Don't Ask (4 page)

I called Katie with the good news. ‘I’ve done it,’ I said, excitedly. ‘Have a look. It’s Laura Thompson.’

‘Hang on,’ she said, and I heard her typing in the background. ‘Hey, it looks cool. It’s such a shame I can’t be Laura’s friend. She’s
such
an
inspiration.’

‘Stop being sarcastic, Katie. And if you even try making her your friend I’ll report you to the moderators.’

‘Ha!’ Katie snorted. ‘That should be interesting.’

‘Do you think it looks good enough so that I can contact Alex now?’

‘Definitely,’ said Katie. ‘It really does make you wonder how many of the people on Topfriendz are who they say they are.’ She paused, as if she was mentally scrolling
down her list of friends and wondering who was an imposter. Then her voice became uncharacteristically serious. ‘Lily, for the very last time, I promise, I have to ask you this: are you sure
you want to go ahead with this?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘One hundred per cent sure.’ Which was a lie, because I was only about ninety-nine per cent sure. The other one per cent – call it my conscience
– was still niggling a little.

‘Do it now, then, while I’m on the phone.’

‘OK.’ I put Alex’s name into the search engine and the profile Katie and I had been looking at earlier reloaded. Nothing had changed; Alex hadn’t logged on in the
meantime. She was still smiling prettily, oblivious to the predator about to pounce. ‘I’m in!’ I said. My heart was beating very fast, as if I was about to jet off into space
rather than merely generate an online friendship. ‘OK, I’m going to write a message . . . I’m typing . . .’

‘What are you writing?’ Katie asked breathlessly. ‘Tell me!’

‘I’m saying how great it is to meet another girl who’s such a huge football fan and that I think we once played in the same girls’ tournament when we were
little.’

‘You’re unbelievable. You don’t know anything about football.’

‘Nah, but how hard can it be to understand? Boys like it, after all.’

‘True. Have you sent it yet?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Three . . . two . . . one . . . send!’ I let go of the return button and the friend request shot off into cyberspace, vanishing into an invisible universe
of binary code and other things I don’t understand. ‘Stage one complete. Now I just have to hope she wants to be my friend.’

‘Good luck,’ Katie said. ‘And let me know the second you hear back from her!’

‘I will do,’ I said. ‘Don’t you worry.’

I sat by my computer for a while, staring at Laura’s profile and waiting for something to happen. Mum called up from downstairs: ‘What are you doing, Lily?’

‘I’m just on my computer,’ I shouted back. I heard her coming up the stairs.

‘You’re not on one of those networking sites again, are you?’ she asked, from the landing. My door was ajar – the way my parents prefer it, as they think I can’t
get up to much mischief if they can walk in at will. How naive parents can be. She peered at me through the opening. ‘I do worry about the amount of time you spend on that computer. There are
all kinds of strange people who prey on young girls like you. It was on the news – those sites can be dangerous.’

‘I know, Mum,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’

She asked me to put a load of washing on for her. It was mainly made up of Dad’s work shirts, crisp white cotton ones with stiff collars and folded-over cuffs. After I’d switched on
the machine I stood and watched it for a few moments. I might have imagined it, but I could have sworn that as each shirt began to spin around it raised one sleeve and pointed an accusatory cuff at
me.

Perhaps this is a good time to explain what I mean when I said that Jack was perfect. I don’t mean he was perfect in a genetically modified, Ken doll way; there was
nothing plastic about him. His teeth weren’t especially even or glowing white, and he had this swirly, whirly bit at the back of his head where his hair would never lie flat, however much gel
he layered on it. I’d spent enough time studying his face at microscopic proximity to know that one of his eyes was a little bit larger than the other and that his left nostril was slightly
bigger and more triangular than the right. When he grinned, one side of his mouth came up higher than the other. I appreciate I’m now – rather unfairly – drawing a picture of him
in which he resembles the Elephant Man following a nasty encounter with an electric socket, but that’s what happens when you take a person’s features in isolation.

