by Sarah Webb
I cut her off. “Look, Mills, I’m at Dundrum Shopping Centre. Dad’s abandoned me here while he goes off to play golf. Can you get the bus and join me? Seth’s working with his mum this weekend, and I’m so lonely I could die. Woe is me.” I’m only half joking. I really am feeling rather Billy-no-mates right now.
There’s a long pause. “I’m really sorry, Amy, but I’m going to the cinema in Dun Laoghaire with Bailey. They’re showing a Red Hot Chili Dogs concert, and he’s mad keen to go.”
“Chili Peppers,” I correct. “And you don’t even like them, Mills. Please? Who’s more important, your bestest, bestest friend in the whole wide world, or your boyf? You can go to the cinema later.”
“I have tryouts later.”
“Tryouts?”
There’s an awkward silence, but eventually she says, “I wasn’t going to tell you unless I got on the squad, but the All Saints are looking for new members, and I thought I might give it a go. It looks fun, and you must admit, their uniforms are supercute.”
The All Saints are the cheerleaders for our school’s rugby team. We’ve always thought they were lamer than lame, but clearly that was, in fact, just me, not we. And their outfits are cute only if you think blue-and-white skater skirts that fan out when you move to show matching knickers with “All Saints” written across the bum in furry blue letters are cute. Which they most certainly are not!
“You’re not serious? Mills, come on, you’re hardly cheerleader material. And I mean that as a compliment. You know the All Saints have a secret tub under the changing rooms full of fake tan, and they make you swim through it every day, right? Then they throw you in an old dentist’s chair, strap you down, and give you a lobotomy with a hockey stick.”
“Amy, that’s unfair. You don’t have to be orange, or thick, for that matter. Nora-May Yang’s on the squad, and she’s really smart and cool. Don’t be like this.” (Nora-May’s American and she started at Saint John’s only a few weeks ago. She had to move from Boston to Dublin because of her mum’s job. And Mills is right, she is nice.)
“Like what?”
“All snarky and mean. I’m really nervous about the tryouts. Can’t you just wish me luck. Please?”
“Oh merde, then,” I say.
“Amy!”
I give a laugh. “It’s what all the ballet dancers say to each other before going onstage. It’s like saying ‘Break a leg.’ So, merde.” I put on my best D4 quasi-American accent. “But, like, be careful, babes. Cheerleading is, like, prime D4 territory. Stay away from, like, Annabelle Hamilton and her, like, cronies. They are, like, so not to be trusted. Like, stick with Nora-May, OK?”
“I will. And I really am sorry I can’t join you today, Ames. Honest.”
After she hangs up, I try Seth on the off chance that he’s around, even though I know he’s helping Polly this weekend.
“Hey, Amy,” he says, sounding pleased to hear from me, unlike Mills.
“You busy?” I ask.
“Just helping Polly get her stuff together for the birthday party later, and then we’re going to catch some sort of photo exhibition in town. Everything OK?”
“Not really. Dad’s dumped me in Dundrum while he’s off playing golf.”
He pauses for a beat. “I can blow off Polly if you like and come and meet you.”
“No, don’t do that. She’d be disappointed. But thanks for offering.”
“What about Mills? I’m sure she’d be up for some Dundrum action. It’s her second home.”
“She’s meeting Bailey and then she’s trying out for the All Saints.”
“That figures. I forgot to tell you about Bailey. The rugby coach spotted Boy Wonder playing British bulldogs during lunch last week and was so impressed that he asked him to join the team.”
“Are we talking about the same Bailey Otis? The Bailey Otis whose fringe is so long he wouldn’t be able to see a rugby ball, let alone run with one?”
“Sadly, I speak the truth. Turns out Bailey’s a bit of a rugby head. Never misses a game on Sky Sports. It’s his guilty secret. He’s pretty good at playing it too, fast and slippery, ideal for the wing, apparently. Who would have thought, eh? Skinny bloke like him.” He sighs. “Our boy has been tackled by the dark side.”
“Don’t go getting any ideas,” I say.
“No intention of it, believe me. I’m no fan of cuts and bruises, or any sort of physical exertion, for that matter.” He lowers his voice. “Although I can think of one notable exception, Amy Green. Working out the old lip muscles.”
“Seth!”
