I Think I'll Just Curl Up and Die
Page 1
Piccadilly Press • London
For Niki, Sally and Caroline – as inspiring as ever!
First published in Great Britain in 1995
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk
This edition reissued 2006
Text copyright © Rosie Rushton, 1995
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Rosie Rushton to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 1 85340 892 1 (trade paperback)
EAN: 9 781853 408922
eISBN: 9781848122253
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Bookmarque Ltd
Cover design by Susan Hellard and Fielding Design
Typeset by M Rules, London
Set in AmbersHand, Bembo, BrettsHand, DereksHand,
Euphorigenic and FarrahsHand
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter One
Home Thoughts From Abroad
Dear Jemma,
Guess what? I’m in love! He’s seventeen, his name is Bilu and we met at my cousin’s wedding. He is amazing! He’s got these gorgeous eyes and he is really cool. The best bit of all is that even Dad thinks he’s wonderful! So I’m allowed to see him. This afternoon we’re all going to watch the polo and tonight he wants to take me to the cinema. (I know I said I don’t like Indian films, but with him I’d watch them in Ancient Greek!)
No time to write more – I’ve got to decide what to wear.Tell Laura she’s welcome to Jon – I prefer older boys. By the way, I’m growing my hair long again. Bilu likes long hair. See you soon! Isn’t love wonderful? Sumitha xxx
Jemma Farrant sighed and tossed the postcard on to the bed. How would she know whether love was wonderful or not? She’d never had a boyfriend – not that she would dare bring one home to meet her mother if she did get lucky. Jemma had only recently persuaded her mother to let her choose her own clothes; if Mrs Farrant had her way she would still be wearing cord pinafores and smocked dresses. As for boys, Jemma’s mum insisted that fourteen was far too young to be consorting with males. If Jemma did meet a boy, her mother would probably invite him round for jelly and ice cream and a nice quiet game of Snakes and Ladders.
When Jemma had started at Lee Hill school, she had seen Sumitha as something of a kindred spirit. While Jemma had problems with an overprotective mother with all the fashion sense of a Stone Age hermit, Sumitha was always at odds with her dad. He was really strict and nearly went mental when Sumitha had her hair cut without permission. He even thought that The Stomping Ground, where anyone who wanted to get a life in Leehampton went on a Saturday night, was a den of iniquity to be avoided at all costs. And yet it seemed he had accepted this new boyfriend of Sumitha’s with open arms.
She picked up the postcard and re-read it. It can’t last, she comforted herself. After all, he’s in India and Sumitha lives here. Jemma thought of her other friends. Chelsea had her sights firmly set on Rob Antell, Laura lusted after Jon and now Sumitha was in love. She didn’t fancy being the only one left with no one to swoon over.
Jemma was also bored. Her dad had said they couldn’t have a family holiday this year because of just having moved house and him starting a new job. He told her that the school trip to Paris would have to do and she should count her blessings. It had been brilliant – seven whole days without her mother clucking around – but it was over now. What’s more, he had just forked out a vast sum of money to join the new Waterline Golf and Leisure Club. This was good in some ways because they had a huge pool and Jacuzzis and a water chute, which the family could use while Mr Farrant was out trying to be the next Tiger Woods. However it had its grim side because Jemma’s mum disported herself in the water wearing a ghastly swimsuit with a frilly skirt and shrieking ‘Take care, petals,’ at Jemma and her siblings at ten second intervals to the amusement of everyone but Jemma.
She looked at herself critically in her bedroom mirror. She hated her sludge coloured hair and loathed her front teeth which stuck out a bit. She was feeling fat and lumpy. All those croissants and wedges of Camembert cheese had taken their toll, most of it between her boobs and her belly button. And talking of boobs, over the past few months hers appeared to have taken on a life of their own, expanding at an alarming rate. She’d have to get a better bra; her dear mother still bought those awful beginner things that looked like two eggshells on a piece of elastic and had about as much effect.
‘Why can’t I look like Chelsea?’ she thought, yanking her hair into a pink elastic. ‘I bet she’s being chatted up by every Spaniard within a ten mile radius. And what’s more, her mum won’t care at all. Life just isn’t fair.’
Chapter Two
Wanna Be Loved
This sentiment, it seemed, was shared by Chelsea herself, or so it would seem from the letter which her friend, Laura Turnbull received on Tuesday.
Chez Calypso, Estepona, Spain
Dear Laura,
I’m sitting on our balcony praying that my mother doesn’t find me. You won’t believe the day I have just had! I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life.
