“And I’m your friend,” chimes in Suze, putting a hand on Jess’s other arm and fixing her with earnest blue eyes. “So if you did want to share…”
“She doesn’t want to share!” comes the sardonic voice of the girl in the sack, who seems to have moved on to waitress duty and is walking past. “Jeez! Leave the poor woman alone!”
“It’s none of your business!” I say indignantly, but Jess has already moved her arms out of our grasps. She thrusts them under the table, looking supremely uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, Becky, but she’s right,” she says in a tense, low voice. “Just leave it. Stop inventing problems with my life.”
“But—”
“Leave it.” Jess cuts me off, and I exhale in frustration. How can we talk…if Jess won’t talk?
I open my mouth—then shut it. I’m desperate to say more, but Jess’s resolute expression puts me off. She’ll only get angry, and that’s the last thing I want.
“If there’s anything you should be worried about, it’s not my marriage,” Jess continues robustly. “It’s your mum and Janice. That’s the relationship gone south. They’re not even speaking, as far as I can work out.”
“What?” says Suze in shock, and I realize I haven’t filled her in on the whole situation.
“Oh yes, Mum and Janice have kind of fallen out,” I admit. “It’s not great.”
“But why?” demands Suze. “What happened?”
“Janice feels ignored,” says Jess bluntly. “She feels as if your parents have moved on and forgotten all about her.”
“Mum and Dad have invited Janice and Martin to things in Shoreditch,” I say, wanting to stick up for them.
“Oh, I know.” Jess shrugs. “I’m not taking sides. Janice doesn’t help herself. She’s got a mental block about Shoreditch. Her new thing is looking up knife-crime stats. She keeps saying things like, ‘Well, I hope poor Jane and Graham don’t get mugged by a drug runner on a moped’ and ‘Well, I hope poor Jane and Graham don’t get caught up in gang warfare.’ ”
Jess does such a good imitation of Janice’s quavery voice, I can’t help grinning. “Still, she’s upset,” Jess concludes.
“Not too upset to find herself a new friend, though?” I can’t help retorting.
“Oh God.” Jess rolls her eyes. “Flo.”
“Flo?” Suze looks intrigued. “Who’s Flo?”
“Janice’s new best friend,” I explain. “In Oxshott.”
“I can’t even imagine Janice having a new best friend,” says Suze in wonderment. “That’s extraordinary!”
“It’s gruesome,” says Jess, shaking her head.
“You’re not a fan of Flo?” says Suze, with a giggle. “Sorry,” she adds. “I know it’s not funny.”
At that moment, the waitress brings over our food, so we break off our conversation. And I’m just reaching for my napkin when my phone bleeps with a text. I glance at it to see if it’s Luke making any more shopping orders—but as I read it, I clap my hand over my mouth.
“No way,” I say, when I can find my voice.
“What?” says Suze.
“It’s Janice,” I say, and turn my phone round so the others can both read it:
Can’t wait for Minnie’s birthday tea, Becky love, and I’ll be bringing my new friend, Flo, if that’s OK. Love, Janice xxx
From: Anders Halvorsen
To: Becky Brandon
Subject: Re:Re:Re: An exciting new word for your dictionary—“sprygge”!
Dear Mrs. Brandon, née Bloomwood:
Thank you for your email.
Your definition of “sprygge” means nothing to me.
I do not recollect any old Norse “sprygge” myths, as you suggest, nor any “rhymes learned at my mother’s knee,” nor any jokes involving the word “sprygge.”
I must reiterate my previous answer: that I cannot put “sprygge” into the Norwegian National Dictionary. Thank you for your offer of a T-shirt reading “We’ll always have sprygge,” which I decline.
Yours sincerely,
Anders Halvorsen
Editor
Norwegian National Dictionary
I mean, basically Janice is declaring war. I know that sounds extreme, but that’s what it is: bringing a new friend onto our territory. She knows Mum will be there. She knows there’s tension between them. She’s doing this to stir up trouble.
Not that I have time to think about that right now, because I’m too busy piling buttercream onto Minnie’s birthday cake. I’ve made quite a lot. Like, two bowlfuls. I peer at the cake, which is still a bit wonky, and add another inch of buttercream. Then another. Then I think, Oh, sod it, and heap the rest up in the middle. As Suze said, you can’t have too much buttercream. And now it’s about a foot high and it looks fab.
