‘But it’s all right, Dad. It’s all sorted. Matty’s mum says I can always go to their house.’
‘No you can’t – it wouldn’t be fair on them,’ said Dad.
Matty took the phone away from me. She’d been listening to every word.
‘It would be extremely fair, Mr Andrews, because we love having Tilly to tea,’ she said. ‘It’s nowhere near as much fun when it’s just Lewis. Please say she can come every day,’ she begged.
‘Well, I’ll have a chat to your mother about it. Please thank her for having Tilly to tea tonight,’ said Dad.
‘Tilly’s dad says thanks, Mum,’ Matty called, hanging up. ‘Come on, Tilly, let’s go and play.’
‘And me,’ said Lewis.
Matty sighed. ‘Do you have to come too, Lewis? Tilly and I never get to play on our own.’
‘Me want to play too!’ said Lewis in a baby voice, hanging his head.
‘He’s just acting like a baby to make Mum take his side,’ Matty whispered to me.
Lewis stayed acting like a baby when Angie told us to let him play too. He pretended not to know how to play Warrior Princesses.
‘No, me a baby!’ he said.
He just sat on the floor squealing, waving his plump little fists at the dinosaurs and knocking them over like ninepins. Matty got seriously annoyed with him, but we couldn’t help giggling too. Lewis was quite good at being a baby, making funny cooing sounds and then pretending he had a damp nappy. We ended up playing that he really was a baby. I made all my ponies trot round and round him, and then they galloped up and down his plump legs as if they were a race track while he laughed and laughed.
I wished I had a funny little brother. I wished I had Matty for my sister. I wished I had a mum and dad like Matty’s, safe and warm and happy and always there.
I felt guilty when Dad came to collect me. He looked so pale and anxious, and his eyes kept blinking because they got tired looking at rows of figures on his computer all day long. He never said anything about his work, but I knew he didn’t like this new job anywhere near as much as his old one. He’d worked in the accounts department of a big publishing firm. That’s where he’d met Mum. She worked in the art department. Dad once said that he never ever in a million years thought someone like Mum would go out with him.
‘Everyone was sweet on your mum,’ he said.
It was the first time I’d heard that expression. I imagined Mum like a magic princess in a fairy tale, and everyone who looked at her turned sweet as sugar candy, melting like chocolate, sticky as toffee.
Dad was the strange little frog who came scuttling along, and Mum carelessly blew him a kiss, and then he turned into a handsome prince and carried her off so they could live happily ever after. Only they didn’t.
‘Dad!’ I said, and rushed to give him a hug.
‘Now then, Tilly,’ he said. ‘I don’t like to hear that you’ve been rude. What are we going to do about poor Aunty Sue? She’s very upset.’
‘That Aunty Sue is horrible,’ said Matty. ‘She was rude to Tilly. And she was actually even ruder to me. But you don’t have to worry, Mr Andrews, Tilly can come to tea with us every day now and it will be magic.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Matty, but we can’t possibly impose on your mum like that. Tilly’s round here nearly all the time already,’ said Dad.
‘We love having her. Please let her come here,’ said Angie.
‘Then you must let me pay you properly for your trouble.’
‘Of course you can’t! Tilly’s practically family.’
‘Well, it’s very kind of you. Are you really sure? You must let me know if it gets too much for you,’ said Dad. ‘Come along, Tilly, then.’
‘You don’t have to rush off straight away, do you? Let me make you a cup of coffee first,’ said Angie.
‘I think a beer would be a better idea,’ said Tom, Matty’s dad.
I could tell Dad just wanted to get home, but he smiled bravely and had half a glass of beer and some crisps, and then a cup of coffee with a home-made chocolate-chip cookie. He tried hard to make conversation all the time. I squeezed up on the sofa beside him and snuggled against him.
He kept thanking Matty’s parents.
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Angie said for the fifth time. ‘We love having Tilly. She’s a very special little girl. You’re doing a great job, bringing her up on your own.’
Dad and I stiffened. If we didn’t say a word about Mum not being with us, we madly hoped that no one would notice.
