And Then He Kissed Me Page 9

  “And then?”

  “And then…” I say. “And then—”

  “We’d kiss,” he finishes.

  I feel my heart skip like the cliché it is. “We would?” I whisper.

  But I know it. I know he’s right. “We would,” I repeat. The question gone.

  I move towards him. Then stop, pull back. “Wait,” I say. “What if I don’t feel anything? What if the world doesn’t stop and there are no violins and stuff?”

  “Then we go back to doing our double act. We are Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Tango and Cash,” I add.

  “Laurel and Hardy.” He smiles.

  But it’s not funny. Because… “What if we do? Feel something, I mean?”

  “I don’t know. But that’s what’s so beautiful about the real world. It’s uncharted. There’s no script. No plot line. We just see where it takes us.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  And I know it’s over. The talking. The waiting.

  I know that the next scene up is the biggie.

  And I close my eyes, and move forward. Until I can feel his breath on my cheek. Until I can feel his lips on mine.

  Until the earth moves.

  And scene.

  Whilst standing in an endless line for tickets at Victoria Station, it hits me that, likely as not, right now Oliver Sutton and Zoe Clarkson will be deciding between beach and pool. The most exciting decision I have in front of me is whether to buy a tuna and cucumber sandwich from Boots or wait until we get to Brighton and have lunch there.

  “I’m so excited. It’s going to be such a laugh!” says Jaz.

  I wish her excitement was infectious – it normally is – but today I’m immune. I sigh and look down at my scruffy rucksack. Life’s so unfair. I bet Zoe Clarkson has a set of matching luggage, with wheels and everything. Besides the emotional baggage, I am travelling light, because a day trip to Brighton simply does not require the same amount of stuff as a fortnight’s dream holiday in the Maldives. All I’ve packed is a few gossipy, glossy magazines, full of pictures of film stars without their shirts on. Jaz hates this sort of mag – she says they’re boring – but she let me buy three of them today because she’s trying to cheer me up.

  “What do you think they’re doing now?” I ask her.

  “Who?”

  “Who!” I’m startled by my bessie’s ignorance. “Who? Him. Him and her. Who else? Oliver and that Zoe Clarkson.” I spit out her name like a curse. It nearly chokes me. I’m gutted. My heart actually hurts.

  “Dunno,” Jaz mumbles with a shrug. She means, “Don’t care” but, as I said, she’s trying to be patient with me. “Look, I’m in love. Well, almost. I’m in like, something at least. I do get it,” she says, and then she squeezes my arm in a gesture of solidarity.

  She does not get it.

  She and Freddie McNeil have been on two dates and they are not suited. They have nothing in common. Freddie McNeil is a total maths geek, and Jaz’s idea of complicated maths is working out if she can afford a new eyeliner, a cappuccino and the bus home. I’m not having a go; it’s just true. She’s really into biology and history – now there she shines. Go on, ask her about genetic diseases or any of the King Georges and she’s a marvel, but ask her about geometry and is she impressive? Not so much. She was totally freaked out when she and Freddie went ice skating and he tried to calculate the area of the rink by estimating the radius, then doing something with pi. She said to me, and I quote, “We weren’t even eating pies!”

  I decide not to bring this up, nor that he blushes when he speaks to her (not hot!), or that I think she only went out with him because he asked her and she didn’t like to hurt his feelings by saying no. Instead, I reply as tactfully as I can. “Yes, but our situations are very different.”

  “True, I’ve actually gone out with Freddie,” she replies harshly, leaving me wondering why I bothered being tactful to her.

  It is a sad fact that I wasn’t ever Oliver’s girlfriend. We never actually went on a single date. There were obstacles. At first I thought those obstacles were surmountable and the sort to be expected in any real romance – I mean, Romeo and Juliet had loads of obstacles (actually, they may not be the best example) – but it turned out the obstacles were for real. He’s older than me, he works in our school library and he has a girlfriend. I perhaps could have got past the first two, but the third one is a deal breaker.

