I don’t want to take them home at the end of the afternoon, but I know Ruth will need the car to go to work, so I drop them both at their door, wave until they’re inside, and then go home.
Ruth is waiting in the doorway, watching for me. It’s half past five, I know because I check the clock on the dashboard. She doesn’t start her shift until nine.
I smile when I get out of the car and walk up the garden path. “Hiya. How was your day?” I ask and lean in to give her a kiss.
She grasps the key from my hand and turns her head so I catch her cheek. Just. I almost end up with nothing but hair. “I’m starting early. We’re short-staffed again. I told them I’d be there by six.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Bye.”
Then she’s gone. Sixteen words. And not a one of them “happy” or “birthday.” The inside of the house is dark. She’d turned out all the lights behind her, she hadn’t thought to leave one on for me.
“Happy birthday, Genna,” I say and go straight up the stairs to bed.
CHAPTER 2
ABI
“Which box, Rosie?”
“Dave,” she says from the table without even looking up from her colouring book.
“Dave it is.” Two sandwiches, no crusts, cut into triangles, not squares, wrapped in cling film, not foil, made of peanut butter, smooth not crunchy, and slices of green grapes, not red, and placed, not dumped, into the lunch box known as Dave. Dave is a Minion-decorated lunch box, with two goggly eyes and a centre parting. At least it isn’t crisp sandwiches for every meal. This way, she’s getting some nutrients. Sliced grapes are still grapes at the end of the day.
“Turn’t up.”
“Excuse me?”
“Music. Turn’t up, please.”
I reach over and turn up the volume. Rosie does love music. Though I sometimes despair at her choices, today’s pick is a good one. The Buzzcocks’ “Ever Fallen in Love With Someone (You Shouldn’t Have Fallen In Love With)”. From the mouths of babes, huh?
“Couldn’t have put it better myself, pal.” I put an apple, red not green, into Rosie’s box with a box of raisins and a carton of orange juice with no bits in and close the lid. “Right, Mrs, last colour and bed. You’ve got school in the morning.”
“Aw, but I need to finish this to says thank you to Genna.”
“Say not ‘says’. And you can finish it tomorrow.” I’m smiling, I can feel it. My cheeks are pulled tight, and my vision’s gone a bit, well, sort of wonky. You know, when your eyes scrunch up a bit. I can’t help it. I smile whenever I think about Genna. That whole fallen in love with someone you shouldn’t shit. Why shouldn’t I? Well, there are many reasons, really. One, she’s living with someone else. Two, she’s fourteen years younger than I am and I’ve known her since she was sixteen. That took me a while to get my head around. And there’s no need to look at me like that. I didn’t fancy her when she was sixteen. That’s a bit gross.
What I mean is, it took me bloody ages to realise what it was that I was feeling for her, because it was like getting to know a different person. Grownup Genna as opposed to teenage Genna. They’re really very different people. Actually, maybe not that different, but I only knew a very small part of teenage Genna. You know how secretive girls can be at that age. So it was like I knew one side of her, and then when she grew up, I saw this whole other side, and she wasn’t kid Genna anymore. Anyway, it wasn’t until I saw her with Bitch Face, also known as Ruth, that I saw her in a different way. I saw them kiss. And then I really saw Genna. As a woman, not just the kid that babysat for me. And you know what? I’ve never, and I do mean never, felt so jealous in my life.
Christ, I’m waffling. Where was I up to? Oh yeah, three, she’s my daughter’s cousin, and that took me a while to get my head around too. Again, it’s that whole seeing someone you know in a different light thing, but it takes a while to adjust. Seeing her as someone other than just Rosie’s cousin, even though I never considered her my niece, took a while. Do you know what I mean?
Four, I come with some baggage. It’s gorgeous baggage. Almost four feet of blond-haired, blue-eyed baggage, to be exact, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But Rosie isn’t like most other kids. She won’t grow up and find her own way and eventually move out like most kids. Truth is she’ll probably always live with me. And I love that as much as it scares the shit out of me. I mean, while I’m here and she’s with me, I can look after her, protect her, you know? Because there are a lot of arseholes out there who look at her like she’s subhuman as it is, and she’s just a little kid now. It makes my blood boil. I could swing for them, I really could, and I don’t consider myself a violent person.
