‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ said Ginny. ‘She looks really trendy, doesn’t she, Barry?’ she added, giving him a deft swipe with her mock-croc boot.
‘Yes, great,’ he said. I’m not sure about the black stuff all round her eyes, he thought, but I suppose I’d better not mention that.
Lorenzo’s was crowded with Saturday night diners but Barry had reserved a table in the far corner, under the artificial vine.
‘Great for people-watching up here, isn’t it, Chelsea?’ chirped Ginny, who had had a long conversation with herself before they left home, applied a fresh HRT patch, swallowed some Evening Primrose oil and told herself in no uncertain terms that tonight was going to be a really good, warm, loving family evening. She knew Chelsea was upset that neither Sumitha nor Laura could join them and she wanted to prove to her that family evenings could be fun.
‘So what are you going to have, love?’ urged Ginny. ‘You can choose anything – it’s your birthday!’
Chelsea looked at the menu.
‘Garlic mushrooms followed by spaghetti bolognese and a tomato and onion salad please,’ said Chelsea. ‘And stacks of garlic bread.’
‘Oh, Chelsea,’ said Barry, ‘you always have that whenever we go anywhere. This is a top Italian restaurant – why not try something different? I’m told the pan-fried liver is wonderful . . .’
‘Yuck!’ said Chelsea. ‘Anyway it’s my birthday. Mum said I could have what I liked.’
‘Sorry,’ said Barry. ‘Spaghetti bolognese it is. Though I still think—’
‘Don’t,’ said Ginny through clenched teeth. ‘Just don’t think anything.’
‘I hope you like this place, Laura, love,’ said Peter, taking her arm and leading her to a corner table. ‘Your mum and I used to come here years ago.’
‘It’s nice,’ said Laura looking around. She was a bit worried. There was no sign of a parcel, no bulging pocket or discreetly hidden carrier bag. Where was her Christmas present?
‘Anything to drink, sir?’ asked the waitress handing them menus.
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll have a double Scotch on the rocks and – what will you have, Laura?’
‘Diet Pepsi, please,’ said Laura.
‘Oh yes, those were the days,’ said Peter wistfully after the waitress had left. ‘We’d put you to bed, Grandma would come to babysit and then we’d come here. Mum would always start with melon and parma ham, I remember.’ He looked at his menu. You should have the canneloni abruzzi – it’s got chicken livers and cream and . . .’
‘I’m vegetarian, Dad, remember? I’ll stick to the vegetarian lasagne.’
‘Your mum’s always liked that,’ commented Peter, resting his chin on his hands and looking maudlin.
‘Better than the weird things she’s been eating lately,’ replied Laura. ‘If getting pregnant means eating chocolate spread and banana sandwiches, I’ll pass on motherhood! Did you have a good Christmas, then?’ she added, trying to jog her father’s memory about gifts.
Peter sighed. ‘Between you and me, no love, it wasn’t that hot,’ he said. ‘I missed you and Mum so much, you see. Oh, thank you,’ he added as the waitress delivered the drinks.
Laura was surprised. He hadn’t phoned them at all over Christmas and she had assumed he was having a ball with the Bestial Betsy and had forgotten their existence.
Peter took a large gulp of his Scotch and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands,
‘Things are very difficult,’ he confided. ‘Sonia and Daryl – well, they just don’t seem to appreciate all I try to do for them and Betsy won’t hear a word against them. I sometimes feel like an outsider in their lives.’
‘Well, you are,’ said Laura reasonably and then hated herself for putting it so bluntly. ‘I mean – well, you’re not their dad, are you? Any more than Melvyn is my dad. Only to be fair, he doesn’t try to take your place.’
‘So I should bloody well think!’ shouted Peter. ‘Muscling in on my wife, my kid . . .’ The carafe of water leapt alarmingly as he banged his fist on the table.
‘Dad, be quiet, people are looking,’ muttered Laura.
‘Another Scotch – make it a double,’ said Peter to the waitress.
Crumbs, thought Laura.
‘I’m sorry Laura and Sumitha were tied up tonight,’ said Ginny halfway through the main course. ‘It must be a bore having to spend the evening with your ageing parents.’
Chelsea shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, winding spaghetti around her fork. ‘I’m outgrowing them anyway.’
