I go into the lounge. 'Mum. I'm missing bits when I clean. Can you book me into the opticians? I think I might need glasses. Actually, it'll be better if I don't wash up, or we'll all be coming down with a stomach bug.'
Mum sighs. 'Tyler. I'm sure even people who have lost their sight can wash dishes. Just tell by the feel or let Camille point out where the dirty spots are. Now run along and get finished otherwise it will be time for Camille to go home and you'll find yourself drying the dishes as well.’
I turn in a sulk and walk back into the kitchen and pick up a plate.
'Nice try, bro, but if you're planning on taking on Mum, you are so heading for a fall.'
'You bet?'
'God, yes. I'd bet on that anytime. Dad does his own ironing because she reckons she can’t iron. You’re up against the Queen of Manipulation.'
'I will beat her. Tell you what. If I don’t get mum to change her mind, I'll give you the thousand pounds.'
'Wow. You're that confident?'
'But if I lose, you have to buy me a thousand pounds worth of computer equipment to console myself. Console myself… Get it?'
'Ha ha. Those stakes are too high, Tyler. I’ll bet two hundred. I've got a business to run.'
'Two hundred to you if I lose, two hundred to me if I win?' I clarify.
'Yes.'
'Deal.' We shake on it.
Camille holds up her fingers, touching the tip of each with her other hand as she counts relatives. 'So, now you're battling against Mum, Dad, Auntie Miranda, Gran and me, instead of trying to get me onside. Way to go bro.' She puts down her tea towel and heads out of the room to get ready to leave.
Fuck. I didn't really think that one through.
Chapter Two
Hell begins after the Christmas break. After hitting the snooze button several times, I turn over in bed and wonder why my alarm clock is playing my mobile phone music. As I come round from my sleep haze, I realise it is my mobile ringing. It's Adam from work.
'Hey man, what's up?'
'You're supposed to be at work, that's what's up. Where are you?'
I stare at my alarm clock. It’s nine-fifteen. I'm supposed to be in work at eight-thirty. 'Shit. I overlaid. Make up some crap to Donna about the bus breaking down. I'll be there as soon as I can.'
I slam the phone down and peg it into the bathroom where I quickly wash my pits and nether region, brush my teeth, and finally, ruffle my hair up. This is going to have to do. I shove my work uniform on and run downstairs.
'Mum. Mum. Mum.'
My mother is sitting on the sofa with her feet up on the coffee table. Coffee in hand, she's watching The Mindy Project, her latest TV obsession.
I stand in front of her. 'Mum, you forgot to get me up.'
She pauses the programme and turns to me.
'That's right, sweetheart. You're twenty-five now. You can get yourself out of bed.'
'Can you drive me to work, Mum. I'm late?'
'I'm busy.'
'Yes I can see,' I huff. ‘Watching the T.V.’
Mum puts her coffee down and folds her arms. 'Don't you take that tone with me, young man. Me and your Dad have been far too lenient with you. Me especially. You will learn to get out of bed without me having to remind you and you'll get yourself to work if you're late. If you want to drive—get yourself a car.'
'I can't afford a car.'
‘Well, you could have if you hadn’t wasted your Gran’s inheritance on electronics.’
‘Not this again.’
'Fine. Work more hours or get a better-paid job.' She unpauses the T.V. and ignores me.
'I will.' I grab my bag and storm out of the house, realising that she hasn't made me any breakfast or a drink either. This sucks. I wonder if she's started with the change? Adam's mum has. She's gone weird; always losing her temper, he says.
It's a bone of contention that I only work three days a week, Monday to Wednesday. At first, I used the few grand my Gran left me to supplement my wage. When that ran out, I realised I could work the same hours if I didn’t go out on the razz as much and bought fewer designer clothes. I get the rest of the week to myself, with a great life balance of three days on and four days off. Now, my mother is starting on me about this again as well. She seriously needs to get off my back.
I dash through the door of W.H. Smith's where I've worked since leaving school.
'Sorry, Donna. Bus broke down,' I say to my Manager.
'No worries, Tyler.'
