She had the trimmest waist in all the class, and the blondest hair. She was taller than all the other girls. She always knew everything about everyone, and she made friends with solid, moneyed boys who owned cars and could drive one to Manchester and back. She wasn’t too clever — those boys don’t like clever women — but she was clever enough to be accepted to that course in London after graduation, and she always seemed to know she was a cut above, good enough to ignore one if she felt like it, unlikely to write any of her mates or even remember their names.
Well, I’m not saying she was nice. I’m just saying she was the sort to draw people in with all her worst qualities, the closest thing we had to a queen bee sort. Someone you wanted to like you back, even as you knew they thought less of you for your secondhand clothes, and actually they probably never thought very much of you at all.
She’s got a lovely house and lovely husband now, and they say all her dreams came true. She never looked back at this town after she left it. Which makes sense. She always seemed to hunger after something else, always seemed a bit furious, had an inner anger to her.
She was someone who could be jealous of the angels if she took her mind to it.
If she had to be in class with the likes of us, well. Then she would dream of some far-off, better place, probably. She didn’t like Cokeworth much, that Petunia Evans.