‘And I’m sorry I’ve been a bit ratty lately,’ Ginny went on. ‘My age and all that – still, I think this HRT lark is actually beginning to take effect. This last day or so I’ve felt ever so much better. It’s amazing – these little patches, they release oestrogen and then . . .’
‘Mum!’ said Chelsea through gritted teeth.’ People will hear.’
‘Well, what of it?’ said her mother. ‘So much the better if they do – it’s great news for women my age, you know. The menopause is no longer something for women to merely grin and bear. I’m thinking of doing a phone-in on it next month – when I’ve really had time to suss it out. It’s so important.’
‘Well, could you contain your excitement till I’m not around?’ hissed Chelsea, observing the wry grins of two women at the adjacent table,
‘Pity Geneva’s abroad,’ said Barry, beckoning to the waitress. ‘It would have been fun having her here for your birthday – always good for a giggle, our Geneva.’
I knew it, thought Chelsea; he loves her far more than me. He’d rather have her with him than me.
‘Well, you won’t have to put up with me for long – I’m going on somewhere after this,’ she announced.
Barry opened his mouth and Ginny glared at him. He shut it again.
‘What do you mean, put up with you? Darling, it’s lovely to have you to ourselves for an evening. Where, exactly, are you going?’ she added tentatively.
‘A club – with Bex,’ she said, challenging them to argue.
‘Who’s Bex?’ said Ginny.
‘What club?’ said Barry.
‘What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?’ asked Chelsea.
‘Of course not, dear,’ said Ginny. ‘It’s just that we like to know where you are going and who with.’
‘Well, Bex is a friend and the club is called The Tip and—’
‘No way,’ said Barry. ‘Absolutely no way.’
‘Pardon?’ said Chelsea.
‘I’ve seen the sorts that come out of that place at night and you are not going there and that’s an end to it. And we don’t know this Bex, or whatever her name is, from Adam.’
‘Oh well great. Thanks a lot. I’m fifteen years old and my father still chooses where I can go. It’s not fair, everyone else’s parents—’
‘Look, hang on,’ said Ginny. ‘I’ve got an idea. You don’t want to be dashing off tonight – we want to make an evening of it. Why don’t you bring Bex home for supper one day so we can meet her, and then maybe we can reconsider this.’
‘I don’t believe I am hearing this!’ shouted Chelsea. ‘You talk to me like I’m some kid at play school – “Bring your little friend home for Mummy to vet”. I’m not a baby, for heaven’s sake!’
Barry and Ginny exchanged glances.
‘Well, love, if this club is as bad as Dad says, I don’t think—’
‘Oh, forget it, I won’t go,’ shouted Chelsea, who truth to tell wasn’t really sure she wanted to. ‘I won’t have a social life, I won’t have any friends. Will that keep you happy?’
‘Dessert, sir?’ asked the waitress.
‘What about a pudding, Laura?’ asked Peter.
Laura shook her head.
‘No thanks, I’m stuffed,’ she said. She could quite happily have devoured a double portion of tiramasu, but she had watched her father demolish a bottle of claret single-handed and she wasn’t about to sit around while he ordered y
et more drink.
‘Oh well, then, we’ll just have coffee,’ he said to the waitress. ‘Oh, and I’ll have an Armagnac, thank you.’
‘Dad, you’ve had enough,’ hissed Laura.
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘This is a celebration. I don’t see nearly enough of you, Laura.’
‘And whose fault is that?’ she retorted, somewhat curtly. ‘You know where we are.’
‘Oh, but Laura, Laura,’ he began, going all misty-eyed, ‘it’s the agony of coming to that house and seeing your mum there with Melvyn, and now she’s having a baby, and well, I simply can’t bear it. I want her back, Laura. It should be my baby she’s having.’
Laura stared at him open-mouthed. ‘But I thought . . .’
‘You see,’ her father continued, ‘when she decided to throw me out, I felt—’
‘But, Dad,’ interrupted Laura, ‘you were the one who took up with Betsy.’
‘Ah,’ said her father, ‘but you see that was because I was very vulnerable at the time – I never meant for it to lead to divorce. I explained all that to your mother. I would never have left if she had not insisted. Laura, do you think – I mean, well, is Mum really happy?’