  I found out about Zoe Clarkson the day we broke up for the holidays. She came into the library at the end of the day, when I just happened to be there (I often happen to be in there – for obvious reasons), and she was all giggly and pretty. Oliver introduced us and mentioned that she’d popped in to check out a travel guide because they were off on this amazing once-in-a-lifetime holiday.

  Jaz thinks he might be planning on proposing to Zoe, because that’s the sort of thing that happens in the Maldives. I suppose it does. Either way Zoe and the holiday were indisputable evidence that Oliver has not been thinking of me in the way I’ve been thinking of him, and that he probably does think I have a genuine interest in the Dewey decimal system. Love doesn’t make sense and isn’t fair. That much I know to be true. The fact is I adore him; haven’t been able to think about anyone or anything else for three months now. He’s kind and funny. He has loads of interests and he’s just not daft like practically every other boy I know.

  “He’s a god in my eyes.”

  “I get it. He looks like Logan Lerman, but, Immy, he’s totally ancient. Probably twenty-three. And he’s a librarian.” She says the word “librarian” the way other people might say “leper”.

  “I thought he was the One, you know.”

  “How can he be the One? You’re fourteen.”

  “Technically.”

  “What other way is there to be fourteen?”

  “What I mean is, although I am fourteen, I’m very mature. My nana always says I was born old.”

  “I’d keep quiet about that if I were you. And you’re continually falling in love with unobtainables. It’s embarrassing.”

  “I am not continually falling in love with unobtainables.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like Zac Efron.”

  “Well, everyone is in love with him.”

  “Yes, but not everyone really believes they’re going to marry him. Then there was Troy’s dad. That was just gross.”

  “Why? He’s not married to Troy’s mum any more.”

  “He’s a dad, Immy! Then there was Mr Lowell, our PE teacher.”

  “He’s fit.”

  “He’s a teacher! Then there was Chloe’s brother.”

  “He’s not a teacher.”

  “He’s gay. And, finally, Harry Kepal.”

  “OK, he’s not a dad or a teacher, nor is he gay.”

  “Immy, he’s in prison for car theft. There’s a barbed wire fence between the two of you. If that doesn’t say unobtainable, I don’t know what does.”

  Finally we’re at the front of the queue. We buy our tickets, check the timetable and then leg it so we can make the 10.25 a.m. train. We find an emptyish carriage and stare down a woman and her toddler son who are keen to bag the last couple of table seats facing the direction of travel (the table is essential, so we can spread out our magazines). The seats are ours – it’s a small victory but it cheers me. I plan to pass the journey staring out of the window, watching the houses and fields rush by. I think this is symbolic: life is passing me by. I make the mistake of sharing my observation with Jaz.

  She replies, “I don’t know about symbolic, more like shambolic. You shouldn’t be letting anything pass you by. We’re young. It’s all ours for the taking. Do you know what I think is wrong with you?”

  “I have an awful feeling you’re about to tell me.”

  “You’re shy.”

  “What?” This is nonsense. I’m known as a bit of a loudmouth, a definite laugh and chatty to the p
oint of indiscreet, hasn’t Jaz just said as much herself?

  “Or, more accurately,” she adds, turning to me. She’s wearing a really serious expression that freaks me because Jaz doesn’t really do serious, “afraid and – don’t have a fit – insecure.”

  “What?” I repeat, outraged.

  “That’s why you go after blokes you know you don’t stand a chance with because then you’ll never have to get to the nitty-gritty bits of a relationship. If you actually fancied a boy your own age you might have to speak to him or – horror of horrors – kiss him.”

  I glare at Jaz. She’s been absolutely unbearable since she kissed Freddie McNeil and (unbelievably) enjoyed it. She thinks she knows everything about everything, or at least everything important, like about boys. It is true that I’ve often enjoyed the fact that Jaz knows me so well. We’ve laughed that it sometimes seems like she knows me better than I know myself, but she is wrong about this! Isn’t she? Anyway, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her, even if she is right. Which she isn’t. At least, she’s probably not.

