Rebel with a Cupcake Page 10

  “I’ll get you home by then,” Matt says. He looks at the shoes. “Wow.”

  “I think I’ll wear trainers,” I find myself saying.

  “No.” He looks up at me and grins. “No, these are things of beauty and you’ve got to wear them.”

  “Really?”

  “Really!” We “reallied.” It’s our thing.

  Something like joy floods through me. He opens the door and waits for me.

  “Right, I’m coming. I’m really good at walking in general so don’t be alarmed by any sudden lurches. You’ve seen my natural balance in action already.” I teeter across the floor, my balance of gravity leaning forward with my toes being squashed into the tight points of the shoes. “I have absolutely got this.”

  “If you say so.” Matt smiles. “Though you might be pleased to know the car is just outside. So, you don’t have to walk, or should I say wobble, far?”

  “This is not wobbling,” I fire back. “All the women in France walk like this. It’s very refined. Très chic in fact.”

  “It’s certainly something.” Is he laughing at me or with me? He clicks the key fob and the lights flash on his black Mini. I really want to take a photo of this just to show Izzie and Hannah later but that wouldn’t be cool. There is also another problem.

  “Give me a moment.”

  “Jess, are you coming or not?”

  “I’m in the process of moving. I’m just taking a break.”

  “Is walking to the car too hard for you? Do you want me to drive up onto the pavement?” he teases.

  “No, I’ll be okay in a moment.” I pull and pull up at my foot and I’m still not moving.

  He looks at me with a patronizing smile. “Heels stuck in the pavement?”

  I step out of them and yank them free. “That’s better. You may call them things of beauty but I call them ridiculous.” As I climb into the car, I recognize what he’s playing. “Great choice.”

  “To get us in the mood,” Matt says as he pulls out. I start to hum along to one of Dad’s later records, now blasting out of the stereo.

  In the mood for what? That’s what I desperately want to know. But with the music so loud, there’s no chance to talk. He’s commented on the shoes but not the new hair or look. Does that mean something or nothing? I may be stranded in Friend Zone, but the whole evening is in front of us, so I try to keep my nerves under control while I think up good topics of conversation. It’s not far to the venue where Dad’s playing, an old cinema that’s now a trendy bar with the auditorium area set up for big parties or small gigs. In the day, it can look a bit tatty, but tonight, in the May evening, it seems bathed in light and possibility.

  “Looks jammed,” Matt says as he taps his long, tanned fingers on the wheel. I try not to feel jealous of an inanimate object and force myself to pay attention to what’s going on.

  “Pull over here and we’ll walk that last bit.”

  He looks at me quizzically. “Given that you’re rather challenged in the walking department, maybe we should try and get nearer. Or I could carry you.”

  Now, at some point in the last week or so, I may have daydreamed about being carried in some sort of way by Matt. Perhaps on a walk after falling in the sea. Perhaps he tried to pull me up and then I pulled him back into the surf. All those things may or may not have been dreamt about, along with a few other dreams that I’m keeping strictly in the mental file of VERY VERY PRIVATE. But in all those dreams, I looked smaller. The thought of him carrying me now — or even joking about it — is currently labeled WORST NIGHTMARE EVER.

  “I am a twenty-first-century girl. I can walk in heels, just watch me. Pull over, driver.” I wave my hand regally at him and Matt parks up.

  I’m not so regal when I can’t get out of the car, as it’s so low. But somehow, I manage to smile, giggle and get myself into a standing position. On my second attempt at walking in these heels, I note that I’ve made huge progress. I do move forward and I only get stuck in the cracks between the paving slabs twice. Just when I’m internally cursing the shoes and swearing only ever to wear flats and trainers again, I wobble and find that Matt has grabbed my arm to keep me upright.

  His hand with those gorgeous fingers is now touching me. Okay, Dad’s leather jacket is between us, but still. This is more exciting than the moment my double-cooked cheese soufflé rose and stayed puffed. Oh yes, even better than that. And certainly less calorific. We exchange a smile, and we walk toward the venue, arm in arm. Cars are beeping outside and there’s a scrum of people all ready to get in. The bright flash tells me that the press are here. I’m going to a secret gig and I’m turning up literally on the arm of the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.

