by Jody Klaire
“Weren’t you? Even though you were with me, you spent more time with her… You were inseparable.” Laura stood shoulder to shoulder and snaked a hand down to clasp hers. “Thought it would be you and her.”
“You made sure it would never be.” She pulled her hand away. What were they doing in the school, having a sit-in?
“She said it had been.” Laura’s tone filled with the edge that had become so familiar. Yeah, the nice side never lasted long. “Friends with benefits?”
“Before you came along.” She slapped her hands together again. A fresh start with Laura to forget Bennie? Yeah, that had worked out. Stupid, but she didn’t even feel cold now; she just wanted to smack something. “But, then, a lot of things were better before you.”
Laura winced. “Ouch.”
“Not half of what you laid on me.” Great, now she was pitying herself? What would Mikey think of that? She was better than that. “Anyway. Enjoy the holidays.”
Laura laughed. “Ah, there’s the polite side. Always count on you to buckle. Shame you weren’t so polite with my kids.”
“Your kids throw bricks through windows and think it’s funny.” She glared at her. Yeah, the three brats only visited Laura on the weekends, but she thought filling them with sugar and sticking them in front of a computer was good for them. Kate hadn’t. But then, they’d never agreed on anything. Why had it taken so long for her to see that?
“They’re just being kids. It was an accident.” Laura strode up to the gates as her three brats ambled out, coats hanging around their waists. They looked the spit of her; they were the spit of her. One even stuck their middle finger up while the other started a dirty version of some pop song. Laura just laughed and ushered them to her pimped-up Subaru. How did Bennie cope? She hated kids. Guess that’s why she wasn’t doing the school run.
“Kate-oh!” Mikey’s jolly soprano rippled over the buzz of over-sugared kids. There he was, reindeer hat on, a snowman Christmas jumper with half his lunch over it, and the biggest beaming smile any nine-year-old could muster.
Her mood vanished, and she held open her arms. “Alright, babe?”
He broke into a stuttered run, his left side not quite catching up with his right, and flung himself into her arms. “I made snoooowballs.”
His American accent always sounded a bit Scottish, but it was better than hers.
“To eat?” Dumb question as there was no snow.
“Yup.” He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it up to her. “Made this…you.”
She gave him a squeeze and tried not to pull out tissues and mop his face. Laura had always said she was more like his mother than his sister, but wasn’t that what a big sister really was anyway? She pulled open the card, which told her she was the coolest sister ever complete with igloo and some kind of penguin, if the flippers on black blob were anything to go by.
“Thanks, babe.” She scooped him up and wriggled him about. He giggled, carefree and joy-filled. “You’re the coooolest brother.”
He pulled back and gazed up at her with awe. “I am?”
Yeah, who cared about exes when Mikey was around? “Yep, who else would I sing carols with?”
He burst into “Silent Night” amid fits of giggles.
She held his freezing hand and led him across the busy road. Would take ages to warm up, even walking. Ah well. It was Christmas. They’d warm up with song.
Chapter 3
It was a little-known fact to the millions of followers on social media that Darcy McGregor, in possession of an award, was more smug than most. She enjoyed the victory over her fellow celebrities, the victory over other shows, the victory over those in the media who tried blackening her good name, and that her name looked good on expensive chunks of gold.
“Darcy, you’re wonderful,” Marshall oozed, swanning over and kissing her on the cheek. They both turned to the camera, beamed, and snuggled close.
“I know.” She shoved him away and headed to the side. Had he really threatened to fire Susannah? Could one fire a family member? Be forced to resign as a daughter? She held up the award for Susannah to see. “What do you think?”
“That a load of money went into that, and all it’ll do is sit on the shelf.” Susannah shrugged, her sleek brown hair around her slender shoulders, dress tight at the waist and flowing over her hips. She looked delightful when dressed correctly. “Probably enough to pay for someone’s retirement.”
“They can pay for their own retirement.” She pursed her lips. Marshall was approaching again.