Minnie has had a lovely birthday morning, happily opening all her cards and playing with her new monster truck and interactive fluffy kitten. (She saw it on a TV ad and begged for it, but I haven’t admitted that to Suze.) Now Suze and her children have arrived, and it’s mayhem. Minnie and Wilfie are running monster trucks up and down the sitting room floor, while Ernest plays a piece on the ancient piano (which came with the house and is totally out of tune). Meanwhile, Clemmie has found the “Jingle Bells” baubles and keeps setting them off at different times.
“That kitten is amazing!” says Suze, coming into the kitchen with Jess. “It purrs and drinks milk and everything! Where did you find it?”
“Oh…just came across it,” I say vaguely. “I looked for a sustainable wooden version, obviously,” I add quickly, glancing at Jess. “At Sustainable Wood Toys Dot Com. But they didn’t have one. Shame.”
“The toy industry has a lot to answer for,” replies Jess austerely.
“And you know something? Minnie still wants a hamper for Christmas,” I inform Suze, trying not to sound smug. “I asked her last night. That’s all she wants, a picnic hamper. I knew she wouldn’t swerve.”
“Don’t be so complacent,” says Suze, rolling her eyes. “There’s still time for a major swerve.”
“No, there isn’t.” I glare at her. “Don’t freak me out.”
“Christmas is still weeks away. Loads of time for a swerve.” Suze puts on a childish, breathless voice. “ ‘Mummy, all I want is a talking mermaid! If Father Christmas really loves me, that’s what he’ll bring me. He knows I’ve changed my mind, because he’s magic!’ ”
“Stop it. You’re just winding me up.”
“ ‘Does Father Christmas…not love me?’ ” continues Suze, in a broken, gulping voice. “ ‘Wasn’t I good, Mummy? Is that why he brought me this grotty old picnic hamper that I’ve lost all interest in?’ ”
“Shut up!” I can’t help giggling. “You’re evil!”
“Nice pinny, by the way,” says Suze, finally relenting and gesturing at my new festive apron.
“Oh,” I say, mollified. “D’you like it? I got it at the— Ooh!” I interrupt myself. “D’you want it for Christmas?”
“Bex, stop it!” Suze exclaims in exasperation. “Stop trying to give me all your new stuff! We’re giving each other Christmas presents from our own possessions,” she explains to Jess. “You know, to be non-consumerist and everything.”
“Sound idea.” Jess nods.
“Only Suze won’t even hint at what she wants,” I say reproachfully.
“In some cultures, if you admire another person’s possession, they immediately give it to you,” says Jess.
“Oh my God,” says Suze with a giggle. “Can you imagine? Bex and I would be constantly stripping off and swapping everything we own. ‘Nice shoes, Bex.’ ‘Have them!’ ‘Nice lashes, Suze.’ ‘Have them!’ ”
I can’t help smirking at the idea of Suze standing in the middle of a drinks party, p
eeling off her fake lashes and holding them out to me.
“Lashes?” says Jess, puzzled. “You mean false eyelashes?”
“Well…yes,” says Suze.
“You wear false eyelashes, Suze?” Jess seems appalled, and I hastily back away before she asks me if I do too.
“Sometimes,” says Suze cautiously, and Jess fixes her with a concerned stare.
“Don’t you think it a tragedy that you feel the need to augment your own body according to inherently sexist stereotypes?”
“Just for parties,” says Suze. “They’re organic, I think,” she adds evasively, gazing at the ceiling.
She’s crossing her fingers behind her back. They are so not organic.
“Ooh,” Suze adds hastily as the doorbell rings. “Is that your mum and dad, Bex?”
Thank God, because I feel like Jess was about to start quizzing me on why I brush my hair, because hairbrushes are sexist or something. As I quickly sprinkle pink edible glitter all over the buttercream, I hear Luke’s footsteps in the hall and a moment later the distinctive sound of Mum’s voice: “Luke! Minnie, darling, happy birthday!”
