“Yeah, cos you kicked him out.”
“Is that what he told you? Seriously, I’m not in the mood. Helping me clear up is the least you can do. You still haven’t kept your side of the bargain.” Why is the knife turning on me now?
“Mum, I use the stuff in the larder too, you know, not just Dad.” I feel my chest tighten. I feel it clench. My breathing becomes all short and sharp.
“You said you’d go to the gym; you still haven’t gone. You said you would. You promised.”
“Mum, it’s not that—” My ribs are aching. My words are constricted.
“I don’t want to hear it. Do you have any idea what a big deal it means for me to just let you not go to school, to just believe in you, trust that this is the right decision for you, to maybe not get your grades like everybody else your age? Have you not thought about that? Your exam results are going to come knocking on our door any second and it’s like you don’t even care. That’s not normal. For some kids these results change their whole career path, determine their entire future, and you haven’t even batted an eyelid! That’s over ten years of education for what? Nothing!”
“Not nothing,” I say. “My brain’s not a sieve, I’ve not forgotten all of this, Mum. I am smart, in my own way.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t smart. I never once said that, but THINK, for a second, please, how it will look in the future if you’re not happy and you turn around and say to me, ‘Mum, why did you let me quit school? I was just sixteen.’ Do you know the guilt I will feel if you can’t become the things you want to be because you don’t have the grades? I’ll have to live with that. Not you. You probably won’t even remember.”
“I will. I will remember. This was my decision, Mum.”
“Course you won’t. Trust me, Bluebelle, I’ve been there; I’ve been you. Thinking the world will give me a massive paycheque, that everything will be all right. But you won’t remember. I don’t remember my decisions when I was sixteen, because I was SIXTEEN! All I knew is that my mum told me I would NEVER make it as an actress, ever, that I would never be onstage and, you know, she was actually right, I didn’t.”
Because she got pregnant with me.
“I didn’t make it. And I didn’t do my exams because I concentrated on performance. And then I was left with nothing. And I had to pay for that, in my own way. So I’m letting you take one. I’m letting you do what you want to do, but there were conditions.”
“I know, Mum, and I’ve told you I’m grateful. I said to you, didn’t I? I said I’m so grateful for that.” I feel myself getting short of breath.
“And your one part of the bargain, aside from keeping the diary thing—”
“Which I’m doing, I’m doing—ask Dove—aren’t I, Dove?” I panic; Dove panics; we’re all panicking. This has come out of nowhere. Mum’s gone mental. WHERE’S MY BLOODY INHALER?
“Aside, I said, aside from keeping the diary, which is the easy bit—anybody can keep a diary—was going to the gym.”
“Mum, I—”
“I’m not asking for rent money, no contribution towards bloody toilet roll, nothing. All I’m asking is for your word, your promise. And you can’t even give me that.”
“It’s not like that, I just…I haven’t had the time. I’ll go, I will, I’ll go.”
Dove pretends to read the back of a crumpled packet of flour. The ingredients being…flour.
“And we’re just gonna go back to the doctor’s, like all those times we’ve gone before and nothing would have changed with your health and it will be my fault, again. Because I was too lenient. Then I’m going to look, YET AGAIN, like I’m the world’s worst mum and your dad is just going to love that, isn’t he? That you’ve given up your education and I’ve allowed you to; I’ve failed and you can’t even get your lazy bum down the gym three times a week for me!”
“I will. I’ll go, I’ll go for you!”
“Don’t go for me, Bluebelle. That’s not the point, don’t you see? Go for you, go for yourself!” She shakes her hands wildly and then points right in my face. “I look bad in this but you’re the only one you’re cheating!” She looks at me in disgust. I find my inhaler and breathe in. And again. I hate the look she’s given me; it makes my bones go cold. “Listen to you. You can’t even breathe.”
Ouch. Tears form; one slides down my face. I wipe it off. Breathe in and face her.
“You think I’m too fat, don’t you?”
Dove lifts her gaze to Mum, wide-eyed.
“Oh, what is this now?”
“No, Mum.” I jut out my jaw; my voice rasps. “If you think I’m fat, just say. If you want me to get to the gym because you think I’m fat, then just tell me. Don’t pretend it’s because it will make you look like a bad mum if I don’t go. Sorry I’m not a skinny-minnie like you and Dove, sorry I can’t eat a whole burger and chips like you two and not feel the fat physically attach itself to me, sorry that people laugh at me and point at me and make comments about me, that I’m embarrassed whenever I point you out as my mum and have people stare back at me in disbelief and make cruel jokes about me because I’m so BIG. That it’s a miracle that YOU pushed ME out. That I didn’t break you. I hate it that I can’t share clothes with you and Dove. That we can’t even go shopping together because I don’t want people to comment on us. That some shops don’t have my size, even. That I tower above you. That I can’t even get on some roller-coaster rides, that people describe me as ‘big,’ that they assume I’ll want a ‘large’ of everything, assume I’m a liability, that I’m a whale, that I’m not a girl, that I can’t be gentle, or feminine, or myself. Because that’s all I’m being, Mum, myself. Or I’m trying.” I can’t help it: the tears roll down my cheeks fast now and my voice cracks and trembles. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”
And she drops the bin liner to the ground and we hug and we are both crying. Mum strokes my hair and I don’t even care that our fingers are covered in old food and bits of grossness.
