Girls Out Late Read online

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Eggs. Do you want some yoghurt now? Anyway, George and I talked things through at length—’

  ‘While we were sitting here at home wondering what the hell had happened to you. Why didn’t you phone?’ Dad demands.

  ‘Because I didn’t think it would look particularly professional if I said “Excuse me, I have to phone my husband to stop him worrying about me”,’ says Anna. She folds her arms and faces Dad. ‘I’m sorry you and Ellie got worried but I feel I behaved perfectly responsibly. I don’t see why you have to give me the third degree now. I thought you’d be thrilled for me. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for. I was so envious when Sara started designing her clothes. I felt I’d wasted all my art school training. You’ve no idea what it’s been like never having a job.’

  ‘I thought you were happy looking after me and Ellie and Eggs,’ says Dad.

  ‘I am happy – but I don’t see why I can’t have a career as well, especially now Eggs has begun school.’

  ‘And now George really wants Anna-jumpers?’ I say.

  ‘He got me to sketch some of the ones I’ve made already. Of course some of the characters have their own trademark so we can’t use them – but I roughed out some new animal ones for him, pigs and piglets in little stripy shirts, a funny cow milkman driving an orange milkcart, a granny sheep knitting a jumper, a chicken painting a Fabergé-type egg. He wants all those designs properly drawn out with the knitting instructions and the jumpers knitted up, of course. He says I can use a professional knitter or two if I don’t have time myself, as it’s obviously the designs that are important. Then we’ve talked about sweaters in football colours and a set of weather jumpers, a light silky cotton jersey with a sun, a thick double-knit sweater with a snowman, a rainbow-striped sweater with the sun on one side and raindrops on the other. It was weird, once I got started I couldn’t stop, all these ideas came tumbling out – and you’ll never guess, he’s paying me five hundred pounds per design, can you imagine, and that’s just for starters, there might be all sorts of spin-offs—’

  Anna seems spinning herself, circling way above our heads. Dad is staring at her as if any minute now she’ll whizz out of the window and up into the wide blue yonder.

  I can’t concentrate at school. I’ve got one word whirling round every little squiggle and twist of my brain. R-U-S-S-E-L-L. I wonder if he’s thinking about me???

  I think about him particularly hard in the last double lesson, ART. We’ve got this new young ultra hip Art teacher, Mr Windsor. I like him a lot and I love all the stuff he tells us about the history of art and women painters and the changing ways women have been portrayed. I normally hang on to his every word and try to impress him, but his voice today is like background buzz on a radio. I can’t even get interested when he shows us some Blake watercolours and Picasso paintings of mythical creatures. Magda and Nadine like the Blake triple Hecate of three young women huddled together. Mr Windsor says she’s a goddess of the Underworld, and then he flashes lots more Greek gods at us and amuses us with muses.

  ‘Now, I want you all to draw yourselves as a mythical creature. Be as inventive as possible,’ says Mr Windsor, handing out paper. ‘You can use black ink and watercolour, like little Blakelets, or paint like Picasso.’

  Magda and Nadine want to sellotape our papers together and do a joint Hecate.

  ‘We can all draw her together,’ says Magda.

  ‘Ellie can do the bodies as she’s the best at drawing and then we’ll each do our own heads,’ says Nadine. ‘You sit in the middle, Ellie, right?’

  I hesitate. I don’t really want to join up with Magda and Nadine and do the Hecate. I rather fancy the muse theme.

  ‘Ellie?’ Magda’s staring at me.

  ‘Ellie?’ Nadine’s staring at me too.

  They’re both looking bewildered.

  I feel mean. I don’t want to hurt their feelings.

  ‘Right, right, who’s got some sellotape then?’ I say quickly.

  Luckily Mr Windsor isn’t keen on mutual effort art either.

  ‘No, you three. I know you’re inseparable, but I’d sooner you each made a solo attempt,’ he says.

  I pretend to be disappointed like Nadine and Magda, and settle down to my muse. I get so caught up in it that I don’t chatter to the others. I don’t even look to see what they are doing. Mr Windsor comes and has a wander round just before the bell goes to see how our paintings are progressing.

  ‘I like it, Nadine,’ he says, laughing.

  I stop and peer at Nadine’s painting. She’s drawn herself as a mermaid, her long black hair discreetly veiling her bare top, her jade-green tail wittily tattooed with little navy sailors and anchors and ships.

  ‘What do you think of mine, Mr Windsor?’ Magda asks eagerly, looking up at him and batting her eyelashes. She flirts with any guy, great or small, old or young, gross or gorgeous, but she’s always thought Mr Windsor seriously special.

  He looks at her painting – and then looks at her like she’s seriously special too. I crane my neck to see it properly. I know Nadine is nearly as good at art as me but Magda’s only fair-to-middling. Her drawing isn’t that good, I suppose – it’s just the idea. She’s drawn herself as a phoenix, with a fluffy head of feathers just like her own flame-red curls and she’s flying right out of a fire.

  ‘What a great idea, Magda,’ says Mr Windsor. ‘I’m truly impressed. You two didn’t just copy an idea like most of the others. You invented your own. We’ll have both of these up on the wall. Now, Ellie, let’s see what you’ve been up to.’

  He stands behind me and is quiet for rather longer than usual.

  ‘How strange,’ he says at last.

  ‘Strange?’ says Magda, coming over to have a look. ‘Oh, Ellie, it’s ever so good. I wish I could draw like that.’

  ‘You look just like you – and the artist looks just like a certain boy we all know,’ says Nadine, giving me a nudge.

  ‘Don’t you like Ellie’s painting, Mr Windsor?’ says Magda. ‘I wish I could draw like her.’

  ‘It’s . . . interesting,’ says Mr Windsor.

  He looks closely at my picture of me posing self-consciously while Russell sketches me. It’s very similar to the Picasso he showed us but his model was naked and I’m obviously not going to portray myself without a stitch on. Come to think of it, the artist was naked too, but I’m certainly not drawing Russell starkers. I suddenly wonder what he looks like bare and start blushing.

  ‘Why did you draw yourself as a muse, Ellie?’ Mr Windsor asks.

  I wonder what he’s getting at? Does he think I’m pathetic for imagining I could ever be a muse figure? Perhaps he thinks it deeply sad that a plump plain girl like me could ever inspire anyone to create worthwhile art?

  ‘I know muses are meant to be kind of beautiful,’ I mumble. ‘It was just a bit of . . . artistic licence.’

  ‘Muses can look any way you want them – but you’re the artist. You should be the one clutching the paintbrush, not the model staring into space empty-handed.’

  I think he’s paying me a compliment. I suddenly slot back into my senses. I turn my paper over and for the ten minutes left of the lesson I do a quick sketch of Magda and Nadine and me as Hecate – me wearing my glasses and looking earnest, Magda with her head on one side in a flirty fashion and Nadine gazing dreamily into the distance. Magda and Nadine have a happy giggle and Mr Windsor grins.

  ‘We’ll put that one on the wall, OK?’ he says, as the bell goes. ‘Hometime! Off you go, girls.’

  He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I can’t WAIT to see Russell. Nadine’s eager to be off too but Magda’s hanging about, watching as Mr Windsor gathers up his stuff and fumbles for his car keys.

  ‘Oh sweet! I like your Teletubby key-ring, Mr Windsor!’ she says. ‘Tinky-Winky! Whoops, where’s your handbag?’

  ‘You’re a cheeky girl, Magda. It’s a good job I’m such a laid-back, tolerant teacher,’ says Mr Windsor, tr