Honestly, he makes little real sense these days. I said to Mum, “Oh, I thought I could hear a voice squeaking and making peculiar noises, but I was mistaken. TTFN.”
As I ran for the door I heard him shouting, “I Suppose you think being sarcastic and applying eyeliner in a straight line will get you some O-levels!!!”
O-levels, I ask you. He’s a living reminder of the Stone Age.
noon
La Marche avec Mystery. We walked up and down the High Street, only speaking French. I asked passersby for directions, “Ou est la gare, s’il vous plait?” and “Au secours, j’oublie ma tête, aidez-moi, s’il vous plait.”
Then . . . this really dishy bloke came along. Julia and Ellen wouldn’t go up to him, but I did. I don’t know why, but I developed a limp as well as being French. He had really nice eyes . . . he must have been about nineteen. Anyway I hobbled up to him and said, “Excusez-moi. Je suis francaise. Je ne parle pas l’anglais. Parlez-vous français?”
Fortunately he looked puzzled—it was quite dreamy. I pouted my mouth a bit. Cindy Crawford said that if you put your tongue behind your back teeth when you smile, it makes your smile really sexy. Impossible to talk, of course, unless you like sounding like a loony.
Anyway, dreamboat said, “Are you lost? I don’t speak French.”
I looked puzzled (and pouty). “Au secours, monsieur,” I breathed.
He took my arm. “Look, don’t be frightened. Come with me.”
Ellen and Jools looked amazed: He was bloody gorgeous and he was taking me somewhere. I hobbled along attractively by his side. Not for very long, though, just into a French pâtisserie where the lady behind the counter was French.
8:00 p.m.
In bed. The Frenchwoman talked French at me for about forty years. I nodded for as long as humanly possible, then just ran out of the shop and into the street. The gorgeous boy looked surprised that my limp had cured itself so quickly.
I really will have to dye my hair now if I ever want to go shopping in this town again.
wednesday august 26th
11:00 a.m.
I have no friends. Not one single friend. No one has rung, no one has come round. Mum and Dad have gone to work, Libby is at playschool. I may as well be dead.
Perhaps I am dead. I wonder how you would know? If you died in your sleep and woke up dead, who would let you know?
It could be like in that film where you can see everyone but they can’t see you because you are dead. Oh, I’ve really given myself the creeps now. . . . I’m going to put on a really loud CD and dance about.
noon
Now I am still freaked out but also tired. If I did die I wonder if anyone would really care. Who would come to my funeral? Mum and Dad, I suppose…they’d have to as it’s mostly their fault that I was depressed enough to commit suicide in the first place.
Why couldn’t I have a normal family like Julia and Ellen? They’ve got normal brothers and sisters. Their dads have got beards and sheds. My mum won’t let my dad use our shed since he left his fishing maggots in there and it became bluebottle headquarters.
When the electrician came because the fridge had blown up, he said to Mum, “What madman wired up this fridge? Is there someone you know who really doesn’t like you?” And Dad had done the wiring. Instead of DIY he talks about feelings and stuff. Why can’t he be a real dad? It’s pathetic in a grown man.
I don’t mean I want to be like an old-fashioned woman—you know, all lacy and the man is all tight-lipped and never says anything even if he has got a brain tumor. I want my boyfriend (provided, God willing, I am not a lesbian) to be emotional . . . but only about me. I want him to be like Darcy in Pride and Prejudice (although, having said that, I’ve seen him in other things like Fever Pitch and he’s not so sexy out of frilly shirts and tights). Anyway, I’ll never have a boyfriend because I am too ugly.
2:00 p.m.
Looking through the old family albums. I’m not really surprised I’m ugly. The photos of Dad as a child are terrifying. His nose is huge—it takes up half of his face. In fact, he is literally just a nose with legs and arms attached.
10:00 p.m.
Libby has woken up and insists on sleeping in my bed. It’s quite nice, although she does smell a bit on the hamsterish side.
midnight
The tunnel-of-love dream I’ve just had, where this gorgey bloke is carrying me through the warm waters of the Caribbean, turns out to be Libby’s wet pajamas on my legs.
Change bed. Libby not a bit bothered and in fact slaps my hand and calls me “Bad boy” when I change her pajamas.
thursday august 27th
11:00 a.m.
I’ve started worrying about what to wear for first day back at school. It’s only eleven days away now. I wonder how much “natural” makeup I can get away with? Concealer is OK—I wonder about mascara? Maybe I should just dye my eyelashes? I hate my eyebrows. I say eyebrows but in fact it’s just the one eyebrow right along my forehead. I may have to do some radical plucking if I can find Mum’s tweezers. She hides things from me now because she says that I never replace anything. I’ll have to rummage around in her bedroom.
1:00 p.m.
Prepared a light lunch of sandwich spread and milky coffee. There’s never anything to eat in this house. No wonder my elbows stick out so much.
2:00 p.m.
Found the tweezers eventually. Why Mum would think I wouldn’t find them in Dad’s tie drawer I really don’t know. I did find something very strange in the tie drawer as well as the tweezers. It was a sort of apron thing in a special box. I hope against hope that my dad is not a transvestite. It would be more than flesh and blood could stand if I had to “understand” his feminine side. And me and Mum and Libby have to watch while he clatters around in one of Mum’s nighties and fluffy mules . . . . We’ll probably have to start calling him Daphne.
God, it’s painful plucking. I’ll have to have a little lie-down. The pain is awful—it’s made my eyes water like mad.
2:30 p.m.
I can’t bear this. I’ve only taken about five hairs out and my eyes are swollen to twice their normal size.
4:00 p.m.
Cracked it. I’ll use Dad’s razor.
4:05 p.m.
Sharper than I thought. It’s taken off a lot of hair just on one stroke. I’ll have to even up the other one.
4:16 p.m.
Bugger it. It looks all right, I think, but I look very surprised in one eye. I’ll have to even up the other one now.
6:00 p.m.
Mum nearly dropped Libby when she saw me. Her exact words were “What in the name of God have you done to yourself, you stupid girl?”
God I hate parents! Me stupid?? They’re so stupid. She wishes I was still Libby’s age so she could dress me in ridiculous hats with earflaps and ducks on. God, God, God!!!
7:00 p.m.
When Dad came in I could hear them talking about me.
“Mumble mumble . . . she looks like . . . mumble mumble,” from Mum, then I heard Dad, “She WHAT??? Well . . . mumble . . . mumble . . . grumble . . .” Stamp, stamp, bang, bang on the door.
“Georgia, what have you done now?”