‘Thank you,’ he mumbled eventually. ‘Well, we really must be going now.’
‘Don’t forget your present, Tilly!’ said Matty.
Dad had to be grateful all over again for the bridesmaid’s dress. I sat in the back of the car with it spread carefully over the seat in its plastic wrapper.
‘It is all right if I go to Matty’s house, isn’t it, Dad?’ I asked.
‘Yes, they’re a very kind family. I can see you have much more fun there than with poor Sue,’ he said.
‘They’re very, very kind to give me Matty’s bridesmaid’s dress. Just wait till you see it on me, Dad. I look almost pretty!’ I said.
‘You are pretty,’ said Dad. He was being kind now. I knew I wasn’t the slightest bit pretty. I didn’t take after Mum in any way whatsoever. But when we were home and I put the dress on again, I truly did feel beautiful.
‘Look, Dad!’ I called, from the top of the stairs.
Dad came and looked. He put his hand up to shield his eyes, pretending to be dazzled. ‘You look like a real princess. You’d outshine any bride,’ he said.
‘Dad, do you think I could be a real bridesmaid? Do you know anyone who’s going to get married soon? Oh, Dad, I’d give anything to wear my dress to a real wedding,’ I said.
Chapter Six
I GOT UP ten minutes early every day and put on the bridesmaid’s dress. I practised walking slowly and solemnly as if I were walking up the aisle, and I held my head high and clasped my hands as if I were holding a posy. I even practised bending down quickly and gracefully, twitching the imaginary bride’s train into place. I stood patiently, still as a church pillar, pretending the ceremony was happening, and then I marched triumphantly round my bed and back again, humming my version of churchy organ music.
When Dad called that breakfast was nearly ready, I pulled off my bridesmaid’s dress, smoothed it down gently, rubbing my cheek on the soft silk before slipping it back inside its protective plastic. I put on my ugly check dress for school and sloped off downstairs, back to being ordinary me again.
Whenever I was bored or stuck at school I tried to make a list in the back of my jotter of all the people I could think of who might need a bridesmaid in the next year. I was small but I was still growing. If the bridesmaid’s dress fitted me perfectly now, it might be getting a bit too short and tight in nine months’ time, let alone a year.
My list was small too.
No 1: Dad.
I had to put him first, even though I knew it wasn’t very likely. Dad still loved Mum. I think he secretly hoped she might still come back, even though he told me firmly that it was never going to happen. He was particularly angry when she forgot my birthday. No present, no card, no phone call. We’d given up trying to phone her. She seemed to keep changing phones, and shortly after we set up Skype so that I could still chat to her, she changed her email address.
Dad pretended she’d sent him money for my birthday present and bought me sequinned trainers just like Matty’s, but red, and a red-and-blue jacket like hers, and a big box of paints. He wrote on each parcel:
Sorry this is a bit late!
Hope you had a very happy
birthday, Tilly. Lots of love
from Mum
I half believed she might have put some money in his bank account, like he said. But then a whole month late a big parcel arrived that really was from Mum. It was an odd white dress covered with pink and red and yellow and green embro
idery and a little wooden house full of strange little wooden people, most of them on their knees. The ones who were standing wore long white dresses and had brass plates stuck on their heads. There was a postcard in the parcel. It had a picture of a lady with very thick eyebrows and lots of jewellery on the front. On the back it said:
Hi from Mexico! Think I missed
your birthday, sweetheart.
Love and kisses,
Mum
I tried on the very bright dress but it came down almost to the floor, like the dresses of the brass-plate wooden people. Dad said they were meant to be saints. This dress had very wide arms that flapped like wings. It didn’t fit me anywhere and the material was stiff and scratchy.
‘It’s very . . . colourful,’ said Dad.
‘Yes, isn’t it,’ I said doubtfully.
‘Perhaps you could wear it to a party?’
‘Everyone would laugh at me.’
‘Matty wouldn’t,’ said Dad.
‘Matty would laugh harder than anyone,’ I said. ‘Matty wouldn’t be seen dead in a dress like this.’
