And work Christmas drinks, she was planning that, too.
I needed a break, and Christmas couldn’t come soon enough.
We were just a day from the ball when the ping of my email sounded one evening.
Helen
ArtyHelenPalmer is recording a message!
In shock and with my heart thudding, I clicked to view live and she was sitting in silence, twirling her hair around her fingers.
“It’s been a while. Sorry. I mean I was… I’m still…”
I watched her watching her knees, cross-legged on her bed with her laptop angled up.
“I thought I should maybe… before the ball… I thought I should…”
She sighed, and so did I.
“I miss you. I miss being friends. I miss what we had.”
And so did I.
“I just… being around you made me feel so alive. I felt… I felt like me… and like that was ok.”
And so did I.
“I felt like I had someone who got me… someone who could make it ok…”
And so did I.
“I just… I miss that. I miss you. And things are weird now and horrible and different, and sometimes I even forget there was anything more… but then I remember, and I get so sad.”
And so did I.
“I just wondered… I thought… maybe you missed me, too. Just a little. I know you probably don’t…” She laughed at herself, a horribly self-depreciating sound.
And I was typing. Typing before I could change my mind.
I miss you, Helen.
And her eyes lit up and widened. “You do?”
Every day.
“I just… I didn’t know… you didn’t seem like it…”
I was just trying to set you free.
“But… but I don’t want that… I… I want…” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m a kid, I know, and you’re not. And I get that. I get it.”
She took a little breath.
“I just… I really…”
She held up a hand to the screen and it took me a second to realise she was reaching for the off button.
“I’d better go…”
And I blew it again. Typed the only thing I could justify saying.
Goodnight, Helen.
“Goodnight, Mr Roberts.”
With regret, I typed the words I wanted to say, typed them into the chat box like they could save my soul, pull me from the depths of the black and white world I’d been rotting in and make it all real again.
Don’t go with him. Don’t be with him. Please, Helen, don’t. Wait for me. Wait until you’re older and I’m just a man, wait until this can be something. And I’ll be there. I promise I’ll be there.
But no.
I couldn’t.
I pressed delete.
***
Helen
I thought I’d feel better for making a video. But I didn’t. I was churning and sick and sad inside, and I cried my way through getting ready for the ball and tried to hide it, tried to pretend it was just excitement. Mum seemed to buy it, at least.
We’d had the afternoon off school to get ready — a special sixth form privilege — and I hadn’t seen Mr Roberts all day. It hadn’t stopped me thinking about him.
I messaged Lizzie.
What time is Scottie picking you up?
Lizzie: He’s not.
He’s not??
Lizzie: No. We’re not one of ‘those’ couples. We don’t do the traditional thing.
Traditional thing? It’s a ball, Lizzie, not an engagement. :p
Lizzie: I’m meeting him there.
I let it go and focused on my outfit. The shoes Mum had ordered online fit perfectly. They were princessy enough to make Katie happy, just the slightest sprinkling of jewels and a delicate little heel that added a couple of inches. Mum curled my hair and painted my toenails, and I put on just a tiny little bit of makeup to make my skin glow.
And then I was ready.
Even Dad looked lost for words.
“You look… really good, Helen.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“When did you get all grown up…?”
I wish I was all grown up.
“…he’d better appreciate it.”
My stomach turned. “Yeah.”
And then he was here. Only he was the wrong he. In fairness to him, Harry Sawbridge polished up well. His suit was fitted and his hair was slick and his eyes looked big and dark and pretty hot. Only I didn’t want him.
He yabbered on all the way to the Three Friars, and high-fived about a million people that I disliked on the way in, and then I was tossed around a sea of bodies in big gowns, and everywhere I looked they were staring at me, and laughing. They were all laughing. Finally, I found myself an anchor. Or rather, an anchor found me.
Lizzie grabbed me by the waist, spun me around her, and she looked great, in one of those 50s swing dresses in purple polka dot and a big ostrich feather in her hair.
“Have you seen him?” she whispered and she was smiling.
“Seen who?”
She rolled her eyes. “Rampant Roberts. My God, he polishes up alright, Hels, even if I do say so myself.”
My knees felt like they’d go from under me. “Where?”
She turned me in the direction of the bar and peered between bodies, angling me to follow her eye line. And then I saw him. He was standing with Miss Monkton, smiling politely as she whispered in his ear. And he was beautiful.