If you’ve ever looked at anyone’s face really closely you’ll know that no one is completely symmetrical. I’m not: I have one eyebrow that’s more arched than the
other (although that could be the result of over-enthusiastic plucking) and a very slightly uneven top lip. So, while Jack was far from a monster, he wasn’t Brad Pitt either. On a scale of
one to ten (one being hideous gargoyle and ten the aforementioned Mr Pitt), I’d give him an eight. Too good for me, I know; I’m only a six. I’ve read that if you want to have a
lasting relationship you’re supposed to go out with people who are at a similar level of attractiveness to you, which means I should have felt permanently insecure in the knowledge that at
some point Jack would realise his mistake and leave me for someone better-looking. Which I didn’t, because he always made me feel like I was a ten. Which, itself, was one of the reasons why
he was perfect.

What else? Let me see. He had perfect manners – in the opening the door for you, always calling when he said he would way – and I could tell he did it because he wanted to, not just
because he knew he should. He was funny, without being a clown, and knowledgeable without being cocky. He listened to me, even when I was rambling on and on about nothing, but he wasn’t
monosyllabic in response, like some boys. He was kind about my friends, polite to my parents and really sweet with my little brother. But he wasn’t sickeningly nice: he’d been known to
play wicked practical jokes on people, like removing all the furniture from his sister’s room while she was out, and setting it up again in the garage, in exactly the same order. It was way
before my time, but I don’t think she found it very amusing. Then again, I did say he was the perfect boyfriend, not the perfect brother.

It seems weird to think now, but I wasn’t at all sure Jack would call after the party. He’d taken my number, yes, and he’d promised he would use it but, in my experience, a boy
storing your number in his phone doesn’t always equate to him actually dialling it. I wondered if Jack would get home, sleep on it and decide he hadn’t liked me all that much after all.
Or, his sister might say of me, ‘She wasn’t all that,’ and he’d think better of his instinct to call. Or, he could just chicken out altogether.

Call me contrary, but while I hoped he would call, I didn’t want him to call too soon. Everyone knows there are rules about these things. Sunday – the day after – would have
been far too early, making him look desperate. But Thursday would have been too late; by then I’d have convinced myself he wasn’t interested and made myself get over him, and I’d
have made my weekend plans. That left an open window of three days. Three days of constant phone checking. Three days of butterflies in my tummy. Three days of daydreaming.

I simply can’t imagine how people ever got together in the old days before texting and instant messaging and email. Before people even had mobile phones, when they used two cups and a bit
of string. OK, that last bit isn’t true. My mum told me that when she met a guy, he’d have to call her house and risk her parents answering, which of course led to loads of embarrassing
questions. When they did get to speak, she couldn’t be certain her parents weren’t listening in from another extension but, even if they weren’t, she could be sure that after
about twenty minutes they’d be shouting at her to get off the phone so they could use it. With technology being so limited, sometimes my mum and her boyfriends actually wrote letters to each
other, like people in Jane Austen books. Can you believe that? I’ve no idea how anybody ever dated properly. It’s a wonder I was even born.

Jack rang on Tuesday. He sent a brief text first, saying hi and how lovely it was to have met me, and did I want to meet up. It pinged into my inbox at seven o’clock, during dinner. I left
it for about half an hour before I replied, mainly because we were having apple crumble for dessert as a treat, and I didn’t want to miss out. I was suddenly ravenous. I hadn’t eaten
much the previous few days – all those pesky butterflies flapping around don’t leave much room for food – and knowing Jack was interested in going out with me after all brought my
appetite back in an instant. Once I’d virtually licked my plate clean, I excused myself from the table, went up to my room and texted him back. Two minutes later, my phone began to ring. I
took a deep breath before answering, so my voice wasn’t shaky or too high.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi Lily, it’s Jack.’ He didn’t sound at all nervous, but some people are good at hiding it. ‘I wondered if you were free on Friday. Maybe we could go out for a
pizza or something.’