He just laughs. “Look, Bailey’s not going to change just ’cause he’ll have his face mashed into the mud on a regular basis. He’ll still be Bailey. And Mills will still be Mills, even in a cheerleader’s outfit.” I hear a voice in the background. “Polly’s nagging me, better motor. She says hi, by the way.”
“Tell her I say hi back, and I’ll see you on Monday.” At that moment I miss him so much it hurts. I kiss the phone softly.
“What was that?” he asks. “Did you just smooch your phone?”
“Absolutely not. ’Cause that would be too sad for words.”
He laughs again. “See ya, Amy.”
“Bye, Seth.” I click off my mobile and stare down at it. Looks like I’m stuck here, alonio, then. I could ring Mum and ask her to come and collect me, but I don’t want to get Dad into trouble. Yes, I’m livid with him, but getting Mum involved isn’t the answer. No, I’ll have to just ride it out. Dad said he’d collect me at one, so there’s only another hour and a half to go.
It’s cold out here, and even though I’m not in the mood for shopping, I can’t stay outside all morning, so I pick my way through the crowds toward the main entrance to the shopping center. As I walk past Music City, I think back to the last time I was here, with Mills, Seth, and Bailey, on a double date. For Mills it was all about Bailey that day too.
I love Mills, but sometimes she drives me crazy. I know Bailey’s important to her, but she’s made me feel second best so many times recently, and it’s starting to sting. Her decision to try out for the All Saints makes perfect sense after what Seth told me about Bailey joining the rugby team. She’s never shown any interest in cheerleading before. She’s clearly joining only because of him.
Lost in thought, I suddenly find myself in the Dundrum food hall. Feeling a desperate need to vent further, I plonk myself down at an empty table in the corner, pull my diary out of my bag, and start to write. My pent-up anger, hurt, and frustration flow onto the page like a dirty black oil slick. I’d forgotten how satisfying purging on paper can be.
Saturday, December 1
Dear Diary,
Pógarooney, I’m totally and utterly FED UP! I’ve been dumped for a game of golf and a dose of the Red Hot Chili “Dogs” by my idiot father and my boy-obsessed so-called BF and soon-to-be cheerleader. And let’s face it, she’ll be brilliant and they’re bound to snap her up — Miss Amelia Not-So-Starry Starr . . .
“Where are the shopping bags, Amy?” Dad asks as soon as he spots me loitering outside the cinema, where we arranged to meet. He’s twenty minutes late, and I was starting to worry that he’d forgotten all about me. He looks smiley and his eyes are bright. He must have won his round of golf.
I shrug. “Didn’t see anything I liked. Besides, I’m broke.”
He tut-tuts. “Sorry, how stupid of me. I should have given you some spending money. Why don’t I buy you something now? We’re a bit tight on time, so what about that shop over there?” He points across the plaza, and before I get the chance to say anything, he’s striding toward the door, not even waiting to check if I’m following him. Next thing I know, we’re at the bottom of an escalator, surrounded by beautiful clothes, and he’s looking around, a slightly confused expression on his face. “I think I’ve been here before,” he says. “With Shelly.”
“That would be right,” I murmur. “Dad, this is one of the most expensive shops in Ireland. It’s called Harve
y Nichols. It sells only designer stuff. We should probably try Penny’s.”
“No, we’re here now. Anyway, if I want to treat my princess, I will.”
I roll my eyes. “Dad, I’m thirteen. You really can’t call me princess anymore.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking toward the car. This time I am swinging a shopping bag, a swish Harvey Nicks shopping bag, to be precise. Inside is a fab black-and-white-striped Sonia Rykiel T-shirt with glittery red cherries appliquéd over the right-hand shoulder. Clover will be so jealous. She loves Sonia with a passion. I’ll have to keep a pretty sharp eye on my new tee or it will vamoose into her Bermuda Triangle of a wardrobe.
OK, so I know the top is a bribe, designed to keep my mouth zipped about the sneaky golf session, but I’m not above taking a bribe, especially when it’s as fabarooney as this one.
Driving home on the M50 toward Castleknock, Dad is uncharacteristically quiet. After a few minutes, he turns down his Rolling Stones CD and says, “Amy?” with a serious voice. “That stuff I said to you earlier, about Shelly and Pauline? Don’t say anything to your mum or Clover about it, OK? Especially not your mum. You’re right. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It wasn’t appropriate.” He’s clearly afraid of getting an earful from Mum, and I don’t blame him. When it comes to Dad, she’s not exactly one for holding back.
