The final surprise had come last night. ‘We were thinking of having a change of holiday this summer,’ said his dad.
‘We’re getting a bit tired of Norfolk,’ said his mum.
‘And we wondered about these,’ said his dad.
Activity Holidays at Dellfield announced the brochure.
‘You can do one activity in the morning and another one in the afternoon,’ said his mum. ‘I’m going to do the History of Architecture and Learning Upholstery!’ She looked more animated than she had in months.
‘Thought I’d give the Golf Improvers a go and perhaps the Clay Pigeon Shooting,’ said his dad. ‘We thought that might suit you.’ He pointed to a page with a turned-down corner.
‘The Art of the Cartoonist,’it said.’Famous cartoonist, Blob, from the Daily Record, runs a five-day masterclass for …’
‘That’s amazing – thanks, Dad,’ said Jon. Five days doing nothing but drawing. Brilliant.
‘You’re welcome,’ said his dad. ‘Now if you make a good impression with this Blob chap, I could take him for a meal at the end of the course and we could see if he couldn’t …’
‘DAD!’
‘Sorry, son.’
‘So I shall be going to France too,’said Laura on the last day of term, as she and the others were emptying their lockers.
‘I can’t wait,’ said Jemma. ‘A whole week in Paris with no one telling me what to wear, what to eat or when to go to bed.’
‘Except the Horrific H, of course,’ reminded Chelsea.
‘Even he’s better than Mum – he doesn’t have a diploma in Advanced Neurotics,’ said Jemma.
Although she is improving,’ she added, not wanting to be disloyal to her mother.
‘We’re going to Estepona,’ said Chelsea. ‘That’s in Spain,’ she added when her friends looked blank. ‘Mum’s been asked to write about some new holiday complex and they’re giving us a cheapie holiday in return.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Sumitha. ‘I’m being dragged off to see the relatives in Calcutta. They’ll all cluck and fuss and speak Bengali at top speed and drag me off to Indian films and it will be totally boring.’
They all sighed in sympathy. ‘You know Jon next door,’ said Jemma suddenly. ‘That’s the one Laura fancies,’ she added in case anyone had forgotten.
Sumitha glowered.
‘I think Sumitha still likes him too,’ giggled Chelsea.
Laura glowered.
‘Well,’ continued Jemma, ‘he’s coming here after his GCSEs.’
‘What?’ said Laura and Sumitha in unison. ‘Here? To Lee Hill?’
‘Yup,’ said Jemma. ‘His mum told my mum. Something about him wanting to do art and design and be an illustrator or cartoonist or something equally weird.’
‘That’s not weird,’ said Laura, her heart jumping.
‘It’s a lucrative profession,’ said Sumitha defensively.
Sumitha began wondering whether Laura might eat a poisoned frog’s leg and never return. Laura went all fluttery inside and thought that maybe Sumitha’s relatives would ask her to stay in Calcutta for ever.
‘We will all e-mail each other while we’re away, won’t we?’said Jemma.
‘Oh yes,’ they chorused.
‘There must be Internet cafés, even in Spain and Calcutta …’ said Chelsea.
And of course they would write. After all, few parents could understand the necessity of having a tri-band phone for texting. The problem with holidays was that you got withdrawal symptoms from a lack of a good gossip.
Chapter Forty-Two
The Final Scene
Chelsea’s mum appeared to have taken on a new lease of life ever since she heard about their cheapie holiday to Spain.
‘But you’ll be writing all day and trying out watersports and things,’ Barry had complained. ‘I shan’t see anything of you.’
‘Still,’ he said, brightening a little, ‘perhaps you could wangle it so that I could get into the hotel kitchens and learn some Spanish recipes.’
‘Maybe,’ said Ginny. Or there again, maybe not.
Ginny’s good mood was not due solely to the thought of two weeks in the sun. She had just been voted Regional Feature Writer of the Year, Warwick had finally phoned from some weird-sounding place in Java and assured her that he was alive, germ-free and very happy, and Geneva had graduated with a 2:1.
‘I think I shall give a party,’ she announced one night over what Barry assured her was Thai chicken curry. ‘And you mustn’t cook anything this hot.’
‘So I thought we’d have a party before the summer holidays,’ she told Laura’s mother over the phone.
‘Things are looking up – Barry’s been shortlisted for a job and I’m even getting on with Chelsea, which is probably the most miraculous thing of all. Can you come?’
‘Love to,’ said Mrs Turnbull. ‘Actually, things are getting better here, too. Laura is talking to me and to Peter and to Betsy, all at the same time. And she told me last night that I wasn’t bad as mothers go!’
Ginny invited the Banerjis (partly because she wanted to see if Rajiv ever unwound) and the Farrants and the Josephs and a few people from work. Chelsea and her friends were going to the new Ten Up multi-screen cinema and coming home in a taxi. For the first time in ages, Ginny thought, she could let her hair down and have a good time.
At ten thirty Laura, Sumitha, Chelsea and Jemma arrived back at Chelsea’s house, where they were spending the night.
‘Come on,’ said Chelsea. ‘We’ll tell them we’re back then we can go upstairs and put some music on.’
In the doorway to the sitting-room, they stopped open-mouthed in horror. There was Chelsea’s dad, his hair plastered with gel, holding an upturned wine bottle like a microphone, doing an Elvis impression, with loads of wobbly pink flesh sticking out over the top of his jeans. Laura’s mum was sitting on the geek’s lap feeding him nacho chips and grinning stupidly. Jemma’s father was dashing round refilling glasses – there seemed to be an awful lot of empty wine bottles around. Mrs Banerji appeared to be teaching Ginny and Mrs Joseph and Jemma’s mum to do Indian dancing while Rajiv used an upturned waste-bin to beat time.They kept collapsing in giggles because they couldn’t get their fingers to bend back like you’re supposed to.
‘Mum! You’ve been drinking!’ accused Chelsea.
‘Mum – your knickers are showing!’ shouted Laura.
‘Mum – what on earth are you doing?’ said Sumitha.
Jemma couldn’t move. Her normally frumpy mother was gyrating to the music like a soul possessed.
They all looked up, mildly surprised to see their offspring home at the appointed hour.
‘Oh kids,’ said Ginny, hiccupping. ‘You’re back, thassnice.’
‘Are you lonesome to-ooo-nite?’ crooned Mr Gee to the wine bottle.
‘Mum! Dad!’ they all chorused, horrified at the scene of debauchery before them.’What on earth is going on?’
‘We’re having a little party.’ Ginny grinned. ‘A celebration.’
‘Do you miss me to-ooo-nite?’ crooned her husband.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ shouted Chelsea, ‘I bring my friends home and this is what we get. Come on, you lot, let’s get out of here. It’s pathetic!’
‘Mum, how could you?’ accused Laura, her forehead puckered in a frown.
‘Oh come on, now, girls,’ said Ginny. ‘What is it you’re always saying?’ She had another sip of her Chardonnay. ‘Oh yes, that’s right.’ She giggled.’Please, just don’t make a scene!’
The Leehampton Series
Just Don’t Make a Scene, Mum!
I Think I’ll Just Curl Up and Die! (April 2006)
How Could You Do This to Me, Mum? (July 2006)
Does Anyone Ever Listen? (October 2006)
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Just Don't Make a Scene, Mum! Page 13
