Second Chance - Jane Green [15]
And then came Saffron’s birthday. Her fifteenth. Her parents had let her rent out a youth club, and she was determined to have the best party anyone had ever seen. Someone’s older brother was doing the music, friends of said older brother were going to be bouncers because there had already been three parties that year at the youth club and teenagers from all over the area had come, whether invited or not, and a couple had got slightly out of control. (Nothing beat the story of Matt Elliott, who had a party while his parents were away, and gatecrashers burnt down the staircase. Matt Elliott wouldn’t be coming to Saffron’s party – he’d been grounded for a year, and this was England, where they didn’t even really know what grounded meant.)
Holly and Olivia were in almost-matching outfits of grey ra-ra skirts, pink off-the-shoulder sweatshirts and striped leg warmers with – oh thank you, Mum! Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mum! –jazz shoes. Real, proper jazz shoes from Pineapple Dance Studios that everyone wanted but nobody had.
Holly went to Olivia’s house, was staying the night, in fact, and they each curled the other’s hair – not for the boys, you understand, but in a bid to look exactly like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance.
‘You look fantastic,’ Olivia breathed to Holly after she’d finished singeing her hair with her mother’s curling iron, not to mention burning her own hand three times as she attempted to curl Holly’s hair without touching the bloody thing.
‘So do you!’ Holly had grinned, and they’d put on the soundtrack to the film and practised their dance routine to Irene Cara’s ‘Fame’ in front of Olivia’s mirrored bedroom wall.
The hall of the youth club was so dark it was almost impossible to see anything. As promised, Saffron had rigged up the disco ball, which spun slowly – small squares of light rotating around the room, illuminating the groups of people who had gathered in corners. In one were the bitchy girls. In another, the mixed group of boys and girls who met after school, each of them having a boyfriend/girlfriend, some of them already ‘getting off’ with one another, not needing to wait for the slow songs. Duran Duran was quite romantic enough.
The bouncers turned out to be ineffective. It seemed the entire lower fifth year from St Joseph’s showed up, many without invitations. And got in. They stood at the side of the room eyeing up the girls, putting on macho displays, a group of male peacocks strutting around showing their feathers as the girls giggled and played along.
‘Do you want to dance?’ Holly had been sitting with Olivia, and she looked up into sweet, eager brown eyes.
‘Sure,’ Holly said awkwardly, turning to Olivia with a grin and a shrug as if to ask, What could I say? Self-consciously she followed the boy onto the dance floor, relieved the room was as dark as it was, knowing that every eye was upon them, that she would be the centre of attention tomorrow, and finally having a slight understanding of what it is to be a girl, what it is to attract boys, and how addictive that feeling of power is.
‘I’m Tom,’ he said, bopping in front of her.
‘I’m Holly,’ she said, switching feet, hoping she looked cool.
‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve seen you before.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Pause for a few seconds. ‘Where?’
‘Just around.’
They danced to Adam Ant, Michael Jackson and Human League. And then ‘Every Breath You Take’ by Police came on. Tom raised an eyebrow and opened his arms, and Holly wrapped hers around him.
Together they stood, barely moving, rocking gently from side to side, and Holly had never felt so safe before, wrapped tightly in someone’s arms, her head resting on someone else’s shoulder.
Through Culture Club, then Lionel Richie, then Christopher Cross, Holly and Tom didn’t move. Holly