Laura wriggled in her chair. This was getting rather too hot to handle. She didn’t like seeing her dad like this. If she said Mum was happy, Dad would be hurt. But she couldn’t lie either. She said nothing.
‘Will you do something for me, Laura? Will you do something for your old dad?’
‘What?’ said Laura.
‘Ask your mum to take me back,’ said her father. ‘Do it, Laura. Please. For me.’
Ginny and Chelsea pushed their way past the crowded tables on their way to the loo while Barry paid the bill.
‘Ginny Gee!’ A somewhat slurred voice accosted her.
Ginny turned to see Peter Turnbull and Laura leaving a corner table.
‘Hello!’ she said, taking in Peter’s flushed face and slightly unsteady gait. ‘Laura, how are you, love?’
‘Fine thanks, Mrs Gee,’ said Laura, who was actually looking far from fine. ‘Hi, Chelsea.’ Laura realised what she was doing there. ‘Happy birthday. I’ve got a pressie for you at home,’ she lied, ‘I’ll bring it to school on Monday.’
Chelsea smiled. ‘Great, thanks.’ So Laura did care after all.
‘So this is a samily felebration – family celebration is it?’ said Peter. ‘Wonderful thing, families. Cherish them, Ginny, cherish them while you have them. I was just saying to my lovely Laura . . .’
‘Dad!’ hissed Laura, nudging him in the ribs.
This looks a mite tricky, thought Ginny.
‘Well, we must be off,’ she said.
‘Let’s walk to the car park with you,’ said Peter, taking her arm in a very matey fashion.
He can’t be intending to drive, thought Ginny.
Barry appeared, eyeing a till receipt with a certain amount of regret.
Ginny grabbed him. ‘Offer Peter a lift home,’ she muttered. ‘He’s had a tankful.’
‘Barry – great to see you, mate, how are you?’ Peter slapped Barry on the back. ‘Here with your lovely family – lucky man, Barry, lucky man! The joy of family life . . .’
Laura looked close to tears. ‘Dad,’ she said, ‘Dad, come on, please, we ought to be going.’
Chelsea looked at Peter’s flushed cheekbones and unsteady gait. Poor Laura, she must feel awful.
Ginny took charge. ‘Right, Peter, why don’t you grab a taxi and we’ll drop Laura home – you shouldn’t drive, you know.’
Peter nodded sagely. ‘Quite right, Ginny, wise as ever. Wonderful woman you’ve got there, Barry.’ He turned to Laura. ‘Well, goodbye sweetheart, and don’t forget what I said, will you?’ he added, hugging Laura. ‘I’m counting on you’.
Laura nodded reluctantly and followed the Gees to the car. She felt awful – she’d never seen her father like that and she felt guilty for leaving him on his own. And what would Chelsea’s mum and dad think?
‘Are you OK?’ Chelsea asked Laura, who was nibbling her bottom lip and gazing at the kerbstone.
‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’ snapped Laura. My father forgot my Christmas present, he’s turned into an alcoholic and now he wants me to talk to Mum. Oh yes, everything is hunky flippin’ dory.
‘Pardon me for breathing,’ said Chelsea. She was fed up with people shutting her out.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Reflections in the Night
Laura didn’t sleep much that night. Why did the Gees have to be at the same restaurant? She had never seen her dad like that before – he was fine when he lived with them. It was all the fault of the Bestial Betsy – she’d driven him to alcoholism. Or was it Mum’s fault? Whatever, it was up to Laura to save him.
She kept going over the conversation with her father but she couldn’t make sense of it. If he hadn’t wanted to leave Mum, then why did he go? Or did Mum really throw him out? Laura had been told that he had fallen for someone else and was leaving. But then again, parents often told you what they wanted you to hear. But the fact remained that Dad was with Betsy, not with them and anyway, if he really cared so much about her, why had he forgotten her Christmas present? Then she felt guilty for thinking such a horrible thought. And now he wanted her to say something to Mum. Of course, it would be great to have Dad living at home again, but then, what about Melvyn? He might be a bit of a geek but he was getting better. Besides, Mum was really happy these days. And what about the new baby? But Dad had made her promise – and she couldn’t let him down. She’d have to talk to Mum. It wasn’t going to be easy.
