I Should Be So Lucky Read online

  As if she were mind-reading, Rachel said, ‘Yeah, OK, and, Mum? When you go out clubbing with your mates tonight, like, have a really great time.’ She turned to go, lugging her bag burden with her, and then she grinned and called back to Viola, ‘But be careful who you talk to and don’t do anything silly!’

  Rachel felt a bit guilty. She hadn’t when she’d planned this and, really, it shouldn’t be any big deal – other people bunked off school all the time. She went in through the school gates and waited for a few moments behind the hedge to watch the Polo drive away. She’d have to give it a while because the traffic was always slow in the mornings, and she didn’t want her mum to get held up at the crossroads and catch sight of her legging it back down the road in the rear-view mirror. It was a terrible burden, being so trusted.

  ‘What are you doing? Why are you here? Don’t you have other plans?’ Emmy made her jump.

  ‘I’m waiting for Mum to be far enough away so I can escape,’ Rachel told her.

  ‘You’ll be seen. During registration there’ll be one of the geeks who’s stupid enough to say you’re here somewhere. You’re wack at this, aren’t you?’ Emmy laughed at her and picked up one of the bags.

  ‘I haven’t had enough practice.’ Rachel was worried now. Cutting a class occasionally was one thing, going missing for a whole day was a bit more serious. If she got found out, well – the school would go ape and give her the lecture about trust and safety issues, and as for home: grounded, for sure, for a long time. For ever, probably. At least till she was past voting age. Her parents would get together, and maybe even her gran too, and do that ‘disappointed’ look, tell her she’d let them down on grounds of trust. Everyone hated that. It was the killer.

  ‘You haven’t had any practice. You’re rubbish. Man up, Hendricks, you haven’t a clue! Come with me, I’ll show you the way. What are you doing about weekend homework? And where are you going to change? You can’t work a stall in school uni. That would be, like, well weird.’

  Emmy led her round the side of the school, past the back of the lunch hall. Only a few smokers were hanging around. They wouldn’t dob her in, she realized – they had their own school-rule breakages to deal with.

  ‘Changing in station loos. Got the right books. It’s always maths and there’s a load of French about Ma Famille. I hate that. It’s like they’re wanting to know about your home set-up and they think that if they get you to write it in French, it’s like not being so nosy. But it is really.’

  ‘Ssh …’ Emmy slowed at a corner of the building, standing close against the wall and peering forward carefully.

  Rachel giggled. ‘You look like a cartoon spy,’ she whispered. ‘This is so random.’

  ‘OK, over there, through the gate by the fence.’ Emmy piled Rachel’s bags back on to her and gave her a push. ‘It’s always open till just gone nine for deliveries and stuff. No one else ever uses it.’ Rachel hesitated.

  ‘Go on!’ Emmy said. ‘Just go!’

  ‘I wish you were coming with me. Two of us would halve the guilt.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t, you moron, it would double it,’ Emmy replied, reasonably enough. ‘And anyway, what guilt? It’s no biggie, it’s only Friday. Have a great time, Rache. Hope you make loads of dosh.’

  By the time Rachel had reached the gate, Emmy had vanished as if she’d melted into the wall, though really she was probably behind the bins. She felt very alone – no turning back now. Her mum had once told her that when she was young she’d really loved the feeling that no one knew where she was. She’d got all misty-reminiscent about a holiday where she and her friends hitched all over Europe, backpacking on the cheap and hardly ever checking in with home. Rachel wasn’t so sure. She must, deep down, be a total wimp. Emmy had been right – she needed to man up. Or woman up. Why did no one ever say that? She’d bet none of the candidates on The Apprentice would have fretted about bunking off school to get their first go at being a business big shot. If she sold just one of her renovated knitwear items on Gemma’s stall, she’d be massively delighted.

  And also – well, the longer she spent in the area, the better the chance of running into that boy again. OK, there were zillions of people in Notting Hill, and Portobello Road was going to be rammed, as always. But you never knew – and as a stallholder (she loved that thought – even though she counted as a mere work experience alongside Gemma) she’d be kind of on view, a bit like on a stage, not just a face in the crowd. If he were passing, he’d see her. Whether he stopped and talked, even remembered her face, that was something else. Reaching the station, aching under the weight of all her bags and starting to slough off the guilt, she thought, hey, you had to risk to win.

