The following morning, once Robbie had revived himself under a shower, he went in search of Kizzy, who he found wrestling with a Curly Wurly, her clipboard abandoned on her pillow.
Kizzy handed him a dart.
“Time for another?” She asked.
“Time for nothing else,” he replied.
Robbie aimed the Form Photo. Seventeen girls in Eastfield High uniforms. Form Teacher at the centre. An innocent enough scene about to be desecrated. The dart grazed Miss Rowbotham and tore into one of the tall girls in the rear.
“India Armstrong-Jones”, Kizzy announced. “AJ. Sex and drugs and rock and roll. Watch out. She was expelled from her posh co-ed boarding school somewhere in the south, nicked the headmaster’s car to see Blondie in Plymouth. You’ll need a story worth stealing a car for.”
Robbie removed the dart and ran a finger over the puncture mark. “AJ,” he said.
“Not to her face,” Kizzy warned. “Use ‘India.’”
Robbie tucked the photo away. “I think I like her.”
“You might,” Kizzy agreed, referring to her notes.
“We need to get you invited to a party at Hedgehope Hall, north of Morpeth. She’ll be there and along with all the posh-totty that Northumberland has to offer.”
Robbie circled the room like a caged animal, dart pinched between thumb and forefinger.
“India bloody Armstrong-Jones,” he muttered. “She’s—Christ, how would I even approach her?”
“That’s your first mistake,” Kizzy said, snapping off a length of brittle caramel toffee coated in chocolate. “India isn’t approached. She’s witnessed. She decides whether to approach – not you!”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“First, get yourself to Fenella’s party. So be nice to her. You struggle with that sometimes. You boarding school types all know each other wherever you are packed off to, and the Northumberland set are all something to do with fishing, shooting or riding.”
“Or all at the same time.” Robbie offers.
“Be decent to Fen.” Kizzy continues, “Forget the Christian Disco incident. Charm her mum. The invitation will follow. Promise Fen nothing; she deserves better – better than you in particular.”
“And then?”
Kizzy’s eyes glinted. “Then you wait. If India fancies you, the signals will be clear. She’ll dance so close you’ll feel her heartbeat. Her laugh will follow you home.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Lethal,” Kizzy agreed, her smile widening. “But imagine the story. She doesn’t do romance—she does collision. If she offers you a tab, take it like you’ve been smoking since the womb. When Bowie comes on, match her move for move. Stay sharp. You might survive and thrive.”
Robbie’s fingers traced the dart holes in Kizzy’s Form Photo. “What if she ignores me?”
“Then you’ve still orbited India Armstrong-Jones for one night. Some boys would give their right arm for that.”
Kizzy extracted a stubborn strand of Curly Wurly toffee from her molars. “Start with Fenella. Be nice, and the bored Chelsea girl will give you a moment; if not, we can tick it off as ‘gave in a try’.”
Later that week, working through an extensive friends-of-the-family list and some distant relatives, Kizzy managed to get her brother invited to the poshest teen do of the hols.
Hedgehope Hall Dance
Robbie arrives—he’s no disco novice, having now cut his teeth at a rugby club disco (two) and youth theatre improvisations—and from the moment he steps in, he’s reminded of the assembly hall at school. He’s still edgy from a hangover, his outfit’s half-baked, and his punk-Bowie influences are on full display: the hair, the hint of a stud in his ear.
AJ is the lone girl in trousers—bright red, of course—and hugging her every muscle like they belonged to her. At rest, she’s a statue in scarlet; in motion, the cords turned her body into a series of seismic waves.
Every other girl had read the invitation: “Music, Dancing, and Fellowship in a Wholesome Atmosphere. Dress Code:
Ladies – Long Skirts (no denim, please)
Gentlemen – Sports Jackets / Smart Attire.”
Like almost everyone else, Robbie found his gaze drawn to AJ’s defiant red cords. Where other girls wore flowing skirts, hers mapped every contour they covered—from hip to thigh, with just enough flare at the ankles to showcase those chunky platform boots. Each time she shifted her weight, the taut fabric performed its own rebellion, leaving Robbie parched and the row of chaperones exchanging glances of thin-lipped judgment.
India recognised Robbie as her brother’s hero, apparently, in the Beamish dorm when he was the D.C. (Dormitory Captain). This was the best opening line. He told goat stories, apparently. About the ‘Monkey’s Paw’ and the ‘Lady in the Green Mist’. This had them both laughing. Robbie couldn’t believe it had got off to such a great start. He looked around for Kizzy, but she was nowhere to be seen.