  There might not be a red carpet but there’s a corded-off section with security on it, while everyone else is waiting on one side. “Jesobel Jones plus one,” I say, with more confidence than I feel, to the very thin woman wearing huge sunglasses who’s managing the queue.

  “Jesobel, did you say?”

  “Yes, Jesobel Jones as in the daughter of Stephen Jones. You know, with the band?”

  A pause.

  “There you are. Jesobel plus one.” She lifts the rope and we walk through. Lights pulse in our faces. “Names,” yells the photographer. I can’t see him, as my eyes are still dazzled by the light.

  Matt says, “Jesobel Jones, daughter of Steve Jones, with Matt Paige, groupie.”

  And with that, we walk in. Together. There’s photographic proof.

  This is now officially the best night of my life.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Invisible Rule #35.5:

  Guys have got to make the first move. Poor guys — just imagine the stress. Another great reason to be a girl.

  See, I love high heels. Haven’t I always said that high heels are the most amazing invention EVER? Yes, you can’t walk in them and you keep falling over. But surely that’s a small price to pay if it means a gorgeous guy takes your arm. I can hear Gran’s voice yelling at me, You’re making yourself a victim to attract a man? Jesobel Jones, I brought you up better than that. But I shut her out because I don’t want thoughts like that to burst my perfect bubble of happiness.

  The hall is packed with a range of people: Dad’s old rocker friends, perfectly groomed women of a certain age and a random selection of ultra-hip millennials. I’m probably the youngest person here. As I peer at the crowd, looking for faces I know, I get uncomfortable. No one’s dressed quite like me. No, I needed sunglasses, a bright red dress and Vans. That’s the look most of the women sport here.

  Matt grabs my arm tighter. “Don’t look, but Joss McFarlane is over there.”

  “Uncle Joss?” I reply. “The little guy in the very high boots? He’s really got a thing about being five foot three inches. I’ll introduce you if you like.” Inside, I’m doing a little happy dance.

  Matt gapes at me. “Uncle Joss?”

  “I mean, he’s not my uncle, but I’ve known him since I was a kid. I think the story goes that he drank from the font at my christening. Apparently, he was thirsty after a big night out,” I say, feeling that tingle of joy all over again. “Come on.” I take a step, wobbling like Bambi after a few too many vodkas, and walk with as much determination and grace as I can.

  “Hi, Uncle Joss.” His leathery face breaks into a huge smile. He might be a legendary singer to some, but in our house, he’s the bloke who Dad hangs out with to tell his own version of war stories. All Matt can see is me talking to a legend.

  “Jess! You’ve grown. Look at you, girl.” I get a hug.

  “This is my friend, Matt.”

  They shake hands. “Great to meet you, kid.”

  “I’m a big fan. I really love your work.”

  Uncle Joss waves him away. “So, Jess, you’re here to see your old man. He’ll be made up by that.” I nod, b
ut then others come, surround him and bear him off. He turns to wave. “I’ll see you later, Jess. Looking good, kid.”

  Matt stares, his mouth still hanging open. “Problem?” I ask.

  “No, just a bit overwhelmed.”

  I whisper, “Welcome to my world,” but Matt doesn’t hear over all the background noise.

  “I can’t believe I’ve just spoken to Joss McFarlane. The man’s a legend.”

  “A legend you can find in The Dog and Partridge every Friday afternoon. Drop by and buy him a drink. He’ll tell you stories that will blow you away.”

  “I’m seeing you in a whole new light. You really are full of surprises.”

  “Oh, you’ve seen nothing yet,” I say with confidence.

  The air is humming with music, perfume, drink and expectation. “Have we got time for a drink before it starts?” I suggest.

  Matt nods and leads me by the elbow to the bar.