‘Sure,’ I said, trying to conceal my delight with nonchalance. ‘I’d like that.’ I wasn’t just trying to appear cool, I figured that if I didn’t speak
much, I’d be less likely to say something stupid. I didn’t know Jack well enough to have a proper conversation and I didn’t want to labour over smalltalk.

‘So I’ll pick you up at seven then.’

‘Sure, that’s fine.’ Just in case I sounded a bit too blasé, I added: ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Me too,’ he said.

After that, I gave him my address and the directions to my house, which doesn’t bear repeating. I’m only pointing it out because it bugs me how in TV shows and movies people make
dates but never finalise the arrangements. They say things like ‘I’ll meet you for a drink at Ed’s’, without specifying the time, or ‘Pick me up’, without saying
where they live. In films, no one ever has to spell their address or explain that they live in a flat with a dodgy doorbell so it’s best to knock hard instead, and ooh, mind the dog. People
in movies just seem to arrive in places together magnetically. Maybe they’re all telepathic. In real life, people need maps and timetables.

We didn’t speak again, and by the time Friday came I could barely remember anything about Jack except that I’d liked him when we’d met at the party. I couldn’t even
picture his face. ‘I hope I recognise him,’ I told Katie. ‘What if he turns up at the door and I don’t fancy him any more?’

She laughed at me. ‘Yeah, and what if he doesn’t fancy you? Come to think of it, he might not turn up at all!’

‘You’re so mean,’ I said. ‘Which is partly why I love you.’

I needn’t have worried. A few minutes before seven, I heard a car parking outside. I looked out of my bedroom window and saw Jack’s instantly recognisable and attractive silhouette
loitering at my garden gate, clearly biding his time so he didn’t arrive too early. I felt a pang of nervousness and put on another layer of lip-gloss. When he rang the doorbell, I hung about
upstairs and allowed my parents to let him in, so they could check him over and conclude for themselves that he was respectable enough to date their daughter. We’d already been through the
‘Are you sure he’s not too old for you?’ discussion, which was prompted by Katie’s comment about his car. It wasn’t the age difference that bothered them, but the fear
I’d end up wrapped around a lamp post.

‘We’re only going out for pizza,’ I’d assured them. ‘I wouldn’t go joy-riding until at least the third date.’

I listened from the landing for a couple of minutes to make sure things were going well, then made my appearance at the top of the stairs before Mum and Dad could ask him too many probing
questions. Jack gave me a quick glance as I came down. He breathed an almost audible sigh of relief, but I couldn’t tell if was because he thought I scrubbed up OK, or just because he’d
be able to stop making polite conversation with my parents.

‘Ah, here she is,’ said Dad, in the tone of voice you’d use to present someone to the Queen. His eyes went straight to my skirt and I could tell he was using a mental tape
measure to work out if it was long enough.

Mum smiled at me. ‘You two have a good night,’ she said, nodding approvingly at Jack. ‘And remember, drive carefully and don’t be home too late.’

‘We’ll be waiting up,’ said Dad, his warm tone masking the veiled threat.

Whatever Katie may have told Dad, Jack doesn’t, in fact, drive a Vauxhall Astra. On our first date I discovered that he owns a battered old green Beetle, one of those
retro cars that has round edges and looks a bit like it’s smiling at you. It’s rickety and bumpy and stalls a lot. It’s the sort of car people say has ‘character’,
which really means that it’s ugly and ancient. Jack told me his uncle gave it to him when he passed his test.

We didn’t go anywhere fancy, just the local pizza restaurant, which was cheap and cheerful and somewhere we both felt at home. Jack said I could order whatever I wanted, which I took to
mean he was paying. In the past I’d have got a salad from the ‘all you can eat’ salad bar, but somebody had recently told me that there are billions of bacteria in all the salads
because people go to the loo and don’t wash their hands, and then stick their fingers in, which is so gross it put me off for ever. Plus, it turns out that all the oily dressings mean there
are just as many calories in the salads as there are in a pizza. When I relayed this to Jack, he said that sometimes you’re better off not knowing too much. But I did notice that he
didn’t have a side salad.