I suppose at least that’s something. But that’s little comfort to me right now. I’m abso-flipping-lutely mortified.
I’ve said it before, and I’m sure with my luck I’ll end up saying it again, but how do these things always end up happening to me?
CHAPTER TWO
“How was the rounders match?” Mum asks, struggling into the kitchen with bags of shopping. “That was today, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t ask,” I say, turning a page of Amber’s gossip magazine and trying not to shudder at the memory.
Me.
A towel.
Half-naked in front of the whole school… argh, stop it, brain! Stop!
I suppose at least I got my clothes back. Found hanging neatly in the corner of the changing room not long after we’d all gone back inside, like they’d been there all along. Convenient, no? I didn’t see them do it, but they must have put them back when I was hanging around outside the staff room, waiting for Miss Lewis to find some spare clothes for me. At least I was saved the embarrassment of wearing the dregs of the lost property box.
So there was no point telling a teacher about it. Jade and Kara would only deny everything, anyway.
“Can you give me a hand unpacking these?” Mum asks, unloading packets and tins onto the worktop.
“Yeah, in a minute…”
I’ve been reading a piece about how Dylan Waters, half of the TV duo Dylan and Jake, has been secretly photographed playing strip poker, but I’m distracted by a picture underneath of my fave band, The Drifting. And the article seems to suggest… Oh. My. God. It says there are rumours the band’s about to split. Apparently they’ve all fallen out while touring and are travelling across America on four separate tour buses.
No, no, no! This can’t be true. The Drifting can never break up! My life would be over without them. I need to tell Millie. Immediately.
“Help, please,” Mum says more insistently.
“I’m a bit busy, Mum. I need to speak to Mills…”
“You can do that after. And there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Huffing, I grab a carrier bag, shoving some milk and economy cheese into the fridge. Mum’s not going to give up. She’s extremely persistent.
On the counter, Mum’s unpacking tins of value beans. Ever since Amber’s blow-out wedding earlier in the year, money’s been kind of tight around here. Once the final bills came in, and Dad realised just how much his wife and eldest daughter had spent, he immediately implemented the Puttock Emergency Budget. Things are better than they used to be – but still not great. It’s not helped by the fact that there’s so many of us squished into our house: Mum, Dad, me, my utterly irritating younger sister Harry, Amber and her husband Mark and the two babies. As Dad keeps pointing out, it’s a lot of mouths to feed, because even the formula milk the babies have costs a bomb. Mum started doing competitions to try and help win our way out of poverty, but since the caravan she won in the summer – now on loan to Dad’s brother, who’s off touring Europe – she’s not had even a sniff of success, so it’s not looking like our diet will be upgraded any time soon.
Mum looks around, spy-stylee, and says under her breath, “Your father’s not here, is he?”
“Nope. Think he went to get some petrol or something.”
“Good. There’s something very important I want to discuss with you,” she says in the same low tones.
I have no idea what’s up with her; my mother’s idea of very important never matches mine. There’s nothing Mum loves more than a drama, so who knows what her cloak-and-dagger act’s about.
“What’s up?” I ask. “Is it something to do with Dad?”
“Shhhh!” she says, her eyes wide and frantic. “I’m hosting an urgent family meeting. I’ll tell you everything then. Wait for me in the utility room once all this is put away. I’ll tell the others.”
“The utility room? Why?”
“Don’t ask daft questions,” Mum says. “Just go to the utility room. I’ll explain when we’re there.”
Um, harsh, much? I actually don’t think it’s that daft to ask why we’re having a family meeting in the utility room, which is about one metre square, when we could go to, say, the lounge. Where there’s ample space. And sofas. And windows.
We finish unpacking the shopping, Mum dashes off to round up everyone else, and I perch myself on the chest freezer.