This morning, while I was playing volleyball with these cool guys I met at
the hotel club, a woman came swanning along the beach with a guy holding a camera and another with one of those furry microphone things they use for street interviews. They were filming for one of those holiday programmes on the television – and who did they home in on? My mother! Of course, you can guess she loved it – all that attention. She acted like Liz Hurley. They filmed her learning to get up on the surfboard, falling off, shrieking with delight – the works. It was awful. Then they said they wanted a shot of her actually surfing over the waves – and she couldn’t do it! She kept falling off. They gave up in the end. You would think that would have been enough to shut her up but no. ‘Come and meet my daughter,’ she says. I could have killed her. This gorgeous guy Juan was just beginning to come on strong when up comes my mother and drags me off to be filmed at the barbecue. We had to stand there for ages, munching on sardines and saying why we thought Chez Calypso was the idyllic holiday venue.
And the hypocrisy of my mother! ‘Oh, there’s such a lot to keep Chelsea amused!’ she simpers, right into the camera. What with the Teenscene Club’ (I’ve never been to the stupid thing) ‘and the Killer Darts’ (I only play when she threatens me with no club if I don’t keep Dad happy) ‘and lots of lovely young people.’ (And then when I say I am going off to the market on Juan’s motorbike, she comes the heavy-handed mother and talks about drugs and date rape.)
Juan is amazing – he has this gorgeous tan and jet black hair and he says he thinks I am the most beautiful girl he has ever seen. That guy’s got taste!
If they show that film on TV I shall die. It’s enough having Mum spouting away on local radio every week – but national television! It doesn’t bear thinking about. I wonder if I could refuse consent on the grounds of infringement of privacy … it’s worth a try.
Hope you had a great time in France and got the Bestial Betsy sorted once and for all. See you when I get back – you can tell all then.
Loads of love
Chelsea
Laura sat in the middle of a pile of dirty washing, reading Chelsea’s letter and giggling. She could just imagine how irate Chelsea would be at her mother’s antics, although why she got so fazed by it, she couldn’t imagine. Laura thought that Mrs Gee was a real laugh – not a bit motherlike. It would be a blast seeing her on the television. She was always doing mad things, and she never seemed to worry about whether Chelsea was getting enough vitamins or whether women her size should really wear bright orange shorts. I suppose that’s what comes of being an agony aunt and journalist, thought Laura. You stop caring what everyone else thinks and just do your own thing.
Come to think of it, though, most parents did that, one way or another. Hers certainly had. Her mother obviously didn’t care one bit about her reputation when she carried on in public with toyboy Melvyn, and her father showed no regret for having moved in with the Bestial Betsy and her sad kids.
Laura sighed. She had thought that, given time, her mum would see sense and ask her dad to move back in. She had assumed that Dad was just waiting for the chance. But it hadn’t happened. Her mum was still wrapped up in the geek Melvyn and she hadn’t even seemed to mind Laura going off camping in France with Dad and the Bestial Betsy. And those two were all over each other; it made you want to throw up.
She kicked a flip flop under the bed. Life was very unjust. Never mind her ageing parents – she was the one who needed a love life. She’d got to the bit in The Novel (the one she’d been writing for months and which was going to make her a household name) where the hero seduces the heroine behind the greenhouse in the manor garden. The problem was, never having been seduced, Laura was afraid some of the detail might be wrong. What she needed was first hand research. She fancied Jon Joseph like crazy but, to date, he hadn’t exactly fallen over himself to be with her. Of course, it could be that Sumitha was right and that he was so overcome with passion that he couldn’t bring himself to confront his own emotions. Perhaps if she went over to Jemma’s house, she might bump into him – he did live next door to Jemma, after all.
Consoling herself with thoughts of a joyous reunion, she kicked the washing into the corner and started varnishing her toenails.
Chapter Three
The Art of Love
By Wednesday, the object of Laura’s affections was battling with the design of a strip cartoon, the final assignment of the masterclass with Blob at the Dellfield Activity Holiday Centre. It had been a fantastic week and Jon was now more sure than ever that he wanted to be a political cartoonist.
The course leader – who was really called Eric Batterby, but who used Blob as his pen name – leaned over the table where Jon was working and handed him a pile of sketches which had been his last assignment.
‘Good work, Jon. Liked it a lot. Who’s the funky girl with the bike in this one? Oh, and by the way, that cartoon of the Prime Minister and the fishing fleet was very funny.’
