‘I never seem to get it right,’ said Barry dolefully.
‘You and me both,’ said his wife consolingly. ‘Have another cup of coffee.’
Chelsea stood at the bus stop, distancing herself from the crowd of Year Sevens who were giggling over a boyband poster, and idly kicking a stone with her toe. She hated herself. She hated life. Why was she so crabby all the time? It wasn’t even as if it was that time of the month. She just felt all cold and black and miserable inside, as if she didn’t know who she was any more. Everything was changing. Geneva and Warwick had left home so she had no one to take her side any more. Even her body was turning against her. She was getting spots, which she had never had before, and she felt moody and miserable and restless and utterly fed up.
She had thought she would feel better once term started, but how could she feel good when every break time she had to witness Jemma and Rob mooning all over one another, not to mention suffer the humiliation of her father’s van parked outside the gates selling his crummy soup?
And now all she had to look forward to was a meal at Lorenzo’s when what she really wanted was to chill out with a party for all her mates from school. She’d ask Laura to come with her – that would appease her. And Sumitha too. They would jump at the chance. She was, after all, still their best friend.
Chapter Seven
Jemma Turns a Drama into a Crisis
‘Oh, I get it!’ shouted Jemma, slamming the drama school prospectus down on the kitchen counter top and wheeling round to face her mother.
‘You just can’t bear to see me succeed, can you? You can’t cope with the fact that I’ve got talent, that I’m going to achieve more in life than spending my days cutting out sticky paper shapes and making elephants out of egg boxes for some stupid crèche. You’re jealous!’
‘Oh, petal, don’t be so silly,’ began her mother, who in between pouring Frosties into bowls for the twins and persuading Sam not to be a dinosaur under the breakfast table, was sticking copious quantities of cotton wool on to a loo roll in an attempt to create a snowman for the crèche’s Winter Wonderland display. ‘I just—’
‘How many more times do I have to tell you – don’t call me petal!’ snarled Jemma. ‘I’m not a kid any more, even though I know you’d like to have me on leading reins with a bib round my neck even now!’
‘Have you quite finished?’ asked her mum, dragging Sam from under the table and plonking him on a chair. ‘All I said was that you simply cannot go to drama class and mime and elocution. Gran gave you the cash for one year’s course. You have to make a choice. And hurry up with that egg – it’s nearly ten to eight.’
‘I’ll eat it,’ offered Sam, hopefully.
‘But Miss Olive said I had wonderful stage presence and that I needed to do all three to maximise my star potential!’ protested Jemma, flicking her hair out of her eyes and shoving her boiled egg at her brother.
‘Maximise her takings, more like!’ muttered Mrs Farrant, sticking a cardboard top hat on to her snowman and standing back to admire her handiwork.
Jemma pushed back her chair and jumped to her feet. ‘At last I’ve discovered who I am and where I’m going. I’m going to be a star – and you’re not going to stop me.’
‘Look, Jemma—’ her mother began, but Jemma had snatched up the prospectus and flounced out of the kitchen. Two minutes later the front door slammed.
‘What’s Jemma doin’, Mum?’ asked Luke, sticking his finger into Sam’s egg.
‘Being fourteen,’ muttered Claire, closing her eyes and counting to ten. Her friends had warned her about the teenage years; whenever she had said that little Jemma was no trouble they had winked at each other and said, ‘She’ll learn soon enough,’ but she had never expected her compliant daughter to turn all moody and argumentative – and so suddenly. She did hope this drama idea wasn’t going to spoil little Jemma. Claire’s mother had been so thrilled by her granddaughter’s performance as Nancy in the school production of Oliver! that she had said she wanted to foster her talent.
‘It’ll be something all of her own to do – give her some independence,’ she had said meaningfully when Claire took her to the airport to see her off on her long-awaited trip to China. Independence was all very well, thought Claire, but she didn’t want Jemma turning into one of those difficult teenagers. Some of those drama student types looked so odd and she didn’t want Jemma exposed to unsavoury elements. Still, it was probably just a phase. It wouldn’t last.