Her teacher’s one of the worst. I swear if I could get him sacked, I would. Wankstain really is too kind a nickname for him. Rosie has a lower IQ than other kids her age, but for a Down’s kid, she’s actually doing really, really well. And that’s not just a protective mother talking. She really is. But he treats her like she’s a stupid child, and that has an effect on her self-esteem. When she starts to believe she can’t do something, that’s when she gives up on it. And it’s not necessarily true. It just takes her longer to learn it than most kids her age.
Okay, climbing off my soapbox now, but you get the idea? It isn’t just about me. Actually, my life seems to be entirely about Rosie now. That’s the choice you make when you decide to have a child, right? For the rest of your life, that child comes first. Their well-being, happiness, and health, they are your main concerns. So, baggage. Genna’s twenty-four, she doesn’t need the kind of future I have ahead of me. No one does. It doesn’t make me an attractive dating proposition.
Then we have the biggest of them all, number five: she’s not interested in me that way. She’s in love with bloody Ruth. And that wench does not deserve her. I’d bet my last bloody pound she doesn’t remember that today’s Genna’s birthday. Working every bloody night… Genna might be young enough, naive enough, nice enough to fall for that load of shit, but I’m not. I can tell Genna isn’t happy. She thinks she’s hiding it, but she’s not. Not from me. I can see it in her eyes every time I ask about her. She could do so much better. She’s lovely. She really is. I know she’s all down about her looks. Always has been, for no good reason. She’s got these gorgeous eyes. Hazel green, with these flecks around her irisis that look like gold, and gorgeous, long red hair. And those freckles. God, I’d love to kiss every single one of them. But Ruth doesn’t pay her the slightest bit of attention. I can tell. Okay, time to stop this.
“Come on, I’ve got mummy stuff to do now.”
“Likes what?”
“Like ironing.”
“Borings.”
“Exactly. So to bed, or I’ll make you do it.”
Her eyes go all wide and round, like she’s trying to match the frames of her little glasses, she puts the top on her felt tip, and she scampers from the table. The quick kiss I’m offered hits the outside of my thigh, and she’s up the stairs before I’ve finished putting the colouring pen into her pencil case for her.
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.” I smile when I hear her stop halfway across the landing, turn back, and pull the string to turn on the light in the bathroom. Then I fight the pang that hits me at random moments. It’s a pang I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of, but it’s one I’ve learnt to live with. It’s the pang that hits when I think about the future. The one where it hits me that Rosie isn’t a “normal” kid, whatever the hell that is. She has Down Syndrome. Faulty genes. Bad genes. I know intellectually that Down’s is as much a roll of the dice as many other genetic disorders, but her father has six other children and not one of them has anything wrong with them. Well, nothing genetic, anyway. So why my daughter?
Like I said, intellectually, I can say it isn’t my fault. In my heart, I can’t believe that. Well, I suppose sometimes I do. But mostly not. I mean, come on, who else does she get genetic material from? It’s that pang. It strike
s when I least expect it, and leaves me feeling raw. And protective. Oh God, so protective. I know every mother feels protective of their child, it’s the instinct, right? Maternal instinct. But add guilt to that instinct, and I’m an intensely protective mama bear. No one will hurt my baby. Not in any way, shape, or form. So, you see, the pang’s awful. It’s too big a feeling to narrow down more than that. It’s just awful.
I check the clock. Seven twenty. Forty minutes to get her settled and asleep before I have to log on and work for four hours. Yay. Not.
Twenty minutes later she’s snoring lightly. The weird orange glow from her Minion eyeball nightlight on the stairs gives me the creeps, but apparently it keeps monsters away, so I have to live with it. I cracked up when she told me, “These are the sac’ifices we all have to make for the great good.”