When the DJ finally drifts from Mrs. Trevelyan’s safe playlist of Abba, The Nolans, Cliff Richard, David Soul, Leo Sayer, or John Denver, Bowie’s to “Rebel Rebel” and “Jean Genie”.
Robbie and India turn the dance floor into a spectacle. Their hips sync, their moves mirror one another, and even the DJ from Morpeth abandoned the Christian Disco hits list to feed their vibe for the Stranglers and the Stones, more Bowie and Lou Reed. Most of the young people joined in, tearing off ties, discarding skirts and rebelling while the adults politely decided to exit and go to the billiards room.
When the first “Rebel Rebel” bars rang out, India took the floor like she owned it. The other girls hesitated. India didn’t. She danced like it meant something. Not for attention. Not for boys. Just because the rhythm told her to.
Robbie found himself walking towards her before he realised it. His outfit was mismatched—Marc Bolan shirt from the Kard Bar, denim jacket, drainpipe trousers, cowboy boots—but the look worked, somehow. He looked like someone who’d just stepped out of a confused dream about Top of the Pops.
India clocked him. Noted the earring, the boots, the way he didn’t flinch when she moved close. He didn’t try to lead. He just kept time with her.
She turned. Scowled. The boy’s face looked familiar. Someone’s brother. They were always someone’s brother.
“Kizzy’s brother,” he said.
She knew Kizzy. Quirky. The male version may be equally intriguing.
They danced.
They danced until parents whispered, and the vicar’s wife complained. They danced until someone changed the track to something safer, something slower.
They didn’t.
Robbie could’ve stopped there and satisfied Kizzy with a simple report (if he could spot her – he couldn’t), but the night had more in store: laughter, dirty dancing, and a later snogging outside under the rhododendrons.
The adults murmur “disgraceful,” “disgusting” when that sultry dance spills over. Parents complain to the DJ—no more of that—while hovering mothers snuff out the atmosphere.
Robbie spoke to Fenella, the harried host, exposing a dossier on why her friends were bored and why she’s miserable. If only they’d thrown the grown-ups out, dimmed the lights, and blasted the records they sneak into school. Let everyone ditch skirts for jeans and T-shirts and loosen up.
Outside, later, as Indi lit a cigarette, Robbie asked. “You go to Eastfield High?”.
“Not usually.” A grin. “Temporary exile.”
She smoked in silence. She didn’t offer him one, and he didn’t ask for one. Her voice was low, amused, and had a touch of West London.
“You don’t belong here either, do you?” she asked.
“No.”
She exhaled. “Good.”
After that, there was constant banter and laughter about being away at school, something they both had, or had had, in common.
He learnt how she had ‘borrowed’ her housemaster’s car to take some friends to the Blondie gig in Portsmouth the previous May.
That’s what Robbie appreciated: feeling something and acting on it, doing something, rather than just dwelling on it. Act now, not later. Act impulsively, rather than overthinking it or dwelling on it. He thought back to the rules set by Kizzy:
You must speak to her. He was doing that.
You must make her laugh. He was doing that too.
You may kiss her — but only if it feels right. That would come, surely.
This was too easy. Speaking to a girl was straightforward, Robbie decided. You could ask whether she had better suggestions for the music being played or compliment her by highlighting a specific detail of her attire, such as her hair, necklace, watch, or shoes. These had all been carefully chosen. To make her laugh, you had to listen, understand what she had said, and ask for more. But once you had her trust, she’d offer all kinds of gems where you could see the funny side: her situation, her siblings, her parents, something on TV, favourite children’s programmes, and the kiss? If it felt right? That might require an evening of listening; the slow dance would help.
No prying eyes were a bonus.
The kiss felt right.
After that, the kisses became something of a “why bother, it’s not going anywhere; I’ll never see you again.
He had until Friday the following week.
And then it was over. She said she had to leave. She set off on foot. He offered to walk her home. She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Okay.”
Her father lived in a block of flats that looked out onto the Town Moor.
He should come around the following week. Thursday, they’d have the place to themselves.
Afterwards, Robbie knows the script: debrief Kizzy, tick those boxes, spare the details. But crossing the floor with India—matching each step, sharing that conspiratorial smile—that was the real payoff.
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