  When she went into Med and Gib after leaving Rachel, Viola could feel a whole changed atmosphere in the place. Instead of being slumped on chairs thumbing nervously through last-minute notes or skulking on the courtyard benches, head in hands and looking terrified, the students seemed to have morphed into nonchalant old hands when it came to exams and were now sauntering in casually, some recklessly at the last possible minute. Benedict Peabody was being dropped off at the gate by a parent oblivious to the double red no-stopping lines, and he clambered out of the huge black Porsche Cayenne looking as if he’d rolled from his bed only minutes ago. Viola waited by the door as he ambled across the yard, fastening his ultra-low-slung belt a notch tighter. The belt had that unmistakable H of Hermès – Viola would have put money on it not being a fake.

  ‘Those jeans,’ Sandra Partridge muttered to Viola. ‘Whatever idiot designs them so the crotch is halfway to their knees? He looks like a huge baby in urgent need of a nappy change. They all do.’

  Viola didn’t say anything – it was well known that in Sandra’s ideal world this college would be a hotbed of fast-track eager entrepreneurs in the making, all neatly turned out in suits and ties and properly shined shoes, not scuffed Converses. The girls would be in sleek, on-the-knee skirts, flesh-coloured tights and kick-ass heels. In reality, it was hard enough to get most of them to turn up at all, let alone start lecturing them on how they should dress.

  ‘ ’Lo, Vo!’ As he went inside, Benedict cherrily offered Viola a high five, which she returned.

  ‘“Vo”?’ Sandra’s eyebrows were raised as far as Botox would allow. ‘He should address you as Ms Hendricks. They all should. You mustn’t let them take liberties.’ She sighed deeply and would have frowned if her face had let her.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right, he’s just being friendly,’ Viola said. ‘And most sixth-form-college staff are on first-name terms with their students these days. They’ll mostly be at university soon, after all.’

  ‘In my day, it was either Sir or Miss Whatever-her-name-was. Respect and manners. All gone, now. Just chaos. Chaos.’ Sandra looked exasperated as the last of the stragglers scuttled in through the gate. ‘And also, while we’re here, come and look what one of them has done. I suppose they think it’s some sort of leaving joke.’ She took Viola’s arm and pulled her round to the side of the building. Planted with professional care and expertly espaliered along the boundary fence in a border that had held nothing smarter than dandelions and ground elder were three young apple trees, neatly spaced and watered in.

  ‘Oh – that’s gorgeous!’ Viola said. ‘But way too much like hard work to be one of the students, surely? Last year they just sprayed our cars with Crazy String.’

  ‘You and that little girl who teaches French are the youngest, so I’m guessing one of you has an admirer with easy access to a garden centre. Any ideas?’

  Only one possibility came to Viola’s mind, but she dismissed the thought – why would Greg go to all this trouble? And anyway, didn’t he go for locations more public than this?

  ‘Sorry, couldn’t tell you,’ she said, nevertheless feeling a bit tingly.

  Sandra shrugged and turned away, looking at her watch. ‘They just appeared overnight; at least, I assume so. I noticed them when I drove in this morning. I’ve asked
the other tutors and the caretaker, but no one’s any idea who did it. I suppose they can stay as they do cover that tatty fence, but other than guessing one of the brats or their parents has a massive crush on one of us, I really can’t think where they came from.’ And with that she stalked off into the building to start another exam invigilation and to daydream of being head of an establishment where the pupils were thoroughly motivated, executively dressed, hard-working and certain to send her college to the top of the A-level league tables.

  Viola, meanwhile, lingered with the young apple trees. Appeared from nowhere, overnight, had they? And did the donor also do a fine line in midnight quince-planting? Maybe he had put them there, but only for fun, not for more than a bit of a tease. Because Greg had got Mickey. And Mickey seemed to be as fierce and protective as a Jack Russell terrier, though with much prettier hair. Why would he waste his time on a gesture like this? If it was him, then it was obviously his idea of a a joke. A nice edible one, but all the same …

