My Virtual Life, page 11
I did my daughterly duty to rearrange my face into a version of a smile.
‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ I said.
‘You were completely right, Stella, she could be a cover girl any time soon. Give it a couple of years, sweetie, and we will have you walking the catwalks of Milan.’ He beamed at me as if he had just promised to take me to Disneyland.
On the upside, for once I didn’t feel too tall. Normally I avoid standing too close to anyone in school for fear of dwarfing them and making myself look even more ginormous, but scanning the room I realised that the average height must have been six foot. All the girls were leggy and sleek, like giraffes stalking around the room while fluttering their impossibly long and obviously false eyelashes. Stella says the next big thing is eyelash transplants – from ostriches!
* * *
Later that night in Stella’s little apartment, as we sat side by side removing our make-up, she turned to me and said, ‘Thanks for coming, honey, it helped to have you at my side. I was so nervous all week.’
I wiped away all traces of the evening’s sparkly gloop, processing Stella’s words. It had never occurred to me that Stella might just need my support sometimes.
So much homework to do: four pages of maths, a history essay on the plantation and need to study for tomorrow’s French oral test.
Stella
Tara shimmers in her gown like a newly hatched mermaid. She doesn’t yet know how to carry her beauty and own the power it bestows on her, but with the right guidance, she’ll learn. I’m watching everyone, enjoying the moment when Lavinia Macintosh sidles up beside me and murmurs, ‘It must be irksome to have a pretty daughter – everyone compliments her and overlooks the mama bear.’ It takes all my willpower not to pour my espresso martini over her platinum-dyed hair. Does anyone think that Beyoncé feels jealous of Blue Ivy? How ridiculous. Tara is my greatest accomplishment and I revel in her successes. Lavinia is a dried-up old clam with no hope of producing her own beautiful child.
We have our photographs taken against a wall of pink and red peonies. Everyone looks beautiful and Tara beams at me. The music swells around us and the mood is fun and playful. Someone is wearing a Venetian mask and a top hat. There’s a fire eater standing on a table while an acrobat is swinging above our heads. They are serving gin cocktails in vintage china teacups with tiny metallic macaroons on the side of the saucers. Tara looks at me with her eyes wide and bright. It’s as if for the first time she sees the magic in my world. I’m so happy that she agreed to come with me tonight. Sure, I can’t get rat-faced drunk or have a cheeky cigarette, but I’d trade every drunken night for one magical night with my girl. Once the awkward teen years pass, we’ll be able to be friends. I know I’ll always be her mother but I’m certain we’ll never have the iceberg of mistrust and dislike between us that I have endured with my own mother.
* * *
The next morning Tara wakes and catches me watching her. It’s so rare that she agrees to sleep with me these days, that I practically jumped up and down when she suggested we slept in the double bed after the party. My Dublin apartment is tiny, no bigger than a studio, so it made sense to bunker down together. We chatted and giggled about the night into the small hours of the morning, eventually falling to sleep cuddled up together. I know it can’t last, we’ll be sniping at each other by the time we hit the motorway home, but for now I’m enjoying the moment.
17
How my mother ruined my life: part two
Stella
Honoured and delighted to be asked to give a little motivational career talk at Tara’s school. I couldn’t possibly have allowed my parents anywhere near my school. The shame would have been too much. Thankfully, if anyone understands teens and their emotional hang-ups it’s me. They are my audience, after all. When Ms Ambrose called inviting me along, I could hardly say no. I’m sure they don’t have too many international journalists on the parents’ mailing list. My experience in life and work is extensive and it is only fair that I pass it on. I’ve read Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In. Well, I’ve read the blurb. I understand that women have to take a seat at the table and to make their voices heard. I have Beyoncé’s ‘Lemonade’ on my Spotify most-played list. This qualifies me to be a female leader in my field. I shall go to the school and make my mark. No point telling Tara in advance. I’m sure she’d come up with a million reasons why I shouldn’t do it. She’d get herself all stressed and worked up in that way she does. Better for me to rock on up there and deliver my speech like it’s a Ted Talk. She’ll thank me later. I know she will.
Tara
Food swallowed: one coconut yogurt, one pancake, one croissant with raspberry jam, one kiwi, one Mars bar, one mouldy Creme Egg half-eaten, one slice of pizza from school canteen, one can of club orange, one ham sandwich, two slices of toast with Nutella.
Lonely Girl Blog
Mort. i. fi. cation. How could she? She didn’t even tell me. Said it was to be a surprise. I am the laughing stock of the entire year 9s and 10s. How can I ever live this down? Perhaps we will move again and I can start over. It’s the only solution.
I was sitting in the assembly hall patiently listening to Ronan McAuley’s dad give a career talk on working in sales and marketing. He talked about incentives, customer relations, building up a portfolio of contacts, being a ‘people’ person. Just as I tried to stifle a yawn, I saw her. Just left of stage standing in her knee-high patent boots with a short tartan kilt, it was none other than Stella, my so-called mother. Obviously waiting to give her spiel about working in journalism. I couldn’t bear to hear it. Before she had a chance to take to the stage I stood up, pretended I needed to urgently get to the bathroom and shuffled my way down the rows of year 9s and 10s, all sitting about to witness my social demise in the form of my mother subjecting me to ritual humiliation.