I’m joined moments later by Harry, who’s holding Amber’s old phone. Harry’s pet rat, Hagrid, is sitting on her shoulder, nose twitching. Over the past year Harry has become obsessed with several things – practical jokes, magic, Harry Potter – and now she’s recording everything that goes on in this house, using the phone. She’s decided she wants to be a world-famous film director. I duck my head and reach my hand towards the lens. Make-up-free and crazy-haired, I am SO not ready for my close-up.
“Turn that thing off,” I tell her.
“Nope,” says Harry. “I don’t want to miss anything good. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“No idea,” I say, shrugging, as Mum opens the door and squeezes in.
“We’re waiting for the others,” she says.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you when the others arrive,” Mum says.
“Why are we in here?” Harry says.
Mum ignores her and opens the door. “Amber!” she bellows. “Hurry up!”
“Why are we in here?” Harry repeats.
“Because I don’t want your father to see us.”
“But Dad’s gone out, hasn’t he?” I ask.
“That’s not the point,” Mum says.
“But if Dad’s out, why are we having a family meeting without him?”
“Because Dad’s what I want to talk to you about,” Mum says.
An icy trickle runs through my veins. Uh oh. What does that mean? Maybe something’s wrong with Dad, like he’s ill or something. Or they’re getting a divorce. Millie’s parents had real problems a few months ago, and even now they’re still having counselling, trying to sort themselves out. Mum and Dad had that stupid row last night about who ate the last custard cream (it was me, although I didn’t ’fess up), but surely that can’t mean they’re splitting… can it? Maybe I should have admitted to being the biscuit thief.
“But if it’s about Dad and he’s out, we’re in here because…?” Harry asks.
Mum sighs like we’re the most stupid people in the entire world. “Would you two stop all the questions? It’s because I don’t want him to come back and see us.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask apprehensively.
“Where are the others?” Mum says, ignoring me. She sticks her head out of the door again. “Amber! Mark!”
“We’re here,” Amber says. We shuffle up as Amber and her husband Mark squeeze in, carrying Chichi and Uni, their twins. The girls are actually called Violet-Chihuahua and Lily-Unicorn – only my bonkers big sister and her husband could name their kids after their favourite flowers and animals. We tried using their full names for a while, but they were way too much of a mouthful. Especially when there’s two of them. So we started calling them Violet and Lily, but Amber got all kinds of upset, saying the names were too ‘normal’. She’s obsessed with celebrities, especially a vacuous airhead called Conni G, who called her first-born Pashmina. Despite us trying to explain that normal names were a good thing, Amber was having none of it, as it’s not what Conni would do. Which meant we had go with Chihuahua and Unicorn… and now these have been shortened to Chichi and Uni.
“What’s happening?” Mark asks. He looks exhausted. There are huge dark circles under his eyes. Amber, however, looks fantastic. She’s got a full face of make-up and you’d never know she’d had babies recently.
Part of me suspects the reason Amber always looks so good is because she’s got Mum eager to do everything for her. Mum loves babies, and has been doing a lot since the twins arrived, giving Amber plenty of time to chill out and catch up
on her sleep.
“Keep that rat away from the girls, please, Harry,” Amber says. “Rats carry the plague and these two haven’t had their vaccinations yet. Ooh, what’s the matter, Chichibooboo?” Amber asks as the baby crumples up its face. “This is Chichi, right?” Amber looks anxiously at Mark for confirmation. The main problem Amber seems to have with her twins is remembering which is which. They’re not even identical.
“I’ll take her,” Mum says eagerly, practically snatching the baby out of her arms. Chichi’s always crying. Uni’s slightly better, but Chichi’s permanent state of being seems to be scrunched, purple and furious.
Pfff. I don’t know what she’s making such a fuss about. It’s not like she appeared half-naked in front of her school or anything. Then she’d really have something to complain about.
Argh, stop it, brain! You’re doing it again!
“Did you get my honey and chilli flakes from the supermarket, Mum?” Amber asks.
“Yes, they’re in the cupboard,” Mum says.
