Devil You Know Page 8

  “I suppose I’ll have to let you try,” she said.

  Isobel clapped her hands. “Don’t worry, this is going to be good.”

  *

  As the weather got colder, Daisy did her best to forget about the Christmas ball. After all there was the end of term to look forward to. She had typed up Chapter One of her novel and mailed it off—it was only fifteen hundred words, though, was that too short? She hoped not. Anyway, having it out there gave Daisy a dream. All the girls loved her stuff. She was starting to believe she was actually talented. Isobel kept telling her she could be the next Jilly Cooper. She felt happier, and she lost a tiny bit of weight. When they got a free weekend and were allowed to go shopping in Withambury, Daisy haunted W. H. Smith and bought copies of the magazines aimed at aspiring writers. They filled her with a curious mixture of hope and despair. On the one hand, there were stories of publishers and mainstream authors and interviews with supposedly bestselling writers, even though she had not heard of any of them. But on the other hand, all the photo-opportunity pictures made it look a bit seedy, and everyone in them seemed to be gray-haired and over fifty. They attended conferences in run-down hotels in Brighton; they won competitions organized by the magazine; and mostly, it seemed, they paid money for correspondence courses to teach you how to write. Gushing praise for the results of these courses ran along the lines of “Thanks to your course, I placed a story in Trout Fishing Monthly and was paid sixty pounds!”

  Daisy didn’t want to do that sort of thing. She wanted to write a big bestseller. Maybe she was being too ambitious, though?

  No way. She was quietly confident about the Company competition. After all, the popular clique at St. Mary’s believed in her writing, and they were never wrong.

  Eight

  “OK.”

  Isobel tossed her honey-colored hair and regarded Daisy critically.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Daisy said.

  She looked at her reflection. Even though she had tried to diet, it hadn’t really worked. Daisy looked at her pudgy, pasty cheeks and was filled with her usual self-loathing. Trying to dress it up a little didn’t work. The only thing that worked was forgetting about herself.

  Her stories helped her do that. Emily, her heroine, was waifish with cheekbones like knives and perky breasts. Her blossoming romance with Rory, laird of Craithy Castle, was far more interesting than Daisy Markham suffering at the Chatsford dance.

  “You said you’d put yourself in my hands. So trust me,” Isobel insisted.

  Daisy tilted her head, her bob plastered to her head and covered in goop. Isobel was dying her hair with what the cardboard box promised would become “Rich Russet Auburn.” Right now it looked like food-additive.

  “I guess it’s too late,” Daisy muttered.

  Her tactics at the hideous dances and parties she couldn’t avoid were to find a quiet corner and blend into the wallpaper. Not to be noticed.

  Isobel’s watch bleeped. “Thirty minutes. OK. Let’s wash you out. Head back, please.”

  Daisy tilted her head back against the cracked washbasin. The rim of the sink dug into her neck and it was cold and uncomfortable. She felt Isobel running the taps on her hair, then massaging in the little packet of conditioner that came with the hair dye. She’d spent almost five whole pounds on this. She hoped it worked.

  There was a creak as the door opened. Daisy tried to lift her head to see who it was.

  “Don’t move.” Isobel splashed more water on her from the BBC Pebble Mill toothbrush mug. “Hi, Victoria.”

  “You must report to the prefects by seven,” Victoria said officiously, “so that we can take roll call for the coach. What are you doing?”

  “None of your business,” said Isobel stoutly.

  Victoria’s voice was all sweetness. “Tarting Daisy up? How nice,” she said, in a tone that meant, “Good luck.”

  As she walked out of the room, Daisy heard her sniggering to herself.

  “That’s it.” She sat bolt upright. “Isobel, this isn’t working. I’m not going.”

  “You have to go. Everyone will know if you don’t.” Her friend’s slim, pretty face stared down at Daisy. “It’ll be even worse if you don’t. Now sit over there while I blow-dry you, OK?”

  Daisy stared out of the window while Isobel worked on her. It was six-thirty and already dark and cold; early December chill was hanging over the air. The courtyard of St. Mary’s was lit up from the headlights of the giant coach parked in the forecourt; teachers were milling around it, Miss Crawford was dressed in a blood-red satin gown which emphasized her bony body. Despite the neon glare, Daisy could see stars speckled over the inky sky; it was going to be freezing later. Her nose always went bright red in the cold, like Rudolph’s. She made a mental note to have Isobel slap on an extra layer of concealer.