“You know you never know the answer, don’t you?” Mum holds my face, wiping my tears with her thumbs and says, “You never really grow up. It’s a trick; everybody is wandering around just as lost as the person ahead and the person behind. We are all winging it. You are always waiting for somebody to tell you if you’re doing it right but you never know. Ever. Me and Dad don’t know. None of us know what we’re doing in this life. But we are proud of you for asking for more. We are. And I don’t think you’re anything except beautiful. You’re so beautiful, I can’t even begin to take in your beauty. You’ve always been beautiful. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Mum yanks Dove into our hug too and we are holding tight, bedraggled, tired and worn, but still so close, still holding on, together, like the girl gang of spring onions we’ve just thrown in the bin.
MARS BAR
“Don’t burn it!” I yell, smacking Dove’s hand out of the way.
“Sor-ry! Calm down.”
“It’s only meant to be thirty seconds.”
“It’s not my fault the stupid thing only sets in minutes.”
“Take it out.”
“Stop bossing me about.”
“If you did it right, I wouldn’t have to.”
“OH! YEAH BOY! IT LOOKS AMAZING!”
“Let’s see, then, share the wealth.”
A warm bowl of melted Mars Bar. Hot caramel, chocolate and nougat. Sticky, fudgy, warm.
“Ice cream?”
“Here.”
“Swirl it in, B.”
“Yum!”
“More!”
I stir in the vanilla ice cream and it begins to melt straight away, bleeding into the caramel, softening and collapsing. A whirlpool of edible paint.
“Want to stay in tonight and watch a film?” Dove asks, slinging me a spoon. We both stay silent for a moment, mout
hing the ice cream into little quenelles with our tongues, eyes fixed on each other in perfect contented smiles.
“You never want to stay in with me.”
“Well, I’m asking you now….”
“I can’t.”
“Oh. Why?”
“I’ve got a date!”
“A date! What the hell, with who?”
“This alien from Planet Coffee,” I say. Dove snorts. “What’s so funny?”
“I love it that you’re eating a melted Mars Bar and ice cream the day you are going on a first date.”
“Why, what’s wrong with that?”
“Ha! Nothing’s wrong, it’s just not what other girls would do.”
“Why, what would other girls do?”
“Probably starve themselves. All the girls in my year are just selfie-obsessed, none of them eat. Tania Gray chews paper.”
“Weird.” I lick the back of my spoon, the balance of hot and cold dissolving on my tongue. “It’s so sad. We’re all so vain.”
“I wouldn’t say you were.”
“Dove, all I bang on about is how much I love myself.”
“That’s not vain, that’s just healthy, isn’t it? That’s what you always say. And I think it’s true.”
Our silver spoons battle like tusks as we scramble for the last milky dribble of dessert.
“So what film are you gonna watch tonight, then?”
“Maybe Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”
“Really? Why that?”
“Just feel like watching it.” Cute.
“If you had seven dwarfs to your personality, what would they be?” I ask her.
“Errrrmmm…Playful. Sarcastic. SO COOL…”
“So cool? It can’t be two names.”
“So-Cool. It’s double-barrelled.”
“Fine.”
“Playful, Sarcastic, So-Cool…,” she relists. “How many more?”
“Four.”
“OK.” She smiles. “Cheeky.”
“Annoying.”
“You’re annoying!”
“Maybe we both have that personality trait.”
“Hungry.”
“Ha! We share that one too.”
“And outdoorsy!”
“OK, now do me.”
“OK.” She bites her lip nervously, as if she’s an apprentice that’s finally being trusted for the first time. “But don’t shout at me if I get them wrong.”
She looks me up and down….
“Annoying.”
“Yes.”
“Hungry.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Confident.
“Bossy.”
“Bossy?!”
“You said you wouldn’t shout.”
“Fine. Carry on….”
“How many more do I have?”
“Three…”
“A liar.”
“A LIAR!”
“You told Mum you’d start going to the gym as part of your deal and you still haven’t gone yet.”
“That doesn’t make it one of my dwarfs, Dove. That’s like a phase one of my dwarfs was going through; it’s like a choice one of my dwarfs had to make when it was…I dunno…out of choices. It wasn’t a lie because I’m not actually ever going to be going to the gym…so…”
“You lied again, then. Anyway, it’s good to have a double-barrelled dwarf name like me…A-Liar. Quite a pretty name if you say it out loud like that, rolls off the tongue, Aliar…See?”
“Then it’s not double-barrelled, though, is it?”
“OK, B, it’s up to you how you want to say it; it’s your dwarf.”
“ ’K. Two more.”
“Stubborn. Kind…no, actually…Kindofcool.”
“Awww. I think.”
“No, awww is right.” Dove nods. “I was being nice.”
“You forgot fat.”