So I have two choices. Cup of tea and a biscuit before I log on, or a glass of wine and a bar of chocolate. Oh, who am I kidding? I grab the wine, glass, and chocolate, then collapse on the sofa. I kick off my shoes and wriggle my toes against the carpet. Bliss. The wine’s red, shiraz, I think, and it’s mellow and fruity and heady and boozy and all that crap they talk about on the telly when they try to describe a taste. It’s bloody alcohol, it tastes good, and it gets you drunk. There, end of. The chocolate is sweet, chocolatey, and…stuff. You can tell I make my living as a reviewer of fine cuisine, right? Not. I bloody wish. Another quick look at the clock. Still got ten minutes. Another good swig, trust me it helps with this job, and I pick up my phone to dial in.
The first one of the night’s always the worst. I think it’s that break between my real life and the one I pretend to have for the person on the other end of the phone that hurts. It’s not so bad on the rare occasion when I get a female caller. I pretend I’m talking to Genna. But those are by far the minority, not the majority. I punch in my activation code, then hang up and put the phone on the table. All I have to do now is wait. It won’t take long. It never does.
Twenty seconds. That’s all it takes for the handset to start ringing. I swallow another mouthful of wine and press the button.
“Hi there, I’m Coco. What shall I call you?”
“Erm, Gary.”
Gerodie accent, fairly thick. Let’s hope I can understand it once the panting starts. “Gary it is. And what’ve you been up to this evening?”
“Erm, I went to the pub with the lads. For a pint, like.”
“I see. And are you home now?”
“Christ, no. If me bird knew I was calling one of these things, she’d rip me knackers off.”
Wonderful. “I see. So you’re looking for a little, ahem, relief before you get home?”
“Huh, what? I’ve got a lob on from looking at the barmaids’ tits all night. If I go home like this, she’ll think I fancy someone else and cut it off.”
I can hear voices in the background, raucous, rowdy, lewd.
“What’re you wearing, pet?”
And now he’s taking instructions. Deep breaths, Abi. Just a few words and he’ll be gone. I look at my jeans and the baggy grey sweatshirt I’m wearing. Vamp time. “Not a lot, big boy. Just a bra, a thong, and a pair of stilettos.”
I hear a zipper opening and the panting begins.
“Nice. Have ya’ got big tits, pet?”
Not particularly. “Uh-huh. I’ve got this thirty-four double-D bra on, but they’re sorta spilling out over the top.”
“Christ. Are ya’ nipples hard?”
“Like little stones just from talking to you.”
I pour myself another glass of wine. Old Gazza won’t take long, just enough time for the wine to breathe.
The things I have to do to pay the bills.
CHAPTER 3
GENNA
Have you ever noticed how slowly time goes when you’re dying for it to speed up? The seconds feel like minutes. Minutes like hours, and every hour feels like a whole day. Well, today is one of those days. I get into work, in the administration office of a haulage company, late. Thank you very much, Greater Manchester buses. When I do get there, I find that my chronically late boss was punctual for the first time since I started working here three years, three hundred and sixty days, one hour, and twenty-seven—no, make that twenty-eight—minutes ago. Would he accept that I got on the same bus today that I get on every day?
Not a chance. Apparently, I’m lazy, I need to get me fat arse in gear, I’m stealing money from the company, and I need to think about my colleagues and how I’m taking advantage of them. Oh, and I’m good for nothing too. Um, hello, pot, this is kettle, do you know you’re black?
“Genna!”
I know I’m rolling my eyes as I turn around in my chair. I know it, and I still can’t stop it. “Yes, Dave?”
That’s the boss. David Sullivan. Fondly known around the office as “Prick.” I’ll try to describe him for you. In the words of my favourite Golden Girl…picture this. He’s six-foot-tall, has broad shoulders, dark hair, and kind of grey eyes. Not bad looking, I hear you say. Now let’s complete the picture. Do you remember those bad late eighties, early nineties hairdos called “curtains”? Jason Donovan and Hugh Grant were big supporters. You got it? Well, stick one of those on him, but greasy. Really, really greasy, like he’s washed his hair in olive oil. Spread his nose halfway across his face, and picture really, really skinny lips. His head sits directly on top of those broad shoulders, and underneath them are the growing sweat stains justifiable of a man running a marathon—through the Sahara Desert. May I take this opportunity to remind you that this is late October? In Manchester. The rest of us have broken out the hats, gloves, and scarves to fight off the frostbite. Oh, and did I mention the beer gut overhanging the ill-fitting trousers and that the buttons on his poor, tortured shirt look as if they are about to revolt and flee for their lives? Please, please, please, take my eyes with you!
“Are you listening to me?” David asks.
“Absolutely, boss.” Blatant lie.
“Then get it sorted.”
I briefly consider asking him to repeat himself as he lumbers back towards the door. I decide better of it and look across the room to Cathy, knowing that she has not only been watching but listening too. Bless her.
“Did you listen?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do a thing like that?”
Cathy is about fifty years old. She’s never actually told me how old she is, says it will ruin her mystique. So, fiftyish is my best guess. She’s mumsy. I know that’s a crap way to describe someone, but she really is. Kind of cuddly, with hair that’s more grey than brown, and I think she wears curlers and a hairnet to bed. That kind of mumsy. She has small half-moon glasses on the end of her nose, a dark brown skirt, a white blouse, and a brown-and-cream cardigan. A really thick, knitted cardigan. The kind you want to curl up with in front of the fire, with a big mug of hot chocolate, a blanket wrapped around your legs, and a proper girl’s film on the telly. Like Titanic or Bridget Jones’ Diary or Beaches. You know the ones that make you laugh, cry, and thank God that your life’s not like that.
She kind of reminds me of my gran—not my mum. My mum is not mumsy in any way, she’s more…willowy and elegant and a bit bony, if truth be told. Not the cuddly kind of mumsy mum. It’s probably why I like Cathy so much. She lives with two border collies now after she lost her husband a couple of years ago.
“Well, technically he is the boss.”
“Yes, and technically he has an IQ higher than a plant. Have you seen any evidence to prove it?”
She cocks her head to the right. Clearly she’s thinking about it. “No.”
“Exactly. So what was his problem, anyway?”
“He thinks the delivery van has ‘lost’ some of the stuff that was meant to be on it.”
I love it when people put words in apostrophes with their fingers. Love it. “So he wants me to go out in the freezing cold to check the invoice for him?”
“Basically? Yes.”
“Oh goody.”<
br />
Now don’t get me wrong, I know it’s part of my job to check these things. I am the logistics officer at a warehouse, after all. So it’s my job and I don’t mind that. I really don’t. However, today it is two degrees centigrade outside, and there is frost and ice all over the place. You can see your breath, and I have on dress trousers and shoes because I have to attend meetings this afternoon. So I’m not exactly kitted up for the outdoors. I know I’m whining. But damn it, I hate the cold.
“I’ll have a brew ready for when you get back, love. That’ll warm you back up.”
“Thanks, Cathy. Can I borrow your cardie too?”
“Bugger off.”
I knew that was coming. I grab my coat and head out into the cold. The lads working on the warehouse floor are all pretty good boys. I know a few of them from school and a couple of others from a program I volunteer with. I work with an adult literacy program two nights a week, helping people who have severe dyslexia and left school unable to read. So far, two of my graduates have been working here for over a year, and another has just started with me. As soon as I round the corner, I can see what the problem is.
“Liam, how come you’re checking the invoice?”
He holds up his right hand and waves it in front of me. A grubby-looking bandage covers it. Liam is my current literacy student. He’s making steady progress, but he is still only a few weeks into the program.
“I sprained my wrist this morning, so I can’t drag the pallet fork. Soapy said he’d swap with me—”
“Is there not another job you can do?”
“Not really. And I don’t want to go home. You know Dave won’t pay me if I do, and I need the money, Genna.”
“I know, kiddo.” Liam’s sixteen, and his girlfriend’s eight months pregnant. They’re trying to get enough money together to get out of his mum’s flat where they’re currently sleeping on the couch together. His girlfriend and his mum get on about as well as oil and water. Combine that with Liam’s five younger sisters, aging between eighteen months and twelve years, and it doesn’t bode too well for the future.
Just My Luck Page 2