It's the first time I've ever been late. One thing the staff here can count on is my reliability. Enthusiasm and effort, not so much, but reliable—that's me. Stick me in whatever department and I'll crack on with the job. On the tills, or filling up pens. It makes no difference to me.
The only thing that causes any enthusiasm to fire up is when Jennifer from Henderson's Bank walks in. She comes in every day I'm at work, sometimes first thing in a morning. Other times she appears at lunch, purchasing magazines, cans of drink and lottery tickets. She's tall and slim with burgundy hair and she has an arse that needs my hands on it. In my dreams, my hands have been on it. She's always polite and chats but never gives me any indication that she's the slightest bit interested. I've imagined asking her out seventy thousand times but never done so.
My only girlfriends to date have come from me having had a few when I've asked them out. I’m like that bloke off of Big Bang Theory. Can only manage to talk to women romantically when pissed. What’s good is we’ve always had to go back to their houses with me living with my folks. That's suited me. Means the next day I can just go home. I can’t say I’ve ever really given any thought to settling down, although seeing Camille happy with Dylan has made me wonder if I'm missing anything.
Hey, that’s an idea. If I get a bird, I can move in with them after three months if there's no alternative. Result. I reckon I might ask Jennifer out this week. Or perhaps next week.
'Penny for them?' says Lindsay, one of the other assistants. 'Heard your bus broke down. We were worried when you didn't turn in. Not like you to be late.'
Lindsay is one of my best friends here at Smiths. We both started here nine years ago. Both school leavers, but from different schools. We often take our lunch break together and spend them talking crap. At five feet three and slight with dark blonde hair, Lindsay looks like you could blow her over with one breath, but I wouldn't suggest trying it. She does boxing in her spare time. When I say something rude and she punches me in the arm, I have to hold in a squeal. Seriously. I don't think she even realises she's doing it.
'Staff room. Lunchtime. Big issues to discuss,' I tell her, ‘and I don’t mean the magazine we buy off Bert.’
'Oh, shit. Sounds serious,' she replies.
'It is. I'm fucking screwed I tell you.'
'Lunchtime it is. If I can do anything to help, I will.'
***
'So she’s given me until the end of March and then that's it. I'm out.' I lean back in my chair.
Lindsay is quiet.
'Aren't you going to say something?'
'Well Tyler, it might not be a bad idea to get your own place. Have you considered the advantages? You can do what you like. There'll be no folks to tell you to get dressed or anything. I love living on my own. Best thing I ever did.'
'But I'd have to work full-time,' I whine.
'Like most of the population, you mean? They're always asking you to do extra hours here. Or find some other way to earn a bit of money. Part-time jobs and self-employment aren't looked on that favourably if you want a mortgage though.'
'I can't believe you're on my mum's side, you're supposed to be my friend.'
Lindsay sighs and looks at me. 'I am. But if you want to impress the big girls like Jennifer Lambert, you need a bachelor pad.'
'How do you know I like Jennifer Lambert?'
I get an eye roll for my comment. 'Duh. Your love-drunk face every time she comes in the store might give it away slightly. Anyway, you might want to give some ser
ious thought to taking out a mortgage.'
'I just want to live with my parents and have everything done for me. Or I could get a wife. Will you marry me?'
She thumps me in the arm. Fucking hell, I think she's broken my bicep.
'Like I'd do everything for you if you lived with me. You'd be expected to pull your weight in my house too, you cheeky bugger. If all you're offering a girl is your dirty underwear and life at the kitchen sink, you're going to be single for a very long time, mate.'
'I'd also give them leg trembling sex.'
'It’s not legs us women want trembling, Tyler. Bless you. I'm sure under there,' she ruffles my hair, 'there's a sex God waiting to emerge. But right now, it's like a feral creature has crawled out of the bins and is trying to find a new host.'
'So you don't think I'm sexy?' I pout.
She laughs.
'You're alright. You're pretty good looking under the crud, but Jennifer Lambert… She's a proper working woman, trying to make her way up the corporate ladder. She'll want a powerful man at her side I reckon. Not someone she has to spoon feed dinner to. I bet she's always being wined and dined. She looks that sort. Whereas me,' she points at herself, 'I'm good with a McDonalds and a night in front of the T.V. Low maintenance.'
