Rach must be saying something long-winded because Jade rolls her eyes at me.
‘No, Mum, I won’t be out late. And yes, I’ll make sure he walks me to the front door.’
I suck in my cheeks, pretend to give the air a kiss, and make a smooching sound. She says hurriedly, ‘Gotta go, Rach. See you tomorrow morning.’ Jade hangs up, her cheeks flaming.
She points at me with her pencil. ‘You. Out.’
I blow her a kiss, and she makes a jab at me. Grinning, I say, ‘I’ll meet you out front after work.’ Then I teeter off on my skates before she can do any more damage to my butt with her pencil.
17
JADE
Atfiveonthedot, I emerge into the open air, blinking. It’s actually a nice spring afternoon, but I’ve been shut up in the office all day, retyping that blasted article. It was returned by Danny, with markedly less red pen, so I think I’m making progress. Ash said we’re booked to interview another band tomorrow and that there might be some concert tickets with this one.
I subtly adjust my black tube skirt and double-studded belt. I’m also wearing an off-the-shoulder black top. The only concession I’m making to colour today is neon-pink socks with my black ankle boots. And bright pink lipstick—for the date. I went to Boots at lunchtime and bought some with my emergency cash. I also bought a black hairband to flatten my hair down, but I don’t think it’s been too successful. When I looked at my reflection in the bathrooms at work, I almost cried. Sebastian was being kind when he said the perm suited me. I look like a freak. The only good thing is that lots of other women have hair like this, so I fit right in—we all look like freaks.
Speak of the devil.
Sebastian’s lounging casually against the wall, waiting for me. A breathless feeling arises in my chest as he stands upright with a grin. Even without roller skates, he’s tall. But thankfully, he’s no longer wearingthatget-up (those red shorts were indecent!). I take in this new outfit: tight stonewashed jeans, a snug short-sleeved khaki shirt that shows off his arm muscles, and a black leather jacket slung over his shoulder. He looks like he’s come straight from the set ofTop Gun. And hot. Very, very hot. I can’t deny it. But all I say as we fall into step is ‘So no mullet tonight?’
‘Yeah, back to my normal hair since you like it so much.’ There’s a teasing edge to his tone.
‘I didn’t say that.’ I’m careful not to touch his hand, which is swinging precariously close to mine.
‘You did. You said, and I quote, “Your other hair is much nicer.”’ I can tell without looking at him that he’s definitely smiling to himself. The pillock.
‘Anyway, where are we going?’ I ask, determined not to get sucked into a line of conversation that has me admitting Sebastian is gorgeous. He’d never let me forget it.
‘The Curzon. It’s a short walk from here.’
‘What are we seeing?’
‘The Breakfast Club. It’s just been released.’
I sigh. ‘Somehow, I knew you were going to say that.’
When we get to the movie theatre, I wrinkle my nose. It smells of old popcorn and musty carpet.
A large number of young people are milling around the beige foyer, waiting for friends. When we’re standing in line to buy tickets, I notice three pretty girls nearby, fluffing their hairsprayed dos and glancing at Sebastian.
I nudge him with my elbow. ‘Don’t look now, Mr Rock Star, but you’ve got a fan club.’
Of course he looks over, and they immediately duck their heads, staring intently at their Reeboks and striped leg warmers. I chuckle to myself but then stop abruptly when Sebastian slings his arm around my shoulders. ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss.
‘Showing them I’m taken.’
For once, I’m shocked into silence. We shuffle forward in the queue; and Sebastian keeps his arm firmly around me, even when we reach the front, and he’s purchasing tickets. The heat from his arm warms the strip of exposed skin on my upper back, and he strokes my bare shoulder idly with his thumb, sending a rush of tingles down my spine.
He chuckles, feeling me squirm in consternation.
‘Stop that,’ I admonish.
‘Not a chance,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘Babe.’
Grrr, he’s so annoying. And now the girls are casting disbelieving looks tinged with envy at us. I know exactly what they’re thinking: how come a guy who looks like that is datingher?
‘He’s not dating me,’ I want to tell them. ‘It’s fake.’ But if it is, why is my stomach full of butterflies about sitting in a dark movie theatre with him? If he tries anything, I’m going to stomp on his foot—hard.