  My face is aflame. It’s a terrible mix of indignation, fury and shame. The thing is she might be right and, if she is, I hate her for pointing it out. Well, hate her and love her at the same time, you know? The way you do with a best friend. I mean, it’s good that she cares enough to try and show me where I’m going wrong, but it’s still the ultimate in humiliation.

  The train pulls up in Clapham Junction and I focus my attention on a group of boys larking around on the platform. At least it’s something to look at until my fury and indignation at Jaz subside. They’re all young, stupid and generally pretty spotty, but I have to admit that their overall impression is buoyed up by an overwhelming aura of self-confidence. Jaz is looking in the same direction and quickly assesses the five lads.

  “Three, six, six, eight, and I can’t tell with the last guy as he has his back to us,” she says.

  I instantly get what she’s talking about. She’s giving them marks out of ten. It’s insensitive and a bit immature, and we’d hate it if boys did it to us but, as we’re pretty sure they do, we’ve overcome our scruples and now follow the motto of “If you can’t beat them, join them.” Oliver was a clear ten, but Jaz would never give him more than six because she said marks had to be subtracted for his age and career choice.

  The boy that she awarded three out of ten has a face that only his mother could love, although he looks happy enough and is repeatedly throwing a tennis ball in the air and assertively catching it. If he’s good at sports, or funny, his score will go up to a strong six. If he’s clever as well, then he’ll be a seven.

  I am not sure boys are as generous when they are sizing up girls, but they should be. It’s about the whole deal, isn’t it? Being pretty is great but being funny, clever, musical or sporty should count for something too. My score is somewhere between a three and an eight depending on who you ask. I say three; Jaz says eight and then reminds me I’m fairly good on the guitar and I draw well. She says I’m funny even when I don’t mean to be, but she’s probably just being nice because she has to be, she’s my best friend. Jaz is a nine but thinks she’s about a four.

  The two guys Jaz has awarded sixes are only average-looking, but they’re clean and trendy enough. The one that is a clear eight has all-American good looks, but he keeps flicking his hair and checking his reflection in his mates’ sunglasses, which suggests he’s very aware that clear eights are extremely hard to come by.

  Our carriage pulls up parallel to where they’re stood. I’m stuck between willing them into my carriage – which is empty now except for an old couple with a flask and egg sandwiches, and the disgruntled mother and toddler – and desperately hoping that they’ll sit elsewhere. The motivation for these opposing wishes is the same. If they sit near us I’m pretty sure Jaz will see this as an opportunity for me to talk to boys my own age and, importantly, talk appropriately. She probably won’t want me to tell them about how in love I am with Oliver Sutton.

  They choose our carriage. I daren’t look up, but I sense that four of the boys settle across the aisle while one, mortifyingly, plonks himself opposite us.

  “Bonjour,” he says firmly.

  French?

  I can’t resist. I look up.

  Bang! Eleven out of ten.

  The most sensational-looking boy ever is smiling at me. He’s literally breathtaking. Even sitting down, I can tell he’s quite tall with broad shoulders and slim hips. He has scruffy dark hair that falls over his cobalt blue eyes. I can’t believe it; he’s a little bit like Oliver Sutton, in so much as Oliver also has dark hair and blue eyes, but – and the thought is an extraordinary one for me to even consider – he might just be better-looking than Oliver, because his hairstyle is much cooler and, I suppose I can admit it now, Oliver does wear unfashionable shirts. I mean, he has to – his job requires him to be formal. But still.

  The boy smiles. The smile ignites his entire face and, helpless to resist, I smile shyly back. Under the table his knee briefly brushes mine.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, mortified in case he thinks I have deliberately put my leg in his way.

  “Excusez-moi,” he says with a beam.

  My stomach leaps into my throat. I didn’t know that was even biologically possible.

  “So you’re French,” comments Jaz, as though speaking to him is the easiest thing in the world. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth and I very much doubt it’s going to move ever again. How could I find the words fit for this guy?

  “Oui. Je suis français,” he replies with another grin.