I gather up my lunch pots. 'So if I want to make headway with a woman like Jennifer I need to be a power player?'
‘We’re not in an episode of Dallas J.R. but you need to be more clean cut and businesslike definitely.'
'Any idea what she does in the bank?'
‘How should I know? She's not my specialist subject.'
I tap my fingers on the table. 'Got it. I'll call in on Dylan, He can give me the lowdown.'
‘Well, he does work with her.’
‘Thanks for the chat. Looks like I might have to give some serious thought to this living on my own lark.'
Lindsay smiles. ‘Wow. Tyler Turner, you’re growing up.'
'Well, I can at least pretend I'm trying to get a mortgage. Means I'll have to go into the bank a lot, won't it? Maybe working full-time wouldn't be so bad either. I'd be able to save up to buy a drone. Do you know they're a thousand quid in Maplins?
Lindsay’s forehead furrows. 'Why would you want a drone?'
'Have you seen them on the Gadget show? They do all sorts with them. They go up in the air with a camera fitted to them. I could spy on people. No end to what I could devise with one of them. Or maybe I could buy some new gaming equipment and set myself up as the next JackSepticEye.'
'Who?'
'Who? Who! Top of the morning to ya?'
Lindsay looks at me blankly.
'You need to come round mine and see the brilliance of this guy. Seriously. Come round ours tomorrow night. I'll ask my mum to do us some pizza. Straight from work, yeah?'
'You're inviting me to your house? You realise this has never happened since we started working together?'
'I'm in crisis. You need to see Jack. I need help. Mine tomorrow night. You can help me plan my future.'
'Okay. But on one condition.'
'What's that?'
'You buy and cook the pizza. Go home tonight and tell your mother that's your plan. It'll show her you're making an effort. Pizza's a quid in Asda. See if her and your Dad want one as well.'
'So I've got to go to the Asda and buy four pizzas? Spend my own money?'
'Welcome to the real world, Tyler. I'll see you tomorrow. Right now, I need to get back to selling stamps, cigarettes and train magazines. Then guess what?'
'What?'
'Like most nights, I'll go round the supermarket and then I'll cook my own tea. That's what your mum does every week too.'
'God, that’s boring.'
'Yeah, but at least I get to choose what I want to eat. Then I get to choose to fall asleep on the settee after I've eaten it and I can leave the dishes in the sink for a week if I like.'
'See, my Mum prepares a weekly menu and buys me my favourites. I go up to my room after to go on my Xbox or watch TV. She washes up. It’s so easy.'
‘From what you've said that is what your mother used to do.' Lindsay says ominously. 'Whether she still does it now you've been served your eviction order… Well,' she tilts her head. 'That's yet to be seen.'
I figure Lindsay Cross has a flipping crystal ball.
My mother serves my least favourite dish ever for tea. Lamb Tagine with rice. Ugh. I force it down, trying not to focus on what I'm eating. Fucking apricots in my tea. Who puts fruit in an evening meal?
'Tomorrow, Mum, I thought I'd invite Lindsay from work round and cook us all pizza. How does that sound?'
My mother drops her fork on the floor. She bends down to pick it up and looks at me with narrowed eyes.
'Say that again?'
'I'd like to invite Lindsay from work around and cook us all pizza.'
'So you want me to go to the shop to buy pizza?'
'No. I'll buy it on the way home from work. Is that alright with you, or do you and dad want to cook yourselves something else?'
My dad puts down his cutlery and looks at my mother. 'He's offering to cook our tea, Dora. Am I hearing correctly?'
'I believe so, Tim. Pizza. Plus he's going to the supermarket.'
Dad taps his chin. 'Must be connected with this Lindsay girl then. Is she your girlfriend?'
'God, no.'
There's nothing wrong with Lindsay but we've been mates forever. I've never considered her in that way. Well, actually that's a lie because regardless of what blokes tell you there's no such thing as platonic friendships. I've wanked picturing Lindsay on more than one occasion. It’s her fault. A few times she's been at work and a button on her blouse has come open giving me a close-up view of her tits as she's bent down to fill the shelves.
