A Is for Apple (12 page)

That was it. No greeting. No apology. Oh, Jesus, was he breaking up with me?

Again?

Making a face, I stabbed the button to call him and listened to the ring tone, looking moodily around the dark little room, scented fetchingly with cheese and onion crisps and cigarette smoke. Eventually he answered.

“Nice of you to pick up.”

“I was in a class,” I said. “What do you need to tell me?”

“You know those lovely chaps who tried so hard to kill you in New York?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, a bad feeling in my stomach.

“They’re not in New York any more.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“They’re in—is that Atomic Kitten?”

“What?” Oh, yeah, the stereo. “I’m behind the stage.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Where are they?”

“Well, currently they’re mid-Atlantic. But very soon they’ll be at Heathrow. After that, it’s anybody’s guess.”

“Mine isn’t too hard to fathom.”

“Mine neither. Did you take Xander up to Angel’s?”

“Yep.”

“Was anyone there?”

“Yep.”

“Are there people listening in?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Look, just be on your guard, all right? They’ll be landing at seven, which at least gives us some grace. They won’t be here before eight or nine, depending on traffic.”

Great. So I had eight hours to live.

“Okay,” I said. “I have to go. I don’t suppose you feel like being charitable, do you?”

“Depends on the cause,” Luke said cautiously.

“I have about a million books I need. I have some of them at home—can you get the others for me? I’ll text you the list.”

“Read them out. It’s got to be quicker.”

I got out the lists I'd been given and reeled off names and titles I’d hoped I’d never hear again.

“I have some of those,” Luke said. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

And before I could ask whether that meant I was forgiven—or did I need to forgive him?—he was gone.

I ended the call and looked around. Amber and Lucy were reading a magazine together, a skinny boy I think was called Laurence was reading the paper, and Marc was engaged in conversation with an earnest girl whose name I didn’t know. I think she was in my form group, one of the Amber/Lucy crowd.

I sat and looked at them all for a while. All three were watching Marc, and trying to look like they weren’t. All three were skinny, and all three were pretty, but in different ways. Amber was quite tall and was clearly in love with herself. Her hair was short but she tossed it constantly for all it was worth. The girl sitting with her—Lucy?—was smaller and very sweetly formed. She looked vaguely familiar—I might have done ballet with her sister when I was tiny.

Well, as tiny as I ever was.

The third girl—the one who’d moaned about D.H. Lawrence—was different. She had her hair in pigtails and she wore glasses and bizarrely coloured clothes. She wasn’t unattractive, but neither was she conventional. I got the feeling that if she wore contacts and stopped plastering makeup on, if she sorted out her hair and wore normal coloured clothes (who ever,
ever
thought fluorescent pink, orange and yellow would look good layered together? She looked like a fruit salad on acid), she would be gorgeous.

Marc didn’t look very interested in them. His body language was all wrong. He wore a dark shirt and trousers, his hair was slightly spiky, his shoes clean. I wondered if the blackness was in response to his father. How the hell did you bring something like that up in conversation?

Eventually, just as I was trying to think of a way of insinuating myself into the group, Amber looked up and said to the pigtail girl, “Clara, you still on for bowling tonight?”

Clara? What was this, 1903?

“Yeah, sure,” Clara said, and immediately flicked her attention back to Marc. “You want to come? There’s a bunch of us going. We always do something on our first night back.”

Since when? I wondered. I bet probably none of them had cars, or could even drive.

Marc shrugged. “Where?”

“The place next to the cinema in town. You know it?” He shook his head. “It’s quite new. Do you know…” And she launched into a complicated set of instructions that would have been a hell of a lot simpler if she’d just said that it was opposite the station.

Eventually Marc shrugged again and said he’d see them at eight.

“Hey,” I broke in, “I love bowling.” Liar.

But it didn’t matter, no one paid any attention.

“And that new place is really nice. They have pool tables too.” Or is it snooker? Hell, like I can play either of them.

Still, no one was biting.

“Do you have to book?” I asked.