  “Now for the makeup,” Isobel said. “A bit of blusher, not too much … Hold steady, will you … and no mascara, you don’t need it, amazing lashes…”

  “Let me see. I know you’re making me look like a clown,” Daisy muttered.

  “Only when I’m finished. Close your eyes, please.”

  “That eyeshadow’s pink,” Daisy said, horrified.

  “Pale pink works great with red hair. Now shut your eyes. Thank you. Finally.”

  When she was done, Isobel made Daisy get into the dress she had picked out for her. It had been a horrible day when they’d gone dress-shopping. Daisy didn’t even want to think about her bottom in that changing-room mirror—dimpled, orange-peel skin on her wobbly butt that rippled down her upper thighs, even gathered in a tiny pocket on her knees. Until she’d seen herself in the harsh overhead lighting of the dressing room at Top Shop she didn’t know just how ugly her body was. Daisy had blinked back tears, thanking God that she was alone and Isobel had agreed to wait outside. Her reflection made her want to go and live alone on an island somewhere in the Orkneys, with no company except a puffin or two.

  No wonder she never went shopping.

  Isobel had taken charge and picked out a dress based on the sizes of all the other clothes Daisy rejected. It was too expensive, but she’d stumped up for it—anything to get away from the stores and their cruel mirrors. Now she struggled into it. It was tight, but it seemed to fit OK. The bodice was boned, almost like a corset, hiding her jiggly potbelly, and the skirt flared out over two petticoats, which did a creditable job of covering her wide hips and soft, rippling thighs. The color was practical; dark burgundy, not quite black. “To hide red wine stains,” as Isobel put it.

  “Right.” Her friend zipped her up at the back and tugged the hook and eye at the top into position. “Face the mirror. Now look.”

  She took her hands away.

  Daisy blinked.

  She hardly recognized the girl in the mirror. Her hair was gorgeous, all shiny, brown with hints of cherry wood, the bob cut blow-dried a little choppy, half hiding her burgeoning double chin. Isobel had done something clever with her makeup; the pink eyeshadow did bring out her blue eyes, the foundation evened her skin tone, and the blusher painted on a suggestion of cheekbones she didn’t have.

  The dress was stately. She looked heavyset, but it wasn’t that bad, was it? A little black lace jacket covered her plump arms, the spiderweb embroidery making them look delicate, and her figure was at least half-disguised. And of course the dress pushed up and out her one good feature, her boobs. They were spilling out of the burgundy silk like two creamy white pillows.

  For the first time since she was a child, Daisy experienced a tiny bit of pleasure at the way she looked.

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  “You’re gorgeous,” Isobel gushed.

  “Please.” Daisy took in Isobel’s long blond hair, clear lip gloss, and above-the-knee cocktail dress in pale blue silk. “No need to lie. But I look less awful.”

  “You’ll be such a hit,” Isobel exulted.

  “Daisy stood there grinning stupidly.

  “Come on, you two.” Emma
stuck her head round the door. “Seven o’clock … Daisy, gosh. That looks awesome.”

  “Do you really think so?” Daisy said shyly.

  “You look really pretty.”

  Isobel tugged at her hand. “Let’s go. I totally can’t wait.”

  *

  Miss Crawford and Mr. James, the maths teacher, looking uncomfortable in hired black tie that didn’t quite fit, packed the girls onto the bus, ticking off all the names. Fifty teenage chicks crammed themselves against the gray and orange seats in a rustle of satin and silk and the relentless click-click of toweringly high heels. Daisy couldn’t wear high heels, her ankles swelled every time. In this dress she didn’t have to, though.

  A few of the girls said she looked great. Victoria passed her and raised an eyebrow sarcastically.

  “Quite the transformation. When do you turn back into a pumpkin?”

  “The coach turned into the pumpkin,” said Arabella, in a black satin gown and real diamond stud earrings.

  “Well, we are talking about Daisy,” Victoria stage-whispered, so Daisy could hear.

  “Don’t mind her,” Isobel said. “She’s just jealous. I told her you were entering the Company competition. She’s been extra-nasty since then. She’s terrified you’re going to win.”