“Darcy, you’re a busy thing, aren’t you?” He smiled at her and tapped her on the buttock. He was good stock. Well-known, well-established acting dynasty. His frame was elegant, his jaw broad, and he did look right on camera. “You haven’t had time for me.”
Susannah glared up at him. “She’s a woman, not a piece of meat. Hands off.”
Darcy laughed. She shouldn’t encourage her, but it was endearing.
Marshall looked Susannah up and down. “Why don’t you run off and get me a glass of champagne?”
“Get your own champagne,” Susannah snapped back. “You could do with the exercise.”
Marshall narrowed his eyes at her. “If you don’t want to lose your job, girl, get me a champagne.” He clicked his fingers. “Now.”
“Stay where you are,” Darcy said, her tone icy to her ears as she moved in front of Susannah. He must know Susannah was her daughter. Who didn’t know how wonderful she was as a mother? Shimmer Magazine had voted her Best Mother five years on the roll. “Marshall, she has more column space than you, darling. At least be a good sport about it?”
Marshall sucked in his chin. “Column space? Who would want to write about a nobody like her?”
“Susannah is my baby girl.” She yanked Susannah to her, giving her the best motherly squeeze she could. Another camera—she placed a kiss on her forehead and beamed at the lens—trying not to let the odd curl of anger in her stomach show.
“And a photo opportunity,” Susannah muttered and folded her arms. “Whoever you are, you’re a sleaze.”
Marshall narrowed his eyes. “I’m an award-winning actor, girl.”
“So? Why does that make you clever?” Susannah’s eyes glinted like his tone hurt. “Why does that give you the right to talk to people that way?”
The anger bubbled. Susannah was right. But the key was to keep cool. Cameras were watching.
“The fact I have more money,” Marshall hissed, towering over her. Something odd rumbled up at his tone, icy and fiery all at once. “And I’m worth more than a little dy—”
Darcy slammed her fist into his jaw.
He dropped to the floor with a yelp.
Susannah stared at her with complete awe. “Nice shot, Mum.”
Her hand was swelling. She would have puffy fingers for days. What would the skin care sponsor say? They didn’t pay her to advertise puffy fingers, did they?
“Bitch.” Marshall clambered to his feet and brushed himself off, his chin sporting a gash. “We’ll talk about this through my agent.”
“Not unless you want me to accuse you of…” Think. What would an ignoramus like him worry about?
“Assault, harassment, discrimination…” Susannah stood beside her and lifted her swelling hand into the air. “My mum knows what to do with jerks.”
The snapping press cheered—no doubt they hated Marshall because he was richer, handsomer than them, and he had dated her. Perfect reason to dislike him.
Susannah kept hold of her hand and dragged her out of the doors to the limo, then shoved her inside. “I can’t believe you just stuck up for me,” she said once the door was closed behind them.
“I’m your mother. It’s my job.” She placed the award on the seat. Good thing she hadn’t clocked him with the award, or she’d have needed to sell it for the
bail.
“You don’t normally let that bother you.” Susannah took her hand and pulled off the rings. She shoved her hand into the ice bucket, yanked the cloth off the champagne bottle, and put the ice in it. “I mean, you belted him one.”
“What do you mean I don’t let it bother me?” She took the ice wrap and placed it on her knuckles. “Do men talk to you like that normally?”
“Everyone talks to me like that.” Her frown was deep like the bad-tempered child who whined about wearing dresses and gave the dolls man-cuts just to irritate her. “You talk to me like that.”
“When have I ever talked to you like that?” She tied the ice wrap tight, grabbed for the champagne bottle, and popped it open. Forget the glass. Pain management needed.
“When you tell me I have to straighten my hair to go out with you, or wear a dress, or wax.” Susannah snatched the bottle off her. “Or you tell me no one will look at me if I don’t wear make-up.”
“I heckle. I’m your mother, it’s my job.” She took the bottle back. “Heckling is allowed.”