  “Hey!” Matt gives the guy next to him a huge bear hug. “I didn’t know you were coming or I’d have given you a lift.” He slaps him on the back and then steps back. It’s Alex.

  He grins at Matt and nods at me. “Hi, Jess. You look great. I think I see touches of my sister’s work.”

  I blaze a warning look at him. He mustn’t give the game away about how much effort went into getting ready. I want Matt to think I just happen to look like this without any effort. I don’t want him to think I need a team of girls to make me look presentable. “Don’t know what you’re on about.” Alex looks bemused and is about to speak when the house lights dim for a moment.

  “Let’s go,” says Matt. Suddenly, we’re caught up in the crush to fight for a place at the front of the stage. People are pushing together to get a good view; I’m shoved into Matt, who puts his arms around me to make sure I don’t fall. Thank goodness it goes dark so no one can see how much I’m blushing. I’m surprised that nobody is shouting, “Call an ambulance — that girl’s on fire.” But they don’t, because four figures shuffle on stage in the blackness and then the first few chords ring out.

  It’s a strange experience seeing your father on stage. At home, we regard him as a kind of cute but useless pet. You love having him around but he serves no point whatsoever. And watching him play, I feel so bad about this. It’s like he’s shed a skin and become someone else. He struts, his hands fly up and down the strings, he inhabits the stage. There’s so much noise I don’t think anyone hears me shout, “Go, Dad,” probably the most uncool words ever uttered at a gig. As for what they’re playing, it’s a cover version of an old classic but no one cares — all anyone wants to see is the four of them back together. I can see how Dad’s looking at the crowd, feeling the love and growing visibly taller every second. In a moment, he’ll burst through the roof. You and me, Dad, I think, we’re both on top of the world. I flick a look up at Matt to see if he’s feeling the great vibes, too. It’s not Dad he’s looking at, but the singer. And he’s not just singing along, he’s copying his stance, staring as if he’s absorbing every move. Matt returns my gaze. “This is awesome.” And it is.

  The next hour or so flashes past. After a few cover versions, they fall silent and then one long guitar note hangs and hangs in the air. And then it’s like thunder. They launch into the old hits — a wall of sound hits us and the energy is ferocious. It might be four fifty-year-olds on the stage but they sound intense.

  “Just like the old days,” someone shouts next to me.

  “Better than the old days — they’ve lived it, they’ve earned it.” Great reply, I think. I’ll never look at Dad the same way again. He has earned this.

  By now, we’re moshing, leaping up and down, bodies crashing into each other, terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I’m going to topple over and crash. I can feel myself going. But Matt grabs me back just as the music comes to a huge roaring climax. The crowd goes wild, the guys walk off and then the lights come back up again. I hug Matt without even knowing what I’m doing. Then I tense — what if he doesn’t hug me back? What if he just pushes me away?

  But he doesn’t. Those arms just hold me tight, and for a moment, every cliché comes true. I’m lost in my own world of joy. Bombs could drop around us and I wouldn’t care. He’s holding me, he’s looking at me and I’m looking back. The only thing that could make this moment any better would be if he kissed me. His lips are inches from mine. I can feel his breath on them and he smells delicious. There’s a faint smile on those lips and he bends toward me.

  It’s finally going to happen.

  All kinds of crazy begin to explode inside me.

  But then disaster strikes.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Observation #89:

  If men had periods, more time would be spent researching painkillers. Just sayin’.

  My ankle wobbles, the shoe goes and I go with it. Instead of locking lips with Matt, I’m sitting on my fat arse on the rather sticky floor, being looked down on — in every sense — by all the cool people. This was not the way I planned it. Matt reaches down and hoists me back up again. Being hoisted is the least romantic thing that can happen to someone.

  “You okay?”

  I put my best brave face on. “Yes, but now I know why they are called killer heels. I’ll be back in a minute.” I need time out, and that drink from earlier means a trip to the toilets is in order. Off I career, walking from pillar to pillar, still struggling to do the very simple task of moving from one place to another. Would Mum kill me if I broke the heels of these things? I mean, I’m her daughter. What woman would choose a pair of shoes over her daughter? I shake my head, stupid question. Mum once said she’d sell us all for a fully funded shopping trip to Paris and I don’t think she was joking.

