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  'Paris?'

  'No, Venice. We'll go to see the glass-blowers on M u r a n o a n d buy t h e most beautiful chandelier.'

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  'We'll h a n g it in the palace and hold a grand ball and dance until the small hours.'

  'And meanwhile Miranda and Paul will be down t h e bowling alley, rolling the balls at the pins.'

  We laughed a little too uproariously. Then we were silent. We could see the alley at the end of t h e road, its blue and orange neon sign flashing hypnotically. We trudged towards it.

  'We don't have to meet up with t h e m tonight,'

  I said. 'We could j u s t slope off and leave t h e m to it. We don't have to go off to anywhere exotic. We could simply go home and hide out in the Glass Hut, j u s t being us!

  'I know. Stop tempting me,' said Carl.

  'You don't like bowling, do you?'

  'No. I can't stand it.'

  'So why did you s t a r t all this?'

  Carl sighed. 'I suppose I wanted to impress Paul.'

  I was baffled. I'd never known Carl try to impress anyone before. I imagined Paul in my mind, tall and athletic, in football strip, with one of those handsome, chiselled, square-jawed faces. I tried h a r d but I couldn't project any expression onto him. He l u m b e r e d stiffly through my thoughts like a soldier doll, t a n n e d and plastic and ready for action.

  'Hey, he's there already! He's even earlier t h a n us!' said Carl, suddenly hurrying, almost running.

  I squinted at all the guys hanging around 127

  outside the bowling alley, lolling against the wall, j u m p i n g up and down t h e steps, sitting on the wall kicking their feet. None was a likely candidate for Football Paul. Then a boy started waving – and Carl waved back.

  So this was Paul, this ordinary-looking boy in a hoodie and faded jeans and scuffed trainers.

  He was a little taller t h a n Carl and a little broader. He had darkish-blond hair, gelled and spiky. He h a d a few freckles across his nose and cheeks and a grin t h a t showed a lot of his teeth. I couldn't decide if he was good looking or not. He didn't seem a patch on Carl.

  They were messing around together, Carl and Paul, doing a weird elaboration of a high-five routine, and then playing some crazy kind of kung fu, chopping thin air and making daft sounds. I stared at them. I'd never seen Carl acting the fool like this – he was normally way too cool. He saw me staring.

  'Hey, Paul, this is my friend Sylvie,' he said.

  Why couldn't he say girlfriend?

  'Hello, Paul,' I said.

  He held out his hand. I thought he was still mucking around kung fu-ing so I kept my own arm pinned to my side. He withdrew his arm, looking disconcerted. He'd simply been trying to shake my hand. I felt awful b u t it seemed too late to s t a r t all over again. I nodded at him instead, smiling manically to show I wanted to be friends.

  'Where's Miranda?' said Paul.

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  He was eyeing me up and down, obviously hoping Miranda would be more promising.

  'She's meeting us here. We're still a bit early,'

  I said.

  It was torture waiting for Miranda. Carl and Paul a n d I made stilted three-way conversation for a little while b u t this soon tailed away into awkward silence. So Carl asked Paul about some match he'd played t h a t afternoon and they were off speaking boring football-lingo. I was surprised t h a t Carl could talk it. He was a little too sycophantic, going on and on about Paul's astonishingly amazing brilliant performance, like he'd done complicated brain surgery while whistling the Hallelujah chorus. He'd j u s t r u n around a field kicking a ball, for heaven's sake.

  Carl actually used the word 'awesome'.

  I stared at him, wondering if he was actually sending Paul up. No, he seemed serious. I raised one eyebrow at him. He didn't raise one back.

  He edged away, practically t u r n i n g his back on me, standing in a little huddle with Paul, cutting me out. He was treating me the way he treated Lucy. I was so h u r t and cross I almost stomped off home by myself, b u t I felt I h a d to wait for Miranda.

  We all waited and waited a n d waited.

  'Is this Miranda actually going to t u r n up?'

  Paul said, t u r n i n g to me.

  'Yes, of course she is,' I said, though I was starting to wonder myself.

  Miranda was ten minutes late.

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  I checked my mobile for messages. I sent Miranda a text, then another.

  Fifteen minutes. Twenty.

  I tried ringing her but she was engaged.

  Maybe she was sitting cosily at home, ringing Alice or Raj or Andy, having sensibly decided to give t h e bowling date a miss.

  Twenty-five minutes.

  'She's not coming,' said Paul, frowning. He obviously wasn't used to being stood up.

  'Is she mucking us about?' Carl said crossly, glaring at me as if it was somehow my fault.

  'How do I know?' I said.

  I tried giving her one last ring on her mobile

  – and got through to her.

  'Hi! Why are you phoning? I'm here' said Miranda.

  There she was, walking towards us, looking stunning in very tight jeans, a black satin shirt (mostly unbuttoned) and a crazy furry waistcoat. Her hair wafted past her shoulders in a mad cloud of curls. She took little swaying steps on account of the incredibly high heels of her killer boots.

  Carl and Paul stared at her. Carl smiled. Paul shook his head, looking bemused. He gave a little whistle.

  'She's Miranda?' he said. 'Oh boy!'

  Miranda came wiggling up to us, laughing and talking and hugging as if we were all her oldest friends, even Paul – particularly Paul.

  She didn't apologize for being so late; she didn't 130

  seem t h e slightest bit fussed about it. She let Carl pay for her to go into the bowling alley as if it was totally her due, not even bothering to t h a n k him. She didn't take much notice of me either. She j u s t nattered away to Paul and he nodded a n d smiled and preened in a totally sickening fashion.

  'Happy now?' I said to Carl as we queued up.

  'Sure,' he said, but he didn't actually seem sure at all.

  I hated the noise and blare and stale chippy smell of the alley. I hated the game itself. I couldn't seem to get the knack at all. I tried to copy t h e others, bending down and t h e n rolling the ball, but I was lousy at aiming – once my ball jiggled over into the neighbouring alley, causing four boys to s t a r t screaming abuse at me. I ignored them, though I knew my face was beetroot red. I stood with my h a n d on my hip, yawning every now and then, trying to pretend t h a t t h e game bored me silly a n d I wasn't even going to t r y to play properly, b u t I didn't fool anyone.

  It didn't help t h a t the other three were so good at it. Paul was by far the best, aiming stylishly, effortlessly, his ordinary boy body suddenly taking on a Glass Boy grace. He spoiled it by punching the air and leaping about crazily each time he knocked ten pins down, which happened with monotonous regularity.

  Carl did his best to copy his style, bending exactly t h e same way, extending his head, 131

  flicking his wrist, like a Paul shadow. He could copy the technique but he didn't have Paul's n a t u r a l ability. He looked good b u t he only ever demolished half his pins.

  Miranda did things her way, of course. She could barely bend in h e r tight j e a n s and high heels and adopted an odd crouching position, h e r bum in the air, so t h a t all the boys in the bowling alley started goggling at her. She was very a w a r e of t h i s a n d played up to h e r audience, tossing h e r hair and leaning further forward so t h a t the remaining two buttons on h e r s h i r t s t r a i n e d a n d popped. Everyone expected h e r to bowl as badly as me, b u t somehow she h a d the knack. The ball left her hand, spurted up the alley and knocked the pins over with a satisfying t h u n k each time.

  Miranda and Paul were level-pegging for a while, b u t t h e n he started drawing ahead.

  Miranda laughed and clapped