Before I know what I’m saying, I blurt out, “You’re not going to walk out on Shelly and Gracie, Dad, are you?”
He looks appalled. “No, no, of course not. What gave you that idea? It was all getting to me earlier, but I feel much better now. The golf really helped. I’ll have to try to squeeze in a few more rounds soon. I was just mouthing off, Amy. I should have kept it to myself. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“That’s OK,” I say, feeling relieved. I’m still annoyed with him, but my mood has mellowed a little. Sharing my angst with my diary has really helped.
That evening, Dad insists I have dinner with him, Shelly, and Pauline before he drops me home. There’s a lot of tension in the room. Dad and Pauline are barely speaking, and Shelly is picking at her food, looking tired and unhappy. She’s wearing a navy Juicy tracksuit with milk stains on the shoulder, which isn’t like her at all. Usually she’s Gucci-ed up to the max, even at home.
I used to stay over a lot, pre-Gracie, but now Pauline’s staying in my room, and to be honest, sharing a house with not one but two Lames isn’t my idea of fun, so I haven’t suggested it recently, even though I’d love to spend more time with Dad and Gracie.
“I spotted the Harvey Nichols bag in the hall, Amy,” Pauline says, her lips pursed. “Bit expensive for a teenager, don’t you think?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” I say. “It was Dad’s.”
“Art, you do spoil her. I hope you appreciate it, young lady,” Pauline says with a sniff. “In my day, young people made do with hand-me-downs. None of this designer nonsense. Teenagers today are dreadfully privileged. No wonder the country’s going to the dogs. The future of this great nation is in your hands, Amy. It’s a serious responsibility.”
“It is,” I say mock gravely. “You’re so right.”
She throws me a daggers look, but I try to appear all innocent. She isn’t fooled. “Art, you need to have words with your daughter,” she says. “She’s getting fierce cheeky. You clearly haven’t taught her properly to respect her elders.”
Dad’s eyes darken, but before he gets a chance to open his mouth, Shelly says quickly, “Would you like some more wine, Mum?” and fills Pauline’s empty glass to the brim again.
Shelly tops up her mum’s glass so many times during dinner that afterward Pauline is California-surfer mellow.
“I do like a nice glass of fruity red wine,” Pauline says. She gives a satisfied sigh and settles back in her chair. “It’s like being back in Portugal. I always had a little tipple with my Dean after our siesta. Dean really knows his wine —”
There’s loud squawking from the baby monitor, but Pauline ignores it. Shelly looks at Dad, but he doesn’t appear to be moving either. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” she says, pushing her chair back and getting to her feet. “I always do.”
“Dad! Go and help her,” I tell him as Shelly leaves the room. Pauline is still blabbering on about a man called Dean and doesn’t seem to have noticed how upset Shelly looked when she left the room.
“Go on,” I insist.
“Oh, what? Yeah, OK, good idea. Right,” Dad says, as if it hadn’t occurred to him. He really is hopeless. No wonder Shelly nags him. It’s only after he’s gone that I realize I am now stuck with the dreaded Pauline, alone.
“Where was I?” she asks me.
“In Portugal, having a siesta with someone called Dean.”
She gasps, her cheeks turning lobster-pink, even under the heavy makeup. “Amy Green! That’s a terrible thing to say. Dean’s a perfect gentleman. He takes his siesta in his own villa, I’ll have you know.”
“Is Dean your boyfriend?” I ask, expecting her to tell me off again for being cheeky. But she doesn’t.
“Not anymore,” she says. The drink is clearly loosening her tongue. I can’t believe she’s telling me all this. “Stupid man and his stupid pub. He owns an Irish pub in Portugal, but he’s from Birmingham, for goodness’ sake. Birmingham, not Dublin!” She takes another loud slurp of her wine.
I shake my head. “Men. Nothing but trouble.”
She looks at me a little crookedly. “And what would you know about it? Don’t tell me you have a boyfriend, with that skin?”
The cheek of her! “Pauline, all teenagers have zits.”
“Rubbish,” she says. “My Shelly has always had the most perfect complexion, even during puberty.”