“OK. Which one do you want to swap for fat?”
“Aliar.”
“Fine. Swap Aliar for Fat, then.”
We stare out of the window. The sun beats into the kitchen.
“It’s a nice day for a date.”
“Not for me, I’ll be sticking to everything like a melted candle. This hot weather does not work for my fat and my cheap clothes.” I flap my arms to make air. “And my thighs are gonna probs be rubbing like mad.”
“You can borrow my headscarf if you want,” Dove says. She knows I like her fruity headscarf.
“What, to tie around my thigh as a chafe barrier?” I joke.
“No. For your hair! Do NOT put my headscarf anywhere near your—”
“I know, I was joking. Thanks, Dove.”
“You’re welcome.” She is pleased to offer it to me, I can tell.
“It seems too nice a day for a movie night.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
“The sun won’t go down till nine!”
“Yeah. Maybe I should go play out instead, might see what the boys are doing.”
“Do you always jump off the same things?”
“What do you mean jump off?”
“Like, is it just, let’s jump off the bus stop again or is it more…advanced…like, are there stages and stuff?”
“Some of the boys like to perfect a jump before they move on to the next, others just care they made the jump and move on. Depends how stupid you are, I suppose.”
“Or brave.”
“Or brave, yeah.”
“Which one of the two are you? Stupid or brave?”
“I dunno.”
“I’ll come watch you…you know…throw yourself off buildings or whatever soon.”
“ ’K.”
“Have fun.”
“I will.”
“Wear sun cream.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and Dove?”
“Yup?”
“Be brave.”
She folds up the sleeve of her T-shirt to reveal her biceps. It’s like the curve of a prawn. She kisses it and holds her fingers out to me. I touch them with the tips of mine.
“Tell you what…,” I offer. “If I don’t get back too late, we can watch Snow White in my trifle when I’m home?”
“Midnight feast?”
“Midnight feast.”
And then she pokes her pointy tongue out and gallops upstairs in pony-like boniness, her blond hair swimming behind her like a torch of light I’ll never be able to capture.
CREPES
I am wearing a too-tight two-piece, which sucks my fat in in places and plunges it out in others. It looks wonderful standing up but I hadn’t really considered what sitting down was going to look like. I can already visualise the red lines crimping around my waist later like I’ve been singed with the edges of a piping-hot pie. My hair is all ruffled from faffing around with Dove’s headscarf—which I ditched and decided not to wear and instead have it oddly tied around my wrist as a makeshift bunchy bracelet.
“I’m early” is all I say to Camille after I punch her name into my phone.
“Early where? Were we meant to meet?”
“No. To meet Max.”
“What the? You nutter! I thought you’d tell me when you were seeing him.”
“I’m telling you.”
“What are you like? What are you wearing?”
“My candy-stripe two-piece thing.”
“The pink or the red?”
“The red.”
“Oh.”
“Why ‘oh’?”
“Ohh in a good way. Ohhh as in NIIIIIIICCCCCE.”
“OK.”
“How early?”
“Three minutes.”
“That’s not early.”
I pace the high street: Chinese takeaway, Caribbean food takeaway. A hair shop. A deli. A pub. London is buzzing with the romance of summer; you can feel it in the air, the delight of something good just around the corner.
“OK, I’m going in.”
“No! Make him wait a bit.”
“Why? I’m here, why would I wait?”
“Power, B!”
“Ewww!”
“Come on! You have to be late!”
“Why do I?”
“Dunno, it’s just a thing, you have to, honestly, B, give it two minutes.”
“How many dates have you been on, Cam?”
“My aunty told me all about this stuff.”
“ ’K. ’K. Pass the time….Let’s play a game….Guess the name of the restaurant?”
“The Happy Vegan?”
“Good guess. The Smiling Whale.”
“No way.”
“No, not really.”
“Am I guessing or are you?”
“Sorry.”
“The Melon?”
“Nope.”
“The Disgruntled Lemon.”
“Idiot. Ha!”
“The Lonesome Mug?”
“I love that one.”
“Can I have a pint in the Lonesome Mug?”
“Haha!”
“Ooooh, prawn cocktail crisps and a—”
“I think he’s calling me….Oh no, it’s just Mum. Can I go in now?”
“NO! I mean, you don’t need my permission but…”
“Cam. I’m bloody excited to meet this boy. I don’t see why I have to pretend I’m not.”
“You’re right, you’re right, go…go…GO! Have fun. I love you.”
* * *
—
The place is a concrete shell. Like a shop. You can see the kitchen. A woman is flipping crepes on metal stoves. The music is loud. Happy. There is bright graffiti scribbled all over the walls and wilting film posters. The furniture is mismatched. Scrubby. But comfortable. Like a living room. The menu is simple. But not. Simple because it’s short but not simple because I’ve never been out for savoury crepes before as my dinner. It’s just crepes. Sweet or savoury. But not just “vegan” cheese. There’s sweet potato, chilli, potatoes, spinach, avocado and tons of spices.
My Ideal Boyfriend Is a Croissant Page 15