“Honey and chilli?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s for my new diet. I can’t wait to lose the rest of this baby weight,” Amber sighs. “I look like a hippo.”
“You don’t,” Mum says.
“You really don’t, Ambypamby,” Mark agrees.
“Look at me,” Amber says, pinching a non-existent fat roll. “I’m huge! But Conni G was talking about this diet she did after she’d had Pashmina, where she ate honey and put chilli on all her food, and it really worked, so I want to try it too.”
“Well, you don’t need to,” Mark says loyally. “You look more beautiful than ever to me.”
“Aw, you’re so sweet,” Amber says, leaning in to give him a snog. Uni, squished between her mum’s boobs, gives a cross squawk and Harry makes puking noises.
“Sorry, baby-bun,” Amber says, dropping a kiss onto Uni’s head.
“Um, when you two have finished,” Mum says, “I wanted to talk to you all about Dad.”
Chichi starts to grizzle and Amber eyes her. “Oh gosh, she’s going to kick off again, isn’t she? Quick, what do we think she needs? You just changed her, didn’t you, Mark? Do you need feeding, Chichipops? Do you want Daddy to get you some yummy scrummy milk to fill up your tum-tum? Mum, can we do this in a minute? I think she needs a bottle.”
“No, we can’t,” Mum says.
Harry and I exchange a glance.
Oh God. This is about something serious. Mum’s usually falling over herself to make sure the twins have everything they need. Maybe Dad’s dying? He did look a bit pale earlier, but I thought that was because one of the twins was having a particularly loud screaming fit.
“It’s about his birthday,” Mum continues, and Harry and I both sag with relief. I don’t think Amber and Mark are really listening – Uni’s started grumbling now too and both the babies are being jiggled up and down.
“Ow!” I glare at Mark as he elbows me accidentally in the shoulder.
“Sorry,” he says, yawning.
“Don’t, Mark, you’ll set me off,” Amber says, yawning prettily. “I’m so tired. I miss sleep so much.”
“Wasn’t Mum up with the babies last night while you went to sleep on the sofa?” Harry asks.
“Yes,” Amber says. “But I still had to wake up to go downstairs, didn’t I? I haven’t had ten straight hours in months, and Conni G says that’s the minimum you need for your beauty sleep.”
“Can we focus on Dad’s birthday for a minute?” Mum says, raising her voice.
“What about it?” Harry asks. “Dad hates birthdays.”
“Which is precisely why we should try to give him one he’ll like,” Mum says. “He’s forty-five this year, it’s an important landmark. I want to throw him a surprise party.”
I stare at her in horror. Here, in no particular order, are things Dad especially hates: his birthday, parties, any kind of fuss, surprises.
“Um, are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask, tentatively.
“Yes,” Mum says firmly. “I know he’s a bit grumpy about the whole birthday thing, but that’s why we’ve got to make it really good. Becoming a grandfather has thrown him a bit, you know…”
Amber starts to get upset and Mum hastily explains, “Not that he doesn’t love being a Grampy. You know he does. But I’m worried it’s making him feel… old. And he’s been acting ever so strangely lately. He keeps getting these peculiar ideas in his head. I think a party will help him feel young again. Now, I’m going to need you all to help me organise it, okay?”
“Um, okay,” we mutter, although we probably couldn’t sound less enthusiastic if we tried.
“Fantastic,” Mum says, smiling happily. “That’s all I need at this point. I’ll let you know when the next secret meeting is then we can start planning things properly. It’s so exciting! Give nothing away to your father, do you hear? Nothing! Oooh, Chichi, you’re a bit stinky, aren’t you? Have you done a poo? Does Granny need to change your bottom?”
The front door opens at the same time as we’re all emerging from the utility room. Dad curses as he falls over the huge double buggy that’s parked in the hallway. “This damn thing! Takes up so much space.” He stares as we all appear in front of him, red-faced and slightly sweaty. Turns out it’s mighty steamy squeezing seven people into such a minute space. Even if two of them are babies.