  The second I’m behind the door, I rip off the shoes and squeal with delight. My toes are singing with joy but secretly sobbing at the same time. They’re all red and crushed together, and a nail has cut into another toe so that the inside of the shoe looks like a Halloween massacre. And all this for beauty?

  “Great shoes but they’re a bugger to wear.” I look up to see a girl a few years older than me, large but rocking a sparkling blue catsuit, redoing her fabulous makeup in the mirror. I take note of how confident she looks. She’s not draping her curves in baggy shirts and layers, like I do.

  “I love what you’re wearing,” I find myself saying. “Where did you get it from?” As she tells me the name of the online shop, I decide that she looks familiar. Is she looking at me the same way? It’s all a bit awkward. “Sorry to stare, but I think I recognize you from somewhere,” I say.

  With eyes narrowed, she’s still assessing me, and then a broad beam of recognition crosses her face. “You’re Fat Girl!” I wince. Oh yes, on so many levels, I am. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m Imogen Hattersley. I blog a bit. I didn’t mean to be rude, but you’re from the clip, aren’t you? ‘Fat Girl vs. Mean Girl?’”

  Then it hits me. I’m talking to Fat Girl with Attitude. “That’s me,” I say. “Half, well, maybe two-thirds, of the clip is standing before you.”

  “Cool,” she says, “I love that video. I played it when I was feeling down. Before it got taken down, that is.”

  I look at her, bemused. “You don’t.”

  Smiling as she expertly applies her lip gloss, she says, “Yeah, you know, when I have a fat day …”

  “A fat day?”

  “A day when you feel fat and don’t like it. A day when someone says something nasty about how you look or you can’t fit in your favorite jeans. Well, when I was having a fat day, I watched that and how cool you were, and then it made me feel that I could take on the mean girls, too.”

  Wow to infinity and beyond.

  There’s too much to handle here. First, I’m cool. Second, I’m an inspiration. I feel like asking, But don’t you just see how big my belly is? But I don’t, because a
) I don’t want to spoil the moment and b) it’s clear that she didn’t notice at all.

  “That’s the first time someone I don’t know has recognized me,” I say. “I think this is my fifteen seconds of fame.”

  “Isn’t it fifteen minutes?”

  “I think since the Internet came along, the whole world got a lot faster.”

  She laughs. “Well, the Internet has a lot to answer for. Cute cat videos are great but it’s a Wild West for people like us.”

  “That’s so true. But you have a really great blog. I love reading it.”

  “We are the fabulous fat people of the North West!”

  I start to babble. “Your posts are great. You say what I think and feel, only better. And you look fabulous! I struggle with fashion.” I gesture down at my clothes. “My friends helped me out tonight. But I love your pictures. I need to start shopping where you do.”

  She holds out her hand. “So, I’m Imogen. What’s your name, Fat Girl?”

  “Jesobel but everyone calls me Jess.”

  “You should totally go with Jesobel. Jesobel is a name with attitude. Well, Jesobel, if you want to, I’ll take you shopping sometime.”

  I know that you shouldn’t arrange to meet people you only know from the Internet. I know that there is a small chance that she’s some crazed stalker who will kidnap me, kill me and then impersonate me by wearing my skin. But I don’t think it’s very likely. The strange thing is that I feel like I know her already.

  “I would love that.” I look at myself in the mirror. “I don’t know what my look is. I don’t think this is my look. I feel like I’m at a fancy-dress party.”

  “It’s hard,” Imogen sympathizes. “I think you look great but no look is going to work unless you like it.”

  My false eyelashes are starting to droop and fall, and the sweaty heat of the room is doing nothing for my lashings of mascara. “Here.” Imogen takes one look at my sad face and starts to fix me up. For someone who can cook, get good grades and generally cope at life quite well, I seem to spend a lot of my time being fixed up by other people.