Chapter Eight
Jon and Sumitha Get Their Wires Crossed
When Jon rounded the corner of Billing Hill and saw Sumitha walking along Wellington Road, he could hardly believe his luck. Ever since New Year’s Eve he had been thinking about her and wanting to ask her out again but he’d been a bit wary of phoning her in case her dad answered. Rajiv Banerji was not desperately keen on his daughter having boyfriends and having got Sumitha interested, he was not about to do anything that might wreck things.
Actually, he admitted to himself, he wasn’t even sure that Sumitha saw him as boyfriend material. She’d been really chatty at the club, but every time Jon had tried to kiss her, or get close, she’d pulled away. She’d seemed more keen to talk than anything else. Probably the fault of that slime bag, Bilu, he thought to himself. He’d just have to win her round slowly.
Sumitha saw him from across the road and beckoned. Why, this morning of all mornings, did he have to have pimples the size of Smarties on his chin? He pulled his scarf over his face and hoped they didn’t show.
‘Hi!’ said Sumitha as Jon joined her. ‘I’m glad I’ve seen you – I need to talk to you about something.’
Jon grinned at her. ‘You look terrific,’ he said, wondering if he dared kiss her.
‘Do I? Thanks,’ said Sumitha. ‘The thing is . . . well . . .’ She hesitated.
‘Yes?’ prompted Jon, heading for the bus stop.
‘No, stay here a minute,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t want your mates to hear.’
Jon stopped obediently in his tracks and gazed at her. She had such cute ear lobes, he thought. He wanted to nibble them.
‘Well, being with you on New Year’s Eve – it just made me see my whole life differently,’ she said. ‘I’ve never felt like it before.’
Oh, wow! thought Jon. This is it. She’s fallen in love with me. Yes! Score! WOWEEE!
Visions of him and Sumitha kissing in the moonlight, him and Sumitha walking hand in hand through town, all his mates green with envy at his gorgeous girlfriend, floated before his eyes.
‘. . . and you made me see I can’t afford to waste any more time,’ Sumitha was saying.
Jon smiled dreamily. She loved him. She knew that denying her feelings was a waste of time. She was declaring her love. He felt ten feet tall. He could actually feel his spots shrinking.
‘. . . you’re right, we simply have to do something . . .’ she said.
‘Yes,’ breathed Jon, taking her hand.
He couldn’t believe his luck.
‘And we can’t go on putting off decisions for ever,’ she continued, removing her hand.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Jon. She knew she had to make a commitment to him. She was in love with him, Jon Joseph. Jon and Sumitha. Sumitha and Jon. His heart kept lurching in a most undisciplined manner.
‘But I can’t make up my mind what I ought to do,’ said Sumitha. ‘I mean, I can’t keep on with all these dancing classes and drama and stuff, if I’m going to . . .’
‘Oh, I don’t mind if you do,’ said Jon magnanimously, gazing at her adoringly and taking her hand once more. ‘There’ll still be plenty of time for us.’
Sumitha snatched it away again.
‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?’ she snapped.
‘Of course I have,’ said Jon hastily. ‘You think you should give up dancing now we’re an item and—’
‘IN YOUR DREAMS!’ shouted Sumitha. ‘Where are you at? And to think that I thought that with you I could have
a rational, meaningful conversation. You’re as bad as all the rest.’
She snatched up her school bag and flounced off.
‘No, wait – no, Sumitha please!’ Jon started after her, trying to ignore the titters from the other guys waiting for the bus. ‘Sumitha – stop.’
She was just turning reluctantly to face him when a voice said, ‘Hello, son!’ and to his horror his father, clad in a purple and white tracksuit, and with a white towel draped round his neck, jogged round the corner. Ever since Jon had introduced him to the gym, his father had gone totally over the top on the fitness front and was now jogging every morning before work. His face was puce and little rivulets of sweat were dribbling down his pudgy cheeks. Three hairs of uneven length protruded from his left nostril. He was not an attractive sight.
‘Four miles and counting,’ he boomed, hammering his chest like a demented King Kong. ‘Oh, and this must be – now, let me think – Semelda, isn’t it?’
‘Sumitha,’ said Sumitha. ‘Hi, Mr Joseph.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Henry, running on the spot and panting like a bulldog with sunstroke. ‘So you’re the new girlfriend m’boy’s so mad over, are you? Well, so his mother tells me.’