HOW COULD SHE?
18
Pleasantly surprised in Chemistry
Tara, Tuesday 6.34pm
Food consumed: One ham and cheese bap, a banana, Innocent smoothie, cup of hot water with lemon, apple pastry square, one hotdog, an apple, pasta bake.
Lonely Girl Blog
After a sleepless night of torment and torturous images of my complete ruination, I decided that the only way to ride out the storm would be to pretend I don’t exist. It has worked in the past – when I have been the butt of some joke in primary school in London or later when I arrived as the new girl in Belfast, I sussed out that if I said nothing and kept my head down, people eventually failed to notice me.
It was double Chemistry first thing. I slouched down in my chair trying to will myself to disappear or just blend into obscurity.
This is what we had to copy down from the whiteboard:
‘Understand how the reactivity series of metals can be determined by considering their reaction with oxygen, water and acid, and learn how to use the reactivity series to make predictions about other reactions.’
I decided I would lose myself in the class and try to not let Stella and her public appearance at school assembly bother me anymore. God, my face is still flushed scarlet hot from the memory. Even sitting in Chemistry while trying to remain focused and present, every now and then scalding, angry tears threatened to spill out of my eyes, completing the humiliation. I couldn’t let anyone see how much it had upset me. They are like rabid dogs – don’t let them smell your fear. If they sense my shame the teasing will be even worse.
Yesterday had passed in a blur. No one had dared mention Stella to me. I had managed to get through the last two periods of the day before rushing home, whereupon I locked myself into my room, raging between anger and despair. Of course, Stella failed to see the problem. She told me to stop being so melodramatic, that everyone had applauded and some of the girls and even a couple of boys had asked lots of questions at the end of the session. I was supposed to be delighted that she had reorganised her schedule to be in Belfast on a Dublin day.
Miss Winston told us to open our textbooks at page fifty-four. Just as I bent down to take my book out of my Kanken backpack, Freya slipped a note onto my desk.
I opened my textbook and hid the note on my jittering knee.
So it begins, I thought, the nasty notes, the jibes and mocking. But when I unfolded the piece of file paper I was surprised to read:
‘We are all meeting up at Jess’s house on the last Friday of term for party celebrations! Do you want to come? Freya x’
I turned to look at Freya, certain she would be smirking at me as if to say, ‘did you really think I meant it?’
But Freya just smiled at me, a real, genuine smile, her dark glossy hair falling down over her sweetheart-shaped face as she nodded, encouraging me to say yes.
What to do? I smiled back, tentatively. I didn’t want Freya thinking I was desperate for a friend. But how could I not respond? Maybe Freya wasn’t so bad after all.
Stella
Instagram followers: 745
Twitter followers: 3,299
Facebook friends: 365
Weight: 9 stone 8 pounds
Mood on a score of 1–10: 3
My daughter did not appreciate my career talk. I am under house arrest. No drinking, no shenanigans with Dylan, no shopping trips. I must do better. Going forward I will resolve to learn how to meditate and to do proper yoga. I will no longer watch Love Island or Keeping Up With the Kardashians.
My neck is aching from trying to look like I’m reading an actual book. Tara is on the floor drawing her adorable little comic. We are endeavouring to have some family time without actually doing anything, from what I can tell.
‘Water?’ I ask to break the gloom.
‘No, I’m fine.’ She doesn’t look up from her sketching. I’m being punished. It’s all I can do not to lie on the floor beside her and beg for forgiveness. I hate it when Tara is cross; it’s like being fifteen again and dealing with my mother’s disapproval. I get off the sofa to go in search of water as something to do. The highlight of my Sunday has been chugging down Evian. What’s a girl to do?
I look out across the back garden and decide that I must organise a gardener. The lawn is beginning to look bedraggled. The last time it had some proper attention was when we bought the house. The clouds are hanging dark and low. I’d almost forgotten how desperate Belfast summers are.
Tara
Friday 7.08pm
Food enjoyed: Weetos with milk, packet of chocolate raisins, can of 7up, chicken tikka, salad bap, lamb curry and rice.
Lonely Girl Blog
Last day of term and a big night out looms.
Mrs Dornan was droning on about poetry today. ‘A poem shouldn’t necessarily mean something – it should just be. Does anyone agree with that statement?’ she asked.
I kept my head down. The rule is don’t make eye contact and don’t volunteer an answer.
We were reading Carol Ann Duffy’s poem about a boy stealing a snowman. I really like the poem. I can visualise the teenager on his night-time stealing spree and enjoy the sense of ridiculousness of him stealing something as stupid as a snowman. And it reminded me of living in Leeds when I was little.
There was one morning when we woke to find that we were literally snowed in. At least a metre of snow had fallen overnight. Stella had phoned her newspaper office to say she’d have to work from home, she would write about the snow and the lack of snowploughs in the district and email it in. The two of us set about having a snow day. We built a snowman as proud and majestic as the one in the poem.
‘Tara, can you tell us what the poet wants us to feel for the speaker?’ Mrs Dornan asked, dragging me back out of my daydream.
