floated down the stairs, and the blurry vision of her through the glass of the door was enough to make his heart beat faster.
“Hey,” she said, smiling.
“Hey,” he said back. Not that he’d ever said “hey” to anyone before, but he wanted to be like Lisa.
“Come in,” she said, and he followed her into the house. It was very similar to the one Dennis lived in, but where his was gloomy, Lisa’s was full of light and colour. There were paintings and family pictures haphazardly arranged on the walls. A sweet smell of freshly baked cake lingered in the hall. “Do you want a drink?”
“A glass of white wine, perhaps?” said Dennis, trying to act three times his age.
Lisa looked bemused for a moment. “I don’t have any wine. What else do you like?”
“Um Bongo.”
Lisa raised her eyebrows. “I think we’ve got some Um Bongo.”
She found a carton and poured a couple of glasses, then they went upstairs to her room.
Dennis instantly adored it. In truth it was how he would like his room to be. She had pictures from fashion magazines all over the walls, stylish shots of beautiful women, in glamorous locations. On the shelves were books about fashion or famous film stars like Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe. A sewing machine sat in the corner of the room and she had a big pile of Vogues by the bed.
“I’m collecting them,” she said. “I’ve got an Italian one too. It’s hard to get here, but it’s amazing. The best Vogue is Italian. Heavy though! Would you like to see it?”
“I’d love to,” said Dennis. He’d had no idea there were different Vogues around the world.
They sat on her bed together, slowly turning the pages. The first shoot was in colour, but featured dresses that were only black or white, or a combination of the two.
“Wow, that dress is gorgeous,” said Dennis.
“Chanel. It’s probably madly expensive, but it is beautiful.”
“I love the sequins.”
“And that slit up the side,” said Lisa. She traced her fingers longingly along the page.
What seemed like forever and a moment went by, as they studied every page, discussing each detail of every dress. When they reached the end they felt like they’d been friends forever.
Lisa pulled out another magazine to show him one of her favourite shoots, or “stories” as she called them. It was from an old British Vogue, and featured lots of models in wigs and metallic dresses. It looked like a scene from an old science-fiction film. Dennis loved the extravagance of these fantasies, so different form the grey cold reality of his own life.
“You’d look stunning in that gold dress,” said Dennis, pointing to a girl with similar hair colouring to Lisa.
“Anyone would. It’s an amazing dress. I could never afford any of these, but I like to look at these pictures and get ideas for my own designs. Do you want to see?”
“Oh yeah!” replied Dennis excitedly.
Lisa pulled a large scrapbook from her shelf. It was full of brilliant illustrations she had drawn of skirts and blouses and dresses and hats. Next to these Lisa had stuck lots of things onto the page: strips of glittering fabric, cut-out photographs of film costumes, even buttons.
Dennis stopped Lisa turning the page at an especially gorgeous drawing she had done of an orange sequined dress.
“That one is beautiful,” he said.
“Thanks, Dennis! I’m really pleased with it. I’m making it right now.”
“Really? Can I see?”
“Of course.”
She reached into her cupboard and pulled out the half-finished dress.
“I got this material really cheap. It was just from down the market,” she said. “But I think it’s going to look really good. It’s a little bit 1970s, I think. Very glamorous.”
She held up the dress by its hanger. Although it was still cut a little roughly around the edges, and had a few loose threads, it was covered in hundreds of little round sequins and twinkled effortlessly in the morning sunlight.
“It’s amazing,” said Dennis.
“It would look good on you!” said Lisa. She laughed and held the dress next to Dennis. He laughed too, and then looked down at it, allowing himself to imagine for a moment what he would look like wearing it, but then told himself to stop being silly.
“It’s really beautiful,” he said. “It’s not fair though, is it? I mean boy’s clothes are so boring.”
“Well, I think all those rules are boring. About what people can and can’t wear. Surely everyone should be able to wear whatever they like?”
“Yes, I suppose they should,” said Dennis. He had never really been encouraged to think like this before. She was right. What was wrong with wearing the things you liked?
“Why don’t you put it on?” Lisa asked with a cheeky smile.
There was silence for a moment.
“Maybe that’s a crazy idea,” Lisa said, backtracking as she sensed Dennis’s awkwardness. “But dresses can be beautiful, and dressing up is fun. I love putting on pretty dresses. I bet some boys would like it too. It’s no big deal.”
Dennis’s heart was beating really fast–he wanted to say “yes”, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. This was all a bit much…
“I’ve got to go,” he snapped.
“Really?” asked Lisa, disappointed.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Lisa.”
“Well, will you come and visit me again? Today has been really fun. The next issue of Vogue is out next week. Why don’t you come over next Saturday?”
“I don’t know…” said Dennis, as he rushed out of the house. “But thanks again for the Um Bongo.”
7 Watching the Curtain Edges Grow Light
“Happy Birthday, Dad!” exclaimed Dennis and John excitedly.
“I don’t like birthdays,” said Dad.
Dennis’s face fell. Sunday was always a miserable day for him. He knew that loads of families were sitting down together for a roast dinner, and that only made him think about Mum. When Dad did try and cook a Sunday roast for his sons, it only made their loss more painful. It was as if there was a place laid in all their minds for someone they loved who wasn’t there.
And anyway, Dad was not a good cook.
But this Sunday was even worse than usual—it was Dad’s birthday and he was determined not to celebrate it.
Dennis and John had waited all afternoon to wish him a happy birthday. He had left for work very early that day–now it was seven o’clock at night and Dad had just got in. The boys had crept downstairs to the kitchen to surprise him, where he was sitting alone wearing the same red-checked jacket he always did. He had a can of cheap lager and a bag of chips.
“Why don’t you go and play, boys? I just want to be on my own.”
The card and cake Dennis and John were holding seemed to fade away in their hands at Dad’s words.
“I’m sorry, boys,” he said, catching their hurt. “It’s