Chapter 4

Chapter 4

If someone had told James Frampton he was going to have the summer ball of his dreams, he would never have believed you. Yet the night was magical. Everything was going just as he planned. The band were electric. The food was delicious. The atmosphere was beautiful and relaxed, and every photograph that he took he knew would be a treasured memory someday. A time when he was young and full of joy and hope about the future and what his life would be.

It helped that she was there, of course.

He liked her.

He really liked her.

James couldn't quite believe his luck when it turned out she liked him back.

And now, here they were, walking hand in hand around the ball together. Enjoying the night. Laughing with friends, but always, however much the laugher, and however fun the friends, ultimately returning to each other, because each other was what really mattered.

They rode the big wheel.

And at the top, they kissed.

Sounds corny. A big cliché.

But why should fairy tales only exist in books?

"Jamie? Your tea's ready!" (Mum, from downstairs.)

I tore the paper from the pad and stared at it. Why did the words feel so flat? All the romantic elements were there – the location, the lovers destined to be together, and, that staple of any good romance, the big wheel! What more did you need to feel the love? I tried slotting people I knew into the "she" character – seeing if they fitted, like the prince looking for the owner of the slipper. It wasn't Beth. I felt weird and icky even trying to imagine her and me in that scenario. We loved each other, but not like that. And I couldn't imagine being on the big wheel with Debbie either. I felt sure it should be someone, but I couldn't picture who. Maybe that was the problem? I needed to be specific? What did she look like? Who really was she?

"Jamie?!"

And why had I called the main character James Frampton? Was it me, or not? It all felt so wrong I ripped the page up and dropped the pieces in my bin. Some work is too bad even to be saved by an edit. I'd revisit it later. Try again.

I hurried downstairs, then took a moment at the closed lounge door to steel myself.

I had to make an effort.

I had to make an effort with Keith.

I'd promised Mum I would.

There are a number of ways I could write about my family situation, but, honestly, what better than this selection from the archive, the ramblings of a thirteen-year-old boy writing poetry that barely scans?

Mum kicked Dad out

When she found out about

His secret affair

With the girl with blonde hair.

She was twenty years younger

Mum said it was vulgar

But Dad really dug her

Said she "satisfied a hunger".(I know, it makes me want to vomit too.)

Now they're divorced

And Dad lives in Stoke.

I don't really see him

And we are flat broke.

Not my finest work, but it does the job. All was doom, gloom and bills with scary red writing until last year, when Mum started seeing a "certain someone" who eventually turned out to be Keith Davidson – a man who sold vacuum cleaners, which were the only things that sucked more than he did. Keith officially moved in three weeks ago. I'd stood next to Mum in the open doorway and had watched as Keith sprang out of the driver's side of his Ford Mondeo, trying to keep the fake smile plastered on my face, despite the sight of a middle-aged man with blonde highlights, a mullet, tight Wrangler jeans, and slip-on shoes offending me to the point of nausea.

Keith had looked at my mother like she was an angel, (and not a desperate forty-something with a dodgy perm) and then at the house, like it was nirvana (and not a tiny new build on a bland estate). He drank it all in, smiled like the cat that got the cream, and said, "It's a beautiful day, you're a beautiful woman, and this is the start of a beautiful thing!" Which didn't in any way sound corny and rehearsed, but, huh, if he did write that himself, then I supposed I owed a tiny bit of kudos to a fellow creative.

It's true, I hadn't gelled with Keith. He was very much an alpha male, very much the "big I am", but beyond that, I couldn't really say what my objections were, and I was aware it might come across all a bit Freudian and "the son not being happy about his mother finding a new man", and all that, so I was trying. I was trying.

Dinner was steak, which was something we ate a lot now. Either Keith really liked red meat, or he had a dodgy cut-price butcher contact. Either way, I could feel myself becoming more vegetarian by the minute. Something about the way Keith closed his eyes in ecstasy whenever he started chewing a piece of sirloin, combined with Mum's little moans of pleasure at the taste, really irked me. It was like some hideous meat-based foreplay and I didn't want to see it.