‘She wants us to feel sorry for him and his lack of family and love and his need to be part of something that he can never have.’ Don’t know where that came from but thankfully it seemed to do the trick.
‘Yes, excellent.’
I don’t really know why, but I know exactly how the boy in the poem feels.
Later I lay on my bed thinking about the snowman thief and how life has somehow cheated him and his only response was to isolate himself and try to destroy all the things he so desperately wanted to have. For once I have decided not to be so hard on Stella. She had to go it alone and worked hard at her career not just for the financial rewards and the glory of a by-line but for me too, to give me comfort and security. We may not have had an extended family but we had each other.
19
Ghostly sex noises
Tara, Wednesday 6.34pm
Food scoffed since dinner: spring roll, can of Coke, coconut creams x 4, Jaffa Cakes x half a packet.
Lonely Girl Blog
So tired. Couldn’t sleep last night. Spent the evening drawing sketches of Shyla. Changed her outfit and hair – she now wears a sort of short wrapped-round ragged dress and her hair is short and pixie like. Went to bed as normal, read some of my Stephen King book Duma – but Reba the anger management doll is freaking me out; don’t like scary dolls in horror books since they really work as a device. Must make a mental note to use a doll in my next graphic novel. Scary
I must have been asleep for an hour when I was awoken by a strange groaning and the thump, thump, thump of what I thought was the headboard against the wall. Cringe-making sounds that no daughter should have to hear.
Put the pillow over my head to block out the sounds when I realised that it was Tuesday night and Stella was in Dublin. Sat up and checked my phone – she had texted me at ten to say ‘night, night’. The sounds stopped suddenly and all was quiet.
Think we have a ghost in our house and what’s worse it’s a ghost who makes strange sex noises. Think I should contact Derek Acorah. Will email the programme producers.
The freakiest thing has happened. Stella’s talk was a hit. The Jessica crowd loved her and are now being nice to me. I can’t decide whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Matt says I am reading too much into it and thinking about it all too much as usual. But that’s easy for him to say since boys are known not to think too hard about anything.
He is coming with me to meet up with Freya and her friends at Jess’s house on Friday. Freya was really keen for me to come and said Jess wanted me there too. She said bring a friend. I hope Matt doesn’t let me down by drooling over Jess.
Am I shallow, in that I am willing to go when I used to hate everything they represented and knowing how they feel about me after their nasty comments in the toilets?
Your thoughts on this matter would be appreciated.
In response to Spoke Wheeler’s query last time about Belfast I can say that it is worth a visit.
Go see the Beacon of Hope sculpture near the Waterfront Hall. Locally it is called ‘Nuala with the hula’, or the ‘the thing with the ring’. It is a metal construction of a girl holding a big ring. It is a landmark of sorts. Also check out Cave Hill which is supposed to be the inspiration for Gulliver’s Travels. If you look at the rock formation it looks like the profile of a man lying down – so it gets called Napoleon’s nose. Then you can get one of the many bus tours up the Protestant Shankill and down the Catholic Falls Road. You will see lots of street art on gable walls showing scenes from their histories (note, history in NI is totally subjective) or slogans of their chosen terrorist groups.
If you get a chance, go see the Giant's Causeway in North Antrim. It is like a landscape from a science fiction book: molten rock – basalt – was forced up millions of years ago which cooled and formed into vertical hexagonal pillars as a result of an ancient volcanic eruption. Legend has it that the Irish giant Finn McCool built the causeway to walk to Scotland to fight his Scottish counterpart Benandonner. One version of the legend tells that Finn fell asleep before he got to Scotland. When he didn’t arrive, the much larger Benandonner crossed the bridge looking for him. To protect Finn, his wife Oonagh laid a blanket over him so he could pretend that he was actually their baby son. When Benandonner saw the size of the ‘infant’, he assumed the father, Finn, must be gigantic indeed. Therefore Benandonner fled home in terror, ripping up the causeway in case he was followed by Finn.
As for the lingo, well, I was used to my mother’s dialect and sayings so it wasn’t too hard for me to fit in, but you may need some words translated.
Craic – good time/happening i.e. what’s the craic or the craic was ninety
Gutties – trainers
Poke – ice-cream cone
Bog off – piss off
Lift – arrest, as in ‘he was lifted’, i.e. he was arrested. Or ‘can you give us a lift’, meaning can I have a ride in your car?
Melter – someone who is annoying
Steek – chav
Scundered – embarrassed
Eejit – is an idiot
Buck eejit – a really stupid idiot
Sound, class, stickin’ out – all positives as in ‘that’s good’
Hope this helps.
20
An unwelcome kiss
Saturday 12.40pm
Food: toast and peanut butter, tea, chocolate buttons, can of Coke, melon slices, a mango, strawberry yogurt, salad and wedges, Doritos.
Lonely Girl Blog
Cannot believe what has happened. Went to Jessica Bailey’s house with Matt and Ollie. Matt obviously delighted to have a chance of talking to Jessica; he claimed he might even ask her out. Ollie and I didn’t think he’d be brave enough. Anyway, this is what happened:
