‘Wait a moment, miss – oh yes, Campbell Hall. I’ll put you through.’
It seemed to take for ever but then a girl’s voice answered, ‘Campbell Hall, Michelle Phillips here.’
Chelsea asked for Guy. Another long pause and then his unmistakable American drawl sounded down the phone.
‘Guy Griffiths here – who’s that?’
‘It’s me, Chelsea,’ breathed Chelsea, hoping her voice sounded huskily sexy.
‘Who?’ said Guy.
‘Chelsea,’ repeated Chelsea. ‘Warwick’s sister.’
‘Oh, yeah, of course. Well, hi. How you doing?’
‘Fine. Look. It’s my birthday on Saturday and we’re going out for a meal and would you like to come?’ she gabbled, crossing as many fingers as she could manage while holding the receiver.
There was a pause. ‘It’s a really nice place,’ she continued.
‘Ah, well,’ said Guy. ‘It’s neat of you to ask but it’s kinda a long way to come for supper.’ He laughed. ‘And to be honest, I’m taking Michelle – my girlfriend – to a gig that night. Still, thanks for asking – have a swell time.’
‘Thanks,’ said Chelsea shortly. As she slammed the phone down a couple of tears trickled down her cheek. No one in the entire universe loved her.
Chapter Seventeen
Stage Directions
‘Now, everyone, let me introduce our two new class members.’ Miss Olive Ockley was a woman of stately build, with iron-grey hair pulled back in a bun, the bearing of a galleon in full sail and a voice which would not have been out of place reading meaningful poetry at the Albert Hall.
‘This is Jemma Farrant who will be taking a number of sessions with us – am I right, Jemma?’
Jemma nodded. Her mother was still adamant that one class was enough but Jemma had every intention of cornering her father over the weekend and appealing to his better nature,
‘And this,’ she said, turning to a slightly built girl of about twelve with long blond hair and huge grey eyes that dominated her pale face, ‘is Alexa Browning.’
Alexa smiled nervously. Jemma remembered seeing her around school – she was in the same class as Sumitha’s little brother – and Jemma noted with envy that her teeth were completely even. Jemma rapidly closed her lips over her own uneven incisors.
‘Now,’ continued Miss Olive, hitching her ample bosom into place and beaming at the assembled class, ‘as you all know, the Leehampton repertory theatre starts its summer season in March. And do I have news for you!’ She paused to build up the suspense in a truly theatrical manner. ‘Instead of merely asking the Olive Ockley School of Dance and Drama . . .’ (Miss Olive always referred to her establishment by its full name, as if any diminution of the title would in some way diminish its standing in the community), ‘. . . instead of asking just for young people for the Christmas pantomime, this year they have no fewer than three productions for which they need under-sixteens.’
A murmur of excitement went round the room. The girls all began straightening their shoulders, patting their hair and trying to look nonchalant, as though the last thing on their minds was landing a part at the prestigious Royal Theatre, one of the oldest surviving reps in the country.
‘The productions in question are Great Expectations, Cider with Rosie – some lovely juvenile parts there – and of course, the Christmas panto, which this year will be Aladdin.’
Jemma hugged herself in delight. If only she could get one of those parts, she could be famous by this time next year. It would only take someone important to spot her and she could be the next Keira Knightley. She cast an eye round the room.
She had to admit that there were several girls who were prettier than her but did they have her flair? What was it Miss Olive called it? – ‘the spark’. Alexa was standing in the corner, arms crossed over her chest, looking very shy. Bit like I used to be, thought Jemma. But those days are gone; the world is going to see a new me. Next week I’ll get highlights. Or maybe a silver streak.
‘I have to put forward possible candidates to audition for the young Pip and for Estella within a month, so I shall be watching you all carefully,’ Miss Olive was saying. ‘Now, let’s get started.’
The next two hours passed in a flash. The topic was ‘fear’ and Jemma was amazed at just how much went in to reacting fearfully to situations thought up by Miss Olive. She did quite well with facial expressions and strangled speech, but Miss Olive said that her body remained far too relaxed for someone in the throes of panic-inducing terror. Then they all split into groups and read passages from plays and took different parts.
‘You go to Lee Hill, don’t you?’ Alexa said shyly at the end of class. ‘You were Nancy in Oliver!’
Jemma nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
You were brilliant,’ said Alexa admiringly. ‘I wish I could act like you.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you will one day when you have a bit more experience,’ Jemma said condescendingly.
On the way home Jemma went to the library and borrowed Great Expectations. For one thing was certain; she, Jemma Farrant, was determined to be the one chosen to play Estella.
Later that evening, Rob cycled round to Jemma’s house. ‘How did the class go?’ he asked, giving her a hug.
‘Brilliantly!’ said Jemma. ‘And the Royal are going to do Great Expectations and there’s going to be an audition and I want to be Estella.’
‘Sounds good,’ acknowledged Rob. ‘Still, I suppose dozens of girls will try for it?’
‘Probably but I’m determined to get it.’
‘Well, don’t raise your hopes too high – after all, you’ve only just started,’ reasoned Rob. ‘You might be disappointed.’
‘I thought you said I was good,’ accused Jemma.
‘You are – you’re wonderful,’ said Rob quickly. ‘So wonderful I want to spend more time with you. Will you come out with me on Saturday?’
Mollified, Jemma agreed. It was nice to be appreciated.
The same evening, Jon telephoned Sumitha.
‘Look, before you say anything,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. Really. I honestly didn’t tell anyone you were my girlfriend and I should have listened to what you were trying to say and – well, can we pretend it never happened and start again? Please?’
‘As friends? Just friends?’ said Sumitha, sternly.
Jon sighed inwardly. Still, anything was better than nothing. ‘As friends,’ he affirmed. ‘How about we go out on Saturday and you can tell me all about everything. Please?’
‘OK, in the afternoon,’ said Sumitha.
This time don’t blow it, Jon admonished himself.
Chapter Eighteen
Chelsea Breaks
By Friday, Chelsea wasn’t just fed up, she was downright miserable. Normally she would have been excited about her birthday, but when the only celebration she was getting was some poxy Italian meal with her parents, and none of her friends could be bothered to come with her, what was there to look forward to? The thought of sitting over a lasagne listening to her parents trying to be hip and with it was so depressing that she was very tempted to swallow her pride and ask Jemma if she wanted to come. At least that would be one evening she couldn’t see Rob.
She was sitting on the wall outside the science block, pretending she felt sick in order to miss the reproductive habits of the lesser newt, when Bex strolled round the corner.
‘Hi Chelsea,’ said Bex. ‘Skiving off?’
Chelsea nodded.
‘Want to come down town?’ offered Bex, peering critically at her black varnished fingernails.
‘What, now?’ hesitated Chelsea. It was one thing pretending to be about to puke and quite another to get caught off-campus at half past eleven in the morning.
‘Course, now,’ said Bex.
What the hell, thought Chelsea.
‘Yeah, cool,’ she said, deliberately lapsing into Bex’s speech pattern.
‘We’ll go out through the side gate,’ said
Bex, jerking her head in the direction of the football pitch. ‘Less chance of being seen. I want to check out the new gear in Threadz. I’ve got some cash to spend – you got any dough?’
Chelsea shook her head.
‘I might get some tomorrow with luck,’ she said. ‘It’s my birthday.’
‘Really? Where’s the party?’ said Bex, dragging Chelsea across the road to the mall entrance.
‘My parents won’t let me have one,’ said Chelsea, looking anxiously over her shoulder in case anyone from school had seen them. ‘Say it’s too expensive. You know all the stuff about money not growing on trees . . .’
‘So? Who needs parents to have a party? Tell you what – why don’t you come down to The Tip? You know, the club next to the bowling alley? Me and Fee’ll be there, I expect Trug will come and you can meet Spike, Eddie and the rest of the crowd.’
Someone wants me, thought Chelsea. And then remembered the meal.
‘I’m supposed to be having a meal out at Lorenzo’s with my mum and dad,’ admitted Chelsea.
It sounded so pathetic – like she was some primary school kid on a special treat.
Bex raised her pencil thin eyebrows. ‘Lorenzo’s? Very posh,’ she said.
‘My dad’s going to be on TV doing that Superchef thing and he wants ideas,’ Chelsea said off the top of her head, by way of an acceptable excuse. ‘I doubt I can get out of it,’ she added.
Bex chewed her lip. ‘We used to go out, before my dad went off,’ she said wistfully. ‘Anyway why don’t you come afterwards? The Tip is only round the corner from Lorenzo’s.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Chelsea, chuffed to have been asked, ‘but my mum’ll probably make a scene. Is yours cool about that kind of thing?’
Bex shrugged. ‘She doesn’t care what I do. Doesn’t know half the time. Come on – let’s go and try on those Capri pants – I fancy myself in fuchsia!’
I could ask Bex to come out for the meal, thought Chelsea. And then remembered her father’s scathing comments about clothes and decided against it. Some birthday this was going to be.
‘Where did you get to this morning?’ asked Laura that afternoon as they clambered on to the school bus. ‘Miss McConnell sent me to see if you were still feeling sick and I couldn’t find you anywhere.’
‘What did you tell her?’ asked Chelsea nervously.
‘I said you had gone home,’ said Laura, squeezing into a window seat. ‘But then you turned up after lunch. What’s going on?’
‘If you must know, Bex and I hit town,’ said Chelsea as nonchalantly as she could.
‘Bex? Bex Bayliss? What do you want to hang around with her for? She’s a right weirdo.’
‘She’s not, as it happens. No more weird than someone who spends their time worrying about rabbits and white mice,’ sneered Chelsea.
‘You’re getting really horrible these days, do you know that!’ said Laura. ‘You were foul to Jemma the other day and now you’re having a go at me just because I care about animals being tortured to death in laboratories. I used to think you were really cool but you’ve changed. You’re not the friend I knew.’
‘I’ve changed? What about Jemma, flouncing about putting on airs and graces and going on and on about these stupid drama classes? And you? When did you last come round to my house? Oh no, it’s all painting posters and sucking up to dear Daniel. You can’t even be bothered to come out tomorrow night because Daddy wants you. Well, see if I care – Bex is my friend now and she knows how to have fun, which is more than you do!’
‘Oh get lost,’ said Laura.
Chapter Nineteen
Dads’ Dilemmas
Chelsea’s dad queued at the cashpoint and tried to do some mental arithmetic. If he drew out enough cash to pay for the meal and to buy Chelsea’s present, there wouldn’t be enough left in the account to pay the overdue gas bill or this month’s Barclaycard instalment. He’d already stretched his credit card to the absolute limit getting the car serviced and he still had to get this wretched new iPod for Chelsea, the absence of which would, it appeared, bring about her instant demise. He and Ginny had rowed over that; he said it was time Chelsea learned that she couldn’t have everything she wanted the moment she wanted it, and Ginny said she had to be able to keep her end up with her peer group and everyone else had them. She was feeling her way into adulthood, Ginny said; Barry wished she’d hurry up and find it.
He hated being hard up; ever since he was made redundant from Freshfoods he had been struggling. And much as he hated to admit it, this new venture wasn’t exactly a moneyspinner. He wasn’t losing money – but he wasn’t making much either. If only he could get enough capital together to start his own restaurant – but that was just a pipe dream. The most he could hope for was that he would do well in the final of Superchef next month and win the ten thousand pound prize. Barclaycard would be thrilled.
The woman in front moved away and Barry decided to go for broke. He inserted his card and waited for the cash to shoot out of the little hole. Only it didn’t. Instead a rather curt message saying, We are unable to process this transaction. Refer to bank flashed up on the screen in lurid green letters.
‘I know why they use green lettering,’ thought Barry cynically as he snatched back his card. ‘It’s to make you feel even sicker than you do already. Oh well, Chelsea, there goes your present.’