‘Dad!’ hissed Jon. How could he? How could he? How totally embarrassing!
‘Well, jolly good, fine by me, all in favour of young love. Haha! – and no need to worry, Semelda, dear – no racial prejudice in our house. Won’t find me criticising you Bengalis, not like some I could mention. Broad-minded as the next man, I am. Must keep moving – two miles to go! Bye, Jon, bye Semelda!’
And he pounded off, waving airily as he went. Jon hoped the pavement would open up and swallow him whole.
‘I’m sorry, my dad’s so—’ began Jon.
‘That’s your bus,’ muttered Sumitha through pursed lips as the Bellborough Court coach pulled up.
‘I’ll phone you tonight!’ called Jon. After I’ve finished murdering my father and pickling him in formaldehyde, he thought bitterly.
‘Don’t bother!’ shouted Sumitha. ‘You won’t listen to a word I say anyway. And just for the record, how dare you go around telling people I’m your girlfriend? How dare you!’
Jon looked forlornly out of the bus window as Sumitha hurried up the road. Trust me to blow it, he thought. Why did his mum have to go spouting out about Sumitha to his dad? I’ll never tell her anything ever again, he thought. Parents! ‘Talk to us,’ they say and then, when you do, they broadcast it to the whole world. He wished his mother was more like she used to be. Ever since she had started at the art college, she had gone all matey and giggly and started wearing jeans that were too tight for her and acting like someone half her age, pretending she understood what made Jon tick, when in fact she hadn’t a clue. His dad said she was making up for lost time. Jon wished she’d do it somewhere else.
Not that his dad was any less of a liability, Jon thought. How could he say those things? I’ll kill him.
It was then it occurred to him that he never did discover what Sumitha was actually trying to tell him.
Chapter Nine
Jemma Fails to Take Centre Stage
‘Hi, Sumitha – guess what?’ Jemma rammed her books into her locker and turned eagerly to face Sumitha.
‘What?’ said Sumitha shortly. She was still seething over Jon’s lack of attention to her dilemma. She had so wanted to tell him about her idea of becoming a foreign correspondent and, what with his total lack of concentration on what she was saying and Mr Joseph’s patronising and racist attitude, she was certainly not in the mood to be enthusiastic about anything.
‘I’m doing drama at the same place as you – I went to see Miss Olive last Saturday,’ Jemma announced triumphantly. ‘We can go together.’
‘No, we can’t,’ said Sumitha, fishing in her pocket for a comb.
‘Why not? You go on Thursdays and Saturdays, don’t you?’ asked Jemma.
‘I went on Thursdays and Saturdays,’ corrected Sumitha. ‘I’m giving it up.’
‘You’re what?’ Jemma was incredulous. ‘What on earth for?’
Sumitha was about to explain when Laura crashed into the cloakroom, clutching a pile of rubbish to her chest.
‘Hi, you guys,’ she panted. ‘Has anyone got a carrier bag?’
Yes, somewhere I think,’ said Sumitha, scrabbling in her locker. ‘Here you are – it’s a bit tatty, I’m afraid.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Laura and tipped a collection of bent Coke cans, crumpled sweet wrappers and old comics into the bag.
‘What on earth . . . ?’ began Sumitha.
‘This lot was in the bins by the art block,’ said Laura. ‘It’s disgusting!’
You’re telling me!’ said Sumitha, wrinkling her nose. ‘But if it was in the bin, why take it all out again?’
‘Because,’ said Laura emphatically, ‘all this shouldn’t be chucked away – it should be recycled. Did you know,’ she continued, staring at them sternly, ‘that every adult in this country throws out ten times their own body weight in rubbish every year?’
‘Fancy,’ said Jemma. ‘Anyway, Sumitha, as I was saying. Miss Olive said that I had great potential—’
‘Laura, is that really true? Ten times your body weight? That’s incredible,’ said Sumitha. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Well, I’m going to ask Mr Horage if I can set up a recycling scheme at school,’ said Laura. ‘I mean, I know we have newspaper collections and stuff but if we had bins for cans, bins for bottles, bins for plastic . . .’