  ELEVEN

  I COULD NEVER live anywhere else than London, Rachel decided as she and her collection of bags got off the 52 bus at Ladbroke Grove station and crossed the road under the flyover to walk down Thorpe Close to Portobello Road. She loved the dry, grubby heat, the mixed food scents. There was the occasional just-caught scent of dope from an unseen someone lurking among the banana plants on the green; the noises of traffic and reggae, air brakes and hooting, and people shouting to each other in languages she couldn’t fathom. She liked the way one four-storey house might be divided into grubby bedsits with only old T-shirts tacked up to block out the light, yet the adjoining building could be a hugely palatial one-family home, the sort you’d see in Elle Decoration, with glimpses of vast creamy sofas, splashy abstract paintings and curvy chrome floor lamps. There was just so much energy, compared with the placid, pretty sameness of her suburban district.

  Gemma’s stall was pitched on the end of a row under a big canopy, just up from Portobello Green. The market was already busy, mostly with tourists looking a bit bewildered and anxiously taking photos of everything around them, as if fearing they would miss the one iconic thing they were supposed to be seeing. They’d heard there were treasures among the near-jumble cast-offs, the ancient lace, the bags and jewellery, but they took some finding. A stall full of faux-fifties dresses patterned with teacups and daisies – did that appeal to a party of twenty-somethings from Canada?

  ‘Rachel! Wow, you’re early.’ Gemma broke off from hanging up a sequinned jacket and gave her a welcoming hug. She smelled of jasmine, sweet and light. Her fingernails were painted lilac and she was wearing a vintage rose-print dress and green suede pixie boots. Her beaded dreads were crammed under an old straw hat. Rachel liked the look on Gemma, but wasn’t sure if it would be her. She wasn’t sure, yet, what exactly ‘her’ was, which meant she always felt she was wearing an unsatisfying mix of whatever was nearest in her room. Today she had grabbed what she could stash into the smallest space for the quick change at the station: jeans and a loose red and white spotted chiffon top over a little pink vest. Underdressed, compared with vibrant Gemma.

  ‘Well, you know … no school. Um …’ Rachel couldn’t look at her aunt for fear of being caught out in the lie so turned away and tucked her bags under the stall, touching wood that they’d still be there at the end of the day. Ideally, she’d have dropped them off at Marco’s first, but although she’d got a doorkey, she didn’t want to run the risk of him or James being home and asking her what the deal was with school. Marco had said he would be back at about four, which would mean he’d be there when she was supposed to arrive – and with all her stuff.

  ‘Is it a day off? What do they call it, an inset day?’ Gemma wasn’t to be fooled. When Rachel emerged from under the stall she met a look that was sharp and suspicious – not really what she expected from her aunt, who she’d assumed would think school was a tedious inconvenience.

  ‘You won’t say anything to Dad, will you?’ Rachel pleaded. ‘And please don’t send me away again. I’ve brought all the cardies – every one of them all decced up and ready to sell. My friend Emmy thought they were mint.’ She tipped them out from the bin bag on to the stall, spreading them on top of velvet hats and feathered berets.

  ‘Hmm … well, I won’t tell him, but you know, Rachel, this puts me in a tricky position with both him and your mum. All the same …’ she picked up a pale grey bobble-knitted cardigan that now had silver buttons and a black and white gingham collar,

  ‘… you’ve done a brilliant job with these, I must say. I guess the least I can do is let you stay and help and see how they sell, but, please, no more skipping school. It’s the summer holidays soon – you can come down any time then. You’ll have plenty of time to get sick of all this by September.’

  By 2 p.m. all Rachel’s work had been sold except the old tobacco-coloured cashmere cardigan that she’d so carefully sewn pheasant feathers on to. Several potential customers handled it and commented, but it wasn’t a shape or shade the women seemed keen on, and the men passed it over as too fancy for them. As one of them commented to his friend, you’d have to be pretty upfront to wear it down the pub.

  ‘Got it wrong, there, didn’t I?’ Rachel moaned to Gemma.

  ‘Not at all. That guy had a point, that’s all. It just takes a special, brave sort to carry this off. There’ll be someone, you’ll see.’

  ‘Someone like Dad, you mean.’ Rachel giggled. ‘You should see him preening in his new boots.’

  ‘He was always like that. We went to tap-dance classes as kids and he desperately wanted patent tap shoes, which no one sold. I don’t even know where he got the idea they existed, but nothing else would make him happy. We had an aunt in New York – she found some and sent them over. He was in absolute heaven.’