Jon looked at the top sketch in surprise. He knew he doodled all the time, but he had no recollection of doing this one. It was that kid – the one who’d knocked him off his bike back in the summer term. The one who’d kept staring at him that night at the club. Laura someone. Mind you, her face had always interested him. It had a kind of ‘mess with me at your peril’ look and yet her eyes were soft and vulnerable. He’d love to sketch her portrait.
Get real, he told himself firmly. What was he thinking about? The only girl he was even mildly interested in was Sumitha. Next term, he would find a way of asking her out.
‘I’ll see you later, Jon’ said the tutor. ‘I’m meeting your father for a beer at lunchtime.’
Jon’s heart sank. Doubtless Dad would do his ‘Now I hope you realise my son is something special,’ routine and make a complete fool of himself. Even though he had come round to the idea that Jon was not going to go to Cambridge or become a lawyer, he couldn’t seem to stop bragging to the world about his son’s prowess. On the first day, he had cornered Eric and told him that he was lucky to have such a talented lad in his class. Jon had nearly died. Why couldn’t he stick to his Golf Improvers course and forget about his son for once?
Still, the tutor liked his stuff. He was on his way to being a proper artist. And when he got back, he’d ask Sumitha out. Fired with confidence, Jon began drawing himself as Orlando Bloom, surrounded by swooning girls.
Chapter Four
All Good Things Come to an End
In the early hours of Thursday morning, Rajiv Banerji was tapping his foot impatiently as the baggage carousel in the arrivals hall at Heathrow airport jerked into life.
‘I hope we don’t have to wait too long,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘I want to get home to open my post and sort out my rotas and plan next Tuesday’s meeting.’
‘Calm down, Rajiv,’ said his wife, laying a hand on his arm. ‘You’ve had a lovely holiday – no need to get all worked up and stressed out again so soon.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, all in all, it was a good break,’ he admitted, grabbing hold of little Sandeep who was about to leap on to the carousel. ‘And so good that Sumitha has seen how life is in India.’ He glanced over to where his daughter was perched on her rucksack listening to her iPod with a dreamy expression on her face.
‘That nice boy Bilu is just what she needs – and from such a good family too. He’ll knock all this Western nonsense out of her head. She’s already saying she is going to grow her hair long again,’ he added, looking at his wife in smug satisfaction. Somehow he felt that she had not backed him enough on the issue of Sumitha and the haircut.
Chitrita Banerji inclined her head, smiled but said nothing. She had watched from the window as Sumitha and Bilu had said goodbye to one another at her mother’s house the previous day, and as a result, right now, it was not her daughter’s hair she was worried about.
Sumitha, meanwhile, was staring dreamily into space, reliving her first kiss from Bilu under the margosa tree in her grandmother’s garden.
Chapter Five
Money Is the Root of All Ro
ws
Late on Friday evening, in Thorburn Crescent, Ginny Gee was wondering how two weeks living in a swimsuit and a couple of sarongs could produce so much laundry, when the bell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ yelled Chelsea who had seen Rob cycling into the Crescent.
‘Hi!’ she said, grinning broadly, and hoping that her suntan made her look entirely irresistible.
‘Hiya,’ said Rob. ‘Is your Mum in?’
‘Yes,’ sighed Chelsea, running her fingers through her chestnut curls, ‘but she’s busy.’ It’s me you’re supposed to be after, not her, she thought irritably. This wasn’t how the boys in Spain reacted to her – there it was all wolf whistles and bottom pinching and here she was being practically ignored by the boy of her dreams.
‘Well, hello there Rob, and how are you?’ gushed Ginny, coming downstairs with an armful of washing.
‘Did you have a good holiday, Mrs Gee?’ asked Rob.
‘Now, how many times have I told you? It’s Ginny,’ said Chelsea’s mum, smiling.
‘Ginny,’ said Rob. ‘I just wondered if you could have a look at my entry for the Leehampton Young Writers’ Competition – I’m not too sure about the ending.’
‘Sure, no problem,’ said Ginny. ‘Leave it on the table and I’ll give it a look over the weekend.’
‘GINNY!’ Barry Gee yelled from the confines of the kitchen. ‘What in the name of heaven is this?’
Chelsea’s mum cringed.
‘Oh dear, probs.’ She smiled. ‘Chelsea, why don’t you take Rob upstairs and I’ll bring you up drinks in a moment?’
About time too, thought Chelsea, showing Rob the way.
Ginny took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen.
Her husband was standing there surrounded by three headless trout and a pile of what looked like sliced canvas. They hadn’t even finished unpacking and he was back in Amateur Chef of the Year mode, thought Ginny wryly. What was more worrying was the rather vicious way in which he was waving a Barclaycard bill in the air.