  “Do you think so?” Daisy said, very pleased.

  “Settle down please, girls,” said Miss Crawford. “Remember, everybody must be back here by a quarter to eleven without fail. And no drinking except for the sixth form, on pain of suspension.”

  “Wooh-hooh!” said Victoria.

  The coach sped through the Surrey countryside. Daisy stared out of the window while Isobel chatted to Emma about the Chatsford boys. She loved watching the branches of the trees that overhung the little country lanes brush against the window, and the villages with their adorable red-brick cottages loom up in the sweep of the headlights. Anything to be out of St. Mary’s. She half wished the drive would last all night. But a small part of her was excited. She didn’t look so bad; at least, she’d never looked this good. And maybe, just maybe, a boy would ask her to dance. Obviously not a good-looking boy; but that didn’t matter. Maybe there was a fat boy in her year at Chatsford and he was dreading this like she was. Daisy looked at her face reflected against the coach window. She did have a pretty face—it was one of those things they said to overweight girls to make them feel better, but in her case, it was true. She cursed her sweet tooth. Her stomach was always betraying her. Gosh, she could go for a big packet of salt ’n’ vinegar Golden Wonder right now …

  “Here we are!” Victoria crowed.

  All the girls stopped talking and pressed themselves up against the window. Chatsford was a big gray Victorian school with a gravel drive and lions and turrets; mock-gothic, standard-issue public school. But it was incredibly exotic, because it was full of boys.

  Large flaming torches had been placed outside the front door, and there was a teacher and a crowd of boys gathered, dressed in black tie, waiting.

  “What are they doing?” Isobel wondered. “Why are they out there?”

  “Ooh. Top totty,” Emma squealed, to gales of laughter.

  “That’ll do, ladies,” Miss Crawford said. “File out of the bus in an orderly manner, please. Front seats first. Victoria Campbell, lead the way.”

  “Yes, Miss Crawford,” Victoria said, like a pussycat. She stood up in her clinging, almost see-through little gold number, tossed her hair in The Flick, and walked down the coach-door steps, smiling like a movie star.

  Daisy was dragged up and thrust into the aisle, in between all the other girls. She heard whoops and wolf-whistles.

  “Nine! Nine! Nine!”

  There was a chant of male voices. Then Emma stepped out.

  “Eight!” “Nine!” “Eight!”

  “What are they doing?” Daisy hissed to Isobel.

  Isobel looked at her friend. She had gone slightly pale. “Don’t let them bother you.”

  “I don’t get it—” Daisy said.

  Then Isobel was shoved forward. Daisy watched her friend descend into a torrent of wolf-whistles. The boys were yelling at her.

  “Ten!” “Ten!” “Yeah!”

  Daisy stepped out.

  There was silence and a bit of laughter. She stared at the boys, confused. Somebody shouted out, “Two!”

  Somebody else said cruelly, “You think that much?”

  Isobel grabbed her as she stood there blinking and tugged her away. And then Daisy realized.

  They had been grading her out of ten.

  Daisy burst into tears and ran into the school, blundering her way through the crowd of grinning boys. The wave of shame and humiliation beat everything she’d ever known.

  Isobel hissed, “You bastards!” and raced after her.

  Daisy lumbered through the oak-paneled hallway, decorated with large wooden plaques commemorating Rectors of the School and Captains of the Cricket Team in burnished gold letters. There were marble busts on plinths, polished granite floors, and vases of flowers. She could not see a girls’ bathroom, and tears were rolling down her fat face.

  “Daisy!”

  Isobel caught up with her and grabbed her by the lace jacket.

  “Just leave me alone, will you,” Daisy howled. “I look like a stupid clown.”

  Isobel opened the nearest door and shoved her inside. It was an empty classroom. She flicked on the light and shook her.

  “For God’s sake, wipe your eyes,” Isobel half shouted. “You have to pull it together. You can’t let them see you like this.”

  “Bit bloody late,” Daisy said. Crying had made her eyes all bloodshot, her nose was running, and she was white as a ghost, the blusher standing out on her garishly. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, Isobel. I’m so fat and ugly. Of course no boy would ever want me.”

