by Grace Dent
“This isn’t all Claude’s fault, y’know,” I begin to argue.
“Oh, go on, stick up for her. Like you always do!” Fleur says, sounding like she’s almost blubbering. “Look, why don’t you all just be friends together this summer? I’ll find something else to do.”
“Like what?!”
“Like ... like whatever I want,” she says firmly. “See ya, Ronnie.”
And then the phone goes dead.
I slump back on the sofa.
What on earth do I do now? Tell Claude? Call Fleur back? I feel sick.
Dad puts down his newspaper gently. “What’s going on there?” he says.
“Nothing,” I say, chucking my phone and folding my arms.
“Oh, right,” Dad says. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
I stare ahead at the TV.
“You girls had a bust-up?” Dad says.
“No, we’re fine,” I say, clearly fibbing my head off.
“What’s it about?” he says. “Lads?”
I scowl at him.
“Knew it,” Dad says. “It’s always lads.”
“It’s not lads,” I grump.
“That’s all you ladies ever row about,” Dad says, trying to cheer me up. “Cuh, I’ve had a few young chickadees cat-fighting over me in my time, I’ll tell you that for nothing,” he says, miming straightening his invisible tie.
Who’s he kidding? His face looks like it was knitted by his mum.
“It’s not about lads,” I say.
“Well, it’s something ... I saw Claude yesterday night walking up Lacy Road. She looked like a wet weekend.”
“You saw Claude?” I say, my eyes widening. “Which way was she going? At what time?”
“Er ... back to her mum‘s, I s’pose,” Dad says. “Six-ish?”
“Hmmmph,” I say. Claude hasn’t returned my calls for days.
“I can always count on little Claude for a smile and wave,” continues Dad, “but she didn’t even see me. Had her head down. She looked really miserable.”
A tear forms in the corner of my eye. I bat it away. Dad sticks his big arm around me.
“C’mon, precious,” Dad says. “Dry your eyes. Look, are you sure can’t give me a clue what’s up?”
“Maybe later, eh?” I sniff, wiping tears down my hoodie sleeve.
“Okay,” Dad whispers. “Leave you to it. For now.”