The Girl Who Cried Wolf(2)

‘I see that you’ve suffered Legionnaire’s Disease on more than one occasion, Miss Winters. Extraordinary. Can you elaborate?’

At this point I shamefacedly muttered something about the mouldy tiles in the school shower block. A lone brain cell was ferociously scouring my memory bank for a snippet of info regarding the ailment, to no avail of course. I was high and dry and she knew it.

‘You also suffer from chronic migraine, dizzy spells and gout?‘

I try to muster up some indignation at this point because I actually do get a lot of headaches, which Jules tells me is a result of attempting to down one’s body weight in peach cider every weekend.

‘My headaches are awful,’ I tell her truthfully. ‘Sometimes they wake me up when I’m sleeping.’

She keeps tapping with irritating efficiency on the keyboard, seemingly oblivious to my solitary genuine complaint.

I looked at her a little more closely. Bespectacled, but by Gucci; she looked clean and well-groomed: a woman who looked better at forty-five than I ever would. She had sculpted, baby blonde hair that looked natural but could not possibly be unless her father was Nicky Clarke and her mother a Swedish supermodel.

‘Did you hear me, Miss Winters? I asked who it was exactly that diagnosed your early menopause.’

I’m sure I saw the slightest hint of a smile playing at the corner of her coral painted lips. I relaxed a little. Sure, she had been seventeen herself a few decades ago. Sure, she could remember what it was like to put partying before the daily grind of pointless exams and coursework or trying to impress your reptilian tutors.

I gave her my most charming smile. Apparently this was a big mistake, as I received a lecture on the seriousness of our (when did it become me and her?) situation.

I decided the best way to handle this was to remain confident. I told her firmly that I’d had many allergies since birth, probably the result of an unpredictable and weakened immune system.

Perhaps this last statement was not the sole reason I spent the next forty-seven minutes being poked, prodded and downright violated.

***

I heard nothing from the doctor for seven days. Most of which were spent kicking myself and asking Jules questions such as ‘How could I have been so stupid?’ and ‘How much do you get on the dole these days?’ To which she replied rather bluntly with things like, ‘Because you’re too reckless’ and ‘About sixty-five quid.’

Even my partner in crime didn’t have the decency to console me and tell me everything would be fine, that our Head of Year didn’t have a leg to stand on. She should be telling me to sue him for unjust allegations and become a wealthy lady of leisure, dressing in Prada and Chanel. No, my teammate had become a little too pious for my liking. Usually the first to be thrilled by my cavalier attitude to all things regimented and conforming, ‘Like, maybe going to school once in a while?’ she now bleats.

This prim new attitude is more disconcerting than the impending report from Doctor Barbie. I referred to her as this twice in front of my friends during lunch break and only Miles sniggered. Miles, who still thinks ‘Pull my finger’ is funny. I know what’s wrong with them; they think I’ve drawn too much attention to our happy camp.

Now that one of the unnoticeables has been singled out for a grilling, they think we’ll all be dragged into the spotlight. Perhaps we were being paranoid, but certain teachers have been spotted lurking in the foyer, whispering and glancing in our direction at the canteen. None of us will be seen leafing through Glamour during assembly this week. We are still in the very back row behind the assistants and the wheelchair users, but now we’re actually listening to the droning voices at the front of the school hall – not pretending to listen while texting and Tweeting, not mastering the art of falling asleep with our eyes open – actually listening.

The smallest of fish in Year 13 – once the blissfully inconspicuous bottom feeders in a sea of teachers and year leaders – have attracted the scrutinising gaze of the Great White: Mr Petri, Head of Sixth Form.

Everyone has heard about my drunken message. They’re all privy to the fact our clique spent a long weekend at Glastonbury. They’ve seen the evidence. While I’m still the favoured target for most of the daggers fired by my peers, Miles is thankfully taking some of the heat for posting the incriminating photos on Facebook. They show none of us in a particularly generous light, although I secretly thought my hair looked really good in most of them, and was most thankful (not to mentioned incredibly surprised and relieved) for an experiment involving my sister’s limited hairdressing skills and a bottle of L’Oreal Super Blonde the night before the festival.

I’ve always thought a woman’s hair is her distinguishing feature. A lot can be said with style, colour and the length. The night before Glasto we had just finished watching Girl with a Pearl Earring starring Scarlett Johansson, a film based on the portrait. You don’t see her hair till near the very end of the film, it’s all tucked tightly under this bonnet she wears, so you’ve no idea how it looks. This really bothered me until Izzy told me that that was the point. It gave the character an air of mystery that inspired a masterpiece. ‘Like burlesque,’ she said. ‘It’s a visual seduction, a tease rather than giving too much away at once.’

I thought burlesque was more about making tassels swing in frantic circles from your boobs but considered what she said and sighed disconsolately.