She's a friend and colleague, so I've shoved her right out of the bird zone—it would be too complicated.
I realise I've been staring into space for a good few minutes thinking about her tits.
'No, Dad. We're just friends, but it seems like a good idea to chat with someone who lives on their own, get some tips. I hope she can come over because I kind of already invited her.'
'Me and your father will look forward to eating pizza cooked by our son. It will be the first meal you've ever made for us. I might invite the local press.'
I make a fake hysterical laughing noise.
'You're so funny. Right, I'm off to my room. I'll make sure I set the alarm on my mobile and tablet tonight, seeing as you've gone on strike. Did you manage your busy day?'
'Of course. I finished the entire box-set of The Mindy Project because that's obviously all that I do all day,' says my mum.
I glance at her and she's giving me that calculated glare she gives me when she's scheming. Shit, I don't know what she's got in store but I guess I won’t like it.
I head to my room and catch up with my favourite You-tubers. After, I play on my Xbox until I start to yawn, then set my alarms and hit the sack. I have a little fumble with myself thinking about Jennifer Lambert although when I picture her with her clothes off she has Lindsay's tits. Oh well, can't be helped, I've not seen Jennifer's yet. I'll make it a New year's resolution I decide as I jerk off.
Resolution one: Get to see Jennifer's tits. Bonus if I get to suck them.
Oh, yeeeeeeessss.
Chapter Three
My mother already knows Lindsay because she likes to embarrass me by calling into Smiths when she's in town. Therefore, when Lindsay comes through the door, my Mum greets her with a huge hug. My Dad shakes her hand and tells her it's nice to meet her. Lindsay popped home to get changed while I went round Asda. She looks different with her hair down, instead of in its usual plait. It’s a bit wavy down her face. She's also put makeup on, obviously making an effort for my folks. Just a shame she's got her boobs covered by a black jumper to dress smart. I prefer the work blouse.
'Right, now everyone's here I'll start tea. So it'll be ready in twelve to fourteen minutes.' I head towards th
e kitchen.
My mother smiles at me, or is it a smirk?
'We'll leave you to it, shall we? Lindsay, are you staying in the kitchen with Tyler or coming into the lounge with us?'
'I'll hang with Tyler if that's okay with you?' says Lindsay. 'I've got a feeling I may be needed.'
'As long as you don't cook. Tyler is cooking tonight,' my mother says in a warning tone.
'No intention of doing so, Dora. Tyler promised me a pizza. I'm just going to oversee things. Make sure he doesn’t burn it.’
'I am here you know. I don't need any of you to oversee me cooking pizza. The instructions are on the box.'
'I'll leave you to it then,' says Lindsay. She turns on her heel and walks off with my Mum.
As instructed, I pre-heat the oven for Pizza number one. A ham and pineapple. Twelve to fourteen minutes in a fan oven at one hundred and seventy degrees. As the light goes off to show the oven has reached the correct temperature, I place the first pizza in. Then I remove the second from its box. This one, a barbeque chicken, says ten to twelve minutes, fan oven one-sixty. I pick up the others; the meat feast says sixteen to eighteen minutes at one-eighty. How the hell am I supposed to cook three pizzas at different temperatures? I pick up the garlic bread. Eight to ten minutes at one-fifty. My heart beats faster. I can't fuck up pizza. Think man, think. I plump for one-seventy and shove two of the pizzas in. I'll check them after they’ve been in about ten minutes. As I budge the pizzas along the shelves, I hit another problem. Pizza number four and garlic bread number two. They don't fit in the oven. Now what do I do? I get hot under the collar as the kitchen warms up. There's no way to fit them in so I hope that three pizzas and one garlic bread are enough. I leave the others on the side. I’ll cook them if anyone is still hungry.
The garlic bread is ready. I stick it on a plate and slice it with the pizza cutter. The pizzas finish cooking and I do the same with those. I carry two plates through to the dining room and stick them on the table.
'Dinner’s ready,' I place the plates down with a flourish.
'Tyler. Mats. You'll put marks on the table. How many times do you need to be told?' yells my mother, flailing her arms around.
Snow Balls (Ball Games #2) Page 2