Amber’s dog, Crystal Fairybelle – the other Chihuahua in the house – runs to greet him and jumps around Dad’s legs. Dad shakes him off. He hates the dog, and avoids it whenever possible.
“Get away, you stupid thing! What are you lot up to?” Dad asks suspiciously.
“Nothing!” Mum says, her voice shrill and unfamiliar as she clutches Uni to her chest. “Nothing at all!”
“What were you all doing in there?”
“Er…” Mum says, with this scary fake smile on her face. She’s going to give the game away for sure.
“Problem with the tumble dryer,” Harry says.
“Oh for goodness sake, don’t tell me something else has broken,” Dad sighs. “Did it really need all of you in there to look at it?”
“I was seeing if it was possible for us all to fit in such a small space. I wanted to film it. Kind of like elephants in a Mini. Only with people in a utility room,” says Harry.
Dad shakes his head. He’s lived in this house long enough to believe any old nonsense by this point. “Fine. Whatever. Is the tumble dryer working now?”
“Yep,” Mum says, with the scary fixed smile still on her face.
“Well, that’s a relief. We can’t afford to replace anything else at the moment. Are you all right?” Dad asks Mum.
“Of course I am,” Mum says.
“If you say so. You look like you’ve had a stroke.”
“Charming!”
“You’re welcome. Now, I’m off to watch the monster truck marathon. Harry, want to watch it with me?”
Harry shakes her head. “Can’t. I’m going to Skype with Ant.”
“Wooooooo,” I tease.
“Shut up,” Harry says defensively.
Ant’s this boy Harry met on our summer holiday and although she’d never admit it, they were totally crushing on each other. They bonded over Harry Potter and have kept in touch ever since.
“Are you sure?” Dad wheedles. “It’s going to be a good one.”
I can tell Dad’s trying not to look disappointed his youngest daughter has abandoned him.
“Sorry,” Harry says.
“What’s that?” Mum says, spotting Dad holding a bag from the chemist. “I thought you were going to the garage.”
“I did,” Dad says, immediately hiding the bag behind his back. “This is nothing.”
“Then why are you hiding it?” Harry asks.
“No reason,” Dad says, looking decidedly shifty.
“Is it something embarrassing?” Harry asks. “Like those nappies for grown-ups?”
“I didn’t buy incontinence pants,” Dad
says crossly.
“So why won’t you tell us?” Mum says.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“But there’s something in there.”
“Oh all right,” Dad says in defeat. “It’s hair dye.”
“Hair dye?” we all chorus together in disbelief.
“Is it… for you?” I ask.
“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”
“No,” I say. “It’s just, you haven’t really got that much hair, so…”
Dad looks genuinely hurt, so I rush to explain myself. “I didn’t mean that, but I didn’t know you cared about that kind of thing…”
“I’m going too grey,” Dad mutters. “Makes me look old. Wondered if this dye might help.”
“We love you exactly the way you are and you’re dyeing your hair over my dead body,” Mum says, confiscating the bag and steering Dad into the kitchen. She flaps her hand at us behind his back, code for ‘leave us alone’. “Now, would you like a nice cuppa? I’ll put the kettle on before I go and get a new nappy for this one.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Does anyone know what this assembly’s about?” I ask as we weave our way outside and towards the main hall. There’s major building work going on at the moment, so half of the walkways in school are barricaded behind gridded barriers. I can see a huge JCB scooping up earth while the builders stand around shouting at each other. They’ve already had several warnings from the teachers as their language has a tendency to get a little 18-rated. We all think it’s hilarious.
Someone stands on my foot and I wince. Because we’re all being squished into such a small space along these paths, it’s seriously claustrophobic when you’re trying to get anywhere. I’ve been bashed by a tennis racket and several bags so far, and narrowly avoided concussion from a passing cello. This place should come with a health warning. And hard hats.
Suzy P, Forever Me Page 2