‘You could take the dress to school for show-and-tell,’ Dad suggested. ‘You could read up about Mexico, and take the house too. I bet Miss Hope would be very impressed.’
‘Dad! We don’t do that kind of thing in the Juniors,’ I said.
I put the Mexican dress in my wardrobe. It’s stayed there ever since, right at the back. I tried keeping the house of wooden people on my windowsill, but they all had fierce eyebrows like the lady on the postcard. It was easy to imagine they were staring at me. I couldn’t forget about them, even in the dark. In the end I put them in the wardrobe too.
‘Do you think Mum’s on holiday in Mexico?’ I asked Dad.
‘Maybe. Or maybe she’s actually living there. Who knows?’ he said.
‘I think she’s on holiday,’ I said. ‘I expect she’ll come to see me when she gets back home, wherever her home is now. Maybe she’ll decide she wants to live with us again.’
Dad didn’t say anything for a little while. Then he took a deep breath. ‘I think we have to get used to the idea that Mum isn’t ever coming back,’ he said.
I couldn’t get used to the idea, but I didn’t argue. I wasn’t sure whether Dad really meant it or not. If he did, then maybe he was ready to meet someone new. I played with the idea of a stepmother in my head. All stepmothers in fairy tales were wicked. Snow White’s stepmother wanted her chopped into pieces by a huntsman and, failing that, made a couple of serious attempts at poisoning her. Cinderella’s stepmother didn’t go that far, but she kept her as a servant and wouldn’t let her go to the ball.
Real stepmothers didn’t seem quite as extreme. One girl in our class, Lydia-Jane, said her stepmother was always nagging her, and she couldn’t stick her – but Lydia-Jane was a mean, lazy girl who didn’t seem to like anyone. Amanda had a stepmother, and saw her every other weekend when she went to stay with her dad. She said her stepmother let her try on her make-up and have two puddings when they had their Sunday lunch at the pub. That sounded good. Amanda said her stepmother was young and pretty, with long hair. I wasn’t so keen on having a young, pretty stepmother. Mum was the youngest, prettiest mother ever – and look what happened.
I thought Dad should go for someone kind and friendly who would like looking after us. I couldn’t quite picture her in my mind. She’d have to like pretty clothes, to appreciate my raspberry silk bridesmaid’s dress. Perhaps she might be a little like Mary Berry, only younger? It would certainly be a bonus if she made us wonderful cakes.
The Great British Bake Off was on television that evening. I always liked to watch it, fantasizing about the sort of cakes I might make. Dad wasn’t so keen and generally looked at stuff on his iPad when it was on.
‘Could you watch with me, Dad?’ I asked. ‘Please?’
He pulled a funny face but put his iPad down and watched obediently.
‘I love this programme. And I love Mary Berry,’ I said.
‘Is this a big hint?’ Dad asked.
‘Oh, Dad! How did you guess?’ I said excitedly.
‘I know my girl,’ he said, patting my knee. ‘But I’m not sure it’s going to work. I don’t know the first thing about making cakes. I suppose I could find a recipe for a sponge cake somewhere – that must be quite simple. I could let you do the icing and decorating part. Would you like to do that, sweetheart?’
‘Oh yes! But that wasn’t actually what I meant, Dad. I wanted us to watch Mary Berry. She’s lovely, isn’t she?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’
‘How would you feel about marrying Mary Berry, Dad?’
‘What?’ Dad snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, Tilly, what on earth are you going to come out with next?’
It was ages and ages since I’d heard him laugh like that, so I didn’t mind that he was actually laughing at me.
‘I don’t know what’s so funny,’ I said, though I’d started to giggle myself, because Dad’s laughter was so infectious.
‘Well, of all the women in the world to suggest! To start with, Mary Berry’s married already. And then she’s very famous and probably very rich, so she certainly wouldn’t be interested in someone dull and ordinary like me. And for all she’s quite glamorous she also happens to be old enough to be my mother, maybe even my grandmother,’ Dad spluttered.
‘I didn’t mean marry actual Mary Berry. I meant someone a bit like her. Someone . . . mumsie.’