  His mates all snigger. They are not French, you can tell. Their hair and clothes don’t have that Continental sophistication, so I guess they are sniggering at the word “oui”. So mature, not. The boys in my class never grow tired of that sad joke either.

  “I em on an exchange programme,” he adds, confirming my summation. His accent is unbelievable. So cool and yet, well, so hot. I still can’t think of anything to say; I’m just worried he’ll be able to hear my heart beating or my blood rushing around my body in a frenzy.

  “Interesting,” comments Jaz, as though it is just that, rather than earth-shattering, which clearly would be a more accurate description. “Where. Are. You. From?” she asks.

  “Paris,” he replies.

  “Oh, Paris,” I gasp. The thought of Paris catapults me out of my silent stupor. Paris is the most romantic city in the world. Ever. No arguments. Full stop. Not that I’ve ever been there but I can totally imagine it. It’s full of endless fountains, countless elegant lamp posts, innumerable tall clean trees, dozens upon dozens of grand cream buildings and wide avenues. “Paris est si belle,” I enthuse.

  “Parlez-vous français?”

  “Oui!” I say with an eagerness that surprises me. It’s actually one of my favourite subjects. “Je parle un peu de français.”

  One of his mates leans across the aisle and says, “Very impressive but he has to practise his English, so no more French, OK?”

  “Oh, OK.” I’m strangely disappointed. I’m not sure why but I was looking forward to speaking French.

  “You have to speak slowly. If you go too fast he doesn’t get it,” the boy adds.

  “Right.”

  My disappointment vanishes as the lovely French guy shrugs and holds his hand out across the table for me to shake. How mature is that? There’s no way an English boy would ever do anything as sophisticated. I reach for his hand and carefully shake it. Literally there’s a bolt of electricity between us. I’ve heard people say things like that before. I’ve never really believed it before, but it is true! Lightning slices through me. I don’t want to linger too long with his hand in mine but somehow I want to communicate that yes, yes, I will marry him.

  He beams. “I em Pierre.”

  “Imogen.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  I don’t even care that the other boys are falling off their seats and choking
on their own laughter.

  I know Jaz might think that technically Pierre is just another unobtainable. Admittedly he’s French, has limited English and he’s only going to be in the country for a few more days, the duration of the half-term holiday probably. However, on the plus side, he is at least my age and so she seems happy enough to allow me to chat to him. She amuses herself with talking to his English mates. She’s arguing a fine point about last night’s football match. Something about whether Rooney really deserved a yellow card or not.

  The good thing about talking to someone with limited English is that I don’t try to be too clever. I’m not gossipy, or gobby, or indiscreet, or tongue-tied (at least I’m not once I’ve recovered from my initial shock at just how gorgeous Pierre is). I don’t have to be cool so there aren’t any awful gaps in the conversation. In fact, I chat more freely than I would with any other boy I’d just met. Because Pierre is struggling with the language he doesn’t say much, but what he does say seems honest and straightforward. I guess it’s hard to play games in a second language. He tells me I have a lovely smile and pretty ears! I can’t tell if he is flirting with me or if he’s simply unilaterally charming because he’s French. It doesn’t really matter either way. I allow myself to relax into the conversation and have fun. Knowing he understands little allows Jaz and me to keep swapping quick, garbled asides. We have agreed that he’s uber-cute and that I should do my best to get him to spend the day with us in Brighton.

  It’s a beautiful day and the good weather has made everyone want to dash to the coast, so when we arrive at Brighton it’s heaving. No one actually says we should hang out together, but it’s silently accepted that we will be a gang. Pierre’s mates walk behind us, while Pierre walks next to Jaz and me. I start to act like some sort of tour guide pointing out local sights and delicacies (if you can call a plate of rock shaped like an English breakfast a delicacy). I find that for once I’m not struggling to think of what to say, therefore I’m not saying crazy stuff and – if the look on Pierre’s face is anything to go by – I might just be interesting. But then he is easily pleased; he even appears charmed by the kiss-me-quick hats.