I took a breath and went for it. I "took an interest", just like Mum had asked. "So, is business good then, Keith?"

"Never better," he replied.

"He works hard for it, though," Mum quickly added, as though my question was a trap and his answer needed justification.

"I do, I work hard for it. S'why I have to spend periods away from home – saturated the local market and I have to expand my territory."

I tried not to wrinkle my nose at "territory". That was something dogs marked by pissing everywhere. For some reason, I could imagine Keith splashing urine over various streets around the UK while declaring, "I sell hoovers here now!"

(Note to TV producer: we don't need to see that in a fantasy sequence. Or should we? Might really highlight my revulsion in a very visual way – to be discussed.)

I carried on. "Mum says they're expensive? The hoovers? How much are they?"

Keith put his cutlery down and fixed me with a stare. "They're not ‘hoovers'. Hoover is a brand name for a vastly inferior domestic suction device. I know laypeople use the word generically, but it's not right." He sniffed. "They're eight hundred."

"Wow."

"Last you a lifetime, though. Unparalleled cleaning quality."

I nodded, feigning interest. "Still, eight hundred!"

"But that's where I come in. They're not just buying a SuctionMax 2000, they're buying Keith Davidson: charmer. Raconteur. Purveyor of hopes and dreams. Plus, your average bored housewife can't resist a certain handsome man." He winked at my mum. "Just lucky that god gave me the right tools, you know?" He cast his eyes towards the ceiling. "Thank you, Jesus!"

"Thank you, Jesus, for Keith," Mum added.

I wasn't sure whether we were all about to break into some evangelical-style prayer situation. We'd never been a religious family – never went to church or anything – but Mum clearly thought Keith was some sort of divine gift. Whereas I saw him more as a cult leader – and if he could charge eight hundred quid for a hoover, then he was clearly adept at persuading people to drink the Kool-Aid.

"How's the ball going?" Mum asked.

"Fine."

"Never had that sort of thing in my day," Mum continued. "We'd be lucky to have a sweaty disco."

"Who are you going to ask?" Keith said. "Who's the lucky lady?"

"What about Beth? She's a lovely girl!" Mum added.

"Mum, really? She's my best friend. It would be like incest."

"Me and Keith were friends at first," Mum replied.

"Friends, Jamie, make the best lovers," Keith said. Seriously, he was full of advice like that.

"I'm in charge, so I'll be pretty busy on the night," I said.

End of conversation. Cut to: dessert and goodnight, please?

No such luck.

"Seems a shame," Mum said.

I shrugged. "Someone's got to do it."

"Word of advice," Keith said, swallowing down a mouthful of steak and chips, and jabbing his fork in my direction. "These are the best years of your life: you've got freedom, you can play the field, mess around, have some fun. Trust me, that's what you should be doing."

"Well, maybe I don't want to. Maybe I've got other priorities."

Keith shrugged. "All right. Fine. But you've got to at some point, else people will start to think you're a bit weird."

So, there we had it. We spent the rest of the meal in virtual silence, while I contemplated if this was true: was I just weird? Other people were enthusiastic about taking a date to the ball. Even Mrs C had wanted to know who I'd be asking.

Why couldn't I get myself together in that regard?

I couldn't even picture the girl I would take in my wildest dreams.

Wasthere something wrong with me?

After a Wall's Viennetta (mint and chocolate), Keith disappeared for a few minutes, returning to announce he had a "surprise" for me.

Montage sequence: Keith covering my eyes with his hands. Keith guiding me up the stairs with Mum following behind. A ridiculous amount of anticipation – even from me, always a sucker for a "surprise". I did have high hopes. I really wanted my own CD player. Tapes and LPs were fine, but this wasn't the 80s, and CDs looked futuristic, and they were so much more convenient – easy to carry around, and you could skip ahead to songs easily. Not to mention the sound quality! I mean, the Channel Tunnel had just opened, for god's sake – you could go from England to France through a tunnel – and here was I, still listening to songs on what basically amounted to a gramophone.

"No peeping! No peeping!" my equally excited mother said.

Finally in my bedroom, Keith removed his hands from my eyes. "TA-DAH!"