  “Here.” Isobel opened her little silk purse and fished out a small cellophane-wrapped packet of tissues. “Wipe your eyes. We’re stuck here till eleven now. You have to—”

  There was a creak and the wooden door pushed back against them. Daisy felt her stomach drop through the floor. Oh, God—it was getting worse, it was a Chatsford master telling her to get out of the classroom, he’d see her like this—

  “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

  Victoria Campbell regarded the two girls with total contempt. “Get out of there. Only the ballroom and the loo are in bounds for St. Mary’s girls.”

  “Here’s an idea, Victoria,” Isobel said, “fuck off. OK?”

  Victoria’s skinny face colored. “I’m a prefect, actually. You have to do what I say.”

  “Arrange these two words into a well-known phrase or saying,” Isobel snapped. “Off. Fuck.”

  Victoria looked at Daisy. “What are you crying for? They gave you a two. That’s two more than you normally get.”

  “They rated me higher than you,” Isobel said. “And that’s before they even knew your personality.”

  “Get into the ballroom, or I’ll go and get Miss Crawford,” Victoria threatened. “And drag her with you.” She jabbed a thumb at the quivering Daisy and marched out, slamming the door.

  “You don’t want Miss Crawford to come,” Isobel pleaded.

  “No, I don’t!”

  Daisy had calmed down a little. She didn’t want Victoria to triumph over her anymore. Fuck Victoria. Isobel was right.

  “Can I borrow that tissue?” Daisy asked.

  “Atta girl,” Isobel said.

  Daisy looked at her loyal friend. Isobel was a bit twitchy. Daisy knew she wanted to go and hook up with that boy Tom Rhys. She was always talking about him.

  Daisy dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, and took in a few deep breaths. “OK. Let’s go to the ball. I’m going to sneak one of the sixth former’s drinks, anyway.” She tossed her head in a conscious imitation of The Flick. “I don’t look that bad. If they don’t want to dance with me it’s their loss.”

  She wrenched the door open
and gave Isobel a gentle push into the corridor.

  *

  Once she had got Isobel into the “ballroom,” which was in fact the refectory with all the tables temporarily removed, and some strobe lights and a cheesy mirror ball brought in, Daisy managed to find the designated girls’ bathroom. Mercifully she was the only person there. All the other St. Mary’s girls were off trying to find dark corners to be pawed in, or shaking loose their long hair and dancing off their firm teenage asses so some penguin-suited spotty boy would come up and attempt to paw them …

  Daisy smiled a bit at that thought. OK, so the face staring back at her from the mirror above the stinking urinals was plump, but was that any worse than some of the buck-teeth and pizza-faces her year was drooling over out there? She’d spotted one lad in that baying crowd who had a face that was erupting like Etna on a bad day, and another with coke-bottle glasses and railway-track braces on his teeth. She took out the free sample of Estée Lauder perfume she’d ripped from a magazine and brought with her in her bag, rubbed it over her neck and wrists, and marched into the ballroom.

  There was definite revenge to be had, she thought, determined to make the best of it. After all, she wasn’t going to be the only person who was about to have a bad night. She was a writer. So she’d sit here and watch and take notes. Daisy longed for her rough book, but it was back in her room at school. She would have to do it all mentally. She swept into the room, telling herself she was a stately Spanish galleon, just like in that poem they had learned in last week’s English class, and made a beeline for a stretch of wall not already covered by gaggles of boys or girls. Isobel and Emma were on the dance floor with partners already. Daisy hoped one of them was Tom Rhys. Victoria and Arabella and most of the other girls were dancing by themselves, though.

  Daisy instantly saw how it was going to be. A black-tie version of all the excruciating teenage dances she’d been dragged to. For three-quarters of the time, the boys would huddle together, making loud coarse comments and trying to score a cider. The girls would dance with each other, pretending they didn’t want the boys to come over and approach them. When the boys finally worked up enough courage to say something, the event would be almost over. One guy usually asked one girl, then there was a flood. Dancing lasted for less than five minutes, because people needed to get their snogs in before the final curtain. Watches were checked, lads fumbled enthusiastically and clumsily at bras stuffed with tissue paper, there was some tongue wrestling, and the lights went up. Girls ran off giggling and hoping for phone calls, and boys ran off to lie to each other about how Jo Smith had let them feel under her knickers …