“No,” Laurence said, taking pity, “I think you just turn up. But you have to have at least two people for a lane.”

So not pity, then.

By the time I got home, after Clara had got a lift and taken Marc with her (“Oh! You live right near me!” Fancy that), I was feeling pretty uncool. I was feeling like I used to feel when people would hand out invites for a party where I wasn’t welcome right in front of me, and never even pretend about it.

Luke called while I was trying to decide between chocolate and crisps, or maybe both. “You feel like coming and cheering me up?” I asked in a small voice.

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“I hate school. It sucks. I thought I was free of it all. I’ll have nightmares for years now.”

“Explosions and gunfights don’t trouble your conscience, but going back to school gives you nightmares?”

“Blegh,” I said.

He laughed. “What sort of cheering up were you thinking?”

“Whatever kind you like.”

He was at my door in five minutes.

“Okay,” he said. “Phone off?”

I switched off my work mobile and my private mobile, went over and checked the answer machine was on. I even silenced the ringer.

“Door locked?” I asked, and Luke turned all the catches.

“Where’s Tammy?”

“Out.”

“Lock the cat flap,” he said. “No distractions. I don’t care if the building falls down—”

“It never stopped you before,” I said, remembering, and Luke took advantage of my nostalgia to pull me close against him and kiss me silly.

And then he took off my blue top. And then he led me into the bedroom. And then he—

Mmm.

Later, lying there feeling much, much better (if only I’d had a Luke when I was at school, eh?) I told him about my day.

“School hard?”

“Yeah, school hard,” I sulked. “Although I kicked ass in English.”

“Do you know you have Elizabeth Jennings on your set list?”

I made a face. “I know. I hate Elizabeth Jennings. If you’re depressed you take Prozac, you don’t write poems to torture schoolkids.”

“I don’t think that was her intention. Or Shakespeare’s, before you start on him.”

“Shakespeare I can cope with. Shakespeare I quite like.”

“Mmm.” Luke stroked my shoulder. “So apart from the horrors of the English language, how was your first day at school?”

I got the feeling he was strongly resisting calling me “pumpkin” or something else stupid.

“Crappy. The cool kids don’t like me.”

“Probably because you argued with the teacher about Hardy. Which, by the way, I find incredibly sexy.”

“You do?”

He bit my shoulder. “I do. What about Shapiro’s kid?”

“Shouldn’t he just be Shapiro now? After all, it’s not like there’s a daddy.”

“Did the cool kids like him?” Luke persisted, sensibly ignoring my ramblings.

“Yeah. They invited him bowling. They didn’t invite me bowling,” I said moodily. “Now I need a drink.”

He laughed as I got out of bed. “It’s four in the afternoon.”

“So?”

“You alkie.”

I pulled a face at him and padded out into the kitchen. “You want anything?”

“Any beer?”

I cracked open one each and was about to take them back in when I heard Tammy scratching at her cat flap and went over to unlock it for her. But the lock was stuck, so I checked the peephole and opened the door instead.

And then I nearly died.

Standing there looking at me with an indefinable expression was someone I hadn’t seen since I accused him of trying to kill me, shot him twice and threw him in a cell, then stole his car and got it blown up.

“Hi,” I said, in a rather strangled tone of voice. “I’m not wearing anything, am I?”

He shook his head. I felt my whole body blush.

“I—I’m going to go and put something on…”

I scuttled back into the bedroom, where Luke was frowning. “What’s going on? No one’s allowed to see you naked but me.”

“Docherty,” I said, feeling faint. “I opened the door for Tammy and he was there.”

“You didn’t see him? He doesn’t look much like Tammy.”

Indeed he didn’t. Docherty looked like God, in a sulk. “He must have been lurking.”

“Ah, yes, I know how he likes to lurk.” Luke got out of bed and pulled some clothes on. “Are you going to get dressed? Or is this an Emperor’s New Clothes thing?”