  Rachel was just about to ask about the aunt when someone hoicked the cardigan down from its hanger to have a closer look at it.

  ‘Oh, helloooo, it’s you! From the tube steps – thought I recognized you!’ The blond boy was talking to the garment, rather than to Rachel. She felt suddenly twittery and nervous. This was what she’d fantasized about all week, that somehow she’d run into him again. She hadn’t really thought it would happen, only dreamed it up. Now what to say that wouldn’t make him vanish again?

  ‘Why don’t you try it on?’ Gemma suggested.

  He gave her a look. ‘Like, no? I mean, can you see me in this? It’s the colour of what’s in my baby sister’s nappy.’ He grinned at Rachel. ‘Er, sorry – I’ll hang it up again for you.’ And he did.

  ‘Actually, it would look great on you,’ she said, desperate to make him stay longer.

  ‘You think?’ He took the hanger down again for a second inspection. ‘I like the feathers. Awesome.’

  ‘They were my idea,’ Rachel told him. ‘I designed the whole look for this piece.’ Euw – how did that sound? Pretentious or what?

  ‘You did? Impressed,’ he said, pulling the old cardigan on over his Superdry checked shirt. ‘What do you think? Isn’t it, like, totally pants?’

  ‘Come round this side – we’ve got a mirror.’

  The boy gazed admiringly at his reflection, posing and laughing and pulling the garment round himself. ‘I quite like it actually, now it’s on. How much?’

  ‘I can let you have it for ninety-five pounds,’ Gemma cut in quite sharply. ‘It’s cashmere, never been worn. And not the cheap supermarket quality.’

  ‘Yo, bargain then. Wrap it.’ He handed it to Rachel. ‘You want to meet up for a drink sometime, schoolgirl?’

  Rachel looked at him. What kind of boy calls you ‘schoolgirl’? It sounded so cheesy.

  ‘Sorry, cheesy.’ He looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Also you said you’re from miles away, so you probably wouldn’t want …’

  ‘No, really, I would … could. I mean, I’m from here too. My dad lives on Lansdowne Crescent.’

  ‘’K, deal then. Mobies,’ he said, pulling out a white iPhone.
She delved shakily into her bag beneath the stall and, thankfully, her phone was in the first pocket she tried. Numbers were swopped and she gave him her name, just her first one. Her mum’s experiences with mad people and journalists after Rhys had left her wary about giving too much information. Who knew who might turn out to be a crazy stalker?

  ‘Ned,’ he told her. ‘Laters.’ And he went to walk away.

  ‘Hang on, you! Payment?’ Gemma called after him.

  ‘Oh ya, soz!’ he said, peeling twenty-pound notes from a roll in his pocket. ‘Nice kit you got on here.’

  I will neither giggle nor blush, Rachel told herself firmly, but did both the second he walked away.

  ‘I’m off out for the night. You’ll be all right, won’t you?’ Naomi was pulling on a jacket and was about to leave the house with her old leather Gladstone bag as Viola arrived home from work. She was tired and hot. The afternoon invigilating the Business Studies exam had been a nightmare, with one poor girl having to be accompanied twice to the loo to be sick and then weepily confessing that she might be pregnant, her dad would kill her and her boyfriend would dump her. Three people had pens that gave up the ghost and one boy finished so early that he put his head on the table and fell fast asleep, drooling on to what he’d written. Viola thought about making an excuse and cancelling her evening out with Amanda, but also thought that if she didn’t make the effort she’d somehow never get back into the swing of a social life. It was time.

  ‘I’ll be fine, but what about you? Where are you off to? Have you been secretly meeting a man behind the crime shelves at the library?’

  ‘Give over! Of course not. Monica’s had a fall and she’s feeling a bit frail. I’m going to stay with her and make sure she has some supper. She’s not broken anything, thank goodness, but it’s a shock to the system. You can die of that, a good shaking-up. Enough of us are kicking the bucket as it is. Those who are left have to get together and look after each other. The way the government’s going there’ll be bugger all anyone else to do it for us. Anyway, don’t forget to lock up properly. And when you’re out tonight,’ she said as she opened the front door to leave, ‘don’t do anything daft.’