“Yet you just belted the bloke who talked to me the same way?” Susannah splayed her fingers over her chest. “Double standards from the star herself.”
Darcy downed a fair few gulps, not sure if she was wobbling or if they were in motion. “Why are you angry with me when I just hit him?”
“I’m not angry. I’m shocked. I’d be in awe if I thought you actually meant it.” She shook her head and stared out of the window. “Nothing you do is genuine.”
That stung. Stung more than her throbbing knuckles. Must be the champers. More needed. “I am completely genuine.”
“No, you’re more of a fake than the rip-offs on the stalls.” Susannah sighed and tucked her hair behind her oversized ears—from her father’s side, of course. “But I can hope.”
The stinging seeped into her chest and knotted her stomach. It was the same thing she’d told her father before he left. He was a fake. In fairness to her, he’d had another family, and her mother had never known. “I stick around. I don’t abandon you.”
“Don’t you?” Susannah met her eyes, tear filled, and her mascara was definitely not waterproof. “I’m only around when I’m needed for promo.”
Swigging more champers didn’t help. The pain was squeezing her stomach in two. “You don’t even like me.” There, there it was. Why would Susannah want to be around her? She hated clothes, she hated fashion, she never shut up about equality and all that angsty teenage rubbish. But she didn’t have to put money in the bank now, did she?
“No, but I’d like to. I only wish you’d bother to like me.” Mascara lines blotted her now-ruddy cheeks, and she looked a fright. Hopefully there were no cameras outside the house.
“Fine. You can come to the set. I’ll even get you a job. But don’t whine when I am talking about important matters.” She nodded and poked herself in the eye with the bottle. Ow. “Body shape is the cause of so many fashion crimes.”
Susannah rolled her eyes but then let through the sweetest smile. “You know, I’d actually like that.”
“Good.” She leaned over and rubbed the mascara off Susannah’s cheeks, then held up the bottle, still squinting. Ow, ow. “Marshall had to go. Skinny trousers are not flattering. I don’t care what the designers say.”
“We agree on something, then,” Susannah said with a sniff, and that smile grew.
“You don’t find skinny trousers flattering?” Could this be a breakthrough?
“Not that. I don’t care what the designers say.” Susannah chuckled and tapped her on her good hand, then swiped the bottle from her. “And champagne gives you a hangover.”
Darcy sighed. So close.
Chapter 4
Kate pulled the bottom panel off the photocopier and wriggled her shoulders inside, wielding her torch. She could hear the machines in the workshop on ground level grinding out pencils, the chatter from the canteen through the open window sending a draft up her shirt—or was the chatter from the cupboard-like breakroom? Then again, it could be everyone in the open-plan office: bosses and admin staff all buzzing with catch-ups from the holidays while she worked.
She’d changed three lights, Rog from promotion’s chair twice; replaced the lead to Rita from accounting’s keyboard; and taken all the decorations down single-handed already, and it was only half past nine. Place always looked bigger without all the decorations, but it felt bare too somehow.
Christmas highlights had seen Mikey full of song and laughter, her mother and stepdad attempting karaoke like always, her dad trying to get her drunk and take her go-karting. There’d been a load of lowlights too, but she was shoving them out of her head. Christmas always filled her with cheer, but somehow it felt lonely. It always felt lonely. Ah, ignore it. She scrunched up her face and focused on fishing out the paper jammed in the printer-photocopier.
“You rescued it yet, Kate?” Frank asked somewhere outside the printer. The CEO was busy as always, then.
“Nearly. Why did Rog need to print off a thousand pages of the report again?” She wasn’t technically IT support, but then no one in the office was remotely IT gifted, so she spent most of her day rescuing them. One small factory plus no IT department equalled her being the go-to IT guru. Good thing they didn’t actually need security. Why a family-run factory making pencils needed security guards, she didn’t know, but she wasn’t arguing.
