You know when you’re sixteen, braces freshly off, and you think life might finally start behaving itself? That’s when India walked in.
Red cords. White ruffled shirt. Hair like she’d licked a plug socket on purpose. She was the only girl at the Christian disco not in a dress, and the only one who looked like she’d been imported direct from Top of the Pops.
Now, a Christian disco is already a strange concept. Imagine “Stayin’ Alive” echoing around a hall that smells of polish, weak sherry, and hymn books. Everyone else was side-shuffling like penguins on half rations. And then India strides in like Debbie Harry’s dangerous cousin.
I tried to play it cool — collar open, crucifix swinging — but I probably looked like an extra from Crossroads. She gave me a grin that said, this one will do for a laugh. We danced. We talked. She kissed me by the church font. The actual font, where babies get dipped. Baptised by snogging — I thought I’d invented a new sacrament.
Afterwards, she told me she was off to London. Said it as casually as if she was popping to the Co-op. “Mum’s dragging me. Theatre, bands, Blondie gigs, you know.” Then she leaned in, gave me one last smirk, and vanished into the crowd. Gone.
She was a mirage. A hologram in red corduroy. One minute she’s there, kissing you beside the font, the next she’s halfway to Hampstead with a typewriter and a plan.
I walked home smelling of Yardley Lavender and regret, convinced I’d had my heart broken by the Book of Revelation in trousers.
That was India. The girl who made the rest of us feel like wallpaper. The kiss that shimmered, vanished, and left you wondering if you’d imagined the whole thing.
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