Rajiv Banerji was feeling guilty. It was Sumitha’s comment that had triggered his anxiety. ‘If Sandeep said he wanted to do science, you’d be telling him what a great guy he was,’ she had said. Rajiv had thought about it and realised that Sandeep rarely volunteered any information at all. OK, he was too young to worry about what he wanted to do in life, but Rajiv realised with a jolt that he didn’t even know what his son’s favourite subjects were, who his best mates were. He never brought friends back to the house, unlike Sumitha, who at that age seemed to have half of Leehampton in her bedroom. In fact, he didn’t have an inkling about what made the lad tick.
They were as different as chalk from cheese, Sumitha and Sandeep. Sometimes Rajiv thought Sumitha should have been the boy, she was more spunky, more gritty, more determined. Sandeep had never been any trouble; he was a shy, quiet little boy, small for his age, who was quite happy to stay in his room reading or making models.
But lately he had seemed even more withdrawn. Rajiv felt guilty; maybe he should spend more time with his son. He’d take him to the model shop. But not this weekend – he was on duty this weekend and had promised to show Sumitha round the new radiology unit. Next weekend. He’d do it next weekend.
Andrew Farrant removed a bright orange cardboard sun and two coat-hanger stars from his favourite armchair and flopped thankfully down. It had been a bad day; he had had seven operations to do, and little Tommy Anderson had bled badly after his tonsillectomy and was now running a high fever. He’d have to go back into the hospital later to check him over.
He pulled a tub of play dough out from under the cushion. Ever since Claire had taken on the running of this crèche, his home resembled a cross between the Early Learning Centre and an alternative art gallery and he was not at all sure he liked it. Still, he shouldn’t complain; he had been nagging Claire for months to get an interest outside these four walls and he had to admit that, since she had been involved with the nursery, she had been rather less obsessed with trivia.
Not that she wasn’t getting in a flap over this new drama craze of Jemma’s. ‘I told her she could only do one class,’ Claire had said the evening before. ‘I bet she comes running to you and tries to get you to say she can do more.’
‘Why can’t she?’ Andrew had replied.
‘The cost, for one thing,’ said Claire. ‘These classes aren’t cheap, you know. And anyway, she’s got GCSEs looming, and you know how she needs her sleep, and anyway, she’s getting very cocksure . . .’
‘Getting a bit of confidence, you mean,’ Andrew had interjected.
‘. . . and now she’s saying she wants her
hair highlighted and besides, we don’t know what sort of company she’ll be keeping there, so we need to—’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ Andrew had interrupted. ‘Is it the fact that you don’t want to spend the money, or is it the school work, or is it the highlights? Or is it that you don’t want your dear Jemma to be out of your sight for more than an hour at a time? She has a life too, you know.’
He hadn’t meant it to come out so cruelly – he’d been tired.
Claire had stared at him, her cheeks pink and her eyes suspiciously bright. ‘Do what you think best, then,’ she’d said. ‘After all, I’m only her mother.’
Andrew picked up his newspaper and sighed as he went over the conversation in his mind. At that moment, Jemma burst into the room.
‘Dad, I’ve got a favour to ask you,’ she said. ‘About drama.’
‘Yes,’ said her father.
‘You see, there are these two other classes and I wondered . . .’
Yes,’ repeated her father. ‘Yes, you can do the classes – but if your school work suffers that’s the end of it and no arguing!’
Jemma flung her arms round his neck. ‘Dad, you’re a star!’ she cried. ‘I will work hard, I promise – and anyway, this is really work because when I’m famous, you will . . .’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Andrew. You don’t even know if you are going to be any good at it yet.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Jemma, flicking back her hair and throwing her father what she hoped was a sultry smile. ‘Oh yes, I know.’
Henry Joseph surveyed his physique in the bathroom mirror on Saturday morning. Not bad, not bad for fifty-one. He pummelled his stomach in satisfaction – all this exercise was beginning to pay off. Now what he needed was a good game of golf.
‘Jon!’ he called. ‘Jon, fancy a round of golf this afternoon, son?’
‘No,’ said Jon from behind his closed bedroom door. ‘I’m going out.’
‘With the little Indian number?’ chortled Henry, slapping Macho moisturiser on to his reddened jowls.
How Could You Do This To Me, Mum? Page 5