artists of tomorrow had to go to school, didn’t they? So why couldn’t just one pass through her hands?
Because, as her mother had frequently told her, she was always in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing. It would be just her luck that a future Picasso attended one of the neighbouring schools while she got lumbered with a fraud like Damien Hurst or that woman with the disgusting bed.
It had definitely been a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when she had met Alan.
She had moved up to Cheshire in the summer, and by the end of her first term in her new school she was suffering daily headaches and had found herself squinting late at night in bed as she tried to read. She became worried that something was seriously wrong with her. A tumour, for instance. A tumour that, if she played her cards right, would only be the size of a pea and would merely cause her to go blind. More likely it would be the size of a tangerine, pressing on a crucial bit of her brain, waiting to kill her when she was least expecting it. Ingrid Boardman, head of maths at school and the full-time wearer of bifocals — the person who had loaned her One Hundred Ways To Be A Thoroughly Modern Woman — had suggested that before she started writing out a will, Izzy might consider getting her eyes tested. She gave Izzy the address of her own optician and the next day she made an appointment. But when she turned up for her appointment and gave her name to the young receptionist she was informed that there was no record of a Miss Jordan booked in for that afternoon. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right day?’ the cheeky youngster asked her. ‘Today is Saturday.’
Annoyed that her ability to make an appointment was being queried, she said, ‘Of course I’m certain. And I also know that tomorrow is Sunday.’
Giving Izzy a surly teenage pout, the girl got up from her swivel chair. ‘I’ll go and see what Mr Leigh says about this,’ she said, and with such menace Izzy half expected Mr Leigh, whoever he was, to come and box her ears. While she waited, she tried on a selection of spectacle frames. It was extraordinary how many different styles there were to choose from. Just for a laugh she put on a pair of thick-rimmed Jarvis Cocker frames. She looked hideous: a cross between Nana Mouskouri and Michael Caine. She gave the mirror a dead-pan expression and mouthed in her best Cockney, ‘Not a lot of people know I’m a transvestite.’
‘I think you’ll find they’re a touch heavy for a face with features as delicate as yours,’ said a voice from behind her.
She spun round. It was the dreaded Mr Leigh. Except he didn’t look so very dreadful. His hair was dark and springy, and like the rest of him — eyes quickly surveying her, hands slipping a pen into his breast pocket, mouth breaking into a wide smile and body bouncing energetically across the carpet as he came towards her — it gave the impression of only just being under control. He was a lot younger than she had expected — only a little older than herself, in fact. She snatched off the ugly frames, embarrassed, and fumbled to get them back on to the rack. He came over, took them from her, and slipped them easily on to the appropriate hooks. He wasn’t very tall, but what he lacked in height he made up for with his shoulders: they were massively broad. He had rugby prop forward written all over him, and if he hadn’t been dressed in a white jacket she might have thought his profession was hanging around seedy nightclubs pitching drunken undesirables on to the streets. She decided, there and then, that she would go quietly.
‘My receptionist says there seems to be some kind of mix-up,’ he said, smoothly interrupting her flustered thoughts. ‘According to the diary you don’t have an appointment, but you’re in luck, I’ve a free slot so I could fit you in now.’
‘Oh, well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble,’ she said.
After the
Because, as her mother had frequently told her, she was always in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing. It would be just her luck that a future Picasso attended one of the neighbouring schools while she got lumbered with a fraud like Damien Hurst or that woman with the disgusting bed.
It had definitely been a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when she had met Alan.
She had moved up to Cheshire in the summer, and by the end of her first term in her new school she was suffering daily headaches and had found herself squinting late at night in bed as she tried to read. She became worried that something was seriously wrong with her. A tumour, for instance. A tumour that, if she played her cards right, would only be the size of a pea and would merely cause her to go blind. More likely it would be the size of a tangerine, pressing on a crucial bit of her brain, waiting to kill her when she was least expecting it. Ingrid Boardman, head of maths at school and the full-time wearer of bifocals — the person who had loaned her One Hundred Ways To Be A Thoroughly Modern Woman — had suggested that before she started writing out a will, Izzy might consider getting her eyes tested. She gave Izzy the address of her own optician and the next day she made an appointment. But when she turned up for her appointment and gave her name to the young receptionist she was informed that there was no record of a Miss Jordan booked in for that afternoon. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right day?’ the cheeky youngster asked her. ‘Today is Saturday.’
Annoyed that her ability to make an appointment was being queried, she said, ‘Of course I’m certain. And I also know that tomorrow is Sunday.’
Giving Izzy a surly teenage pout, the girl got up from her swivel chair. ‘I’ll go and see what Mr Leigh says about this,’ she said, and with such menace Izzy half expected Mr Leigh, whoever he was, to come and box her ears. While she waited, she tried on a selection of spectacle frames. It was extraordinary how many different styles there were to choose from. Just for a laugh she put on a pair of thick-rimmed Jarvis Cocker frames. She looked hideous: a cross between Nana Mouskouri and Michael Caine. She gave the mirror a dead-pan expression and mouthed in her best Cockney, ‘Not a lot of people know I’m a transvestite.’
‘I think you’ll find they’re a touch heavy for a face with features as delicate as yours,’ said a voice from behind her.
She spun round. It was the dreaded Mr Leigh. Except he didn’t look so very dreadful. His hair was dark and springy, and like the rest of him — eyes quickly surveying her, hands slipping a pen into his breast pocket, mouth breaking into a wide smile and body bouncing energetically across the carpet as he came towards her — it gave the impression of only just being under control. He was a lot younger than she had expected — only a little older than herself, in fact. She snatched off the ugly frames, embarrassed, and fumbled to get them back on to the rack. He came over, took them from her, and slipped them easily on to the appropriate hooks. He wasn’t very tall, but what he lacked in height he made up for with his shoulders: they were massively broad. He had rugby prop forward written all over him, and if he hadn’t been dressed in a white jacket she might have thought his profession was hanging around seedy nightclubs pitching drunken undesirables on to the streets. She decided, there and then, that she would go quietly.
‘My receptionist says there seems to be some kind of mix-up,’ he said, smoothly interrupting her flustered thoughts. ‘According to the diary you don’t have an appointment, but you’re in luck, I’ve a free slot so I could fit you in now.’
‘Oh, well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble,’ she said.
After the
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