Dad stopped laughing. ‘Mumsie?’ he said.
‘I don’t mean like Mum. I mean someone who acts like a mum.’
‘Ah. Well. I get you now,’ said Dad. ‘And I suppose you’re all set to wear your bridesmaid’s dress at my wedding?’
‘Yes! Wouldn’t it be lovely! Oh, Dad, please!’
‘Tilly, I don’t know any ladies like that.’
‘What about at your work?’
‘The women in my office are either respectable married ladies of a certain age or young girls with lots of make-up and very high heels who go clubbing all the time.’
‘Don’t you see any likely interesting ladies on your way to work?’
‘I can’t just go up to a total stranger and say, “Hello, likely interesting lady, would you like to go out with me?” I’d get myself arrested.’
‘Then you could try a dating website. I could help you write your profile! Nice kind man, middle size and middle weight, quite good-looking in a dad sort of way, clever at maths, very reliable, one small well-behaved daughter. There! Brilliant! Let’s put it on a website right now.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Don’t be shy, Dad.’
‘Stop it now, Tilly.’
‘You can’t actually stop me. I could wait till you’re out in the kitchen or asleep or something and set it all up on the website and pay with your credit card,’ I said. I was just joking, but Dad took me seriously.
‘Tilly.’ He pulled me on to his lap and tilted my chin so I had to look him in the eye. ‘Tilly, I understand, I really do, but I need you to put this daft idea right out of your mind. I don’t want to meet any lady. I don’t want to get married. And I don’t ever want you going on any website using our details, do you hear me? It’s very dangerous. Anyone could answer. They could pretend anything they wanted. There are some very sick, twisted people in the world. Now promise me you won’t touch my iPad and go on the internet, not unless I’m with you and you’re looking something up for school. Promise me!’
‘I promise, Dad,’ I said.
I crossed Dad off my list. I couldn’t think of anyone else. I asked Matty to help me when we were at school. We thought hard. She kept asking me about aunties and cousins and friends of the family, but Dad and I didn’t seem to have any.
‘What about . . . your mum?’ said Matty, lowering her voice. ‘Didn’t she have any friends?’
‘She’s got lots, but we don’t see them any more,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ said Matty. She fidgeted, doodli
ng on my list. I’d already sketched a border of miniature bridesmaid’s dresses all round the edge. Matty’s doodles were wild spirals and dots and dashes and they made the page look very messy. I didn’t say anything but I minded.
‘Tilly?’ Matty said, her head still bent, doodling away. ‘Tilly, I know I’m not supposed to ask, but why did your mum leave?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘But you must know,’ she persisted.
I stared at my miniature bridesmaid’s dresses until they blurred into one pink ribbon.
‘She just . . . went.’
‘You mean you woke up one morning and she’d packed her case and disappeared?’
‘No. Well, almost. She’d been acting a bit weird for weeks. Months, maybe. I can’t remember properly,’ I said.
I could remember everything, but I didn’t like to. There were lots of times when Mum wasn’t happy and funny and lovely. Times when she stayed in bed and pulled the covers over her head when I tried to talk to her. Times when she shouted at Dad. Times when she slammed out of the house and went off for hours.
Sometimes I thought it was because of me. I couldn’t learn the dance she was teaching me or kept on about something silly at school or tried to tell jokes that weren’t funny enough.
Dad told me again and again that it wasn’t because of me.
‘I think it’s me,’ he said miserably. ‘I can’t ever think of the right thing to say. I can’t ever think of any romantic surprises. I never do anything exciting and spontaneous. We were fine for a while, because she liked being looked after, but now she’s bored with me.’
Mum and Dad had a terrible row one night. I tried not to listen but I couldn’t help it. I don’t think they went to bed at all – they just stayed up shouting. Well, Mum shouted. Dad hardly said anything.
They were sitting at the kitchen table when I got up the next morning. Dad was in his pyjamas, his face white, his eyes red. Mum was dressed in her prettiest top and her tightest jeans. She had a suitcase by her side. I stared at the suitcase and started trembling.
Rent a Bridesmaid Page 6