I snatched up my kimono and pulled it on, following Luke out into the sitting room. Docherty was sitting on my sofa, looking like a Bond villain, stroking Tammy who was doing her best to look fat and white and malevolent. She failed on the first two counts, but was making up for it with the third.

“Hey,” Luke said, and Docherty looked up, amusement flickering across his fine-featured face (do I know how to alliterate, or what?).

“No need to ask what you two have been doing.”

“No,” Luke agreed. “No need.” He picked up the beer I’d left on the counter and took a swig in a rather proprietary manner. “What are you doing here?”

Luke and Docherty go way back. Apparently. Although neither speaks much of the other—actually, Docherty hardly speaks at all, unless spoken to—they’re both very well thought of in what you might call our business. Docherty is more freelance, and a couple of months ago we hired him to look after Angel, who was in some danger. And then Harvey came along, and I jumped to certain slightly erroneous conclusions about Docherty, and, well, a lot more stuff happened.

Tall and dark and Irish and very good-looking, Docherty’s one of those people about whom you’re desperately curious, but never ask any questions. Not if you want to keep various body parts. The last time I saw him he was driving an Aston Martin Vanquish (yes,
that
Vanquish). I wanted to know what he was driving now, but all I could see through my window was Ted, and Luke’s Vectra.

“Thought I’d pop by. See how my favourite sharpshooter’s doing,” he raised an eyebrow at me, and I blushed.

“She’s doing fine,” Luke said, and added pointedly, “Nice of you to drop by.”

Docherty looked between us.

“Did you want to see my new car?” he asked me idly, probably remembering how flustered I’d got over the Vanquish.

“What is it?”

He gave a very elusive smile. “Come and see.”

And, like a little girl going to the devil, I followed him, Luke trotting behind me to keep me out of trouble.

It was sitting in the middle of the small car park, looking magnificent. Long and low and powerful, like Luke doing push-ups. It was black and shiny and had a weird central cockpit. Damn, Docherty actually is Batman.

I checked surreptitiously for a badge, but didn’t recognise it.

I glanced at Luke, but he was frowning too.

“It’s familiar,” he said, “but I…”

Docherty was grinning—well, the closest he’d ever get to grinning. Which is to say, not very. But he was amused.

“You want to know?”

“Yes!”

“Koenigsegg.”

I searched my petrolhead memory and came up with a Swedish supercar that nearly killed the Top Gear driver. Fast, dangerous, and utterly unpredictable, just like Docherty.

We stared some more. Then Luke shook his head. “Damn,” he said. “I’m impressed. Stay the hell away from my Vectra.”

Even Ted looked nervous. Poor Ted.

“Is that all you came for?” I asked, and Docherty shrugged.

“There was one other thing.”

“What?”

He beckoned me closer. I stepped towards him, and he leaned down and said very quietly in my ear, “You owe me an apology.”

I shivered, and it wasn’t because I was wearing a satin kimono and nothing else in September. I knew precisely what kind of apology he was after. And I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about giving it to him, even if it wasn’t for Luke.

Docherty got in the beautiful car and it made a beautiful noise before gliding beautifully away.

“What did he say to you?” Luke wanted to know.

“I—nothing.”

“Sophie…”

“He says I owe him an apology.”

Luke glowered at the driveway where the Koenigsegg had been. “He’s not getting one.”

“No. He’s not. Anyway. I need more than just a beer now. Did we finish that vodka?”

“You can’t drink vodka.”

“Why not? I’m a grown up.”

“No, you’re not, you’re seventeen.” Luke grinned as he pushed the door open. “And anyway, you have to go bowling tonight.”

I gave him a death look. “No, I don’t. Were you not listening back there?”

“So they didn’t invite you. Turn up at the next lane and have a better time than them.”

“All by myself? I’m enough of a Norma No Mates as it is.”

“Not by yourself,” Luke said patiently as I picked up Tammy’s bowl and started searching for cat food. “With your cool SO17 friends.”

I put down the can I was holding. “I don’t mean to burst your bubble,” I said, “but you three are not really the sort of people a seventeen-year-old girl should be hanging around with.”