I thrust a model of a sparkly fairy on top of the cake, then cover the whole thing up with a giant-sized wooden salad bowl that I ordered slightly by mistake.
(OK, totally by mistake. This is the trouble with online shopping: You can’t tell how big anything is. I mean, I know they say fifty-four centimeters. But who knows what fifty-four centimeters looks like? No one. Exactly.)
I take off my apron, then hurry out of the kitchen to find Mum and Dad taking off their coats in the hall.
OK. Wow. I blink a few times, trying to get my head round their appearance. Somehow I’d forgotten about my parents’ whole new look. I’d imagined them arriving today in traditional Oxshott clothes. Maybe a blazer; maybe a floral shirtwaister.
But, oh no. Mum’s in a psychedelic print dress and weird necklace extending down to her navel, woven out of…is that cassette tape? Instead of her usual handbag, slung over her shoulder is a satchel reading Postal Worker. Meanwhile, Dad is wearing a strange black woolen draped hat, together with a graphic Rick and Morty T-shirt and skinny stonewashed jeans. Every item makes me wince. The skinny jeans frankly look uncomfortable, and I don’t believe Dad’s ever watched Rick and Morty in his life.
But I must be supportive.
“Hi!” I greet them each with a warm hug. “How’s everything? How’s Shoreditch?” I stop and stare downward. “Wait, what happened to your foot?”
Dad’s left foot is all wrapped up in a bandage. And there’s a crutch propped up against the wall, I notice.
“Oh, nothing much!” says Dad at once, giving his coat to Mum and picking up the crutch. “Just a little, um…encounter with the ground. Now, how’s that lovely granddaughter of mine?”
As Dad hobbles after Minnie into the sitting room, I turn to Mum.
“What happened?”
“Oh, love,” she says, lowering her voice. “Dad’s a bit sensitive about it. He fell off his unicycle.”
“Oh no!” I say in horror.
“It wasn’t his fault,” adds Mum defensively. “He’s getting very good. But he was practicing in the green space on the roof and one of the community bees stung him. He got such a shock, he fell off.”
“Poor Dad!” I say, wincing. “Well, I’ve made some avocado sandwiches, that’ll cheer him up.”
“Oh, Becky, love.” Mum lowers her voice even further. “I haven’t told you the bad news, have I?” She pauses and I feel a flutter of fear. “Dad’s discovered he’s intolerant to avocado.”
She looks so distraught, I have a sudden urge to laugh, which is wrong.
“Yes.” She exhales. “He went to the doctor. He’s had to give it up. I’ve given up, too, in sympathy.”
She scratches her neck and adjusts the cassette-tape necklace, which I have to say, does not look comfortable.
“Mum, is that necklace making you sore?” I say, scrutinizing a red patch of skin on her neck. “Why don’t you take it off?”
“Oh,” says Mum, looking defeated. “Well…maybe. It is a super piece, though. It was made by Lia in our building. It represents chaos.”
“It’s lovely!” I lie. “So…artistic!”
As Mum takes the necklace off and puts it in her new satchel, I detect a slightly crestfallen expression. I mean, it’s no wonder. The bees, the unicycle, and the avocados have let them down. Next they’ll discover they’re allergic to artisan gin.
“Mum, are you OK?” I squeeze her arm. “Are you still enjoying Shoreditch?”
“Oh yes, love,” says Mum emphatically. “It’s such an adventure. Dad and I wake up every morning and think, What today?” She pauses, then adds, “But we do miss our old friends.”
“Right,” I say cautiously. “I think Janice has missed you too.”
“Really? She hasn’t exactly visited much.” Mum smiles, but I can see the hurt in her eyes. “I don’t blame her; Shoreditch is a bit of a journey from Oxshott. I would have thought she’d return my calls, though.”
“What?” I peer at her. “What calls?”
“Oh, I’ve left her a few voicemails, but she’s never responded.” Mum gives me a bright smile. “Anyway, she was probably busy.”
“I think she thinks you’re too busy for her,” I venture. “You’re always putting up pictures on WhatsApp, showing how eventful your new life is.”
“Well, that’s what WhatsApp’s for,” says Mum in surprise. “Sharing photos.”
