Читать книгу Bright Girls - Clare Chambers - Страница 12

The next day Rachel went job-hunting, taking me with her for moral support. She had imagined that a seaside resort in high season would offer dozens of opportunities of which she, naturally, would have the pick. She hadn’t taken into account that Brighton, like Oxford, was a university town and therefore, just as at home, summer job-seekers would greatly outnumber summer jobs. As we came down the front steps, calling a goodbye to Auntie Jackie, I noticed a girl of about twelve or thirteen sitting on the wall of the house opposite. She had long, very distinctive copper-coloured hair and skin so pale that it had a bluish tinge, like skimmed milk. She was looking at us in a way that wasn’t particularly friendly. As if we had disturbed her, she slid off the wall and walked away up the road at a brisk pace, without looking back

Our first port of call was the Lanes, an area of quaint old streets which contained most of Rachel’s favourite clothes shops and where she felt confident of success. Invariably however, we found ourselves queuing to speak to the manager behind someone else on exactly the same vain errand. “Sorry, no vacancies” was the story everywhere. It was quite depressing. Expensive too, as Rachel somehow felt uncomfortable approaching the till empty-handed.

“You don’t have to buy something from every shop we go in, before you ask if they’ve got a job,” I pointed out, as I handed over another tenner.

“It looks better,” Rachel assured me.

Her visit to the jobcentre, once the more appealing lines of enquiry had been exhausted, had been a rude awakening. All those A*s at GCSE counted for nothing, it seemed, in the brutal world of employment. Experienced Book-keeper wanted. Experienced Chef wanted. Experienced Legal Secretary wanted. “How is anyone supposed to acquire this essential experience?” she grumbled.

By midday, Rachel had been turned down by at least thirty shops on a meandering three-mile route and my feet were aching, so we stopped for lunch on the pier – one packet of chips between two, to save money All that rejection didn’t seem to have affected Rachel’s appetite: I had to race to match her chip for chip. That’s the problem with sharing food – the greediest always dictates the pace. The only glimmer of hope had come from a receptionist at a tattoo parlour who had taken Rachel’s name and phone number and said she’d call back when she’d spoken to the boss, who was out the back doing some major piercing work.

“If only there was a way of living without money,” Rachel sighed, tossing a piece of frizzled potato to a fat seagull which had been stalking up and down the railing opposite us in a hopeful manner all the time we’d been eating. “Birds do all right, don’t they Flying around, no responsibilities.”

“What responsibilities have you got exactly?” I inquired.

“Looking after you for a start.”

“When have you ever looked after me?”

“I brought you that copy of Hello! when you were sick.”

“Oh and don’t forget the mince,” I retorted.

“It’s not just about doing stuff,” Rachel replied airily “It’s a feeling of responsibility that goes with being the older one. It’s like I have to set a good example.”

Let her think that if it makes her happy I thought.

I finished the last of the chips and balled up the paper, passing it from hand to hand to clean my greasy fingers, before posting it in a bin.

“Come on,” said the responsible role model. “Let’s go and play on the slot machines. I’m feeling lucky”

“You’ve got it the wrong way round,” I said, catching her up as she strode along the pier. “You don’t need to get more money You need to spend less. Just stop buying things.”

“I know I totally have stopped. I don’t want any more stuff The only thing is, I need the fare to Oxford.”

“Why?” I said, horrified. “You can’t go home already We’re not allowed to go home.”

“I’m not going to the house,” she said. “But it’s Frankie’s eighteenth next weekend. I can’t miss it. It’s going to be massive.” Frankie was Rachel’s best friend from school. Her parents lived in a huge house on the river at Iffley and were lavish party-throwers.

“They’ve probably hired Blenheim Palace,” I said. “Or did they already do that for her seventeenth?”

Rachel laughed. “I’ll get the train up on the Saturday morning and stay over at Frankie’s after the party and come back first thing Sunday morning. Well, maybe not first thing,” she conceded.

I felt inexplicably annoyed that she was going off without me. But it would have seemed a bit ungrateful for both of us to abandon Auntie Jackie so soon after our arrival. Besides, I felt safer in Brighton.

The prospect of a party had driven all thoughts of poverty and unemployment from Rachel’s mind. “Shall we have our fortunes read?” she said, as we approached a booth advertising the services of a clairvoyant. SORRY CLOSED FOR THE AFTERNOON read a handwritten note Blu-tacked to the door. Underneath, some joker had scrawled: due to unforeseen circumstances.

We were still sniggering over this when a blonde woman in big sunglasses touched Rachel on the arm and said, “Excuse me.” She was dressed in a red halter-neck top displaying a leathery suntan, and white trousers which trailed in the dust on the decking. I guessed her to be a bit older than Auntie Jackie, though it was hard to tell as the glasses covered so much of her face.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, picking through her wallet with hilariously fake scarlet talons, before finally producing a business card which she pressed into Rachel’s hand. “I’m a scout for a modelling agency in London,” she said. “Have you done any modelling at all?”

Rachel shook her head, blushing faintly.

“Well, people have probably told you this before, but you’re very striking. You’ve got an interesting face. Very…modern.” She moved around, looking at Rachel from different angles, while I tried to melt into the background. Rachel gave an embarrassed laugh: she wasn’t used to taking compliments from women. “I’m sorry,” the woman went on, smiling to show two rows of fridge-white teeth. “I hope you don’t think I’m being personal, but when I see a young girl like yourself with a certain look about her, I have to say something. A lot of our most successful girls are people I’ve just spotted on the street, who’d never given modelling a thought.”

“I’m not tall enough to be a model,” said Rachel doubtfully “Or thin enough. It’s all size zero and laxatives for breakfast, isn’t it?”

“Kate Moss is only five foot eight,” the woman replied. “But anyway there’s other sorts of modelling than just the catwalk. You think about it. That’s all I’m saying.” She indicated the card which Rachel was now holding. “That’s the name of someone in Brighton who can do your photos. If you go along to his studio and tell him Mags sent you, he’ll do it for nothing.” She gave us a last flash of that double-decker porcelain smile before moving on, her trouser hems catching under her heels with each step.

“Ridiculous,” Rachel snorted when she was out of earshot. “What a load of old rubbish.” All the same, I noticed she pocketed the card.

“Do you think she was genuine?” I said, failing to disguise my bitterness at having been so blatantly overlooked.

“Nah. Probably just escaped from a loony bin,” said Rachel, modest in her triumph. “I mean she didn’t exactly dress like someone who works at the cutting edge of fashion. Those trousers must have come straight from Primark.”

I knew she was saying this to make me feel better, so I laughed, and decided not to point out that the jeans I was wearing came from Primark Sale. I didn’t share Rachel’s addiction to designer labels. If Dad gave me £50 to spend on clothes, I’d spend ten and keep the rest for emergencies. I’d built up quite a sizeable fund over the years; after all, emergencies were Dad’s department really

For some reason – perhaps Rachel’s sisterly refusal to gloat – this incident on the pier seemed to bring us closer together, and we walked slowly back to Cliff Street listening to Rachel’s iPod, sharing one set of earbuds and a bag of candyfloss. But all the way back, in spite of the music and the sunshine, I had an uneasy feeling – as if there was a worry that I couldn’t quite name hovering just out of reach. It was only when we reached Auntie Jackie’s, just as one of her clients was coming down the steps carrying a gold ball dress cocooned in polythene, that I remembered what it was: Frankie’s party. My heart gave a kick of protest at the thought. In spite of her promises to Dad and the police, Rachel was determined to go back to Oxford, even though there was somebody there – perhaps a whole group of somebodies – who knew our names and where we lived, and hated us enough to try and kill us.