and forth, her phone beeping and peeping as messages fire to and fro.
Are they all from Sam?
Is he missing her that much?
Sadness sits like a cold cheeseburger in my stomach. I’m disappointed. I thought Sam would see through her sugary act.
I close my eyes and soak up the warmth of the morning sun as it stripes the back seat. My early start catches up with me and I start to feel drowsy. I listen to the steady drone of the engine
and drift into sleep.
The next thing I know, Cindy’s shaking my shoulder. I jerk awake, groggy. ‘Are we there?’
My door’s open and Cindy is glaring down at me. ‘Of course we’re there.’
Mr Harris is leaning against the bonnet. Behind him, rows of cars stretch towards a wide, ugly building.
‘Is that where we’re going?’ I unfasten my seat belt.
‘Yes.’ Cindy looks at her watch. ‘Teen Couture starts at nine-thirty, so if we hurry, we might have time to find a bathroom where you can tidy yourself up a bit.’
Mr Harris jangles his car keys. ‘I’ll be waiting when you come out. OK?’
‘You’re not coming in?’ I ask, surprised.
‘I’d rather do my crossword.’ Mr Harris points at a folded newspaper on his dashboard. ‘It’s more my scene. But I’ll be right here if there’s a
problem.’
Cindy flicks back her hair. ‘There won’t be any problem.’ She steps aside, motioning me out of the car with a flap of her hand. I try not to notice her bracelet as I climb
out.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Gemma.’ Cindy sounds exasperated. ‘You’ve been leaning on the seat belt and it’s left a red mark on your cheek.’ She heads
away, muttering.
I hare after her. ‘Thanks for bringing us, Mr Harris,’ I call over my shoulder.
‘Have fun!’ Mr Harris shouts.
My skirt feels shorter than ever and I tug at the hem as we near the building. My ripped tights have turned baggy after their soaking, streaked by mud where I fell, while my ballet shoes are
stained with puddle water.
Cindy doesn’t even look at me as she pushes through the front entrance and lets the door swing in my face. I catch it just in time. Cindy’s already showing our invites to the
security guard by the time I cross the thick carpet to the line of reception tables.
I gaze around, my heart racing. Ten-foot women are gliding around the foyer, groomed like show ponies. Men in immaculate suits are moving in packs. I feel like a mongrel at Crufts. There’s
a poster at the back of the hall.
Anna De Vine
Beneath the golden words is a woman’s face. It’s thick with make-up and looks stretched, as though half of
‘I don’t know,’ I lie, blushing. In a mortifying flash, I remember what happened during Hardwired’s performance at the local nightclub.
Hardwired is Sam’s band and they were doing a gig while I was backstage, helping Will uncover Dave Wiggins’s stolen goods racket. Escaping from Wiggins’s thugs, I blundered
onstage during Sam’s performance. Faced with a hooting crowd, I grabbed a tambourine and danced my way across the stage before racing into the wings to call the police.
Cindy’s busy texting back. ‘I’m telling him that your new look is a bit
out there
, even for London.’ She glances back at me and freezes. ‘Oh my God! Tell
me you’ve got a comb.’
‘Combing just makes it worse,’ I mumble.
‘Can’t you damp it down or something?’ she presses.
‘It’s the damp that sent it berserk,’ I tell her. Despair washes over me.
Cindy turns back towards the windscreen and drops her head into a hand. ‘Try and stay in the background, Gemma.’
Mr Harris pipes up. ‘I think your hair looks quite splendid, Gemma. You remind me of Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’
‘Stig of the Dump more like,’ Cindy mutters. She smoothes a hand over her own bob, which is still as sleek as silk. I hunch deep into my blazer and watch the fields flash past.
Cindy starts texting again. Her phone jangles happily as it sends texts back and forth, her phone beeping and peeping as messages fire to and fro.
Are they all from Sam?
Is he missing her that much?
Sadness sits like a cold cheeseburger in my stomach. I’m disappointed. I thought Sam would see through her sugary act.
I close my eyes and soak up the warmth of the morning sun as it stripes the back seat. My early start catches up with me and I start to feel drowsy. I listen to the steady drone of the engine
and drift into sleep.
The next thing I know, Cindy’s shaking my shoulder. I jerk awake, groggy. ‘Are we there?’
My door’s open and Cindy is glaring down at me. ‘Of course we’re there.’
Mr Harris is leaning against the bonnet. Behind him, rows of cars stretch towards a wide, ugly building.
‘Is that where we’re going?’ I unfasten my seat belt.
‘Yes.’ Cindy looks at her watch. ‘Teen Couture starts at nine-thirty, so if we hurry, we might have time to find a bathroom where you can tidy yourself up a bit.’
Mr Harris jangles his car keys. ‘I’ll be waiting when you come out. OK?’
‘You’re not coming in?’ I ask, surprised.
‘I’d rather do my crossword.’ Mr Harris points at a folded newspaper on his dashboard. ‘It’s more my scene. But I’ll be right here if there’s a
problem.’
Cindy flicks back her hair. ‘There won’t be any problem.’ She steps aside, motioning me out of the car with a flap of her hand. I try not to notice her bracelet as I climb
out.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Gemma.’ Cindy sounds exasperated. ‘You’ve been leaning on the seat belt and it’s left a red mark on your cheek.’ She heads
away, muttering.
I hare after her. ‘Thanks for bringing us, Mr Harris,’ I call over my shoulder.
‘Have fun!’ Mr Harris shouts.
My skirt feels shorter than ever and I tug at the hem as we near the building. My ripped tights have turned baggy after their soaking, streaked by mud where I fell, while my ballet shoes are
stained with puddle water.
Cindy doesn’t even look at me as she pushes through the front entrance and lets the door swing in my face. I catch it just in time. Cindy’s already showing our invites to the
security guard by the time I cross the thick carpet to the line of reception tables.
I gaze around, my heart racing. Ten-foot women are gliding around the foyer, groomed like show ponies. Men in immaculate suits are moving in packs. I feel like a mongrel at Crufts. There’s
a poster at the back of the hall.
Anna De Vine
Beneath the golden words is a woman’s face. It’s thick with make-up and looks stretched, as though half of
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