‘You couldn’t fit in a bin for infuriating males, could you?’ said Sumitha.
‘Why? What’s up?’ asked Laura. Surely Sumitha and Jon couldn’t have had a falling out. Could they? Possibly?
‘Well,’ began Sumitha, and she and Laura drifted in the direction of the classroom.
‘Wait for me!’ called Jemma. ‘I was just saying about . . .’
But Sumitha and Laura had gone.
I suppose, thought Jemma to herself, rearranging her hair in the mirror, that Sumitha just can’t cope with being outshone. That’s why she changed the subject. Come to think of it, that’s probably why she’s dropping the whole thing. You can’t help feeling sorry for her. She’s met her match.
Chapter Ten
Consolation Over Coffee
‘Features desk – Ginny Gee speaking.’
‘Hi, Ginny? It’s me, Ruth.’ Laura’s mum rearranged her bottom on the kitchen stool and tucked the telephone under her chin.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, er – sorry. Have I caught you at a bad time?’ asked Ruth, sensing the abrupt tone to Ginny’s voice.
‘Every time is bad these days,’ muttered Ginny, who was endeavouring to write a feature on ten ways to revitalise a marriage and was only on way number one.
‘Don’t worry – I’ll call you later,’ said Ruth, shifting her position as the baby’s head butted her navel.
‘No – no, hang on, Roo – I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . oh, well never mind. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I’ve got to come into town for an ante-natal appointment and I was just wondering whether we could meet for a bite of lunch. But don’t worry, we can make it another day.’
‘I might not make it through another day,’ said Ginny, sounding perilously close to tears. ‘No, lunch would be great – just what I need. Meet you outside Lawrence’s at, say, twelve-thirty?’
Ruth surveyed her friend anxiously. They had grabbed a corner table and were ensconced with their tuna mayonnaise baguettes and a large pot of coffee.
‘What’s up?’ she asked her directly. It was obvious something was wrong; the normally garrulous Ginny was absently stirring her coffee and looking thoroughly fed up.
‘Oh,’ sighed Ginny. ‘I don’t know. I just feel so disillusioned – tired of churning out flippant little features which in all probability no one ever reads.’ She nibbled at a hangnail and sighed again.
‘Of cou
rse they read them!’ exclaimed Ruth. ‘Your articles are a tonic – they always make me laugh. And you’ve got this new radio slot – what’s it called?’
‘Live Lines to Ginny,’ said Ginny. ‘People phone in with their problems and I supposedly chat to them on air and make them feel better.’ She turned to face Ruth. ‘But I ask you – who am I to help anyone? I can’t even sort my own life out. Take today – writing about revitalising your marriage. Me – whose marriage is about as vitalised as a collapsed soufflé.’
Ruth giggled. ‘There you are, you see – you’re funny even when you’re miserable. But surely, things are looking up, aren’t they?’ she asked anxiously when Ginny didn’t smile. ‘Barry’s business seems to be going strong – I’m always seeing the van parked in some lay-by or other. And you, well, you’re everywhere – newspaper, radio, magazines. Perhaps you should go to the doctor?’ she added, concerned.
‘I did,’ said Ginny. ‘About two weeks ago. He said what he always says: it’s the menopause. Well I knew that. I’m no stranger to wayward hormones and proliferating flesh.’ She pulled a face. ‘He’s put me on HRT.’
‘There you are then!’ exclaimed Ruth. ‘You’ll feel a million dollars in no time. But you have to persevere, Ginny I read that too many women give up before giving it a chance – you have to wait a month or two.’
‘I suppose so,’ sighed Ginny. ‘Anyway enough of me – how is this infant behaving itself?’ She gestured at Ruth’s stomach with a grin. ‘What did they say at the clinic?’
‘Apart from the fact that it never manages to stay still for more than ten minutes at a time, everything is fine,’ said Ruth. ‘Sometimes I think I’ll be glad when March the twelfth comes and I can see my feet again, but at least while it’s still in there, it can’t accuse me of single-handedly causing the demise of our planet.’
‘Pardon?’ said Ginny.
‘Laura,’ said Ruth. ‘Into ecology in a big way this week.’
How Could You Do This To Me, Mum? Page 3
