OUTSIDE - a post-apocalyptic novel

Chapter Three

Chapter Three - ELEANOR

Abigail Robbins was princess bitch of the county. Originally from a snooty village suburb in North London, she came late to our school, a mainly middle class Gloucestershire comprehensive. When she arrived, we were part way through the summer term of year eight.

The warm morning had been laid up with a dose of double History and everyone sweltered in the airless classroom while Mr Croft droned on about the War of the Roses. I was desperately trying to keep my eyes open when the door creaked open and a girl walked in, jolting us all out of our semi-comatose state.

She looked like something out of 90210 – perfectly groomed and perfectly cool. Nothing like us imperfect mortals. I could hear the collective inward sighs of fifteen adolescent boys.

‘I’m Abi Robbins,’ she said to Mr Croft, while gazing down at her immaculately shaped nails.

‘Yes? Are you lost?’

‘No, I’m Abi Robbins. I’m in your class.’ She spoke to him slowly as if he was the stupidest man on the planet.

Mr Croft ran his finger down a list in front of him.

‘Ah, yes. You’re new. You’re a bit late.’

She didn’t reply, just raised her eyebrows heavenward to imply the man was an idiot. Everyone sniggered and Mr Croft glanced up to see Abigail look innocently and expectantly at him.

‘Ah, yes, very good. Yes, if you could find yourself a seat we’re talking about the rival houses of Lancaster and York.’ His voice faded into the background.

Abigail glanced around the room until her eyes locked with mine. She gave me a conspiratorial smile and shimmied across the room to an empty desk behind me.

When the bell rang for break, she sought me out and confidently linked arms.

‘Hi, I’m Abi.’ She dazzled a smiled at me.

‘I’m Eleanor,’ I replied, looking sideways at her. She had almost white blonde hair and was every magazine’s version of how a girl should look.

‘Hey, Ellie.’ She nudged me playfully with her elbow. ‘So what d’you normally do in this dump then?’

‘Umm …’ I hesitated, taken aback by her familiarity and confidence. ‘Those are my friends over there on the wall.’ I pointed through the doors to a small group of girls I’d known since we were five.

She stopped walking and turned to observe me. ‘You’re quite pretty you know,’ she said. ‘But you should straighten your hair. It’s a bit wild.’ She laughed.

‘Oh, d’you think so?’ I twisted a curl self-consciously around my finger. ‘Takes ages though, straightening it.’

‘Yeah, but it would so be worth taking the time. I could do it for you.’

‘Yeah? That’d be great. So, d’you want to come and meet my friends then?’ I asked, aware of their eyes on me and Abi.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ she said. ‘But you could really do so much better than hanging round with them. They’re probably nice and everything, but they look a bit ... mmm … sad?’

It was an education, being Abigail’s friend. Outrageous, witty and beautiful, she could also be hard work, you might even say, exhausting. She had a gaggle of sycophants and anyone who didn’t do the prerequisite amount of forelock-tugging would be on the receiving end of some pretty harsh treatment.

I didn’t agree with a lot of her behaviour, but I didn’t disagree with her either and she never questioned my refusal to join in with her. In some ways I think she admired the way I resisted the group mentality and she never tried any of her bully-girl tactics on me. She knew I would never have stood for it.

From the ages of thirteen we did everything together: girly shopping trips, joint birthday bashes, pyjama parties and endless discussions about music, clothes and, of course, boys. I was fairly confident, but compared to Abi I was a dormouse.

Despite her popularity at school, her perfect stick-thin figure and platinum beauty, I sensed an unhappiness in her. I also had a vague awareness that she was jealous of me. But Abi was the prettier of the two of us and always went out with the best-looking boys, so why should she feel jealous?

I didn’t mind. I knew I was attractive enough in my own way, with my dark curls and violet eyes. ‘Elizabeth Taylor eyes,’ Grandaddy always called them, and I never ran short of admirers. But I was naïve and flattered by her attention. I didn’t sense the danger.

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