Chelsea lay awake, gazing at the ceiling. She didn’t feel fifteen; she didn’t actually feel anything. She knew she was pretty, certainly not thick, and fairly outgoing; so why was life passing her by? Laura had hardly said a word in the car on the way home. Chelsea guessed she was mortified about her dad being drunk, but when Chelsea had suggested that she should come over tomorrow and listen to some music she muttered about having things to do. Well, if Laura didn’t want her friendship, she’d just find someone who did. She should have gone out with Bex and ignored what her parents said. After all, if she couldn’t do her own thing at fifteen, when could she, for heaven’s sake.
From now on, she vowed silently, pulling the duvet over her head, I shall live my life my way and if they don’t like it, that’s just tough.
It was to turn out rather tougher than she thought.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ginny Spills the Beans
‘Hi, Ruth, it’s me, Ginny.’
Ruth tucked the phone under her chin. ‘Hi, how are you? Lovely to hear from you. You sound much happier,’ she added thankfully.
‘I am – it’s amazing,’ said Ginny. ‘This last week, I’ve really felt like my old self again. And I’ve persuaded the station to devote a whole hour to a phone-in on HRT – I’ve got Dr Stephanie Wright coming on, and a woman from the Amarant Trust and . . . what are you laughing at?’
‘You,’ said Ruth, giggling. You get so – so enthusiastic about things.’
‘Well,’ said Ginny, ‘I feel so much better I can’t help it. I went out today and bought two new skirts and this brilliant turquoise angora sweater – now all I have to do is hide them from Barry. Anyway, what I am phoning for is . . . well, we took Chelsea out for dinner on Saturday and bumped into Peter and Laura.’
Yes?’ said Ruth.
‘Well.’ Ginny took a deep breath. ‘Peter was a little the worse for wear with drink and I think Laura was a bit upset.’
‘So that was it – she seemed very subdued when she got home.’
‘Anyway, I thought I would mention it – I mean, I’m not trying to stir up trouble or anything . . .’ Ginny faltered.
‘No, no. Thanks for telling me,’ said Ruth. ‘It’s unlike him – I thought he was over all that.’
‘Why? Has there been a problem in the past?’ asked Ginny.
‘No, not really – just that whenever h
e had a problem, he tended to home in on the Scotch,’ said Ruth. ‘Do you think I should say something to Laura?’
‘I’d leave it until she broaches the subject with you,’ suggested Ginny. ‘After all, he didn’t do any harm – it may well have washed over her.’
‘Mmm,’ said Ruth.
Neither of them believed that for one moment.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Warning Signs
Everyone was very absorbed with their own concerns over the next few weeks.
Jemma had worked flat out at her drama lessons and caught Miss Olive’s eye; after four weeks, she had been thrilled to see her name on the list of students to audition for Estella. Alexa Browning’s name was there too (no contest, she’s too timid, thought Jemma), along with a handful of other girls, none of whom Jemma rated. She had read Great Expectations, watched the DVD three times, started wearing her hair in coils and practised walking, talking and thinking like Estella. She had even got her own way and had two blond streaks put in her hair which, she felt sure, made her look far more sophisticated. Her mother hated them, so that was a very good sign; Rob said they were sexy, which was another plus.
‘What are you looking so stuck up about?’ asked Laura one afternoon, when they were changing for PE and Jemma was preening herself in the mirror.
‘I’m rehearsing,’ said Jemma. Miss Olive had said that to play any part well, you had to become the person you were portraying. She was busy becoming Estella.
‘Well, you look pretty stupid if you ask me,’ said Laura, who was not one to mince her words. ‘Rehearsing for what?’
‘Great Expectations. The Royal is doing it in the summer and I’m going to be Estella.’
‘Really?’ Laura was impressed. ‘That’s brilliant. When did this happen?’
‘Well,’ said Jemma, ‘I haven’t exactly—’
‘Hey, Chelsea, wait a minute!’ Laura called out across the locker room and dashed off before Jemma had time to finish her sentence. ‘Guess what? Jemma’s going to be in a play at the . . .’ Her voice faded in the distance.
How Could You Do This To Me, Mum? Page 7