“Ask your other mates then. Eva and…”

“Evie and Ella. Yeah, ‘cos they’re not ripe for ridicule. They were as uncool as me at school.” Besides, then I’d have to explain to them how I knew all these teenagers in the next lane.

“But you’re cooler now,” Luke said, looking exasperated. “Angel, then. She’s very cool.”

He was right. Angel’s mother had been a gorgeous sixties diva. Angel was baby-faced—she might get away with seventeen, even though she was ten years older. And she was undeniably cool.

“Okay,” I said, “so that’s Angel and me…”

“And me,” Luke said. “What, you think I’ll leave you all on your own when there are men like Docherty around?”

“I can handle Docherty,” I said as haughtily as is possible when forking out Whiskas.

Luke shook his head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I dressed for the occasion. Bowling in my mind has always been a Fifties thing,
Grease
and teenagers and rock’n’roll. I love Fifties style—its a curvy girl thing. I wriggled into a circle skirt and a little wrap top, put my hair into a ponytail and watched it fall out. Well, hell, I was trying to look younger, so I fastened it into pigtails instead.

Luke, who’d gone home to change, came by to pick me up, dressed in jeans and a faded T-shirt. His pale blue eyes were hidden behind dark contact lenses and his hair had been darkened a shade and ruffled into spikes.

“What’s this in aid of?” I asked, running my fingers through them as we settled in Luke’s car.

“Disguise. Do I look like a seventeen-year-old?”

I looked at the muscles filling out his T-shirt, the fine lines around his eyes and the chiselled shape of his beautiful face.

Damn if I ever knew a seventeen-year-old like that.

“You’ll do,” I said.

“Are we meeting Angel there?”

I nodded. “She said she’d bring someone but I don’t know who. I think Harvey’s still working—trying to get something on these guys who are,” I looked at my watch, “somewhere over London as we speak.”

“So long as he shares it with us.” He glanced at me. “You look hot.”

“Thank you.”

“You want to be a little bit late?”

Jesus, start him off and he never stopped. “You’ve had me once tonight,” I reminded him.

“Can’t I get you again?”

“We have a job to do.”

He made a face. “Sodding job.”

I knew how he felt.

We parked up and sat outside MacDonalds to wait for Angel. I was slightly nervous about who she was bringing, and when I saw her tripping up to us in massive heels and tatty jeans, I looked behind her to see someone with peroxided-blond-and-green hair, a nose ring and massive, massive jeans, slouching along, looking pissed off. He looked like the sort of kid mothers have nightmares about their daughters bringing home.

“Oh, Jesus,” I muttered to Luke, who looked horrified.

“I know. Does she have a cousin or something we don’t know about?”

“Her parents were only children,” I replied, and then Angel and her friend got closer, and Luke suddenly started laughing.

“What?”

And then the nightmare looked at me and grinned, and I nearly fell off my chair.

“Harvey?”

“Close enough.”

“
Xander
?” Of course, he still had the cut on his face. “What—but you look—your
hair
!”

“I know,” he said ruefully, touching it. “She made me,” he said pointing to Angel, who rolled her eyes.

“You’re supposed to be in disguise,” she said. “There are people after you, you know.”

“So how come when there were people after you, you didn’t dye your hair green?” Luke wanted to know.

“And what about Harvey?” I asked.

“Oh, partly we did it so I could tell the difference,” Angel said.

“No, I mean, what if someone thinks Harvey is Xander and…” I mimed taking a potshot.

“Harvey can look after himself,” Angel said, but without absolute conviction. “Shall we go in?”

We’d timed it so we were there well ahead of Marc and the cool gang. Luke gave everyone ludicrously fake names on the scoreboard, even me. Taking his cues from
Buffy
, he christened us Randy and Joan, then looked speculatively at Angel for a while before adding her as Darla, and started to type in Xander’s real name before thinking better of it and adding him as Oz.

“After all, you have the hair,” he pointed out, and Xander scowled.