“There’s a new mechanical pencil coming out on the market that has more lead, better action, and holds the page better.” He let out a yawn. “I told him our pencils are the cheapest and do the job. Who pays fifteen quid for a pencil?”
“Someone with more money than me,” she mumbled, leaning in…further…nearly…got it. “Who knew pencils were so…technical.” She extracted herself and held up the shred of paper. “Congratulations, it’s A4. You must be very proud.”
He snorted, flicked his long ginger hair out of his face, and took the page with stubby fingers. “Pencils are highly technical. If you tried them, you might like them.”
Was he hitting on her? She could never tell. “I prefer pens, mate. Big ink-spreading pens.”
He pursed his lips. He looked camp when he did it. Best not to tell him. “Traitor.”
“Eh, what can I say?” She switched the printer on and hit the button for it to continue. It churned into life, and paper spat out Rog’s tome on pencil competitors. Job done.
“So, did you meet anyone at a Christmas party?” He grinned at her and stroked his chin beard. That was the best way to describe it; he had no other facial hair apart from two inches on the rim of his jaw all the way from one side to the other. Why? “A lovely lady?”
“My parties involved a nine-year-old throwing cake at my stepdad for giving him the wrong colour vegetables, my mum whining that she never gets help from my dad and she shouldn’t have to put up with Mikey alone, and me consoling him when he overheard.” She let out a shuddering breath. It had been a relief when Mikey went back to school and she could hide in work. “Oh, and shitloads of that crazy woman telling people that their clothes are the most important thing about them.”
Her mum was way too into The Style Surgeon. Who watched back-to-back episodes of it? Plus, the surgeon was a bitch. A bitch who loved herself and made her poor victims stand around in their underwear. Sad sacks, that’s what they were.
“You don’t think Darcy is hot?” He grinned, and his beady eyes twinkled. “I’d stand in my underwear for her.”
Hmm. Not sure that would be good TV. “Have at it. Hot comes from the inside.”
“Are you seriously saying that if she turned up on your doorstep and said she wanted a coffee, you’d send her away?” He snorted and tidied Rog’s piling papers.
“Yes. Imagine the nagging when you got to the bedroom?” She shook her head. Imagine the nagging full stop. “Not to mention most of her is proba
bly fake, and she isn’t going to dig your pencil.”
“Bet she’d go for a fifteen-quid one.” He pulled his mouth to the side. “But in my head, she loves Y-fronts.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “Dream away.”
He let out a wistful sigh, then flashed a cheeky grin. Oh, here came the teasing. “You’d look good in the stuff she puts on people, though.” He smiled and scanned over her—like he could be a letch if he tried. He’d blushed and stumbled off when Rita in accounting had been talking about periods. “Bet you’d be hot in a dress.”
“I’d be freezing in a dress.” She shook her head and patted his shoulder again. He’d had three girlfriends at the age of fifty, and she was sure two of those had been when he was still in school. “And I’ve got knobbly knees.” Or so her mum told her. Knees were bone—what else would they be?
“I could work with that.” He chuckled, then heaved the mountain of sheets into his arms. “I should enforce dresses as a dress code.”
“Only if you wear them. And should anyone steal your pencils, you can chase them.” She gave him her best scowl. Frank wouldn’t dream of enforcing anything. He’d tried making the staff clock out for breaks once, an idea which had lasted five minutes until Rita told him it was discrimination against smokers. “You want to see Rog in a dress?”
They both glanced back at Rog, shuffling up the floor plate. He was at least a hundred; she didn’t care if her boss said he was fifty-five. His clothes hung off his withered frame, he’d lost his hair decades ago, his eyesight not long after that, and she wasn’t sure if he’d ever been able to hear.
“Your report,” Frank said to Rog. “Happy reading.”
Rog stared at him. “Eh?”
“Report!” Frank yelled. What was the point in shouting? Rog hadn’t heard the fire alarm go off when everyone else had needed ear defenders.
“Eh?” Rog looked down at the sheets. “How many people are in the meeting? I haven’t even read the minutes.”