And there, in front of me, stuck up on my wall, was a giant, A1-sized, glossy picture of Electra from ITV's primetime Saturday night show Wave Warriors.*

Wave Warriorsfeatured members of the public competing in water-based challenges in a huge pool against a team of athletic ‘Wave Warriors' who were named after mythical figures and sea creatures – including the fearsome Poseidon, scary twins ‘the Sirens', Nessie (whose swimsuit was tartan), and glamorous Electra – goddess of storm clouds, and favourite of pubescent boys everywhere, to the extent she even had a heavily laminated calendar dedicated to her.

(Note to legal: can I get away with this?)

"Electra," Keith said.

I stared at the vision.

"Great, big, massive Electra."

It's true, she was huge.

"What do you say, Jamie?" Mum said.

"You've been in my room?" I managed to spit out.

"Wanted it to be a surprise," Keith said. "Don't worry, I didn't find your stash of Playboys."

By reflex, I glanced at the bottom drawer of the set under my desk.

"Thank Keith, Jamie," Mum said. "He went to a lot of effort to get that poster. Had to save up tokens from a lot of crispy pancake boxes."

"Fifteen boxes," Keith added. "Plus postage and packaging."

I took a breath. "Thanks, Keith, it's…" I tried to find the right word. One that Keith would like, that sounded like I was pleased and grateful. For some reason, I opted for: "Fabulous!"

Wrong choice. They both stared at me.

I nodded, because sometimes it's best just to double down on this stuff.

"I have some homework to finish," I managed to say. "Thanks again. I love the poster. I'm … really happy."

They left me to it.

I sat on my bed and stared up at Electra.

She was posed thrusting her chest forward in a red sports bra type thing with sheer-cut red – I didn't know what you would call them – bikini bottom things? Knickers? Except this wasn't underwear, it was a sporty swimwear outfit, only it wasn't like anything most people wore when swimming. This seemed … I dunno, designed to titillate?

Well, it wasn't titillating me.

And I knew it should be.

Was I weird?

I stared at her really hard. I wondered if I should try imagining her naked, but it didn't seem right. It felt … disrespectful. I think I would have preferred just a magazine interview with Electra. It would have been interesting to know how she'd got into this line of work, about her hobbies, or her favourite food, stuff like that. Maybe one of those photographic tours of her house would be good? I would've loved to have known what kind of place she'd be living in after finding fame on primetime Saturday night television. With the extra cash, I bet she'd got a private gym set up, maybe even an indoor pool so she could get extra practice in.

Back to Electra. I knew I needed to find her sexy, like every other guy did.

What was wrong with me?

I zoned in on her.

So focused.

Image blurring.

Like one of those 3D Magic Eye pictures they printed in the Daily Mail weekend supplement. When you stared hard enough, for long enough, suddenly they just became 3D – real – jumping out at you because of some kind of optical wizardry. Maybe if Electra was more real, maybe things would click for me and I'd fancy her, want to … whatever boys like doing with … people who weren't boys.

I sighed. It wasn't working.

Nothing was changing.

And then, honest to god, her eyes moved.

Electra's eyes moved.

I rubbed mine.

Staring too hard?

But I was still looking, and I saw it again. Her eyes – flicking downwards, as if … looking at something, as if … she was showing me something … drawing my attention to something…

I followed her gaze down to my school bag, and the book that was poking out the top of it.

Wildflowers of Great Britain.

I looked back up at her, and, I'm not lying, she seemed to nod.

She … wanted me to look at the book?

I shrugged. OK, Electra, whatever, I'll look at the damn book.

And at eight p.m. on a Monday night in May 1994, pretty much exactly twelve hours since this story began, when I'd walked down the street on my way to school feeling like change was in the air, I picked up the book, opened it, and settled down to read.

And change well and truly grabbed me by the throat and did not let me go ever again.

Go on, at least one more chapter; you know you need to know why.

*OK, kids, you're going to need to suspend your disbelief here. Yes, there was a very famous ‘sports entertainment game show' on ITV in the 90s, but using it here would be problematic (and could get me sued), so just go with me on this, OK?