“The green will wash out by tomorrow,” Angel whispered to me, “but he doesn’t know that.”

I always start off really well at bowling—well, sort of well, anyway—and go rapidly downhill. I got two spares and two eights, and then three gutterballs. By the time the school gang had turned up, I was clutching at Luke and wailing, “I’ll never score anything ever again!”

“Well, you can score with me later,” he said, playing with my pigtails, “if it’ll make you feel any better.”

I nodded. “Much.”

“In fact, why don’t we slope off now—joke,” he added, seeing me open my mouth.

“They’ve just come in,” I said, nodding over my shoulder.

Luke looked at them for a while. They were getting bowling shoes, the girls giggling, Marc silent. Laurence was with them, and another guy who was getting very tactile with Amber, whose mascara was so spiky I was amazed she could see. He wasn’t up to much, but he had “boyfriend” written all over him.

“Your turn, Randy,” Angel said, but Luke ignored her.

“He’s the one in the black shirt, right?”

“Right.” I frowned. “He hasn’t changed.”

“Maybe he’s in mourning.”

“He never mentioned it, that’s the thing.” I blinked. “Ready, Randy?”

“Ready, Joan.”

Luke bowled a strike, his fifth of the evening. “Can I switch my name with yours?” I pleaded, and he shook his head, grinning at me.

“You can get me a drink, though.”

I made a face and picked up my bag, a very kitsch little thing shaped like a corset, with ribbons and padded breasts. I called it my booby bag. Xander adored it.

“What are we drinking?”

I went up to the bar with the order in my head, and while I was waiting, Marc came up and stood beside me.

“Small world,” he said, verbose as ever.

“Sure is.”

“Like your bag.”

“Thanks. Me too.”

The barman came over, and I ordered pints for Luke and Xander and soft drinks for me and Angel, who were both driving.

The barman looked at me, and Marc, and the girls twittering over their shoes, and asked me for ID.

I was mildly insulted. I’ve never been seriously ID’d in my life. And then I remembered that I was trying to be seventeen, so I reached in my wallet and pulled out my driving licence.

“Okay.” He handed it back. “That was two pints of IPA and two diet Cokes?”

I nodded, and as he moved away, Marc asked, “Was that real? Or did you go back a year?”

I deliberated. “I have a cousin at the DVLA,” I said. “He fixed it for me.”

“It’s fake?”

I put my finger to my lips. “Just the birth date. How do you think I drove to school?”

I got my drinks, paid and carried them back to our lane.

“He thinks my ID is fake,” I told Angel. “This is great.”

I bowled my next turn and hit two pins, then another three.

“Maybe going to the bar has done you some good,” Luke said, flicking my pigtails. “You can get every round in.”

I saw Marc sloping back to his lane with a round of Cokes, and had to hide a smile.

By the end of the evening, Luke was winning by about a million points. Xander was doing pretty well, Angel not too badly, and I had about thirty points, most of them flukes.

“Can we go now?” I said grumpily.

“Wait until they’ve gone,” Luke said. He was on his third pint and reasonably happy.

“But it’s half past ten! Don’t they have school tomorrow?”

“Don’t you?” Angel said, and Xander laughed really hard. Jesus, American beer must be really weak if he was that pissed.

Finally the kids played their last game. Nothing interesting had happened. Marc was a good bowler, Laurence okay and the three girls and Amber’s boyfriend were as bad as me. But I’d caught all of them looking over at our happy little group. I think Marc fancied Angel. But then, everyone fancies Angel. I’d think he was abnormal if he didn’t.

“So,” I said to Luke as we watched them troop outside to wait for various lifts, “am I cooler now?”

“Oh, you’re subzero,” Angel assured me as Luke played with my hair some more.

“They loved you,” Xander agreed. “Can we go now? My arms are aching. I haven’t bowled in, like, years.”

“Since you left Ohio?” Luke asked, slightly nastily. He always said Harvey was from a backwater. I kept reminding him that Harvey lived in a village with a population around the six thousand mark.