Free Leopold Blue by Rosie Rowell

day long. It was supposed to instill a sense of well-being. Outside the kitchen door Mum tended her rosemary and mint and lemon basil. As with everything she did, it was too much. Springtime in the courtyard was an assault on the senses.
    Through the kitchen swing-door came the low murmur of male voices. Every now and then Mum’s voice interrupted them with ‘Not true!’ or ‘Rubbish!’ and ‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’
    Xanthe stepped forward.
    â€˜Uh – that’s my mother. It’s her politics programme. We’re better off in the garden.’
    â€˜Really?’’ Xanthe looked disappointed.
    â€˜Oh yes,’ I said and led her through the family room and on to the stoep. The day had ripened into a busy spring blue, the breeze retreated to the shadows and crevices.
    â€˜Hello.’ Beth appeared.
    â€˜Where’s Dad?’ I asked.
    Beth pointed towards the garden without taking her eyes off Xanthe. ‘He’s lost the matches again. Do you want to help us find the matches?’ she asked Xanthe.
    â€˜No,’ I said quickly and made a swift u-turn. The only place left was my bedroom.
    Xanthe flopped down on the bed and looked around. ‘I saw the original of that, in the Louvre,’ she said finally, jutting her chin towards the Munch poster. ‘It’s much smaller than you’d expect.’
    With Xanthe stretched out on my bed, I opted for the floor. Since that first day at school I was wary of being too close to her.
    â€˜Kirk Cameron, hey?’ she said, looking up at my ceiling.
    Away from school and Juffrou and Elmarie and Esna, I couldn’t think of anything to say. The day stretched ahead, huge and silent. As I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Beth appeared again.
    â€˜Have you ever been overseas, Xanthe?’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Xanthe, without looking at Beth. As she picked up an out-of-date copy of
Fair Lady
magazine, I mouthed ‘Go away!’ at Beth and pulled my finger across my neck.
    â€˜How many times?’ Beth persisted.
    Xanthe looked up from her magazine. ‘Twice. To England and Italy and France, before you ask.’
    â€˜Wow!’ Beth’s three favourite things in the world were all from ‘overseas’: Princess Di, A-Ha, and anything from the Body Shop. ‘We’ve never been,’ she added.
    â€˜I have,’ I said quickly.
    â€˜No, you haven’t.’
    â€˜I have too, before you were born.’
    â€˜But you were a baby – that doesn’t count.’
    â€˜The stamp’s in my passport,’ I said.
    Xanthe laughed.
    Somehow Beth had sidled into my room and was sitting at the bottom of my bed. I shot her a death glare, but it bounced off.
    Xanthe reached into her bag and pulled out a magazine.
    â€˜
Just Seventeen
!’ Beth stroked the glossy cover. ‘Look at the price tag – it was bought in England!
And
it’s last month’s issue!’
    I watched the two of them and bit the inside of my cheek. Xanthe wasn’t supposed to be laughing at Beth, she was supposed to be laughing at me. Instead, Beth was making her lovely brown eyes grow bigger with excitement, laughing in her stupid half-laugh-half-snort way. Beth in a good mood was like someone switching on the light in a room at dusk.
    Xanthe waited until she had Beth’s full attention before she produced a small bottle of nail polish, the colour of congealed blood with a purple glint.
    Beth dropped the magazine in order to examine the bottle.
    â€˜This is the sold-out new colour. My mother says in England it’s the only colour anyone wants to wear,’ said Xanthe.
    Beth wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s not very pretty.’
    â€˜It’s not supposed to be pretty. It’s called –’ Xanthe leaned forward and lowered her voice ‘– Vixen.’
    Beth glanced at me, a moment’s hesitation. She took the bottle from Xanthe, and