I stare at her for a moment before something clicks. “Mum, are you thinking of Instagram?”
“Oh, they’re all the same thing, love,” says Mum airily.
I’m about to explain that really they’re not, when the doorbell rings again and I feel a nervous lurch inside. Does Mum know that Janice is bringing her new friend? Does Mum even know that Janice has a new friend? I open the door—and, sure enough, it’s Janice, standing on the doorstep, holding a bunch of lurid pink flowers.
As soon as she sees Mum in the hall, she lifts her chin defensively.
“Hello, Becky,” she says tremulously, ignoring Mum altogether.
“Janice!” I exclaim. “You made it!” I’m about to add, “Where’s your friend?” when Mum barrels up to the doorway and pushes past me.
“Janice, love!” she says, clasping Janice in a warm hug. “I’ve so much to tell you. Did you not get my voicemail about the theater trip? Anyway, I’m sorry you missed it, but we’ll do it another time, and you must tell me what you think about my dahlia idea.” She breaks off and looks expectantly at Janice, who seems bewildered.
“Dahlia idea?” she echoes at last.
“I left you a voicemail, love!” says Mum blithely. “I was on the treadmill at the time, so I might have sounded a bit breathy….”
“I didn’t get a voicemail.” Janice sounds flummoxed.
“But I’ve left you loads!” says Mum. “No wonder you didn’t tell me what you thought of the new Poirot adaptation. Far too shabbily dressed,” she adds, wrinkling her nose. “Poirot was never shabby. Where’s Martin?”
“At a…golf club lunch,” stammers Janice. “Jane, I didn’t get any voicemails from you. None.”
Meanwhile, Luke has wandered into the hall behind us, and he chimes in, “A lot of voicemail is malfunctioning at the moment. Happened to a guy at work. He lost them all. Janice, is your voicemail backed up in the cloud?”
Both Mum and Janice peer at him, looking blank—then Mum says fretfully, “Did I do it wrong?”
“No, it’s not you, Jane, it’s the system.” Luke starts trying to explain, when Janice interrupts in an anxious voice, “Flo’s just parking the car.”
“Flo?” Mum crinkles her forehead. “Is that one of your friends, Becky?”
“No, she’s m
y friend,” says Janice, her voice trembling. “You weren’t there, Jane, and I never heard from you, and I thought…Anyway, Flo’s…my new friend.”
There’s a long, hideous pause. I glance at Luke, then at Jess, who has also walked into the hall and is watching, agog.
“Your new friend,” echoes Mum after a pause, in the weirdest, tightest voice I’ve ever heard her use. “I see. Your new friend. Well…how lovely, Janice! I can’t wait to meet her!”
Oh my God. The tension in this hall is unreal. I glance at Luke, who makes a face I can’t read, then at Jess, who draws a finger across her neck, then at Mum, who has still got a bright smile plastered on her face but God knows what she’s thinking.
When the doorbell rings, we all jump a mile.
“Right,” I say too heartily. “I’ll just…get this.”
I open the door and a thin woman in a beige coat and hat peers at me through rimless glasses.
“Oh, hello,” she says in a timid, wispy voice I can barely hear. “Is it Becky? I’m Flo.”
* * *
—
OK. I know I shouldn’t be taking this personally. But Flo? Over Mum?
I agree with Jess wholeheartedly. Flo’s gruesome, in a totally wet, floppy way. As I usher her, Janice, and Mum into the sitting room, Minnie yells, “Waniss! Grana! It’s my birthday! Look at my presents!”
As Janice and Mum exclaim over the kitten, Suze appears with a tray of hot drinks that she’s rustled up in a brilliant Suze-ish way.
“Hello,” she says to Flo with a broad, friendly smile. “I’m Suze, a friend of Bex’s. Would you like some tea or coffee? The blue cups are tea and the white cups are coffee. Milk’s in the jug.”
“Oh,” says Flo. “Well. Goodness.” She looks around the room uncertainly, as though searching for a second opinion. “Yes. Please. If it’s not too much trouble…But really it doesn’t matter. Don’t mind me.”
“It’s right here on the tray,” says Suze, looking a bit flummoxed by her speech. “Tea or coffee? Please do help yourself.”
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