“Bully for her,” I mutter. “Anyway, for your information, yes, I do have a boyfriend, and strangely enough, he manages to overlook my skin and all my other glaring flaws. He’s older than me too.”
Pauline sighs. “Dean’s also an older man. Sixty-eight! But you wouldn’t know it, apart from the hair. He doesn’t exactly have any.” She slaps my hand, giving me a bit of a fright. “Anyway, do you know what my Dean does every single bloomin’ day?”
I shake my head, hoping she isn’t about to tell me some hideously inappropriate X-rated granny-on-grandpa tale.
“Plays golf.” She shakes her head violently from side to side. Her hair must be practically varnished with spray, because not a strand moves. “Every single day. Golf, golf, golf.” She hits my arm every time she says “golf.” I pull it away before she bruises it. She packs quite a slap. No wonder she hates Dad playing. She clearly has a hang-up about it.
“I want to show you something.” She staggers up from the table and fetches Dad’s laptop from the kitchen counter. She plonks it down on the table and sits beside me. As I watch, she logs in to her Facebook account, taking three long, agonizing tries to get both the password —“sunnydays”— and her e-mail address right.
“There.” She points at the screen. I look at the photo of a tanned bald man playing golf. She clicks on another picture, the same man, again playing golf. She bangs the screen closed, making me jump. I hope Dad’s computer is all right.
“See, he’s obsessed,” she says. “I was so sick of it. So I told him, ‘Dean,’ I said, ‘it’s not acceptable to leave me to my own devices every single day. Aren’t you afraid I’ll run off with someone who pays me more attention? Someone who’ll make an honest woman of me? For pity’s sake, let’s stop behaving like teenagers and get married. We’ve been together for a year now. It’s the logical thing to do.’ He’s got the best-looking girlfriend in Portugal, but, no, he still won’t marry me. Says things are just fine the way they are.
“When I came to Dublin to help my Shelly with little Grace, he didn’t seem all that bothered that I’d be away for a couple of weeks. So I stayed for a few more weeks, and then a few more. I hoped it might bring him to his senses, you see — that he might miss me. But I don’t think he does.
Miss me, I mean. I think he’s forgotten all about me.”
Her face crumples (as much as it can with all the Botox), and she gives an almighty howl and then starts to sob into her hands.
It’s quite a scary sight. I grab some paper towel and hand it to her.
She dabs at her eyes, the paper towel turning black from her mascara. “Thank you, Amy. I don’t know what came over me. And you mustn’t tell a soul what I’ve just told you. Promise? I wouldn’t want my Shelly finding out about any of this. She might get the idea that I’m not here to help with little Grace, which of course I am. I do love my little Gracie-Wacie. And Shelly was very close to her dad. She was devastated when he died, which is why I haven’t told her about Dean yet. Looks like I won’t need to now.” She gives a little hiccup.
“Why don’t you have a little nap on the sofa?” I suggest. “I’ll tell Dad and Shelly not to disturb you.”
She hiccups again. “What a good idea. Pity you’re not as pretty as my Shelly. But I’m sure you’ll find someone to marry you — eventually.” With that, she staggers out of the kitchen.
I blow out my breath. Everyone in this family, including the in-laws and the out-laws, is completely crazy.
On Sunday afternoon, Clover bounds into my bedroom like a Labrador puppy and flops down on my bed.
“So, like, what’s up, girlfriend?” she says in her best D4 voice. “Gimme a C. C! Gimme an L. L! Gimme an O. O!”
I laugh. “What are you doing, Clover?”
“OMG! Sylvie’s just told me that Mills tried out for the All Saints. How could you let it happen, Greenster? Have I taught you nada? Cheerleading is so antifeminist that it’s in another ballpark on another galaxy.” She shakes her head and gives a deep, drawn-out sigh. In a French accent, she says, “Oh, ze young women of today, what is to become of zem? Tell me zat. Moi, Simone de Beauvoir, I am turning in my grave.” Her accent changes to BBC News English: “And was it for this that poor old Emily Wilding Davison, RIP, threw herself under a horse? Answer me that.” Clover’s been taking a feminist literature course at Trinity College, and Simone de Beauvoir is one of her new heroes, along with Emmeline Pankhurst and other suffragettes who chained themselves to railings to get the vote for women. She smiles at me so I know she’s only joking.
